The Humorist Books Father’s Day 2025 Gift Guide
What do dads (fathers, if you’re fancy) love? Jokes. Comedy. Silly stuff. Being dads. Their cute little interests. We happen to specialize in those very things here at Humorist Books, and we’ve got great Father’s Day gifts at the ready for most any kind of dad… like your dad!For the history buff dad:
For the dad who loves being a dad:
Langley Powell and the Society for the Defense of the Mundane, by Jeff Giles
For the political dad:
Red Tie, Blue Tie, by Gary M. Almeter and Reese Cassard
6 Important Writerly Questions With… Shawn Carlow
Shawn Carlow has written for a lot of shows you enjoy — Jimmy Kimmel Live!, Late Night with Jimmy Fallon — and now he’s written a collection of stories you’re going to really like. In People of the Titanic, he tells the stories of 30 doomed malcontents and oddballs who sailed on the ill-fated “Ship of Dreams” back in 1912. They weren’t all industrialists, innocents, and Leonardo DiCaprio, afterall.
While you wait for your copy of these (fictional, by the way) tales to download or to arrive in your mailbox, get to know the great Shawn Carlow, an agile author who pulled off nothing less than a high-wire comedy act.
1. Who are you? What are you doing here?
I’m a writer. I grew up in New Hampshire but I live in .LA. I’ve written a book that interplanetary travelers may one day study the pages of and conclude that the human race was worthy of extinction. Or they might laugh. I hope they laugh, understand why they’re laughing, and are even actually capable of that function.
2. Since “Where do you get your ideas?” is a terrible question, what made you want to write this book?
It went through a few iterations, each becoming longer and longer as time passed. Well over 10 years ago, it started as a standup joke that I told on stage about “the other heroes of the Titanic.” People usually know about the unfortunate captain who stayed at the helm of the ship, the band that kept playing as the ship went down, and the Unsinkable Molly Brown. I just tried imagining what other people could have been on board with them. A mime had to be there. And two brothers who ran a hot dog stand was a must.
Next, I thought of it maybe as a TV project broken into 10 segments.
And then the opportunity from Humorist Books came along to turn it into a book. Perfect.
3. How did you keep writing this book?
It wasn’t that hard. Once I’d started delving into this world, I found I enjoyed it quite a lot. Plus, I enjoy doing historical research and writing imaginative comedy.
4. Who is this book for, anyway?
People who like to laugh and who like history and like how things have changed, but also observing in a lot of ways how we’re very much the same.
And, listen, I don’t want to keep harping on the interplanetary visitors I spoke of earlier, but I would hope to have my consciousness downloaded one day so I could witness their reactions to my book in the distant future. Perhaps I could even win an interstellar prize from them that’s honest in a way that the Miss Universe Pageant is not.
5. Any darlings you had to kill?
Surprisingly few. The great majority of what I wrote is in there. Since it’s not one long novel but rather mini stories of the characters within, and occasionally how they intersect, I mostly just had to kill small bits where characters intersect and it didn’t make sense to the characters we’d already encountered.
6. What are you working on now?
A book of humorous short stories. My favorite story in the collection so far is about a young woman who brings her fiancé to visit her traditional grandmother — the kind who never stops feeding you — and it becomes a test of wills when it turns out the fiancé is a competitive eater.
Also, since that world has been so much fun for me, I’m partway through another 30 stories in the extremely imaginatively titled, More People of the Titanic.
People of the Titanic is now available in print and ebook formats.
Read an Excerpt from Shawn Carlow’s PEOPLE OF THE TITANIC
On April 10, 1912, the Titanic departed England, ultimately bound for America. It famously struck an iceberg along the way, and as the mighty ship went down, it took 1,500 people with it, most of them good-hearted, innocent people. But what of the jerks, losers, weirdos, and malcontents? They were also People of the Titanic. In this comical, fanciful— and completely hypothetical — depiction of life on the Titanic, Shawn Carlow (Jimmy Kimmel Live!, Late Night with Jimmy Fallon) brings to the surface 30 stories of doomed souls who sailed upon that ship of dreams. Here’s one such yarn. Fellow passengers, behold the Detmer Brothers.
***
The Detmer brothers, Andreas and Stefan, were German businessmen staying in second class who ran a hot dog stand on the First Class promenade deck of Titanic – the only sanctioned food stand on the entire vessel. If you were in first class, most of the grand ship’s food was eaten in the sumptuous café, saloon, or restaurant. A slightly less accommodating but still extravagant eating space awaited those in second; trash chutes served the third-class passengers, delivering the contents of wiped-off plates and leftover soup straight down to the lower decks, where the rabble waited eagerly with their open mouths and collection buckets.
