Category: Books

Wow, I’ve never actually wondered what pulp fiction would read if it were written by an actual 12 year old gamemaster, sitting behind a screen and rolling a couple of d20s, but this book is it.

I mean, we’ve identify people who engage in non-traditional sex as perverts or nymphos (nontraditional includes oral sex, multiple partners, and whatnot). We have exclamation points throughout! We have descriptions of rooms wherein you can imagine the pauses so you can put the furniture on the graph paper and know that the door is on the north wall, about 10 feet from the west wall. These descriptions indicate An Encounter is going to happen, wherein the good guys’ guns come out, and the words caress each Browning Hi-Power pistol and Uzi SMG. When the lead flies, the author goes into great detail describing the trajectories and major organs each round hits coupled with names and details about the deceased as if to ensure the reader that the gamemaster, er, author had information and details on index cards, and dang it, he’s going to use them.

Unfortunately, the author didn’t share the index cards with whatever sort of editing staff might have existed at Critic’s Choice paperbacks, because the typos abound, including misspelling the main character’s name once.

After enough of the sequences, the author decided one was the climax, and the book ends.

The end result, sadly, is an actual poorly-written, poorly-paced paperback that is endured rather than enjoyed.

I am reading the series so out of order. This book falls sometime after the earlier books, but before the later books. That being said, the quality of the books and their lack of dependence on the storylines across the books for fluff. Sure, the books contain some of that, but the books build the overarching storylines, not the other way around. And each of the books is compelling enough in its own right.

This one tracks Lucas Davenport, who has just broken up with Weather (but you know what happens later if you read these out of order, to which this is past and prologue). Someone kills the CEO of a bank undergoing a merger while the CEO is deer hunting with various other executives of the bank, most of whom would lose their jobs if the merger went through. So there are plenty of suspects and opportunity. As the novel progresses, the novel looks into the dealings to see who will suceed the deceased as CEO, and the business dealings reminded me a bit of some of John D. MacDonald’s paperbacks. Like MacDonald, you get enough difference in tone and subject to keep the books fresh.

Definitely a welcome rinse for my last mystery reading experience.

All right, this book offended me.

Of course, as you probably know, I read the early Spenser novels in my formative years, and the books led me to Thoreau and Chandler and whatnot and provided me with a basic set of dictates for manliness. Intelligence, strength, and sarcasm. But then the thing happened, the Spenser Valediction/Catskill Eagle bit, and the Spenser books declined. Slowly, I suppose, but still, they’re now just collections of television scenes, many of which could be excised if anyone dared to incense a best-seller.

Then came the Sunny Randall books and Jesse Stone books (of which this is one) so that Parker could continue to revisit the themes sewn up pretty much in the Spenser books: namely, that strong, decent people can be in messed up relationships for decades, and that’s okay. It takes a strong man to bear the cuckold horns. Also, let us not forget the autonomy thing (lectures provided handily in each book in case it’s your first Parker read); let us remember the tough guys of all races (with “honorable” representatives from African Americans, Italian Americans, Hispanics, Native Americans, and white guys); let us remember the positive homosexual characters (minimum one per book, and many of them are tough guys, too).

I read the books out of a sense of duty, but as I said, this one offended me.

It has all the normal flaws, some of which I allude to above. An ethnic tough guy (Apache) comes back to Paradise. He, like the other main characters in Parker books, are Sex Gods, right? Attractive women want Crow (not Hawk!)/Jesse Stone/Spenser/Sunny Randall (a Sex God in female form). There can be no conversation between attractive women and the Sex Gods without the undercurrent of sex. Then, we have the scenes with the shrink, wherein Stone and his therapist go over why he’s stuck on stupid. Then, finally, we have a minor sympathetic character who’s married but cannot resist the Sex God, so she commits adultery and then confesses she feels no guilt for it, and another adulterer confides that sex between adults is a good thing if it makes you feel good, husband and four kids be damned. Just don’t tell him.

Oh, for Pete’s sake. That goes beyond promiscuity, which I don’t have a problem with. But justifying and rationalizing adultery? Give me a break. With that blow, the series has a total of zero recurring characters that I respect. None. No one for me to identify with. No reason to read.

I’m probably overreacting, but I traced some influence of my personal code of ethics to Parker’s earlier work. I am beyond disappointed with this outing and don’t know if I’ll bother with the other Sunny Randall/Jesse Stone books from here on out. I just picked up the movie Stone Cold just last week, and if I get the others, it will be because I like Tom Selleck, not because I like Robert B. Parker.

