Nyqil And A Doughnut Do Not A Breakfast Make. Proof below.

O Prurient Reader,

Your hero in these epistles is dying.

There. I've said it: Dying.

Oh, sure; my honey says in the most unsympathetic, whining, nasal voice one could imagine (like that chick from the '80s show "The Nanny". I'm dying and can't be bothered to look up her name.) that it's "JUST a cold"! Quelle horreur.

(Fran Drescher. Her name, from just a minute ago. )

(By the way, I couldn't remember how to spell "indifference" in French so I looked it up with Google Translate...it's spelled...get this..."indifférence". Damn tricky frogs stealing our words. HA! I bet if I demand it back, the'll surrender it right away. Nah, most likely they'll react with indifference. never mind. I then spent half an hour making the sexy computer chick-voice swear in various languages.)(Again, ADD totally kicks my ass)

Anyway - dying. I am convinced I have the cholera. I am a sweating, snotting wreck (again, no one cares) so some of the symptoms match. This may be my last post, so let's make it a good one.

My honey (the soon-to-be single/widowed whiny one from a couple paragraphs ago) is into reading the "Urban Fantasy" genre. For most of our relationship, I looked down at this choice from the lofty heights of patronizing disdain. I mean, if Tolkien was the end-all, be-all for my forefathers, it's good enough for me, right? Right...Typically, my forays into reading fiction tend toward the classics (but not Edith Wharton, that poxy bitch), satire (Terry Pratchett), and HARD Science Fiction. (Kim Stanley Robinson, Charles Stross, &c). Therefore, imagine my heartfelt contempt when she recommended I read a book by some dude named Richard Kadrey about some magician that comes back from Hell and revenges up the joint.

Here is how my near-flawless memory replays the events that lead up to other paragraphs, further down the page:

Bunny (I call her "Bunny" because she's cute and evil): "You should read this, it has all the elements of a noir film and is rather well written. Also, I require snuggling"

Your Hero: <sneer handsomely plastered across his...uh...mouth> "HA! Thou ignorant wench! What would ever possess you to imagine I, consumer of fine literature and computer manuals, would ever descend to your plane to grace such tripe with my attention? No snuggles, it's hot and I'm sweaty. Hey, where's the damn cat?"

Bunny: "Shut up and read it or I, in the manner of my foremothers before me, will withhold all physical affection, in the form of sexy naked time, from you until I have my way. Yeah, it IS kinda hot. I think Moo is over there"

Moo (the cat): "Moo"

So I read the damn book.

So then I enjoyed it.

Damnit.

My snobbish review of Sandman Slim: A Novel

The premise, taken simply, is just as stated above: Magician, Hell, vengeance - hijinks ensue. This is possibly one of the oldest tropes in fiction (Seriously -  Think of the natural evolution from  Aristophanes' "The Frogs", or the myth(s) of Orpheus and Eurydice to today's TV tropes and you get the picture) and usually done rather poorly: Drive Angry would be an example. (Screw you, Nick Cage. This is what you get for well, everything you have ever done to me and mine); but Kadrey manages to bring fresh material to the genre like a good bluesman can inject fresh life into "Walking Blues". Here is an example:

Superlative. Perfection. And if we look and another example, Taj Mahal this time, we definitively demonstrate the concept:

the song is the same, and JUST AS GOOD, but completely different in presentation. See? simple concept. Taj Mahal may not be to your taste, but that's not the point.

Nothing is particularly new, the book in and of itself is a portmanteau of popular cliches from movies and other fantasy books (Bunny fleshed them out for me and will likely come up with examples in the comments, below), but just like the blues, it's not WHAT is played as much as HOW it's played.

The main character, Stark, is the updated equivalent of George Raft's character in Red Light or Bogart in some other movie that I can't remember. (The ghost of Mickey Spillane will haunt me because of this) He escapes from Hell where he was some kind of Spartacus to get vengeance for the death of his one true love. Again, hijinks ensue. I am terrible at this. How the hell do you do a decent review without spoilers? Meh.

Diverting from the typical pulp novel, the secondary characters in the book are not two-dimensional representations of simple concepts only there to further the plot or shout "SYMBOL" at the reader. Nope, they were actually developed to the point where you know why they do what they do and have at least a small amount of empathy for each and every one. Interestingly enough, the one I connect with the most is the shallowest character, Carlos, the bar owner. (I told you, this guy uses tried-and-truisms). I say shallow in that there simply isn't any real exposition. Carlos is. I imagine that to be the point.

Just had a thought: If I identify with the simplest, least developed character in the book what does that say about me? Am I a shallow caricature? Or does the low-def delivery of a character allow for the injection of imagination and therefore projection of oneself? (FUCKING HELL, I LOVE NYQUIL!!!)


the plot is straightforward and comforting, no real surprises arise: you can time the inevitable twists with a stopwatch. But to further the Blues analogy, you know when the bridge is coming, you're just not 100% where the guitarist is going with it and THAT'S THE POINT. that's what make the book so neat. I really didn't see the thing where the one guy does the thing to the other guy AT ALL. (HA! no spoilers!)

the crisis and denouement will have to wait until you've read it. And you will.

I've also read the second book, Kill the Dead. It's pretty good too.


I think I'm going to pass out for a while.