The Detmer brothers were well known for their antics when preparing frankfurters, catching them in hot dog buns behind their backs or through their legs. Many a hungry passenger marveled at the magical dexterity with which they performed, while also fervently hoping that their meal would not be dropped upon the deck, which most times it was not. Tom Cruise was said to have studied old newsreels of the brothers when he was preparing for his role in Cocktail.
The brothers have also been credited with inventing the tip jar — and placing money in it at the start of the day to make it seem like people were leaving money, even if they weren’t, because remember, it was mostly wealthy people up on the promenade deck.
The night of the sinking, the stand had been closed for several hours when the ship struck ice, but when their dark fate seemed certain, Stefan Detmer suggested to his brother that they serve warm hot dogs as comfort food to the worried passengers. And a few survivors later told of how, when the ship was in its final throes and tilting downward, the brothers were seen handing hot dogs to people sliding by and entreating them to “tell all your friends.” The futility in that gesture was obvious, but, still, you have to admire their gumption.
The two brothers’ bodies were never found after the sinking, but remnants of the hot dog stand washed up on a beach in Greenland and were used to make a memorial to the brothers that still stands in Germany. In Hamburg.
People of the Titanic is now available in print and ebook formats.
6 Important Writerly Questions with…Dewey Lovett
I got to talk with our newest literary breakout, Dewey Lovett, a very terrific stand-up comedian and author of the just as terrific Drinksgiving. What’s Drinksgiving? It’s a funny, twist-filled crime story about poor decision, unlikely friendships, disappointed relatives, small towns, beer, and the longest holiday weekend of the year made even longer. It’s the kind of novel you’ll read all at once because you’re so delighted and want to know what happens, and also the kind of book that would make a great host gift for whoever is having you over for Thanksgiving this year.
But let’s hear what Dewey has to say about it! Happy Drinksgiving, everybody!
***
1. Who are you? What are you doing here?
Hello! I’m Dewey Lovett! I am a comedian turned novelist. I’m here because telling a story this long and twisting doesn’t work on stage. I’ve always wished there were more FUNNY books in the world — and I don’t mean comedian memoirs! I want more funny fiction, so I did my best to write the book I wanted to read.
2. Since “Where do you get your ideas?” is a terrible question, what made you want to write this book?
To answer the terrible question, this idea came from a Thanksgiving morning hangover when I wondered ‘what could be the worst thing that happened last night?’ I also wondered, ‘why aren’t there more Thanksgiving comedies?’ At the time that this idea came to me, I had been studying the craft of longform fiction for a while, so I was ready to go all out!
3. How did you keep writing this book?
I stayed committed to writing this book because it was FUN to write. I looked forward to it after work. Also, my husband was super supportive and encouraged me to spend time writing and committing to the bit. He has also written funny novels so it felt like two flavors of support in one: husband-support and funny writer-support. I needed both. If I ever continued to feel unmotivated I just pictured how cool it would feel later to say I wrote a novel.
4. Who is this book for, anyway?
This book is for people who want an easy, fun, upbeat read. It might even be for people who don’t like reading but want to try it. It’s meant to be consumable like a beach read without the romance. Maybe something to be read on the plane ride home for Thanksgiving? It’s also for people who love reading. I hope this book makes its way into rural and girl power book clubs.
5. Any darlings you had to kill?
I had to murder almost the entire first draft and I’m so glad I did. The story was originally one omniscient POV. Now it’s dual first person and the pace and mystery are so much better! I had to make so many sacrifices that after a while I didn’t care anymore. Every time I cut a joke, I added a better one somewhere else. There was one darling my beta readers said I NEEDED to cut but I loved it way too much so I rearranged the plot around it. To be clear, that is deranged writer behavior! But it made the ending feel soooo good and I have no regrets.
6. What are you working on now?
On top of doing lots of stand up comedy, I am happily working on my next novel! It’s too early in the process to give a proper synopsis but it’s another comedy set in snowy Rochester, NY. Once again I look forward to working on it every day!
***
Gobble up a copy of Drinksgiving right now.
Be Amazed By This Excerpt of Keith James’ “Community Pool”
Keith James is a straight-up Humorist Books superstar. After we published his first novel, the ambitious and hilarious Greg Maxwell’s Inferno: The Erotic, Judeo-Christian Modern-Day Odyssey No One Asked For back in 2021, we were lucky enough to receive the manuscript for his follow-up, Community Pool. Boldly original and trapising through multiple genres, sometimes all at once, it’s a profane, funny, and moving story about family, stature, identity, the nature of reality, changing course mid-stream. I can’t really do it justice here. You’re just going to have to read the first couple of chapters or so, excerpted here, and then buy the rest of this unforgettable and astonishing novel. Community Pool and Keith James, everybody!