Even aside from my moral high-horsing, the book is flawed. Contrary to the oft-reprinted AP review, the dialogue in this book is not crackling, wry, sparkling, or whatever the thesaurus wanted to stick in there for this Parker book. The plot is forced, the resolution relies on the now-frequent shootout trap for organized crimesters, and….

Jeez, can you tell how I feel about this book? I’m so spitting mad about it, it’s like my review wanders out of the room and comes back to add just one more bit of venom? For the sake of consistency, I’ve put the Amazon link to the book below, but jeez, save your time and money.

I cannot believe I pay full price for these things any more.

After the Niven, I wanted something with a little more zing to it. I’ve had this book on my shelves for a bit, so I took it out. I misremembered it as a collection of short stories; instead, it is a Science Fiction Book Club collection of three of Heinlein’s juvenile novels from the 1950s: Tunnel in the Sky, Time for the Stars, and Citizen of the Galaxy.

Back when I was in middle school, M. Gene Henderson had a collection of Del Rey imprinted paperbacks in the hard library binding which I tore through in the sixth grade and the first part of the seventh grade. Hence, once I knew the nature of this book, I’d expected I’d find something familiar in it, that I’d read one or more. Actually, although one was familiar, I hadn’t actually finished it. More on that by-and-by.

Tunnel in the Sky deals with students in high school participating in an off-world survival class. Their final exam is to go onto an unknown planet and survive for a couple of days or a week and finding the rescue point. A teleporter device sends them off, but as time passes and the students fight amongst themselves, they realize they’re on their own. Then Johnny Rico a young man has to help them form a society in the wilderness. Suddenly, they’re rescued.

I almost read Time for the Stars at M. Gene Henderson; however, the subject matter deals with a subject that was touchy. I was at M. Gene Henderson for the year and a half immediately following my parents’ divorce and our subsequent move from the friendly environment of the Milwaukee housing projects to the wild suburban world of St. Charles, Missouri. During the course of the divorce, my mother took us on a two-bus transfer excursion to see an attorney who was going to evaluate the children’s interests in the case and act as an advocate for my brother and I. During our meeting, he suggested a crazy custody arrangement: my brother and I spend six months with our mother and then six months with our father, a complete split down the middle of the year. However, in addition to the semiannual jerking us from school to school, the attorney also proposed that my brother and I actually split up so that one of us was each with a parent during those six months. Boys and girls, this was before the crack epidemic, okay?

So Time for the Stars deals with a deep-space probe program using identical twins with telepathy as the communication mechanism. One goes on a deep space probe traveling at near light speeds, and the other remains on earth to receive instant messages from psi. Well, at age 11 and fresh from the divorce, I couldn’t handle that topic, so I didn’t read the book. I read up until I got the conceit, and then I read the last chapter where the old brother and the young brother (travel at light speed will do that to you, or so Einstein tells me) meet again.

Now, 20 years have passed and my brother and I are naturally estranged, so I could get through it, but not without some meloncholy about my brother and my estrangement. So one twin goes in the ship, has some adventures, and gets in touch with his real relationship with his brother. While dozens of light years away, the ship’s excursion runs into disaster. Suddenly, they’re rescued.

Citizen of the Galaxy deals with a young slave sold to a beggar on a distant outpost. Neither is what he seems, and as the beggar-slash-spy is captured, the young slave follows instructions left by his adopted father to discover his past. It’s a big one. Suddenly, the book ends.

That’s a knock I’ll throw on Heinlein: Man, the books just kinda end out of nowhere, with little resolution to the main problems in the book or with pat resolutions. Maybe I just don’t grok Heinlein to that level. But they’re quick, engaging books that carry you along and don’t have the flaws that Niven’s books do.

Wow, it’s been almost three years since I read N-Space, the collection to which this book is billed the sequel. How do you get a sequel to a collection of short stories, snippets, and novel excerpts? Beats me, I am not a marketing flack for a publisher.

Like that book, I didn’t care for this book too much. For starters, it pads the nearly 500 pages with excerpts and scenes from novels (a disturbing number of which I have already read). It offers a number from his Warlock series, which I haven’t read and might have to look into. Other than that, it dabbles mostly in the Known Space arena.

