A Minor Correction

In my last post about prescriptions, I mentioned a Virginia program that helps people between jobs or just plain out of work afford their prescriptions.  I got something wrong.  It's not the state at all.  An insurance company (unnamed) is graciously allowing out-of-workers such as myself to buy prescriptions at highly-reduced rates, and until further notice.

Whoever you are, thank you.  You're saving lives.

Danny Boy! Come and take your medicine!

My buddy, Cliff, posted on his blog about Our Daily Meds.  You can read it here.  Coincidentally, I've had to think about prescriptions the last week and a half, as I was just let go from my job selling ads at the Caroline Progress, and the corporate powers that be in the backwoods of Tennessee didn't hesitate an iota of a second to cancel my health coverage on that very same day.

I'm not worried about doctor visits or trips to the emergency room just yet--but the cost of prescriptions has had me worried in the short term.  Just in case you're perfect healthy, or wealthy, prescription meds are fucking expensive if you don't have adequate health coverage.  Here: read this insightful article in the Washington Post all about prescription costs in this great country of ours compared to prices across the world.  Unless you're an idiot or a conservative who puts politics before people, the writer's conclusion is accurate and inescapable: in America, greed drives the prices, and that's why our meds cost so much.

For example: I take a daily pill for acid reflux--what my parents back in the day called "the heartburn."  It's not one of the affordable over-the-counter pills, as they don't work on me.  No, no, my hoidy-toidy digestive system requires high-end mantenance: a daily pill with the brand name of Protonix, which also comes in generic under its proper name of Pantaprazole, which, I know, sounds like an Italian seafood dinner.

Yum.

I have fretted over the cost of prescriptions without coverage, and had resigned myself to doing without.  That would, in a day or so, result in a constant stomach ache that feels as though a human fist is lodged just below my Wornom sternum.

So I called my pharmacy, the very good souls at Target on Staples Mill Rd. here in Richmond, told them of my situation, and inquired how much I would have to shell out for my pills--and that I might have to resort back to my old profession of male prostitute.

Under a health plan: generic Pantaprazole costs $10.

Without insurance, generic costs $88.99.

And I hate to think what the brand name pill costs.

Without hesitation, the clerk on the phone, the lovely Antigone, said, "Hold on, let me see what I can do for you."

Hold on?  I didn't know there was anything that could be done!

She comes back and says, "I've enrolled you in a state program that helps out the unemployed.  It usually brings prescription costs down."  I heard her type on her computer keyboard.  "There.  How's $13.96 sound?"

How does that sound?  Like birds singing in the springtime, that's how it sounds!

So thank you, Antigone; thank you, Target; and thank you, Virginia, for putting people over the drug manufacturers.

Stay well, my friends.

JOHN CARTER (of Mars!) for book lovers

Been busy the last month -- too busy to really blog.  My agent, the estimable Andrew Zack, asked me to do some formatting of my manuscript in order to send it to editors; did that, did some other things, had a sleep study performed (apnea woke me up, on average, 59 times an hour!  No wonder I wake up in the morning feeling completely worn out!) and did the daily work thing.

The result: just like I have to make time to read, I now have to make time to blog.  Just how and when, I'll let you know.  For now, it's right now; and right now, let's talk about a subject near and dear to my ink-stained, bibiloholic heart: the Red Planet.

I love the rings of Saturn.

I am astounded by the Red Spot of Jupiter, and especially by the gas planet's two moons, Europa and Io, where volcanic activity far beneath their frozen surfaces give rise to the possibility of alien life.

But it is Mars, the Angry Red Planet, the World of War, that has not only captured my imagination since I was thirteen, but has held the imagination of countless others in thrall, especially since the canali of Mars were "discovered" by Schiaparelli in 1892 and expounded upon later by Percival Lowell.

When I was thirteen, I discovered Edgar Rice Burroughs, Captain John Carter of Virginia, Dejah Thoris, an incomparable princess of Barsoom, and Woola, carter's faithful Martian dog -- and my life has never been the same.

Burroughs wrote his last Martian story in the mid-1940s.  Since then, not a single original story has been published in book form continuing the adventures of John Carter, Warlord of Mars.  (I'm not counting stories published in comic books or as fan fiction.)

Until now.

I've been waiting just about 37 years for new stories about Burroughs' Mars to be published, and this new anthology is being released to coincide with the release of John Carter, Disney's hugely budgeted and long-awaited version of Burroughs' first novel, A Princess of Mars.