***
ONE
Chubbuck. It’s in Idaho. It’s a city or a town, I’m not really sure. It’s on the southeast side of Idaho. Close to Utah. Kind of close to Wyoming. There was a guy who, I don’t know when, would load beets and potatoes and other shit onto a supply train that stopped around Chubbuck. But it wasn’t called Chubbuck then. It was just a place. Then in 1951, it became Chubbuck. Remember the guy who was loading shit onto the train? His last name was Chubbuck.
But who cares? It’s trains and a guy. Who cares about trains? No one.
I don’t. I know I don’t. There are so many things I have to care about. To be stressed out about. Jesus, fuck. If you think I care about some guy throwing potatoes on a train, you are damaged. You have a brain problem. You have a priorities problem.
You know what I think? If a city gets started in 1951, I think that sucks. I think that means the city is a bad place. If people wanted it, they would have gotten it well before 1951. Every good city was started in the 1800s, minimum.
Chubbuck.
If you want to get to Chubbuck, you can drive. Take the I-15 north or south and get off when your phone tells you to get off. Or the I-86 east or west. I don’t care. I don’t know where you are coming from.
And if you are reading this and are thinking, “You know, I think I have been to Chubbuck,” you haven’t. If people say this to me, this is what I say: I say, “Oh, so you’ve been to the drive-in theater.” And they say, “Sure have.”
Bzzzt. Wrong. Thanks for playing, shithead. There is no drive-in movie theater in Chubbuck. You got one in Idaho Falls and one in Rexburg. Not Chubbuck. They might have been trying to be polite by saying they’ve been to Chubbuck for the purpose of bonding, but, I don’t know. You probably haven’t been to Chubbuck, so just say that. To be fair, I’ve never been to either drive-in movie theater. Seems like a waste of time.
I don’t know why I’m stuck on “ways to get to Chubbuck,” but you can also fly into Chubbuck. Sort of. You fly into the Pocatello Regional Airport, which is on the Chubbuck side of the 86. But that’s gonna be so expensive. That’s crazy. You are gonna get on a tiny plane in Salt Lake City and fly the worst flight of your goddamn life. For what? You cut an hour off your trip? Stop it. Fly into Salt Lake and drive up.
But I don’t know. It all depends, you know? The roads suck in the winter and no one cares. Once you get past Utah and into Idaho, no one cares. The roads suck and fuck you. You’re gonna die and that’s your fault. You are gonna drive off the road passing Rigby. The hill is too steep coming down and if you are driving a rental, there is no way you have a feel of the brakes. You are going to be in a ditch. No one is going to stop. I might stop. I take that back. I’m not going to stop. Car in a ditch? I’m not stopping. You should have flown into Pocatello Regional Airport. I know what I said before, but you just gotta play it by ear and figure some stuff out for yourself.
But, whatever. That’s what Chubbuck is. That’s where I am. Fine. Okay.
TWO
At this point in time, I’m poolside. The pool is not mine; I mean it’s a community pool so I guess it’s mine. Cronke Community Center. There is a pool. Couple little clubhouse rooms. A little park with some trees. Whatever. Cronke Community Center is in Chubbuck.
I’m poolside, lying face up on my pool chair. Sunglasses off. I don’t even have sunglasses. If I buy sunglasses I will sit on them, honest to god. What’s the point?
It’s summer so this place is packed. Kids. Adults. Families. Single men. I don’t care. Everyone is walking, sitting, or running around and it’s a lot. You have to tune it all out. A few minutes ago it sounded like someone’s kid busted their head on the concrete, but I’m tuning that out.
Why? I’m staring at the sun. And I know it’s frowned upon to stare directly at the sun. And I’m not dumb, I get why. It hurts. The damage lingers. I should know, I’ve been doing this all summer. I pick the time when the sun is right over my pool chair, and I see how long I can go. Looking at the sun. That’s what I’m doing, that’s what I want to do.
What people won’t tell you is that you can develop a tolerance to the sun. If you work at it, you can go longer. At first, I was lasting a couple seconds. I mean at first I stared at the sun by accident. But then I thought, look, I’m going to be here all summer, might as well learn to live with the sun. Grow with it. Now I can go a full minute without having to blink or turn away. Today I go 57 seconds. It’s a setback, but you’re always going to have setbacks. Life beats you down for a bit as a way of saying it’s about to get better. That’s the god’s honest truth.
To be clear, I don’t have any personal examples of this truth. Life has kicked the shit out of me for a straight 58 years. Thorough ass beatings where every part of my spirit and physical body is destroyed. It’s caused me to develop big time mental problems that I don’t want to unpack because I’m too busy getting my shit wrecked. It’s like playing whack a mole, but every mole can whack you back. And, imagine if these moles also say terrible things about you. And let’s say you married one of these moles – I’m getting ahead of myself.
