“About a girl” is a short novel that begins with two strangers, a man and a woman, who meet at a bus-stop and go on an impromptu bar-crawl on a cool, winter day. Taking place in twelve hours it recounts the oddball, hardcore, characters they meet and their increasing emotional connection as they fall for each other almost immediately. Infused with sexual energy, pop-culture references, intellectual debate and literary allusions this is an unapologetic, uncensored look at our society through the eyes of the outsider. It is written in a free-flow, spontaneous style with long unhindered sentences that enable the reader’s eye to glide down the page as the story flows and moves to an urban beat of strippers, punk rockers and nightlife happenings.
About a Girl started off as an exercise to deal with writer's block...it was a novel called Emma Strunk i was working on...completely blocked, blurry vision, reaching down deep and finding nothing man, a nightmare, truly...so i started writing about this young woman i met at a bus-stop, just a purely arbitrary memory, and the damn thing took off on its own, all i could do was follow...it had me firmly by the throat, accelerated writing, slow easy days surrounded by that blue-dizzy smoke and the sound of ice cubes rattling, and two months later, there it was man, there it was...so enjoy this silent scream from the frozen city, and laugh loud and distant...
Tony Nesca
REVIEW BY BOB WILLIAMS - THE COMPULSIVE READER -"There is a constant poetic tone and musical sense in About a Girl. There are also some shrewd observations of great penetration."..."Nesca brings a largely unpunctuated and lyric flow of observation and thought. There is no plot in the accepted sense of the term although there is a progression in the relationship of the narrator and the young woman who ends up in the narrator’s apartment. In place of plot we have a studiedly precise description of a gritty life-style. It is a sufficient answer to pretensions and falsity in the dominant culture, sick with its material glut and fast food ethics. Through the narrator’s reflections we accumulate an unusually exact understanding of his aims and character. His life is not pretty and he may waver and wobble but he is grounded in honesty. He waves illusion away and sees life with a directness and acceptance that is refreshing and, rightly apprehended, renewing."
BOB WILLIAMS - THE COMPULSIVE READER -"...all senses are satisfied when reading this piece..."
Sara Calnek - The Projector
The Beautiful, Wandering Flow
"About a girl" is a book that will waft the stench of smoke and liquor right up your nostrils and leave you begging for more. It is so vivid, so real, that the true sense of a dingy downtown bar will invade your inner soul. "About a girl" will transport you into the world of a pub crawl that begins in the early afternoon and ends when the bouncer shoves you out the door.
The book is about two strangers, a man and a woman, who meet at a bus-stop. The story is told in the first person from a point of view of the man who describes their journey from one downtown Winnipeg bar to the next and all the fascinating characters they meet along the way. By the end, your heart bleeds rock-rhythim guitar and you feel an overwhelming urge to stop for a drink at the nearest bar. Written in spontaneous prose with sentences that go on for pages the book flows beautifully, free, rebellious and alive. The book reads like random thoughts - all thoughts, even the wicked - frantically scribbled onto the page, not one tiny detail overlooked. All of the senses are satisfied when reading this piece. This is a raunchy read, laced with profanities - exactly the language you would hear at any licensed establishment.
All in all, this book is an insightful view into a life of free spirits who live day-to-day and love every minute of it. It provides the reader with inspiring and uplifting thoughts combined with an urge to spark up a conversation with a stranger over a drink or two or three...
Sara Calnek - The ProjectorEXCERPT FROM ABOUT A GIRL:Winter day at bus-stop hands in pockets puffing smoke thinking ‘bout a bike I had as a kid in this very neighborhood, retarded boy named Ken used to challenge me to race wobbling from side to side as he rode making car sounds on that old fucking thing basket in front, “rooom roooom” “come on retard boy, that all you got?” racing down Garwood Avenue that crazy loon flying right by me up to corner then back and forth laughing like the world is all right and it’s there just for us my mother on front porch shaking her fist at me “beep beep” goes Ken, I’m thinking about this at bus-stop mid-day streets alive with furious wanton music, young woman shows up out of the darkness “hello” lights cigarette, winter day gray and shady,
“So who are you?” she says as the lights go wiry,
“Uh-huh, oh yeah”
“I turned 23 yesterday”
Old lady walks by well-scrubbed pink tragic like the sun she smiles at us young woman beside me we’re talking high-speed ‘bout local bands booze on her breath I should be going home on call for work security guard at downtown high-rise she’s smiling big black hair we’re on the bus going through little Italy restaurants bars cafes go by in a blur I’m telling her I used to play guitar in a band her green eyes light up “should have known” she says,
“Why, cuz I got long hair?”
“Yes”
She pulls a mickey out of her knapsack takes a swig hands it to me I decline, think about it, then I take a sip bus racing through The Osborne Village artsy part of town funky shops black clothes mohawk kids begging for money guy with glasses throws up on corner,
“Where you goin’?” she says
I explain the work thing gotta sit by the phone in case they need me, got an hour to kill she’s looking for CD’s, likes That Petrol Emotion and The Violent Femmes, going to that second-hand music place downtown lady on bus starts singing Old Man River I laugh alive in love, my friend beside me laughs too applies deep red lip-stick snow piled high on the boulevard cruising down The Osborne Bridge sweating in our winter jackets bus cramped and tired nippin’ vodka between the sheets my friend looking brave and thinking, she’s reciting a Black Flag song whistling in the wind, howling at the septic tank says she used to live in Toronto hates it grew up on Indian Reserve called Pukatawagan says Winnipeg really works for her, really like The Peg she says, guy snoring behind us, bus-driver taking crazy turns announcing each corner with lame-ass joke crowd laughing like derelicts my friend looks at me crosses her eyes sticks her tongue out I feel my ass-cheeks rumble, damn...
