and much more
coming soon, including
Hour One

The kid deserves a shot. I've been there down on my luck, walking these Philly streets, despairing because not a soul in this ignorant hick town had the brains to appreciate my brilliant labors. I've sat down at the bar next to "King" Karl Wenclas and felt the waves of failure and misdirected hatred wash over me. There are two jobs in this town — fixing drinks and drinking drinks. Stay here too long and you'll become a bitter asshole. Me? I'm on my way. I was here when Neal Pollack came to Philly. He said he was going to stay, but he couldn't take it. I stayed. I took it. I sat through that Sixth Borough nonsense and kept my yap shut. And I'm still here. Hell, I ran the Philadelphia Independent for three years. I ran that motherfucker into the ground.

That's how I met the kid in question, my good friend Erik Bader. Bader, in my humble crackpot underground newspaper bitter-ass publishing failure opinion is one of the most gifted writers of his generation. Check out this paragraph from his new novel, True Jersey:

"A dry, cold, clear, quiet afternoon. Late November. Turkey weather. Sky white-blue, a sheet of icy steel impossibly far above you. The grass burnt by summer, soaked by autumn, dried to a brittle crust by the first frost. Last leaves, brown and withered, hang limp from their nearly bare branches, making their final stand before windy annihilation. A yellow school bus burps and belches down the street, empty, ready to be filled at three o'clock. You're standing in a neighborhood where all the houses look exactly the same. Wisps of white jet-trail in the too-far sky. You are saying to yourself: this is where I am from. And you are asking yourself: what significance does this portend?"

Hot stuff, no? If you actually read Indecision, you know there isn't a paragraph that tight in the whole goddamn thing. Dear sir or madam, the Bader kid has chops. He deserves a read. To save you the trouble of a SASE and the arbicidal guilt of seeing that slush pile grow by another six inches (this beast is TK words long!) we've posted the whole damn thing online at http://www.truejersey.com. Go to the site. Check it out. You will come to see what I already know Bader makes Infinite Jest look like a clumped-up box of Fresh Step. That's cat litter. Harsh, I know, but true. I'm a journalist. Truth is my trade. You see my John Hancock at the bottom of this sheet? Rest assured that Henry Floss doesn't stick his byline on a piece of paper unless all contained therein is the case.

Enough about me. Let's talk about Erik. This kid has paid some serious dues! I met him at the Last Drop coffeeshop. Bearded kid. Looks serious. Like if you bred Dostoevsky, Serpico, and that kid from Rushmore together G.I. Joe-style, you'd get Bader. "A page a day, a book a year." Those were the first words he said to me. That was six years ago, back when I was still in college. SWARTHMORE COLLEGE. Magna cum laude. Five-figure trust fund. Met Jonathan Franzen on a train one time. Creepy dude. Doesn't talk when it's his turn to talk — just keeps on staring. He told me to look up the head of the New Yorker's factchecking department. Peter something. Shoulda done it.

Bader had none of these advantages. He is what we educated, we bachelors of arts, call an "autodidact." He got his learning the old fashioned Harry Truman log cabin way — at the public library. He read the classics. He built up his chops. He wrote one bad novel. Now he's written a good one. Read it. Enjoy it. And by all means, publish it. Thank you for your time. If you ever have the misfortune to find yourself in Philly, please holler at me and reference this letter. I will take you to Geno's and buy you a cheesesteak. I happen to be good friends with Joey Vento, the owner, who will let us sit in the mirrored VIP room and sign the celebrity guest book. Now that's fame!

Sincerely,

Henry Floss

True Jersey

Write to
info@truejersey.com