Life is going bad and it does not seem to be getting better. I have researched ways to end my life. I have developed a plan of action, and have made arrangements. But, I dunno. Sometimes you see an internet cartoon or some T-shirt and you say, “Wow, there is still a little color left on this painting. There are still dreams to be had.”
I look around the pool. I try to blink all the sun spots out of my eyes. Okay, so a kid did crack his head open. Looks like he is going to be fine. Lots of paramedics and concerned faces, but I don’t know. I’ve got a good feeling.
In my left hand I’ve got a Mike’s Hard Seltzer. Aside from looking at the sun, I’ve invested a lot of my time into the hard seltzer industry. I don’t work for a hard seltzer company or anything. No, I just spend a lot of time at the gas station looking at hard seltzers. Hours. Where did they come from?
I’m a Mike’s Hard Seltzer guy. I’ve had every seltzer available and Mike’s just does it right. As good as you can, which is not great, but it’s the best. I know I said internet cartoons and T-shirts keep me off the edge, but I should also tip my cap to alcohol.
I’m on my eighth hard seltzer. Again, it’s a hot day. You have to drink these things fast or else the can gets hot and then you’ve got a hot seltzer. If you are drinking hot seltzers you have a problem. You have a brain problem. Seltzer has to be cold. The bubbles need to be painful and the coldness plays against the pain of the bubbles. Fire and Ice. If you have a hot seltzer, there is no relief. You’re just being stupid.
I try to limit my movement on the chair because my stomach hurts from the seltzers. It’s a very specific kind of hurt I only get from drinking seltzers. I don’t think we were supposed to make seltzers hard. We shouldn’t do everything we can do, if that makes sense. I love them, though.
I go into a little trance watching the sun reflect off the surface of the pool. In your head you might imagine a sparkle of light on the water’s surface, but you would be wrong. Don’t get ahead of yourself. No, the pool has got a dull thickness to it. The pool is a publicly-owned property. We do town votes on chlorine levels in public pools. Never enough chlorine. Chlorine can’t keep up with the sunscreen and piss and you’d be surprised — I was surprised — leaked breast milk. I’ve asked around on the internet and apparently its totally normal for a woman to leak at a pool. Kids screaming, crying. Who screams and cries? Babies. So yeah, we’re leaking. And there are a lot of mothers at this pool.
If you came to me with decent odds that there is more breast milk than piss in this pool right now, I don’t know. God. I don’t know. I’d probably turn you down, but I’d think about it.
I trace the water up to where it meets the concrete edge and find myself in the crosshairs of my son Gabe’s big fat tits, wrapped up tight in a wet Hard Rock Café shirt he borrowed from his grandmother. Gabe is ten feet away from the edge of my pool chair in the shallow end. He’s bobbing up and down and when his tits get near the water they float a little. The Hard Rock Café shirt puffs out when he dips down, but sucks against his breasts when he comes back up. He dips and rocks and contorts his body so that maybe his tits will stop bobbing like tugboats, but he can’t help it. It’s physics. Gabe is trying to fight the laws of nature. It’s a fucked up sight.
Gabe is my youngest child. He is a teenager. Puberty. He’s in his awkward years and I’m starting to think they are all going to be awkward.
Gabe’s tits make him feel bad. He doesn’t like showing them, so if we’re at a place like the pool he wears a T-shirt to cover them up. I tell him, “That’s the problem. You’re not hiding these tits, you’re teasing them.” No one in my house agrees with me. I actually have no idea what my wife thinks. She’s a pretty hands-off parent. No knock on her. Just reality.
My daughter Samantha jumps down my throat. Big time. She says that I’m not being body positive even though it is actually the opposite. I’m actually the most body positive. I’m the one saying that my son should show his tits to the world. All of Chubbuck knows that Gabe has a set of cans. Boobs. Let’s see them!
When I say this? Fireworks. I am Hitler. “Gabe doesn’t have to show his body to anyone! His relationship with his own body is most important,” Samantha says. Sure. Fine. But settle down, tough guy. All I know is that when I walk into a locker room, I am naked before I am remotely close to my locker. I am nude, holding a newspaper, trying to make small talk. Why? Because who cares? It’s a body. We all have one. My body is nothing to brag about. I have a dick like a piece of Easter candy. I am uncircumcised, and I should have been. Someone should have intervened. It’s terrible. And I got fucked up pubic hair. But guess what? I’m still here. I’m not dead.
