Tony Norris is a twenty-year-old college junior, a good-looking young man with a strong rap who puts as much time into studying women as he does into his courses. Freshman year, Tony was on top of his game-star athlete, steady girlfriend, living in the moment and loving every second. But when bottom falls out on his hoops career, Tony's playing field shifts from the hard wood of the basketball court to the soft, supple curves of the opposite sex. His relationships with women last as long as a Popsicle in the summer sun, and they're just as sticky. With each ensuing predicament, Tony's faced with more questions than satisfaction, and as the story unfolds, we find that Tony, and what he wants, is much more complex than his player image would lead us to believe.
Tony's amorous adventures play out against the free-flowing backdrop of college and his friendships with his boys-from Derrick, a football star who's figured out the whole relationship thing and doesn't understand why Tony hasn't, to Kwam, the loud-mouthed life of every party.
Tony's musings will have you laughing as author Brian Peterson takes you on an inner tour of a young man's mind in this fun debut novel by an exciting new voice in black male fiction. It's the next best thing to being in there.
College junior Tony Norris kicks it with his crew, shoots hoop and gets it on with the ladies more often than he goes to class, but through all his carousing, he eventually gets around to learning the difference between sex and intimacy in this breezy coming-of-age story by first-time novelist Peterson. Like his buddies, Tony thinks he has it made: he's tall, good-looking and a member of the African-American elite: "we are young black men in demandAthe chosen few, college educated, heterosexual." Tony decides to make the most of his gifts, by bedding every fly girl he encounters. The problem is that once the sex is over, Tony can hardly stand the sight of his conquests. Tony's three best friends are cool Derrick, organized Jay and live wire Kwam. Through this macho quartet Peterson captures the lingo, energy and bravado of young African-American men grappling with critical issues of manhood and maturity. This ambitious effort only occasionally bursts free from its dependence on limp clich?s and repetitive, vague language, however. Peterson's writing at its best shows Tony talking himself through his emotions and negotiating the complex relationship between his Casanova image and his heart. Eventually, he begins to question his wham-bam version of the mating ritual, and this quandary is far more palatable than are his petty, endless complaints about the hopelessly imperfect women he seduces. If readers can wade through the meandering, mostly dull shallows of Tony's mind, they will find that the protagonist's voice occasionally rises to the surface with astute observations of African-American college life. (Apr.)
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
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March 24, 2008
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Excerpt from Move over, Girl by Brian Peterson
Tameka The digital clock has got to be one of man's greatest inventions. To think, you can just glance over at it, read the red numbers and know the exact time any time of the day. There's no approximation or calculations necessary. All you have to know is the number system and the difference between am and pm, and the sun can usually help you with that one. I think time even moves faster on a digital clock. I've never done any tests on this, though, it's just a theory. I mean, when you think about it, it makes perfect sense. If you look at a digital clock, then look away for a little while, then look back, it's almost guaranteed to have changed time. But sometimes it can move too fast. Like when you're sleeping, in that good early morning sleep, dreaming about Halle Berry and trying to forget that you've got someplace to be in less than an hour. You hit the snooze button one more time for those final nine minutes of precious sleep, but the next thing you know the alarm is ringing again, making your nine minutes seem more like two and a half. Other times, like in the middle of a Sunday afternoon when you're waiting for a Bulls-Knicks game to come on, a digital clock can seem like it's not moving at all. Tip-off time will be one-thirty, so you'll grab some nachos, a soda, and a comfortable spot in front of the TV about ten minutes before, because you can't miss the pregame for the Bulls-Knicks. That's like missing the sermon at Sunday service. So you're staring at the clock on the VCR, waiting on the game, but it seems like forever before it changes from 1:20 to 1:21. You're sitting there thinking to yourself, "There are still sixty seconds in a minute, right?" That's the only good thing about an old-school clock-it's got that second hand on there that lets you know time is actually moving forward. It's not nearly as easy to read as a digital, and actually requires that time-telling skill that was supposed to be a part of your kindergarten curriculum, but at least with the second hand you can visually chart time's progress. You can even stare at it while it's spinning around if you want, just to make sure that everything is in order, but that can get boring after a while. That's probably why I'm thinking about some stupid shit like this now, cause the second hand just ain't moving fast enough in this piece today. I always come to class planning on paying attention for the full fifty-five minutes, but about twenty or thirty minutes into the show, depending on the day, I start drifting. And I mean drifting. Spanish is one of those classes that's a fast starter, but a brother can get tired of the same routine over and over again. Repeat this word, read this paragraph, tell your partner about your favorite TV show. Come on, now. I'm trying to go to sleep, for real. But you can't do that in Spanish, 'cause there isn't anywhere to hide in this little-ass room and Senorita Samuel is liable to throw a workbook at you if your head even looks like it's about to nod off. Who was the genius who proposed classes should be fifty-five minutes in the first place? This is college. We're supposed to be the best and the brightest, you know, the future of America. You'd think we could speed things along a little bit at this level. Forty-five minutes seems like more than enough time for a lesson. You can do a whole lot in a half-hour, too, if you have a well-planned agenda. We used to run about a dozen different drills at basketball practice in a half-hour, and that was on a slow day. There's really no reason to still be here. Senorita Samuel already put the homework assignment up on the board, and she's announced that there's yet another quiz coming up on Monday, so why is she still talking? Why can't the damn clock spin any faster? I'm trying to get up out of here before this girl remembers that it's Wednesday. I glanced over at her to see if she was still paying attention.