It did, however, allow me to put my finger on one of Niven’s flaws: his books are best when the science isn’t actually a freaking character within it, particularly the one that speaks most. The later Ringworld novels fell into this trap, as did one of the stories in this book (“The Borderland of Sol”) whose only purpose was for Niven to noodle about the conceit of a quantum blackhole. The narrator is a space adventurer who follows along with Carlos Wu, father of Ringworld‘s Louis Wu, as they uncover a scientist engaged in piracy. The bulk of the story is Wu knowing the science of what’s going on and not spilling it until they’re in the pirate’s lair, where the pirate scientist gives a lecture on quantum black holes.

The nonfiction bits talk about how much Niven likes to deal with the hard sciences and that, in one of the many science fiction convention memories he treats us to, he and a group of artists and writers got a conference room set aside so they could create a world, including the topography, the aliens on it, and their culture. They worked in the room for the whole convention, and that was it: people putting together a world. Niven was surprised that more fans didn’t stop by to see this riveting action as artists created the images, writers wrote up the prose, and everyone brainstormed without a freaking story.

Niven, apparently, lives for this stuff, but readers don’t necessarily. Ergo, this book is okay for real Niven fans, but casual science fiction fans should probably stick to the real novels or the real collections.

Wow, is this book really 10 years old? Man, I read the original book, The Rants only….12 years ago, I guess. Funny how those years condense in memory. I’m reading another book whose predecessor I read in my old house, probably 3 years ago, and that doesn’t seem so far back.

Regardless, let’s get to the book in hand. It collects Dennis Miller’s monologues from his old HBO show which he got right after he left Saturday Night Live. All those years ago. They’re seasoned with his allusions, which you get enough of to think yourself smart when you get them. He takes on the normal topical topics, like kids these days (which are now kids those days and adults now), politics, government, and relationships. The titles are broad and the topic matter, too, is broad, and somehow, it saddens me and comforts me that the rants could hold up today, a decade later. Particularly if you just change the name “Clinton” to “Clinton.” We haven’t come very far in this decade, but we haven’t gotten much worse.

Additionally, it’s odd to note that Dennis Miller, before 2001, sounds more like an intelligent Bill Maher politically than he does now. He says, I think, that he changed in 2001. I would say so.

Good, interesting reading worth a look.

As you might know, gentle reader, I am a great John D. MacDonald fan, and someday I hope to own all of these paperback originals. This one, written in the middle 1950s, deals with a bucolic Florida town near Tampa that has an old doctor who grew rich from land sales but kept the money, in cash, in his fortress like home. Word gets out, and some out of town hitters come looking for it at the same time as distant shirt-tail relations show up to sponge a bit and the niece-by-marriage hatches a plot to have the man committed.

The book switches points of view and really develops the individual characters in it. It seems slowly, almost, but it’s not; the book runs only 191 pages and really ramps up to a good climax as the individual storylines come to a focal point. MacDonald does this well in his paperback originals, some of which I’ve already reviewed in this space (use the search bar, I’m too lazy to do it for you).

This book is a good one in the set, and I’m eager for the next. Which will probably be in a couple of weeks.

This play details two Jewish brothers’ brief stay with their grandmother and aunt in Yonkers during World War II. The grandmother is of old German dictatorial stock, the aunt is daft, the father (who leaves the boys with his mother while he earns some money to repay a debt to a loan shark) is weak, and the uncle is a bag man for the mob who’s on the run. The boys, needless to say, aren’t thrilled and aren’t sure how to survive in this environment.

Not one of the Simon plays that I’ve found that speaks to me; I guess if I would have been Jewish in New York in World War II, it would have been more meaningful to me. It’s not a bad read, but I don’t know that the play is as driving and forward moving as a play ought to be.

I have read at least one other Shell Scott novel, since I own it, and might have read more than that courtesy of my local library when I was in high school. So although I’m not a particular fan of Prather, I’ve enjoyed his participation in a genre I enjoy.

The book is less earnest in its pulp and doesn’t really swerve into the campy, but the main character doesn’t take himself or his adventures too seriously. In this book, Shell Scott investigates the murder of a vice president of a Hollywood dish magazine and discovers, as the bodies of mobsters and starlets begin to fall all around him, a blackmail scheme behind it. He does some shooting, some fighting, some near-loving of said starlets, and uses a ruse in the ending to unravel the plot.

A quick read, good enough, and I’ll take more of these as they present themselves in the garage sales or book fair circuit. If you’re so inclined, there’s a link to this book below and you can put some dough in the coffers of Noggle, Inc. No, really, I mean dough; Amazon doesn’t pay pitiful referrers like me in real money.