The problem is that Gabe is making this a thing of mystery. Mystery gets attention. And you know, it’s strange because – well I should probably clear something up because it could be a point of confusion: Gabe is not fat. I mean, he’s not winning any bodybuilding contests but he’s not in any health danger either. It’s just, I dunno, the guy is busty. I’m not saying anyone should do this, but if you did a slow camera pan on Gabe’s body, starting from the ankles and moving up his body, by the time you got to his breasts, a record would scratch. I’ve said this to Gabe and he has taken it poorly, but he shouldn’t. It’s more like, hey, you have one part of you that is strange and bad. It’s not all bad. I don’t know. There is a nuance to this conversation that I know is required, but I just don’t have it. It’s like, some pitchers have a curveball, some don’t. Me? I am not a pitcher.
But here’s the major issue with Gabe’s tits and just Gabe in general. We are in a time crunch. This is Gabe’s last summer before high school. It’s going to be rough. He has no confidence, he’s got this curvy body, he still uses his finger to read books, and I think he’s gonna get the living shit beaten out of him. If I was Gabe’s age and we went to the same high school — it’s tough because he’s my son and I love him — but I think I’d beat him until both my hands were broken. And I was no big time jock. I was no Emilio Estevez. But Gabe would have been a low enough bar to clear. I would have seen him as someone that, hey, maybe I publicly beat him and who knows? Maybe I go one rung higher on the social ladder. You know? A lot of people are going to see him and think that.
Also, and I think it’s something you have to account for…maybe it’s low probability/high-risk, but could Gabe’s tits set off some type of hormone infused reaction from his peers? Like, you get some bully who gets a couple punches on Gabe, Gabe’s tits I don’t know, jiggle or something? Then what? What kind of fight is this? I just think, not good. Not good for Gabe.
Part of the issue is that he doesn’t have a pack. A crew. A similar species group. I watch a lot of shows where wild animals die. I got these new Bluetooth headphones set up and I go full volume on these wild animal shows. I also watch violent street fights, but the wild animal stuff relates more to Gabe. Sometimes an animal will survive only because their pack is big enough that the predator says, “If I go in there I am going to get my ass beat,” or the pack is so big that sheer odds alone are in a single animal’s favor to survive.
Gabe doesn’t have that. He is not a jock. You would think he is a nerd, but he can’t make nerd friends because he is kind of simple. Not a full blown dum-dum. Not at all. Just like, when he gets older, he is gonna need a job where they give him a list, or write down what he is supposed to do on a whiteboard. So he is not going to have that nerd pack.
He has some weirdo aspects to him, so maybe he gets a weirdo pack, but that’s always a gamble. He’s always on Amazon buying camo and the camo never fits on his love handles right so it’s a major waste of money.
If he’s not on Amazon he’s on YouTube just watching stuff. And he’s got his mouth open for breathing. Watching nonsense.
He — and I say this with love and also disappointment — is a dork. Just a big dork. And dorks don’t have packs. They fly solo. Breaks my heart but also makes me upset with him because I feel like he has something to do with this. He could take that shirt off and be fat tits guy for a couple hours and then we’d all move on. He would just be Gabe, a guy who happens to have fat tits. But it’s inhabited him. He is fat tits guy forever.
But you should notice when I said “we” as in “we are in a time crunch.” Gabe’s tits are a “we” issue. I’m his dad. I want to help. And unlike my wife, I’m a hands-on kind of parent.
So. What’s the plan? We go to the pool. Every day. We get comfortable with our bodies in public. We show the world that we don’t hide from anything. And, we do this as a family. Everyone goes to the pool. No excuses. Every day.
How is the plan going? Not great. Technically, everyone is going. Is it to help Gabe discover his body? No. I will say that with confidence. Everyone is going to the pool for their own reasons. Is Gabe getting comfortable with his body? No. Shirt never comes off. Sometimes there are two shirts. One time he tried to go in the pool wearing a sweatshirt and jeans and I had to get a little stern with him.
But whatever. We go every day. Same car. All together. Pool opens at 10 a.m. We get there at 9:50. Drives everyone crazy. But we have one car, I drive, and I have a very legitimate reason for getting to the pool 10 minutes early.
What are the reasons? Okay. We need five pool chairs. There are five of us. Names and my personal rankings come later, but there are five of us. One chair per person. I’m not sharing my pool chair, and I don’t expect anyone in my family to share. Do I expect anyone to use the chair at all times? Of course not. I use my chair almost at all times, but that’s because I feel a need to guard the other chairs. The other four don’t really use their chairs, but I can only imagine that one time I am not guarding their chairs, and they want a chair and it has been taken? They would make sure that my day was ruined.
Next, I need a spot that is NOT in the direct line of sight of BOTH the lifeguard and the towel kid. I’m drinking alcohol. Can’t drink alcohol at the pool. I know a lot of people are sneaking their alcohol inside using water bottles or Camelbacks, but I’m drinking hard seltzer. If you take the seltzer out of the can and transfer it to a water bottle it loses the initial bubbles. That’s why you drink seltzer! So I have to drink from the can and I need to hide the can. If I get my alcohol taken away from me, I’ll just go home. If I can’t drink at the pool what is the point?
