Category: Book Report

I bought this book at the Kirkwood Book Fair this year, which is odd, since I bought I Ought To Be In Pictures last year. I have to wonder if the owner is trickling out his or her library at a slow pace, or if I just missed it last year.

This book isn’t a complete enough play for me; I mean, it’s about a man’s experience at military training in 1943 and some things that happens there. From the outset, we don’t know what’s at stake, and then something happens, and the play is over, framed with a last scene very like the first scene. There are some amusing lines and situations, but ultimately, I’m not sure the play says anything or leads anywhere.

As some of you know, this is a sequel to Brighton Beach Memoirs; both were made into movies in the middle 1980s. I saw parts of this movie on Showtime, and I read excerpts of the first in Weekly Reader, for crying out loud. How old am I?

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I must have bought this book for a buck at the Webster Groves Library book fair this year; it’s a recent acquisition, so of course, I read it soon. It’s the first nonfiction book I’ve finished in over a month (the last being The Prize Winner’s Handbook, and heck’s pecks, 1980 and 1993–they were almost the same year!)

Wow, I don’t mean to make you feel old, but you do realize that Seinfeld’s television show has been off network television for almost a decade, don’t you?

This book takes some of his topical humor and presents it in prose form. Now, I’ve not been much of a Seinfeld fan, so I don’t know how well the book works when he presents it; however, this book really only made me chuckle aloud a handful of times. The rest was wry, witty sometimes, but not what I’d call funny. As I go on in my quest to find really funny books by comedians (as you know, I’ve read Chris Rock, Bill Cosby, Dennis Miller, Rita Rudner, Sinbad, Judy Tenuta, Tim Allen, and so on, and so on). Of these, Bill Cosby and Dennis Miller come across as the best because they’re storytellers or crafters of turns of phrase, and Rita Rudner’s up there. Tim Allen’s books (I Am Not Really Here and Don’t Stand Too Close To A Naked Man) aren’t so much based on his standup as booklength musings. Seinfeld falls in the middle of the pack with Chris Rock, Judy Tenuta, but probably above Sinbad in the book department. There’s something to be said for showmanship, I guess.

As I read, I couldn’t help but think that these books are something akin to riddle books for adults. Apparently, I’m hooked, and I’ll keep picking them up.

Worth it? Well, as much for a 1990s time piece to show what were the concerns of that halycon era when Seinfeld ruled the world. A brief age of innocence lost like most are.

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PS: A note to future historians, ca 2010: No, you’re thinking of Richard Lewis. Jerry Seinfeld was a different guy entirely whose popularity peaked a whole 8 years after Richard Lewis. But I see how you could make the mistake.

I saw the Dean Martin Matt Helm movies before I found this book at a book fair, cheap, so I didn’t know whether to expect the Austin Powers tone in the novel. It’s more of a straightforward paperback thriller: Matt Helm, counteragent, finds himself framed as a traitor, so he runs south to Mexico with the wife of a tycoon. Her brother was a copatriot of Matt’s, and he was killed when captured during the frame-up. There, Helm finds details about their mission that was about to start before the frame-up takes place: kill an assassin who has his eyes on a revolutionary Mexican general.

Helm relies on assistance from a Mexican colonel he trusts from a previous mission, but too many people are shooting at Helm for his comfort or for his trust.

The voice is a bit wordy, probably looking for a certain braggadocio in the character. The pacing a bit slow, and the first person narrator keeps things a little close to chest. The plot itself is a little too clever for its own good and relies on a bit of Helm making cognitive leaps that I wouldn’t have seen coming. The result is a second tier paperback thriller, way below John D. MacDonald’s work, but good enough for some throwaway time.

Apparently, Helm has a legion of fans; perhaps the earlier books in the series are better.

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With the cover of this novel, it’s easy to assume it’s one of the 87th Precinct novels. Of course, it doesn’t actually say that, but it’s easy to make that mistake, which I’m sure the publisher helped along with the cover matching the mid-80s 87th Precinct novels. I didn’t realize it until all of a sudden they were actually in New York.

