My debut novel Hell or Hangover will be released this week now that the clowns at Amazon have gotten back from Bezos’s wedding and finally approved it for publication. Here’s what the man, the myth, the legend Andrew Boryga had to say about it:
"Hell or Hangover reads like coke-snorting early Bret Easton Ellis and Charles Bukowski had a wild night in the city with some crazy Cuban cousins, dabbled in Santería, and woke up hungover in suburban New Jersey. Alex Muka has written a voice-driven banger about a young man spiraling through shots of booze, lust, and existential angst in search of something real. It’s a romance, a reckoning, and a raucous coming-of-age novel full of guts, grime, and poetry. A bold debut from a writer with serious chops and a worldview all his own."
—Andrew Boryga, author of Victim
I couldn’t have said it better myself…which is why I’m forever grateful he agreed to read it.
Pre-order the e-book here - it will be available July 4th - or order the paperback which can get to you in two days if you’re a on that Amazon Prime teat.
Every night starts the same. The pregame. The debauchery before the debauchery. An excuse to get drunk before the actual drinking starts.
These are the opening lines of my novel Hell or Hangover and also the same thing I thought on my train ride into New York City. You didn’t think I would attend my first reading dead sober did you? So there I sat, tall boy of Modelo wrapped in a brown paper bag on my lap, wondering what the hell I was doing riding the train into New York City to attend Ross Barkan’s Glass Century book launch event.
I’d never been to a book launch event. Never heard a published novelist read from their book in public. I’ve never so much as met another person in real life who read an entire book of fiction. I love my friends dearly, wouldn’t trade them for the world, but the extent of their reading stops at the days betting lines. I’ve always thought of this as a gift. I’d never been exposed to literary terms like Romanticism, Realism, Post-Modernism, Surrealism, so when I write, I am part writing something I would like to read and part writing for a group of numbskulls who might never read what I’m writing. This gives my writing a kind of everyman quality, I tell myself. I am the new Ray, I tell myself. But when I sat on that train, fortifying myself with booze, I had never felt more like a fraud.
I guess you could blame this entire thing on Ross in the first place. If Ross had never written his piece about literary men (or lack thereof) titled From Misogyny to No Man’s Land, and I never DM’ed him telling him I loved it and that I was pitching my own novel, and him actually responding with interest in my book, and then him saying “give it another six months and if it doesn’t work out, do it yourself”, I wouldn’t have been pre-gaming by myself on NJ Transit. I also wouldn’t be self-publishing my own novel. What I probably would have been doing instead of attending his book launch event was sending out a new batch of queries to agents that would inevitably get rejected, becoming more and more bitter by the day, assuming I was clearly a genius and these agents were part of the Literary Industrial Complex, and throwing my hat in the ring of think pieces on just why WHITE HETERO MALES JUST ARENT GETTING PUBLISHED. Considering I have no publishing experience, have no idea how the publishing industry actually works, my piece would just be another one of those bitter, whinny, smug-ass diatribes that crop up every other day on this lovely website. So thank God Ross answered my DM. Thank God he sent me some self-published novels to read. Thank God the small amount of bitterness I had that my novel wasn’t getting accepted disappeared when I decided to publish it myself. But the fact that I was publishing the book myself, that my words would be out there, that Ross told me if I sent the book to him he’d have someone review it for his new publication The Metropolitan Review, caused me to crack open a second Modelo tallboy in pure terror.
I watched the stops go by on the North Jersey Coast Line. Middletown, Aberdeen-Matawan, South Amboy, Perth Amboy, Woodbridge, Rahway. Rahway always gives me the creeps. There’s a prison in Rahway. Rubin “Hurricane” Carter (of Bob Dylan and Denzel Washington fame) and Chuck “The Bayonne Bleeder” Wepner (of Rocky fame) both did their time at that lovely house of horrors. So did a friend. So I chugged about half a tallboy and decided to text Adam Pearson , a fellow Substacker who I would be meeting up with, to clear my mind of ever being locked behind bars.
Me: Where you at?
Adam Highbrow: No idea, trying to figure out this damn subway.
Me: Oh boy. Just get an Uber.
Adam Highbrow: No, I want the full New York experience.
Me: Watching someone drop trou and shit on the floor of an underground train isn’t really an experience you want.
Adam Highbrow: Okay, an Uber is too expensive.
Me: Didn’t I just venmo you a couple hundred for editing my book?
Adam Highbrow: Yea, and you still owe me a couple hundred.
Me: Fair. Take the subway.
I had never seen Adam before. Only heard his CLEARLY southern voice over a Zoom call where he lied and said his computer didn’t have a camera. What’d you buy that thing in the 90’s bud? I was getting to the point where I was seriously considering self-publishing and wanted someone, in particular a male-millennial, to take a crack at it. Adam begrudgingly obliged. He is a high brow man of letters, or at least his online persona led me to believe he was. I warned him that my novel was no Faust, no Faulkner, and definitely not something John Pistelli would ever add to his curriculum. It was quite shocking when he read the book in a couple days, liked it, and decided to help me tune it up. So much for being highbrow. Regardless, he will remain in my contact list as Adam Highbrow forever.
