I walk all the way up Hollywood Boulevard to Grauman's Chinese
Theatre: past tourists snapping shots; wannabe starlets sparkling
by in miniskirts with head shots in their hands and moondust in
their eyes; rowdy cowboys drinking with drunken Indians; black
businessmen bustling by briskly in crisp suits; ladies who do not
lunch with nylons rolled up below the knee pushing shopping carts
full of everything they own; Mustangs rubbing up against muscular
Mercedes and Hell's Angels hogs. It's a sick twisted Wonderland,
and I'm Alice. Here is a story like no other: The unforgettable
chronicle of a season spent walking the razor-sharp line between
painful innocence and the allure of the abyss. David Sterry was a
wide-eyed son of 1970s suburbia, but within his first week looking
for off-campus housing on Sunset Boulevard he was lured into a much
darker world -- servicing the lonely women of Hollywood by night.
Chicken--the word is slang for a young male prostitute--revisits
this year of living dangerously, in a narrative of dazzling
inventiveness and searing candor. Shifting back and forth from
tales of Sterry's youth--spent in the awkward bosom of a
disintegrating dysfunctional family--to his fascinating account of
the Neverland of post--sixties sexual excess, Chicken teems with
Felliniesque characters and set pieces worthy of Dionysus. And when
the life finally overwhelms Sterry, his retreat from the profession
will leave an indelible mark on readers' minds and hearts.
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