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"Haney, Johannah"
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Shel Silverstein
An introduction to the life and career of author and illustrator Shel Silverstein.
BOOK
TERMINAL FLIRT
COUPLING JOHANNAH HANEY, 26, IS A FREELANCE WRITER AND THE AUTHOR OF SIX EDUCATIONAL BOOKS FOR YOUNG ADULTS. TO RESPOND TO THIS COLUMN, SEND E-MAILS TO COUPLING@GLOBE.COM As we took turns buying each other beers, we chatted about our jobs, mostly, but also about our lives. He lived in Manhattan and was working on a venture-capital deal for a start-up. I had been in New York for a book-launch party. Our meeting was chance, and we had absolutely no Kevin Bacon-style connections, just a little bit of chemistry. As I described the party's chichi setting and star- studded guest list, even I thought I sounded pretty interesting. Of course, what I didn't tell him was that I was the author's assistant at this book party, relegated to taking coats and helping pass hors d'oeuvres. The famous invitees were just that: invitees. Most of them didn't show. I didn't mention spilling half a glass of champagne down the front of my shirt or going out alone when no one else wanted to hit the city after the party.
Newspaper Article
Sharpen your essay writing skills
\"Find out about the different kinds of essays, how to write an essay, making your essay better, presenting your essay, and a sample student essay\"--Provided by publisher.
Book
TAP, TAP, FLUSH
It was a Sunday afternoon, and we were enjoying a lazy late lunch. He pulled out his laptop and started showing me pictures of his home and family in South America. I felt privileged that he was giving me a glimpse into his life back home. We were connecting on a new level. He excused himself to go to the bathroom. He snapped his laptop shut, tucked it under his arm, and left the kitchen. I was a little surprised that he didn't put it on the table or the counter, but my desk was in the other room, between the kitchen and bathroom. I assumed he would put it there while he freshened up. As I passed the bathroom door, I heard the unmistakable clacking of a keyboard. I stopped cold and listened more closely, my horror growing slowly as the realization set in. He couldn't be using the computer on the toilet . . . could he? What was he doing? Finishing up some work? Checking the weather? Had he ever e-mailed me from atop his porcelain throne? The questions got even more horrifying: Had I ever touched his now-tainted laptop? Did he set up wireless Internet in my apartment solely so he could answer his e- mail along with the calls of nature? Oh, God, did the laptop taint the kitchen table while we were looking at pictures?
Newspaper Article