Under the Moons of Mars takes its title from the original appearance of the first John Carter tale, in All-Story Magazine, February, 1912.  This "scientific romance" featured a Civil War veteran transported to Mars, giant, green, four-armed, tusked warriors, and a human race who walked around naked, except for swords and leather harnesses.  Weird stuff in 1912 -- and it was that reason why Burroughs used a pen name, Normal Bean, to indicate that the writer was, indeed, normal.

He needn't have bothered.  The story was immensely popular, and with his second and third novels, The Outlaw of Torn and Tarzan of the Apes, the Burroughs name became the gold standard for adventure.  The novel was published in hardcover five years later, with its subsequent and classic title, A Princess of Mars.

This anthology is like any other anthology: a grab bag of stories of wide and varying quality.  Editor John Joseph Adams has brought together some good and popular writers, but they don't necessarily provide the best stories.  Peter Beagle is a great fantasist, but his version of John Carter comes across as an angry and violent apologist for the Confederacy, and his Dejah Thoris flirts with Tarzan after the jungle lord has been transported to Mars.  It doesn't ring true at all.  Joe Lansdale's story is firmly true to the Barsoom oeuvre, but, as such, is a good introduction to Barsoom, but not very original at all.

There are three A stories here.  The first is a surprise, the second tale in the book, by David Barr Kirtly.  It features a green warrior and a young woman from Earth, and how they cope with a new existence on Mars.  I'd really like to read more about both, especially about Suzanne Meyers from a place called New York.

The final story, "The Death Song of Dwar Guntha," by Jonathan Maberry, is also an A story -- a melancholy tale of a Barsoomian Light Brigade.  Usually, the last story in an anthology is the best story; but not this time.  Its placement here is absolutely appropriate, as it serves as a thoughtful, lingering conclusion to the book that leaves the reader wanting more.

(Honorable Mention goes to "Woola's Song," which looks at the adventures of John Carter and Dejah Thoris through the eyes of Woola, his loyal calot.  Woola has always been my favorite dog in fiction -- Krypto is a close second -- and here he finally gets his due.)

The best and most original story is by seminal comic book writer Chris Claremont.  "The Ghost that Haunts the Superstition Mountains" takes our Barsoomian champions and places them in an adventure on earth, during the days of Cochise and the southwestern Apache wars.  Claremont gives us Chapter 11 of this story, which is self-contained, placing us firmly in the grip of pulp convention: get the story started right in the middle of the action.  I wish that he would write the remainder of the novel -- Barsoomian tales, I think, are best at novel-length -- and this single story could absolutely lend itself to a lengthy ten chapters before and ten more behind.

 

Claremont, with a change of setting and a realistic writing style -- plus an obvious reverence for the characters -- knows how to pace and knows how to tell an adventure story.  The characters are written pitch perfectly, and the star of the story, green Thark Tars Tarkas, shines as he's placed in the alien environment of the American West.  "Ghost" is simply invigorating -- a new beginning for Barsoomian tales in the 21st century -- and I want more.  A lot more.

This book comes out in February, just in time for John Carter to hit the movie screens.  Read it for a quick Martian fix at Amazon.  And here's the movie trailer.

Last-Minute Christmas Presents for Book Lovers

For fans of Arthurian literature:
 

Le Morte D'Arthur, Thomas Malory's epic prose poem, is the primary source for almost every Arthurian tale written since the 16th century.

It's the same case here, with The Death of King Arthur, a new retelling in modern English and dramatically restructured, by novelist Peter Ackroyd.  Ackroyd is a hell of a writer and historian, and he's taken the best parts of Malory's dense prose and smoothed it into a story that both reflects the essence of Malory's 15th century prose and updates it for our contemporary, attention deficit disorder audience.  In other words, Ackroyd has done well.

T. H. White's classic retelling of the legend of Arthur is once again in print.  The Once and Future King was the basis of Disney's 1964 The Sword in the Stone, and White's adaptation of Malory remains, perhaps, the best, and certainly the most dramatic.  Arthur -- Wart -- and the major figures of Arthurian legend have never been fleshed out more charmingly, and it deserves its place high among the chronicles of the King.