This book deals with Bryan Reardon, a detective in the 5th Precinct, and the rest of the 5th squad as they deal with one of the infrequent murders in their precinct. Reardon also has to deal with a divorce in process that he’s not in favor of and a new romance, maybe, with a researcher for Forbes. So a restaurant owner gets whacked while Mob guys watch, but it looks to be a result of some financial shenanigans and perhaps a touch of geopolitics as an Arab got whacked at LaGuardia by the same perps.

The mid-80s novels set in New York are very, very bleak in their outlook on the safety in the city. Definitely progressed toward that Escape from New York future. Then a certain mayor came to lead the city and turn it around in the 1990s. Wow, if that mayor was running for president, he’d definitely be my Plan B. Fortunately, Ed McBain isn’t around to see me linking up his books to politics with which he (McBain) would probably disagree.

So it’s a one-off as far as series go, but it’s classic McBain and worth a read.

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Hey, sometimes you’re in the mood for a Hardy Boys book, and if that’s the case, don’t make the same mistake I’ve obviously done.

Just kidding. I read Tess of the d’Urbervilles in college and saw The Marriage of Bette & Boo that same year, so one has to wonder why I didn’t become a total Thomas Hardy head. Except that it’s Victorian literature, and I’m a contemporary American, more Hemingway than Faulkner much less Victorian.

Still, when this book was remaindered from the Bridgeton Trails branch of the library, I couldn’t pass it up (I also got A Pair of Blue Eyes). It’s a fair enough into to Hardy, as it’s only a hair over 200 pages. It tells the story of a young man named Dick Dewy and the new school mistress Fancy Day. It comprises a fairly short number of scenes, some of which are less important to the forward progress of the story than their overall length would suggest. However, like with any serious novel and any old novel, you have to read it for the joy of the language and the archaism of the world it depicts.

Is it a good Victorian novel? Heck if I know; I haven’t read enough bad Victorian novels to know the difference. But I know a little more about the time period in which organs replaced quires in the Anglican church and a little more about Thomas Hardy’s work, so it was worth the quarter. Also, I’ve read more Hardy than you have now (probably), so feel my arrogance. Go ahead, put your hand right here on the monitor -> X <- Feel it?

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In March, I read Ringworld’s Children, but that book did not mar my longstanding default view of Larry Niven’s work enough that I didn’t pick Oath of Fealty right away.

The book centers on a collision between the city of Los Angeles and an “arcology”–a large, mostly self-contained living structure housing hundreds of thousands of people with its own government, economy, and security. A humanist terrorist group wants to destroy “The Hive,” so they send some young people on a dry run with only mock weapons. The security force of Todos Santos responds with deadly force, leading a showdown with the political and law enforcement forces of the city that surrounds it.

The book presents a lot of thought-provoking themes, such as a contrast of the way of life for regular city dwellers who live freely and the residents of Todos Santos, who accept certain security measures–the omnipresence of cameras, for example–to make living together in a confined area possible. Todos Santos, aside from the cameras, offers many amenities and philosophies–police are again peace officers, the government does not regulate business and in fact offers loans on good terms, and the citizens are not citizens, they’re also shareholders in the corporation that runs Todos Santos.

It’s got a bit of the political going on and a large cast of characters, but because it’s not built on a number of books preceding it (as Ringworld’s Children was), these flaws are forgiveable and aren’t so dramatic; one only has to pause to sort out who the character is, not try futilely to remember who the character was from a book one read a decade ago).

Written with Jerry Pournelle and published in 1981, this book precedes the Reagan era and comes out of the 1970s milieu, but it doesn’t seem dated. One of the characters carries a communicator/calendar/portable computer that, unfortunately, he has to plug in. Sounds familiar enough 26 years later. Unfortunately, the characters do describe a large set of computer files (27,000,000 bytes) that will take a long time to download at 300 baud. True, but I was downloading faster than that a mere five years after the book was written.