It’s a lot of pressure on me. Everyone has said they don’t need a chair if it means we can leave a few hours later, but I don’t think they mean that. I think they are lying. I think they are all lying to me.
Everyone has to be in the car at 9:30 a.m. Everyone consists of my wife Michelle, Gabe, my daughter Samantha, and our neighbor’s kid, Ethan. Nobody ever asks, but I can rank them, and I keep the rankings updated.
Read an Excerpt from Our Latest: Sam Pasternack’s WALKER
The book.
Here it is, Walker chapter one. Like it? Read the rest — buy WALKER now!
A tall, wiry man nattily dressed in a three-piece suit, leather shoes, and a top hat proudly strode down the countryside. A handlebar mustache framed his wide grin, and the rest of him was framed by desolate, dewy New England farmland. The sheer confidence and resolve on his face belonged to a man who knew exactly what he was supposed to be doing, with nothing that could stop him.
This was Preston Dilettante. On this journey in 1864, he set forth on the longest recorded walk in the history of the United States. At its conclusion, he met the President of the United States, The Great Emancipator —
“Abraham Lincoln himself!”
Walker Dilettante, wide-eyed and thrilled, stood under a door frame as he deftly weaved through the story of Preston, over a century and a half later. He had Preston’s tall and wiry physique, but he used it in a bouncier way than Preston did. Everything in Walker’s movements, mannerisms, and voice exuded the kind of sunniness you’d find on a children’s television show. Not that Walker would know much of children’s television shows, as he and Grandpappy never had a television or computer in the home.
As he told the tale of his great-great-grandfather, Walker felt at home. He had practiced telling this story countless times before, just as a teen would stare into the mirror practicing proper delivery of quotes from a favorite movie before going to school the next day.
“Shaking hands with my grandpappy’s grandpappy. Ain’t that somethin’? A trek from New Hampshire to the capital of our great nation made Preston Dilettante a hero! The best darn walking specimen in the history of our country!”
Walker collected himself. Telling this story to a new audience was a rarity, and one that made his heart race.
“Okay, now you go! Tell me about this Jehovah fella. How’s his walking gait?”
Three Jehovah’s Witnesses stood at the door. They slowly began to back away from the manically grinning Walker.
“You know what?” one of them piped up. “Never mind.”
They quickly turned around to find the fastest route to escape Walker’s story. Fortunately for them, Walker’s home sat atop a small hill that was quite easy to sprint down when you’re hoping to avoid a story about the patron saint of 19th-century competitive walking, also known as pedestrianism, for those looking to save one word yet zero syllables.
As the three stepped away from the doorframe, Walker realized he was losing them. He tried to get their attention the only way he knew how.
“Well, hey, you don’t have to go! I could tell you more about Preston’s journey. The worst was the dogs that would chase him. He would shout, ‘Damn these dogs! Their graves await them!’”
The author.
Walker watched them reach a full sprint, then tumble down the hill, a more acceptable fate for them than hearing him continue to tell this story.
Walker sighed and retreated inside the two-bedroom log cabin that his Grandpappy had built many years prior. Preston Dilettante memorabilia lined the walls, the floors, and every end table. All these etchings, letters, and newspaper clippings would look like clutter to some and an archive to others. To Walker, each of these pieces of history represented hours of entertainment and the opportunity to learn about the country, with the added bonus of seeing it through Preston’s eyes.
In the middle of the room, inside a small rectangular glass case atop a wooden stand, sat one old and deeply mud-stained leather shoe. Had Preston known his descendants would frame the one and only surviving shoe from his famed journey, he would have cleaned it more thoroughly.
Behind the displayed shoe, Grandpappy Dilettante sat in a comfortable yet tattered armchair. Despite possessing the kind of beard that, in a cartoon, would demonstrate that tremendous swaths of time had passed, Grandpappy still had the energy and enthusiasm that he’d passed along to his grandson. Walker always felt comfortable with the idea of aging, because he knew that in 55 years, he’d be just like Grandpappy.
Grandpappy lit up when he saw Walker re-enter the cabin. It was the same look Walker always had when telling Preston’s story.
“Welcome back, youngin’! How were your three and a half hours at the front door?”
Walker sat in a small wooden chair next to Grandpappy, his perennial favorite seat. The chair wasn’t particularly worn in or scuffed, as Walker spent most of his life upright, standing and moving around.
“Grandpappy, I’ve had a pretty crummy day. Those nice fellas left before I could finish telling them about your grandpappy’s travels.”
Grandpappy’s face scrunched up, a look Walker knew as Grandpappy preparing to funnel some negativity into a positive slant.