As you know, gentle reader, I prefer a book in my hand to all the wordsmithery of Internety. Maybe I’m invoking the wrong allusion for my point. Regardless, it explains why I buy books that collect writings that are freely available on the Internet. Like this volume, which collects a number of things from Slate’s first ten years (1996-2006). In a sad sort of way, my going through this book identified how I’ve turned away from reading mainstream general interest magazines in Slate’s 10 year history and why.

This book collects a couple pieces per year (the best, one would assume) and prefaces with a little about the magazine’s history at the time. However, a little after 2000, the “best” of Slate veers into Bush and Republicans sux! territory. Here’s the subject of the pieces:

1996

• Why flight attendants talk like they do.
• Trying to overcome one’s aversions to certain foods.

1997

• Sleeping in the same bed as kids is okay.
• A man muses while watching couples pass.
• Liberal versus conservatives (gardening philosophy, not political).
• Che’s popularity is because he died young.

1998

• Working in the ER when it’s a full moon on Friday the 13th.
• A conversation exchange of posts thing.
• The Farrelly Brothers’ popularity.
• A baby sitting co-op as an economics lesson.

1999

• The tele-tubby gay thing.
• Jerry Falwell’s definition of the Anti-Christ describes the author.
• The Supreme Court handles a stripper case.

2000

• Presidential candidates tend to be blue-blooded Ivy Leaguers.
• The stolen election told as a Grinch poem.
• A couple’s interaction in a bar.

2001

• Author tries Paxil for a month.
• Bill O’Reilly is a poseur.
• On defending bestiality (not actually defending bestiality).

2002

• On shy urinators.
• Soccer fans as nationalists.
• Evolution of the Pledge of Allegiance.
• Lewis and Clark celebrated inappropriately.
• A former Marine at the WTC rubble finds survivors.
• Spitting like a wine pro.
• The 50/50 political split in America.

2003

• Post exchange on miscarriage.
• Goose stepping in parades.
• A man awakens from being knocked out.
• Low-rise pants.
• Author acts as a street performer.
• Hating Bush but loving his tax cuts.

2004

• The Martha Stewart trial.
• Rich men buying newspapers.
• The end of the universe.
• Bush is stupid on purpose.
• Discovering a genetic deficiency in oneself that leads to breast cancer.
• Michael Moore is a bad documentarian.
• What did Bush know before we invaded 9/11?
• I am a racist.
• I love being in India.
• Bush is a bad parent; Gore, Kerry, the Clintons are good parents.
• In praise of misers.

2005

• Reattaching severed body parts.
• Rappers compared to bloggers.
• In praise of Congress’s action on Terry Schiavo.
• Pitying Prince Charles.
• Proust and the madeleine cookie.
• Impact of men watching their women give birth.
• A Katrina evacuee gets help from the private sector.

I have bolded the pieces that explicitly knock Bush by name. The tone of the pieces begins to shift around 2000, too, to include snarky asides and tut-tutting of some conservative/libertarian principles. Suddenly, the periodical is no longer writing about interesting things that I don’t know about so much as writing about politics and attacking me and things I believe in.

You know, there was a day when I had subscriptions to Harper’s and the Atlantic Monthly. We even had our years with Newsweek and Time. I didn’t pay much attention to Slate, but I went to Salon every day and I even foolishly invested in it.

But come 2000, all of a sudden the magazines all shifted. In the news magazines, they belittled Bush every magazine. In the monthlies, they spent less time on general interest essays and more time trying to outdo each other in implicating Bush in a wide variety of churlish behaviours. Mostly churlish on the part of the magazine authors. As you might remember, I wrote a piece when I let my Harper’s subscription lapse after a decade.

Now I’m off of news weeklies, news monthlies, and general interest monthlies, and home/family magazines are coming next, now that they’ve shifted tone from saving energy saves money to go green to serve Gaia and preserve the environment for the future, where your descendents can live in substinence conditions to serve Gaia.

But, back to this book.

The essays that were what mainstream magazines did best–take one outside his or her daily existence into something, even just a different voice, outside the reader’s experience–were enjoyable. The snarky pieces about celebrities (O’Reilly) and successful business people (who then buy publications) were tolerable–but that’s not a compliment; I tolerated them, literally. However, the snarky pieces on the Bush administration were inexecrable. It took me three times to make it through best-selling author (that is, best selling quoter and inflater of Bush’s misstatements) Jacob Weisberg’s bit about how Bush chooses to be stupid and has an oedipal complex. I read the piece about the Republicans being bad parents and couldn’t believe that the author of that piece was serious.

