William Miller--confirmed mamma's boy and weak eyed vegetarian in a family of bodybuilders--learns at a tender age what amounts to the Cartesian dictum for bodybuilders everywhere: no pain, no gain. I hurt, therefore I am--words he learns to live by in the wake of his mother's death. When his father remarries a relentlessly kind grief counselor, Will falls in love with his troubled step-sister, Lulu. But as Lulu's behavior becomes increasingly erratic and inexplicably cruel, Will's sense of identity begins to founder. Faced with the knowledge that he can never hold the key to Lulu's heart, Will only clings harder to her, until his unwanted affection drives Lulu into a pattern of self-destruction which follows her into adolescence.

Lulu's departure to college, marks for Will the beginning of a personal odyssey which includes a crash course in western philosophy, a series of epic bad dates, and the enduring friendship of a poultry-obsessed former Soviet wrestler turned free-market capitalist, with whom he establishes Hot Dog Heaven on the Venice Beach Boardwalk.

Working nights as a producer at the college station, Will catches a break one night when the overnight host eats bad razor clams, forcing Will to take the mic without warning, where his performance catches the ear of the program director. In a world made of meat, a world where the corporeal is everything, and identity is measured in mounds of flesh and striated muscle, Will finally discovers his strength in the disembodied voice of his late-night radio persona.

But when Lulu self-destructs, William is drawn back into her life, and ultimately discovers that Lulu was never who he believed her to be.

Jonathan Evison has worked a wide array of jobs from syndicated talk radio host to rotten tomato sorter--in the former role, his comedy show "Shaken Not Stirred" was nominated for two Peabody Awards. He has received two Silver Microphones, and two Communicators and was frequently nominated for the Soundie Award. This is his first novel.

My life began again the moment I met Louisa Trudeau. Without Lulu, I might never have existed again, might never have known the smell of a gauze bandage or felt the delicate winking of an eyelash against my cheek.

Arriving home slump-shouldered beneath the weight of my book bag one afternoon in February, I discovered her roosting in the breakfast nook in a swathe of golden sunlight, as though she’d been delivered to me.
“Your dad’s in the garage with my mom,” she observed. There were a half–dozen books spread out in front of her. “I’m Lulu. But don’t call me Louisa. My grammy in Vermont calls me that, and I absolutely despise it. When’s your birthday, anyway?”

I was afraid to unleash the voice. All I wanted to do was look at her. She was Mr. Potatohead beautiful. Nothing fit right. But somehow this girl in the yellow socks, with the small nose, and the big ears, and the gap-toothed smile achieved a certain harmony, a beauty greater than the sum of its parts.

“It’s alright,” she said. “Your dad already told me. That you’re shy, I mean. He said that you say about twelve words a day. Is that true?”

I nodded.

“That must be hard,” she said. “I say at least twelve words every thirty seconds, I’ll bet. Maybe even more. Sometimes my mom tells me, honey, you don’t have to say every single thing that comes into your head. But I don’t, really. I mean, say everything that comes into my head. Not even close.”

She fell silent and turned her attention back to the book directly in front of her. “Don’t you think unicorns are stupid?” she said.
I shrugged.
“Well, I sure do. They don’t even make sense. And besides, there are so many incredibly diverse kinds of animals, why would you want to make one up?”
I could understand quite easily wanting to make things up, but I didn’t say as much.
“Sandhill Cranes are my favorite animal,” she pursued. “Do you know about Sandhill Cranes?”
I shook my head.
“That’s okay, not everybody does. In fact, most people don’t, actually. They’re very large birds with very long necks. They do beautiful dances and sing beautiful songs to each other. I might be an ornithologist when I grow up. That’s a bird studier. I’m not going to get married until I’m at least thirty-two. And first I’m going to travel around the world at least three times.” She went back to her book for a fleeting moment. “If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?”
All I could think to say was “back.” So I didn’t say anything.
She looked at me kindly. “It’s okay if you don’t talk. I don’t mind. Actually, I kind of like it. That’s what my mom does for a job, doesn’t talk. She’s a grief counselor. People come to her office and talk about the horrible things that happen to them. Like when their wife dies or their daughter d—” Stopping herself, Lulu cast her eyes down and retreated into a very real silence for the first time. “I’m sorry,” she said, unable to look at me. “I wasn’t thinking about . . . I forgot that . . .”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Really, I mean it, it’s okay.”
When she heard my voice she looked me right in the eye, and I was frozen in the power of her gaze. “I’m sorry what happened to your mom.”
“That’s okay.”
“Do you want to sit down and I’ll figure out your astrological chart?”
I swung my book bag onto the counter and took a seat across from her, a little jelly-legged. I stared unabashedly at her wild blue eyes as they scanned the pages, and her fast little fingers as they rifled through her astrology books. She was like nothing or no one I had ever imagined. Never had I been so completely and unexpectedly disarmed by a stranger.