“Ever been to The Canadian Shield?” she says,
“Oh yeah”
Gust of wind gives Cocker Spaniel on corner a mouth full of snow few guys on bus start laughing shiny hair suburban nightmares my friend comments on them doesn’t like that type big fucking deal I say do you listen to Brave new Waves? Sure thing she says, new band called The White Stripes pretty good love that three chord unorthodox rock and roll...similar to what The Pixies did I say,
“No one’s as good as The Pixies” she says
Approaching downtown the drunks come out middle of the afternoon stumbling through parking lots and construction sites she digs it says life is about this takes another sip of vodka I join her people on the bus take notice driver looking at us in mirror let’s get off I say...heel-toe-express down the downtown streets chinese guy parking car reminds me of something I can’t remember my friend exactly same height as me short parka with hood tight blue jeans beautiful winter I’m thinking breath comes out in clouds we live one step at a time caught in the shit of things stick and move monkey man on high wind tears out brain things as usual he says, business guy walking fast briefcase dangling I point to a mall then past it to a small bar hungover mohawk-kid in front wrapping his jacket around him lighting cigarette,
“Let’s go there” I say,
“Juicy” she says
Crossing the street people lined up like tombstones woman laughing alone in storefront, car slides on ice tilting to one side then regains focus me and young friend skip by whistling some pirate idiocy she grabs my jacket from behind we do the alternative-rock-hurly-burly, I’m thinking of this young guy I used to know at University, young writer had a chapbook published we talked the writing talk during English lectures and over coffee, I think of his beautiful green eyes and vague suburban looks, you never had it buddy, that’s all there is to it, door opens into smoky room smell of beer and maybe a touch of urine on Fort Street middle of the day,
“Two drafts” I say to the bartender old drinker
VLT’s making sounds people gambling for that one last thing, long narrow bar booths hugging the walls place full of drinking laughing end-of-the-line types, my friend talking to one of them waving her hands one leg leaning forward my eyes follow the line of the thigh in those tight denims, the ass-cheeks reaching for the sky like a basketball in mid-motion, I reach her point to a booth we sit and smile drink and talk rebel and curse I’m looking at my watch thinking about work gotta get home soon my friend keeps talking,
“I remember this bar in Toronto where all the alternative bands played”
“What kind of bands?”
“Bourbon Tabernacle Choir, King Apparatus, Bob’s Your Uncle, New Duncan Imperials...”
“Seen them all here at The Spectrum”
“Love The Spectrum...rock and roll isn’t as dead as people think”
I think about that with a cigarette in one hand and a draft in the other looking around blue smoke curling to the ceiling at every table,
“Do you realize next week smoking in bars is gonna be banned?” she says,
“All the charm in the world disappearing one chunk at a time”
“Bars with no cigarettes...”
“Seems a bit insane, doesn’t it?”
Having this sit-down with young broad from bus-stop full of electricity and territorial rock and roll obsessions chain-smoking in the gray dimness of an afternoon bar jaunt comparing guitar riffs from different records arguing at every turn I get lost in those deep red headlights without being pretentious, without any specific desire or belief, adrift in the cigarette butts and punk-rock ashtrays young fellow with shaved head asks for smoke I give him one as he walks away,
“See?” she says “you see?”
Sanctimonious little wench I’m thinking ‘bout the space between the table and her crotch, huge black hair making shadows I have her undivided attention waving my hands distant crazy talking like the devil in chinos, one cigarette goes out another is lit she listens as well as she talks rare species this Indian beauty cutting me off describing Northern Manitoba living on The Rez wild immaculate,
“Wait” I say “wait”
“Your turn Ziggy”...
www.myspace.com/tnescaABOUT A GIRL
PUBLISHED BY SCREAMIN' SKULL PRESS
COPYRIGHT 2004
FULL REVIEWS AND ALTERNATE ORDERING METHODS AVAILABLE AT:
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Books can also be ordered by cash or M.O. from Screamin' Skull Press
Contact stalekisses@hotmail.com
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Hobo is the sixth novel of underground writer Tony Nesca, a rambunctious, rebellious drunk-happy love story about a struggling writer who moonlights as a Night Watchman at a college located right in the middle of the ghetto. His wife is also a writer and together they publish their books and live a dual life of family and home with late night bohemian living, the whole time surrounded by an array of street-people, broke artists, and other fringe-dwellers. Sexually frank and charged with humor and desperation, Hobo is a unique work, a gritty celebration of life, love and individuality, written in Nesca’s classic free-flow-lyric, with words, ideas and sentences that go on for pages, alive and beautiful and unapologetic.
Kamikaze White Noise is a collection of three books by Nicole I. Nesca, The Sexual Repression Collection, Kink and Canned. Though not a formal trilogy, the books were written as companion pieces and follow the themes of sexual freedom, emotional frankness and street-carnival logic, all written with Nicole Nesca’s usual free-flowing sardonic wit. Kamikaze White Noise is prose and poetry that assaults the senses, liberates the mind and celebrates life on the edge like a perfect quarter-mile drag race.