But seriousness and its attendant earnestness explains why I don’t read Slate unless a blogger links to a specific piece (usually by Hitchens or Kaus), don’t take general interest magazines, and don’t even visit Salon any more (but cannot sell my stock since its sale price is less than the commission price for selling it).

Hard otherwise to capture personal historical reading trends as this book has done accidentally. So I guess it’s worth it for this long post I got out of it. And some of it is good, but when it’s bad, it’s horrid, to make another semi-appropriate allusion.

Well, it surely comes as no surprise that I’ve been on a Star Trek kick lately. I’ve read a number of books in the last couple of months (see this, this, this, and this). Last week, on Tuesday through Friday nights, I watched Star Trek: The Motion Picture, Star Trek III: The Search for Spock, Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home, Star Trek V: The Final Frontier, Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country, Star Trek: Generations, Star Trek: First Contact, and Star Trek: Insurrection. 80% of current Star Trek cinema (yeah, these videocassettes).

So what do you think I picked up after finishing Heat? This paperback, which I purchased in August.

Now, this is the first “modern” Star Trek book I’ve read. The others noted above come from the early 1980s, and they run about 200 pages give or take. This paperback, published among 27 that year, runs 370 pages and comes with all the jump cuts, red herrings, and multiple points of view you’d find in a more recent piece of genre fiction. I won’t say that those characteristics make more modern novels better than the old school genre fiction, but they do make for richer reading.

This book centers on a plot by the Romulans to work with the Borg to defeat the Federation. Romulans, using Borg technology, reanimate Kirk after having found his grave on Veridian III (where he died in Star Trek: Generations). They brainwash him and send him to kill Picard, who’s on a mission to do something to the Borg and, well, it’s complicated. In a decent way. The best way would tie up loose ends and answer fundamental questions the books ask, but then again, I suppose that would prevent me from buying one of the 30 Star Trek novels that came out the next year to learn the truth, only to discover that the next ghostwriter for Shatner didn’t bother to read the preceding book to answer the questions.

Still, a pretty decent bit of fiction, set comfortably in a defined universe where I understand the markers. Similar to the John Norman series I delve into from time to time, although not as richly presented.

You know, I don’t think I’ve ever picked up a book about or by a candidate while the campaign was going on (although I did read Ross Perot’s book some years after United We Stand was forgotten as a book and as a political force). Still, as part of the Christmas present for my two conservative uncles (mentioned here), I got them this book in addition to an anti-Clinton screed I knew would go over well (I forget which one I got them; there were so many from which to choose!).

I bought a copy of this book for myself so that I’d be familiar with it as well. I mean, you can tell by my sidebar that I support his run and all, so it’s preaching to the choir, really.

The book breaks down into three sections, really:

1. Fred Thompson’s biography.
2. Horserace handicapping ca last summer.
3. A collection of Fred Thompson’s writing.

Additionally, there’s a bit thinking about whom Fred Thompson could select as a running mate. Both of the handicapping sections are weak, especially as time has rendered the possibilities impossible (that is, things didn’t fall the way the author presents as a best case scenario). However, the biography and the political essays by Thompson himself are nice, but are available on the Internet.

Ergo, the book’s best as a gift for someone whom you want to convince that Fred’s the man and to whom you want to give something more than a collection of URLs.

As I insinuated in the book review for Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, this book takes the script of the movie and what I know if it and goes a little beyond it. Okay, a lot beyond it. And she’s the author who gave Mr. Sulu his name, which according to Wikipedia became canon not when she used it in her book, but when it was inserted into the script of Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home.

So, do you remember the movie? Not much either you, huh? Funny how these movies are really so short in actual episodes/incidents/scenes when you come right down to it. This particular movie was the one between Khan and the whales, so it gets short shrift. Also, it reads more like a fattened television script (and the fattening isn’t always flattering) than a novel in its own right. And, if you remember, this is the first movie that started the tradition of blowing up the Enterprise. Maybe it meant something in this movie (shock, if nothing else), by the time the Next Generation bunch were blowing them up like they were wooden Hollywood sets and not expensive pieces of government procurement, it was rote and boring.

So the book’s worth the time if you’re a Star Trek fan (or a Vonda N. McIntyre fan, I suppose).

If not, watch the movie.