About the Book

A man with a broken arm, a silver tooth, and a heart full of half-finished jokes—he’s not a cowboy, though he’s claimed to be. He’s not a writer, though he’s written more than most. He’s not a magician, but he’s made a career of disappearing. He is Pauly Paulson, and he’s been eighty-sixed from paradise.

Crafted from the finest Las Vegas grit and stitched together with the threadbare hope of a better tomorrow, this is the story of a janitor-turned-joke-writer who falls in with a blind comedian who isn’t blind, a woman who may or may not be a sex worker, and a black Saab that may or may not be following him. Along the way, he inherits a convertible with no roof, a pair of tortoises named after dead relatives, and a father who’s a senator with a non-disclosure agreement.

This isn’t just a novel. It’s a garment of narrative excess—equal parts Bukowski, Bukowski’s bartender, and the barstool he fell off of. It’s a road trip in a car that shouldn’t run, a love story with no clear ending, and a punchline that lands like a prayer.

Wear it like regret. Read it like a confession. Live it like Pauly.

Dry clean only. Do not iron. Contains radioactive seeds.