“Well… at least you had an honest day’s work on your egg route this morning!”
Every weekday morning, Walker would take a six-mile walk to a large silo, where eight cartons of fresh eggs and a stack of ten-dollar bills would be waiting for him. Walker’s job was to carry those eggs to seven different silos in the general area and leave them in front of each silo. He was instructed to keep the last of the egg cartons for himself and Grandpappy.
Grandpappy had gotten him the job years prior, and Walker had never interacted with anyone else involved in this business endeavor.
“That’s the other problem! I don’t know why it is, but I just don’t feel like I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing by being on that egg route. Heck, I even saw a hiker who told me I should be using one of those two-wheeled cycling contraptions to deliver the eggs!”
Grandpappy sighed.
“They don’t understand us, Walker. We come from the greatest pedestrian the world has ever known. And you know the only thing a good pedestrian needs to get from A to B?”
“His own two feet.”
“Darn tootin’ his own two feet!”
“Yeah! Things are gonna get better, Grandpappy!”
“You bet!”
Walker sprung out of his chair. He’d sat long enough.
“That makes me feel so much better! Thank you!”
“Walker?”
“Yes, Grandpappy?”
“I’m dying.”
“What?!”
“Yep. I’ve only got a few months left.”
Walker staggered backward from the sheer weight of this news. After taking a second to compose himself, he started pacing. Walking always helped in times like these.
“Grandpappy, how do you know? We haven’t had a checkup since that doc breezed through 15 years ago!”
“Well, that boy way, way, way down the road, he came to deliver the milk yesterday. He noticed I was coughing. He went home and used a WebMD and found out I was dying.”
“A WebMD? You told me we didn’t find any of those in Iraq.”
Grandpappy used to read the newspaper daily and relay select information to Walker. He canceled his subscription a few years earlier without providing an explanation. Walker assumed that Grandpappy just got tired of getting ink on his hands.
“No, that’s a WMD,” Grandpappy explained. “This is a WebMD.”
“What’s a WebMD?”
“I don’t really know, but whatever it is, it’s got its MD, and that’s enough for me.”
Grandpappy folded his arms, seemingly at peace with this whole situation.
“But Grandpappy, you can’t die!”
“Sure I can! Everybody does it.”
“What I mean is I don’t want you to!”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do to change it. But Walker, you’ve always been a good grandson, and it’s about time I showed you my prized possession.”
Grandpappy opened a slot on the end table beside him and flipped the small wooden switch inside, revealing a secret drawer that popped out.
“There’s a drawer in that table, Grandpappy! What a prized possession!”
“No, Walker, it’s what’s inside the drawer.”
“Okay!”
Grandpappy pulled out a rolled piece of paper that spanned the height of the table. He unfurled it and displayed it to Walker. On the front was a large old map of the United States, with black dots peppering over a dozen places across the country.
“Walker, this is a map of these here United States. Each of those black dots represents a direct descendant of your grandpappy’s grandpappy.”
Walker gasped.
“That’s right, Walker. Preston Dilettante, The Great Pedestrian himself. We made this map at the last family reunion. Thirty years ago.”
Walker, doing the math in his head, realized that he’d missed being alive for this family reunion by merely a year. He sat back in his chair.
“I thought we were alone, but there are so many of us! Why don’t any of them live here in the glorious hills of unincorporated Schnoors, Idaho? Why don’t I know any of them?”
“Because everybody walks their own path, grandson. And even those who walk together have a different gait. But we need to remember why we’re walking in the first place. And for that, we all have the same answer.”
“What’s that, Grandpappy?”
“To go somewhere, Walker. We all walk to go somewhere.”
He slapped his grandson’s knee, to dismiss him. Walker sat still.
“Grandpappy, I’m starting to feel like I haven’t walked anywhere.”
“Sure you have, you walk all over the hillside on your egg route. You’re an even better walker than I was when I was your age. Heck, your calves look like the baby cows from whence they’re named!”
“I mean out there,” he said as he took the map and unfurled it. “I haven’t been to any of the places where the other Dilettantes live. I’ve only ever been… here.”
A reticence that Grandpappy rarely showed to Walker crept into his voice.
“I haven’t seen anyone from the family in years. Walker, I don’t know if our relatives have the same appreciation for your grandpappy’s grandpappy that we have.”
“Then I better go teach them what’s what!”
Walker hopped off his chair and knelt by Grandpappy’s side.
“Grandpappy, if you’re dying, well gosh, I want you to know how important it is that you’ve kept up your grandpappy’s legacy.”
“Walker…”
“I’m gonna do it! I’m gonna meet my family. All of the people on these dots.”
“Walker, I don’t think you should do this. The world is different outside of this hillside. Heck, you’ve never left home before!”