I was not only looking forward to meeting Adam but also the elusive and mysterious wayback machine . He is now saved in my contact list as Le Wayback and even though I know his full name, I will never call him by it. He is Le Way to me and always will be. Along with the two Modelo tall boys I decided to bring my copy of his book The Wayback Machine. I had asked him if it was weird to bring a copy for him to sign and was told that is not weird at all. Shit, if someone asked me that question I’d probably shed a tear that my writing was worth my signature.
When I first read The Wayback Machine I almost shed a tear myself. This was the type of book that made me love books in the first place. A grungy story about a fuckup fresh out of jail, the early 2000’s rock scene, hysteria, drugs, alcohol, a shit ton of heart – right up my alley. But the book’s content and the Substack persona of Wayback did make me wonder what type of character I would be meeting. Would I walk into the bar we were supposed to meet at and find it empty except for a man in the corner wearing a fedora and a trench coat? This man and I would make eye contact, he’d say, “You looking for Le Way?” and I’d say, “Yes,” and he’d say “Right this…le…way…” and then lead me down a cellar, through doors and hallways to Le Way’s Lair, where a man that looks like Mads Mikkelsen sits behind a desk, drink in hand, smoking a cigarette. He’d stare at me, head tilted, finally smile and say, “So you liked my book?”
This, in fact, is exactly what happened.
Kidding.
Wayback Machine aka Daniel Falatko was sitting at the bar, sipping on what I believe was a gin and tonic. He looked nothing like Mads Mikkelsen. He looked more like a skater version of Sam Rockwell. His voice is softer than what I’d imagined, friendlier too. I guess most people can confuse a writer with their characters. Instead of fanboying out we immediately slipped into conversation about Substack, about our favorite writers here, about where we were born and raised over a couple of shots and beers. I was trying to fortify myself further, trying to gain as much liquid confidence as possible before heading to the reading. I bought the drinks. This was THE Wayback Machine for fucks sake.
Most of all we laughed about his diss tracks. He admitted the only people he felt okay about dissing, except one (you can guess which one that is), were people that he actually loved that failed his expectations of them. This is exactly what his novel is about at the roots. Someone who believed in something only to get the rug pulled out from under them. This is something that clearly drives Wayback’s life, because as we walked towards the reading through the streets of the Lower East Side, he would point out to me places that used to be drug dealing dens, or money launderers, or even places where sex was sold. They’d all been turned into fancy tapas bars or high-end clothing stores. The rug, indeed, was pulled right out from under him.
We entered P&T Knitwear, where the reading was to be held, right past a building where a woman used to sell the best weed out of a laundromat, and showed our e-tickets to the girl behind the desk. I had bought two tickets, one for me and one for the wife – both included books with the package. The wife couldn’t make it. The life of a parent trying to find a baby sitter is almost as bad as me trying to find an agent. Hundreds of rejections to watch our little girls on a Tuesday night. So instead of having a nice night out with my significant other, I held two hard cover copies of Glass Century and tried to make a bee line for the bar. It occurred to me that it would be tough to hold a beer while also holding two books so I turned to Wayback and asked if he wanted one. I had already pre-ordered Ross’s book so now I was strapped with three total copies. I thought of it as an investment. If Ross turns out to be the next Edith Wharton a couple decades from now those three first editions will be worth a pretty penny. Unfortunately for my future bank account, Wayback did want a copy and accepted my gift. We will only know how much that gift was worth in the distant future.
If the jury is still out on whether Ross is the next great New York novelist, it’s been decided that he is the Gertrude Stein of Substack. He is the one gambling on new writers through his publication The Metropolitan Review. He is the one reviewing self-published books like The Wayback Machine. He is the one taking chances that no one else seems to have the balls to take. So, when I finally saw him in person, enroute to the bar, I was kind of shocked. He wore a blazer and tie, slacks, dress shoes. He was deep in conversation with someone, I assumed talking about one of three things – the literary landscape, politics, or the Yankees. I have to admit, he looked baked. High as a kite. His eyes were half shut. Maybe he was just bored from the conversation or he’d imbibed as much as I did before entering the bookshop. I’d be much more than baked if I had to read from my own book in front of a hundred or so people.
Before getting to the bar a large oaf stood out among the rest. He looked like Isaiah Hartenstein only shorter in height and a bit larger in girth. I don’t know why, but I knew this was Adam Pearson and went up and hugged the big bastard. He introduced me to his girlfriend, Chelsea, who was very nice and very not interested in the whole charade of the book launch. It was endearing. I immediately liked her.
We all finally made it to the bar, I bought a round, drank mine too quickly in conversation, and went back for another without them. Okay, another two. The problem with me and drinking in public is that I don’t know what to do with my hands. So the hand inadvertently goes up to the mouth, the drink gets drunk, and the drink magically disappears. On the second trip to the bar I found Ross unusually alone and introduced myself. I was wearing a Yankee hat not only because I didn’t shave my head but because why not suck up to the boss?