So it’s a good book, and I’d recommend it. Especially if you can snag a cheap copy like I did.

For those of you keeping track at home, this is my 38th book of the year, so I am on a good pace to reach my annual goal of 75.

Books mentioned in this review:

I bought this book at the Kirkwood Book Fair this year; I think all of these book club edition plays come from the same fellow’s library, but different ones are available each year. I wonder what’s up with that.

This play, originally from the early 1980s, was made into a movie in 1992, and I wonder how David Mamet could have stretched this into a 100 minute film; it took me less than that to read it. Perhaps the profanity took longer in the performances than in reading.

The story deals with a high pressure real estate group who sells lots in Florida. Some sales people are rising, some are falling, and a new office manager puts pressure on them to sell. One night, one of the men breaks into the office to steal the all-important leads that identify prospects; working in concert with another salesperson, the new burglar will take the leads and sell them to another office for a job there. Hokay. Not exactly Shakespeare here. A quick read, and it will give me something to compare the movie against if I ever see the movie.

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I say lots of glowing things about Ed McBain and how his books are immortal, how he uses series business lightly to keep things moving along but never at the expense of pacing or plot, or how his passages are lyrical. His 87th Precinct series stands as an example of how to do things right. This book, on the other hand, shows what happens when you do everything wrong.

This book is part of the Alex Delaware series. I’ve never read any of the others, so I’m lost and don’t give a weevil’s willie about the two and a half chapters of series business that starts the book as Alex breaks up, almost, with his long time girlfriend. In the middle of chapter 3, the “action” begins when someone mails a book of crime scene photos to Delaware and he shares them with his police detective compatriot, who recognizes one photo among many as a case he never solved before a sudden transfer pulled him off of it. That’s the motivation, the driving factor. To solve a 20 year old cold case, with no threats of immediate repeats or contemporary peril.

Meanwhile, Kellerman writes like the Michael Douglas character in Wonder Boys; there’s no detail too miniscule to leave out, no scene worth cutting. When the main characters go to New Mexico to interview someone, we get pages covering the drive from the airport, including getting lost and asking for directions; when the main characters need food, we get paragraphs about what they eat; when one character has nothing better to do, he washes his car, and we get a long paragraph about his car. In lieu of investigation, we get lots of time with the characters talking out what might have happened.

What happened? Ultimately, a bunch of rich kids killed a stoned girl, and their parents covered it up; 20 years later, the rich kids are now rich adults, and they’re still covering up. The psychologist of the detective’s dead partner sent the book, and he kept Delaware and the detective pointed in the right direction. Except when the Chief of Police was pointing them in the right direction or trying to obstruct them. Finally, we get an absurd climax 360 pages into the novel and some denouement with nothing really gained. Someone, not the protagonists of the novel, kill the bad guys, and they read about the deaths.

Geez, once I started finding flaws with the book, I didn’t want to put it down because I wanted to see how bad it could be. Changing POV from first (Delaware) to third (the detective) for apparently no reason? Got it! Actually, it might have been to provide insight into the characters, but I didn’t care enough about either of them to want to know more. And hey, who the heck was logging into their computer and downloading Google in 2002. Downloading Google. Lord, love a duck.

Yes, that bad.

Do not buy this book or read it. I will go as far as to not read another Alex Delaware novel. I’m so down on it, if a good series with riveting characters and good pacing came out written by Ed McBain’s son Joe Hunt but the series featured Chris Connecticut, I’d stay away just because all characters named after states have been tainted.

But hey, if you don’t want to take my word for it, here’s the link to buy it on Amazon.

Books mentioned in this review:

I am currently reading Ed McBain novels in heavy rotation (see also Fat Ollie’s Book and Kiss). I guess that’s only three so far this year, so I’m not making much of a dent in the oeuvre that spans fifty years.