“I have to. For your legacy, and for your grandpappy’s. I’ve gotta walk.”
Grandpappy thought for a moment. He looked around the room at all the memorabilia, then back at his grandson. His eyes brimmed with tears of pride.
“Well shucks, I guess it’s time. If you want to walk, you should walk! Walk on, grandson!”
“I’m gonna meet every single one of our relatives, Grandpappy. I’m gonna tell them all about our great ancestor, and – ”
Walker stopped and thought. He carefully removed the glass case and grabbed the old shoe off the center of the mantle. This shocked Grandpappy.
“Walker! What’re you doing with Grandpappy’s shoe?”
“I’m gonna get a picture of each ancestor of Preston Dilettante holding his famous shoe. And I’m gonna make you a collage. And you’re gonna see it, and then you can die.”
Walker popped behind Grandpappy’s chair and pulled out a bindle, slinging it over his shoulder. Grandpappy was impressed.
“Boy, you had that bindle ready to go.”
“I’m off, Grandpappy! Tell your friends to find someone else for the egg route. I’m off to find our family!”
Walker walked out of the house. He called back to Grandpappy as he strutted down the hillside.
“Don’t die until I get back!”
Grandpappy opened the wooden window next to his chair and called out to him while he waved.
“Okey dokey!”
***
Exclusive: WALKER Bonus Content — The Dilettante Family Tree
If you’re partway through Sam Pasternack’s Walker, or about to read it, or intend to read it really soon, here’s a little bit of extra (and spoiler-free) material to help you enjoy and keep track of who’s related to who, and just how they all connect to 21st century pedestrian Walker Dilettante and his 19th century predecessor, the great Preston Dilettante. Print and use it as a bookmark!
6 Important Writerly Questions with Sam Pasternack
Walker!
The newest book from Humorist Books is one of our best yet, and best ever. Yeah! It’s Walker, the hilarious, moving, and picaresque road trip-style story of Walker Dilettante. In this novel, the sheltered, modern-day descendent and biggest fan of 19th century long-distance pedestrian Preston Dilettante takes it upon himself to literally follow in his forebearer’s footsteps and hoof it across the whole damn country with little more than a bindle full of homemade cereal and his Instagram-savvy cousin, Ria. Why? Well, why not, but really, he wants to reunite his far-flung relatives and take their photo with Preston’s walkin’ boot, before his beloved Grandpappy walks off this Earth forever.
The quite original and delightful Walker sprung forth fully-formed from the mind of comedy writer, TV producer, and Russell Crowe doppleganger Sam Pasternack. He submitted to our gauntlet of questions — read on to see what he has to say for himself. Also, if you’re in the NYC area on September 4, go say hi to Sam and buy Walker and attend his electrifying Walker launch event at The Mysterious Bookshop.
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1. Who are you? What are you doing here?
Sam Pasternack, 6’0, auditioning for the role of “author of Walker.”
2. Since “Where do you get your ideas?” is a terrible question, what made you want to write this book?
Where do I get my ideas? What a great question! Walker came about when my brother Jesse told me about Pedestrianism, a form of competitive long-distance walking that was popular in the Civil War era. I’ve always loved learning about sports subcultures that have gone out of style over the years. Once I started imagining the modern-day descendants of the most famous pedestrians, Walker’s story came into focus.
3. How did you keep writing this book?
I loved every moment I spent getting lost in the world of Walker. No matter what was going on in my life each day – whether I was traveling, working, picketing during the 2023 WGA/SAG strike, or playing in a marching band – I always knew that I could come back to Walker’s journey, that I could go somewhere with Walker and Ria. It was a grounding force, the backbeat of this last year for me. It was such a joy to feel that way while building out this world, and I hope readers can lose themselves in the story just like I did.
Sam!
4. Who is this book for, anyway?
Do you like road novels? Conspiracies? Family histories? Mysteries? Little ditties about crossing state lines? Imaginary histories of small towns? Easily excitable characters who love discovering aspects of our world they never knew existed? Well, then Walker is for you.
5. Any darlings you had to kill?
Some ideas evolved as I was writing, so fortunately I feel like any characters or stories that needed to change did change for the better. Most of those changes involved making sure I was properly adhering to the geography of the United States and what would be a logical walking route. So, because of that, there’s no trips to New Orleans or Tuba City, Arizona for Walker. At least not yet.
6. What are you working on now?
I’ve been working on some musical projects, some animated projects, some screenplays and pilots, and I’m just starting to figure out my next novel. I definitely have more to explore in the world of Walker, but right now I’m playing around with something new. And now that I’ve finished writing this book about people who walk across the country, I finally have more time to go on walks myself. I’m sticking to quick jaunts around my neighborhood, but if pedestrianism ever makes a comeback, I’ll be ready.