“Nice to finally meet you. And nice hat,” he said.
It worked.
In the same way Chelsea was not interested in the reading in an aloof way, Wayback was not interested because he’d seen this and done it before. Only, according to him, to much less fanfare. If it made my stomach churn thinking about reading in front of hundreds I almost threw up thinking of reading in front of two.
The reading was great, so was the Q&A, and at some point in the middle of one or the other the infamous conversation in Adam Pearson’s piece If I Should Return To Society about this same night occurred. This is the only factual part of his account. You’re telling me it doesn’t look like this guy is receiving a blowjob from on high? Geyad damn.
After the Q&A was over we went up to get our books signed. Well, Wayback and Adam did. I gave another piece of my kid’s college fund to Adam as he had forgot his copy of Glass Century all the way back home in Louisiana. So just like that, my two copies turned to none (except for the one at home) and now my kids won’t be able to attend college. Thanks guys.
Regardless, we all went up and shook Ross’s hand, congratulated him, and they got their copies signed. I ended up in conversation with Ross’s mother as Wayback and Adam, both published or reviewed in The Metropolitan Review, actually had something of value to talk to Ross about. Ross’s mom is a fucking character. It doesn’t get more Brooklyn than Ross’s mom. Strong accent, no fucks given attitude, small but can still kick your ass. She reminds me of my mother in law. She probably uses made up Brooklyn words and phrases that no one else in America knows what they mean. I can imagine her looking at her son and saying, “He thinks who the hell is.” If any characters in Glass Century resemble the short yet energetic and loud woman laughing with me in that bookstore, Ross will have a serious hit on his hands.
I was also lucky enough to run into Vanessa Ogle who is just as lovely in person as she is online. She is a small, unintimidating figure yet I found myself nervous when I saw her. She smiled at me and gave me a hug. If Ross isn’t the Gertrude Stein of the Stack then Vanessa surely is. She has also edited my novel and if she’s as prescient about my book (she liked it) as she is about the latest New York City Mayoral Democratic Primary, then I am in luck.
Wayback and I left and headed back to the bar we were at earlier. This bar, he told me, was one of the haunts the main character in his novel, Nathan, used to hit up before the gentrifying hordes took over. Adam and Chelsea had to go try Katz’s Deli. I didn’t blame them but I questioned how late one can stay up when they are filled with a sandwich the size of one’s head. At the bar, I finally popped the question, and Wayback signed my copy of his book. I will cherish it forever. Adam and Chelsea returned an hour later, wobbling from all the food, and we kept drinking and talking and laughing. It is good to meet people you’ve talked to online in real life. Not IRL. In real life. Spell it out. Don’t let the internet fuck your brain too much. Alas, it was time for me to go. I have a wife and kids for chrisake. When I said I was leaving Adam looked at me like I had killed his cat. Chelsea punched Adam in the shoulder and yelled, “Can’t you see he’s a family man!?” But all I could think of was the opening lines to Bright Lights Big City.
You are not the kind of guy who would be at a place like this at this time in the morning.
Unfortunately for my wife, I am that kind of guy. I could have stayed and drank and laughed until the wee hours. But times have changed. 10 PM for a dad might as well be 3 AM. I wondered how I would swing going out again in just two nights to the reading Matthew Gasda was putting on in Brooklyn. Gasda, Barkan, and Pistelli in one room. Appointment television. (Substack IRL part 2 will be out next week) But you don’t just get to go out as a parent. You pay for it in one way or another. And two nights in the same week? Forget it. Rent would be due. I had to get my ass home.
At Penn Station I bought one last road soda. Why the hell not, right? Modelo tall boy please. The train ride back was long and arduous and when I passed Rahway I didn’t even think about the prison. I was drunk and happy and finally, not nervous at all.
If you didn’t preorder my debut novel Hell or Hangover before reading this - do it now.
Here’s a quick synopsis.
Lou Kennedy wants out. Though he doesn’t admit this to anyone, and barely admits it to himself, there has to be a reason to stop the debauchery of his current life, he just hasn’t found it yet. That is until a drunken night out in New York City leads him to Marissa, the girl who just might inspire him to clean up his act. She’s a Spanish spark unlike any woman he’s ever met. But there’s a problem. At some point late in the night Lou’s bad habits get the better of him. He blacks out and wakes up in his ex-girlfriend’s bed with no recollection of how he got there and no evidence Marissa ever existed. No phone number. No photos. After furious online searching he can’t even find an Instagram handle.
Desperate, irrational, and questioning if the Marissa he met is real, Lou seeks out his mother’s Babalawo who says he has five days to find Marissa or he will lose her forever. In a bibulous jaunt through the streets of Hoboken and Manhattan, where family, friends, addiction, old flames, the spiritual, and the superstitious all play a part in hunting down the beautiful apparition that just might change Lou’s life forever, he faces a choice - find Marissa or succumb to a life of depravity, enroute to the brink of insanity.
Can’t wait to read it!!! Maybe you will sign it for me?? Love your momma 😎
Been seeing that cover around and it's excellent. Congrats!