This book from the late 1990s deals with an old woman killed in her apartment in an apparent burglary. The old woman, a formerly world-reknowned pianist, leaves $100,000 cash for her granddaughter, a lounge singer who has taken up with two Italian tough guys. Amidst this main plot, three high school seniors from a well-to-do prep school kill a hooker, her pimp, and a smalltime drug dealer. Fat Ollie Weeks handles this subplot.

Because the cops use the same informant in this book as in Fat Ollie’s Book, one can easily spot recycled material in the description of the informant. But I find the continued consistently good writing in the novels even though they span 50 years almost incredible. With each book, McBain varies the formula somewhat, alters his narrative slightly, but the characters and the crimes remain fresh and interesting. Some writers hit a certain level of success and just phone it in, but McBain never seemed to reach that level.

Which is why I can read these books over and over again.

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At one of the book fairs last year, I bought a number of Ross MacDonald books because, although I have read many of them twice, I don’t have many of them on my shelves.

As one might expect if one has read Geherin, MacDonald represents a transitional author in the hard-boiled detective school. He still has his hard knock chops in Lew Archer and the Chandleresque plots, but they have a touch more touchy-feely exploration of intrafamily conflict. This book is no exception as it begins with a disturbed young man kidnapping a wealthy oilman with the help of one of his underling’s innocent daughters and then delves into several decades-old murders amid a family tree that intertwines like a oak and poison sumac. I don’t even know if those two things intertwine frequently, but the book compells one to try his hand at simile.

This book and others that I’m revisiting on occasion remind me of why I wanted to be a writer, or at least what made me think I could get away with it. Somewhere, though, my voice varied from these pieces, but it’s good to come home once in a while.

Books mentioned in this review:

This book follows Winter Prey, so it’s obvious that I’m getting these books all out of order. Davenport’s in love with Winter, and they’ve moved in together. Meanwhile, an invisible man–that’s what the book flap calls him–is picking up women in art galleries and bookstores and is killing them.

It’s a fairly standard plot, well handled. However, the twist is reminiscent of Broken Prey, and frankly, I am probably reading these Davenport novels too quickly to remain absolutely glowing about each. But I like them and will hit the others on my shelf sometime in the near future.

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I bought this book at a book fair because I was binging. Probably the Carondolet YMCA last time. I mean, it’s an ex-library book, a movie tie-in, and I paid a buck for it. But you know what? It wasn’t bad.

The book relies on the narrative set in Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines. Instead of the past trying to change the future through action, which is the core of the movies, this book involves John Connor ca 2039 finding that one of the people on his team was a software developer programming on the Terminator project and that this software developer can communicate with his past self through his dreams. The developer, though, cannot remember anything beyond Judgement Day.

A good quick read, although I’d be interested to see how the series would turn if it didn’t rely so much on the cross-time thing, if it weren’t so important to have something happening in the present day. Apparently this author has another book based on Terminator 3 out, so that might be worth reading if it comes to my attention at one of the various book fairs coming up.

Books mentioned in this review:

Wow, who knew? I found my initial Alistair MacLean books back in the old Community Library, a volunteer and donation operation that operated out of a strip mall in High Ridge until it got its own tax levy and became the Northwest Jefferson County Library or whatever. It was more homey and plucky before it became a government-funded bureaucracy, something shared between those of us who enjoyed books before it became a burden to the taxpayers who didn’t. In the intervening years, my appreciation for Alistair MacLean has waned somewhat, too.

MacLean’s books about World War II and the early cold war period are enjoyable because they’re slightly exotic in tone and style as they are intricate in plot. MacLean, of course, was British, so his heroes are often British with their stiff upper lips mimicked in his slightly stuffy and distant prose. But more contemporary works (The Golden Gate and Floodgate come to mind) don’t work for me because they’re contemporary–in those decades I can somewhat remember.

This book deals with an American bomber carrying nukes that crashes into the Mediterranean. A British frigate investigates and finds a Greek shipping maganate who might have caused the sabotuage of the bomber so he could recover the nukes. The British naval officers on the frigate must outwit the mastermind and handle the armed and dangerous nuclear weapons at the same time.

250 pages, roughly, so it’s a quick read. Paragraph-based dialog makes it easy to skim, and the action does move along quickly, but the characters are pretty superficial and the book lacks the twists that characterize the best of MacLean’s plot-driven work.

But I bought it for a quarter, so it’s worth my time and money at that.

Books mentioned in this review:

This book, written only a couple of books before Fiddlers, focuses on a lesser character from the 87th Precinct novels: Fat Ollie Weeks. This is appropriate, that is a lesser character, as he works in the 88th Precinct, but he’s been known to participate in the boys’ criminal investigations from time to time, ah, yes. When a councilman is shot before a campaign event, Ollie is the first man up, but he involves Carella and Co. because the vic lived in the 87th. During the course of his initial crime scene inspection, Weeks discovers that his car has been broken into, and someone has made off with the case containing the book he’s very proud to have written.

The book lightly interweaves three plots: the investigation into the councilman’s death, Weeks’s investigation into the theft of his book, and the crook who stole his book’s interpretation of the book, entitled Report to the Commissioner. McBain even includes the text of the 36 page “book” written by Weeks, poorly, throughout the book. Remarkable that he (McBain) could write something bad enough to represent the amateur detective/First Grade’s work. I mean, I remember when I wrote that poorly, but I’m not sure I could do it now one cue (although perhaps I do it perpetually, which is why I lean away from fiction these days, thank you very much.

Also, as the book focuses on a bigoted character used mostly as comic relief throughout the other books, it gives McBain a chance to do some extra characterization to make Weeks’s character sympathetic.

I liked it. I bought it for a buck at a book fair. It’s worth more than that, but I’m cheap.

Books mentioned in this review:

This book precedes the last book I read (Broken Prey), so I put them in the wrong order when I lined them up on my bookshelf. As I’ve mentioned before, the events in Lucas Davenport’s life are background material, and the plots of the books are the important things within the novels.

This one differs from the rest, which differ from each other pleasingly. Davenport looks into the murder of a Russian sailor who formerly worked for the KGB. Was it a Russian mafia thing? A spy thing? Or could it be a hidden sleeper cell within the northern reaches of Minnesota?

Two things detracted from the book:

• A Russian security operative, Nadya, who is sent to oversee the investigation. No problem. Overreliance upon her saying, “What is this (insert American idiom)?” That can be a problem when overused. As a matter of fact, it was a problem.
• 2 typographical errors: an extra space before a comma and the misspelling of Del’s name as Dell. Come on, guys, you gotta try harder.

Also, I’ve nticed that Sandford’s novels have common pacing: 250-275 pages of chasing herrings and investigating followed by 50-75 pages of manic chase the real criminal action. As such, the climaxes often are forced and kinda rush past you. This book is no exception.

Books mentioned in this review:

This book represents one of Ed McBain’s last books, and it was published posthumously; the About the Author bit on the back flap is in the past tense, which startles me. Cotton Hawes gives his age as 34 in this book, too, which bothered me a little, too. For most of my life, he’s been older than I am, and suddenly I’m older than many of the detectives in the 87th Precinct. That’s the meta about this book. Also, let it be known that Ed McBain did not support the war in Iraq. I don’t have a vivid impression of whether his contemporaneous books from the Vietnam era were as down on it, or even his Korean War-era books were as down on it, but it’s noticeable in these last books (see also Hark!). Now, onto the story.

Someone is shooting seemingly-unrelated late middle-aged people very quickly, and the 87th Precinct has to find the perp before he can do another vic. Meanwhile, Kling’s broken up with the black doctor following Hark!, Cotton Hawes finds himself falling for an older woman, and Carella’s daughter (now 14 after 30 years) is hanging out with a bad seed. That’s all it takes to craft a good, readable book. Like Perry Mason, McBain’s books age well, so this will be a fine read decades from now.

I was a little disappointed with how long it took the police to figure out what was going on, but I guess McBain had a minimum length to meet.

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This is a three act play retelling an Arthurian legend (particularly the Lancelot and Guinevere thing). Published in 1927, this piece is now 80 years old, but it reads older than that. Set in the 10th century in England, the characters all speak Middle Englishesque, which is not historically accurate (Middle English started in the next century, and it certainly wasn’t spoken in 1927 on the east coast of America). As it’s not a direct retelling of the legend of Lancelot, the suspense kept me moving even through the stilted prose.

I read most of my Millay in early college, and my structured poetry of the time reflects her influence. Casting love poetry and whatnot into Middle English turns of phrase and relying upon iconic imagery of the period. I later moved a bit beyond it, but I still appreciate it enough that I enjoy Millay more than McKuen.

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This book contains not only the titular Perry Mason novel, but two other novellas featuring the sleuth. Theses stories are almost sixty years old, but Perry Mason stories are almost timeless. As a matter of fact, I used them as an example in the the March/April issue of The Writer’s Journal:

Are you writing a story with a short shelf life, or an allegory on human nature for all time? Regardless of what you intend to write, the details you include might inadvertently determine whether you’re an Erle Stanley Gardner; whose Perry Mason novels remain accessible and relevant decades after he wrote them, or a Justin Thyme, whose works connect with this year’s audience but will seem as dated as a Baltimore Orioles world championship in ten years….

How timeless are they? One of the suspects is an inventor:

“What does he invent?”
“Oh, lots of little gadgets. He’s made money out of some them.”
“What sorts of gadgets?”
“Well, right now he’s working on something in connection with infra-red rays. Before that, he worked out a device that opens and closes doors and does things like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“It works with invisible light, what I think they call black light. A beam runs across the room and as soon as some object corsses that beam it closes a circuit and does things–oh, for instance, like making electrical contacts so that the minute you walk into the house the elextric stove clicks on and starts cooking, the radio turns on, and lights come on, and … I don’t know, Mr. Mason, I think it’s just a gadget. So many of his things are scientifically fine, but impractical when you want to work on them.”

That’s not so far-fetched now, is it? We still don’t have those things commonly in homes, but they’re available and feasible. The language itself is more archaic than the plots or the characters, with all the talk of infra-red rays, black light, and lots of Gosh!

The stories are more whodunit than the most whodunit of the Lucas Davenport novels (recently reviewed here and here), but sometimes the plots have to be a bit contrived to get there. Within the brevity of these stories, it’s good.

A quick rundown of plots:

• “The Case of the Cautious Coquette”: A simple hit and run tort case turns dangerous when two people “come clean” as the hit and run driver, and a woman named as a witness has her first husband inconveniently die of a gunshot wound in her garage.
• “The Crimson Kiss”: A friend from Della’s hometown is going to be married, but is implicated in a murder of another Lothario.
• “The Crimson Swallow”: A wealthy client comes to Mason to hire him to protect his new wife from whatever made her flee. A jewelry theft muddies the waters, as does the death of a potential blackmailer.

One thing these novels seem to indicate is divorce is bad for you. Ex-husbands die a lot.

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As some of you know, I consider myself something of a Sweepstakes Bodhisattva. I’ve seen this book in different places since its inception, and when I saw it again on the table at one of last week’s book fairs, I knew I had to have it, if only to compare my knowledge to its.

This book was written in 1980 by the head of one of the independent judging organizations. He doesn’t hide it, but he does want to offer some insight into the fundamental honesty of the process as well as offering tips on how that sweepstakes contestants can take advantage of that process to have a slightly better shot at winning.

The book takes on sweepstakes, contests, lotteries, and bingo, with about half the book (it seemed) going to lotteries and bingo. There aren’t many ways to shade winning the latter, so there’s a bunch of history to pad the book out from pamphlet size.

Essentially, the tips are enter often and follow the rules. But if you’re interested in contests and sweepstakes, it’s worth a quick glance. It weighs in at 128 paperback pages, and I read the book in about an hour or so.

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