THE DEATH OF KING ARTHUR

THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING

For fans of Sherlock Holmes:

A new and innovative anthology of Sherlock Holmes stories has been needed for years.  But this isn't a traditional anthology continuing their adventures -- many of these stories don't even have Holmes as Watson as characters.  Instead they use Doyle's oeuvre -- the very concept of Holmes and his literary legacy -- as the primary idea.  The authors here range from mystery writers, thriller writers, fantasists -- all sharing their unique perspectives on the Master Detective.  There's even a story told in graphic form.  With stories by Neil Gaiman, Lee Child and Jacqueline Winspear, you can't go wrong -- and each tale looks at Holmes from a point of view you've probably never thought of.  The tale's afoot!

A STUDY IN SHERLOCK

For fans of Chris Van Allsburg:

When The Mysteries of Harris Burdick was published in 1984, author/artist Chris Van Allsburg probably had no idea that his slim little children's book would be so inspirational.  The Chronicles of Harris Burdick takes the mysterious art from the first volume, and allows writers to explore exactly what happened in each beautiful black and white sketch.  There are no bad stories here, but my favorite -- and perhaps the best of the bunch -- is the final story, by Stephen King.  For me, the art and their enigmatic captions will remain, and I can still write my own stories for each drawing.  Highly recommended.

THE CHRONICLES OF HARRIS BURDICK

For Horror fans:

I think I'm giving up on horror from now on.  Not that Those Across the River or The Night Strangers are bad -- they aren't at all -- but I am a fan of a type of horror story that just doesn't get written any more, except by King and a few others.  I like horror.  I like scares.  I like ghost stories and roller coasters and Hammer horror.  I like King's 3 Rules: Blood must be spilled; The innocent must suffer; and Evil shall be punished.  But these two new novels are way too . . . I guess unsettling is the word.

These are way too nihlistic for me.

Those Across the River takes a while to build, but when it does, the astute reader will realize it's a new and savage take on an old horror trope.

The Night Strangers also takes a standard trope of supernatural horror and twists it in a way where nature becomes supernature.

Both novels are well-written, almost literary.  Both are filled with auras of unease and ancient terrors -- and while I certainly recommend them for horror fans today, these two books are not for me.  They're for the generation raised on gore and splatter, who laugh at ghosts and goblins instead of hiding under the covers with a flashlight.  This is horror for the iPod generation.

THOSE ACROSS THE RIVER

THE NIGHT STRANGERS

For fans of space opera and hard sf:

McDevitt is still the best at what he does -- serious space opera that evokes the wonder of the stars.

Firebird is the latest in the Alex Benedict series, where Alex, an antiquities dealer 11,000 years in the future, and his Watson, Chase Kolpath, solve outer space mysteries and seek galactic artifacts.  Like most Benedict novels, this one starts out with a MacGuffin -- which is never solved.  But it serves the reader in that this intro propels us into the story, starting with the past disappearance of a starship and how it relates to the disappearance of Christopher Robin forty years before the events of this novel.

Firebird is superior to McDevitt's 2010 Benedict novel, and I anxiously await the next installment in 2012. 

FIREBIRD

For Dexter fans:

I don't get Showtime, so I've never seen an episode of Dexter; but the show began with the Dexter books by Jeff Lindsay, about a serial killer who hunts serial killers.

Dexter's world is in Miami, a very real and suburban Miami, yet is filled with unseen evil and weirdness living on the fringes.  There are hints of supernatural forces in the books, especially in the second book; but in the new novel, Double Dexter, reality is in the forefront when Dexter is seen making one of his kills . . . and it turns out the witness is a fledgling serial killer who wants Dexter to pay for his crimes.  The books are different than the show, so the author says, but the basics are the same, which is why I believe tv viewers like the show so much:  They're graphic, darkly funny and highly recommended.

DOUBLE DEXTER

For fans of Hugo:

If you enjoyed The Invention of Hugo Cabret -- or Martin Scorsese's film adaptation, Hugo -- you'll probably like Brian Selznick's newest illustrated novel, Wonderstruck.  It's just as heavily illustrated and as evocative as Selznick's Hugo, this time telling the story of a deaf girl who falls in love with museums and Cabinets of Wonder.  Hugo has a little more action and more of a solid story, but Wonderstruck is embued with a sense of awe and fairy tale wonder that Hugo lacks.  Both books are absolutely magnificent, and are Highly Recommended.

WONDERSTRUCK

For fans of Steven Spielberg:

I think I have all the books written so far on the making of Spielberg's Jaws back in 1974, but this one is wonderfully unique.  It's a coffee table book, filled with photos taken by the residents of Martha's Vineyard, that captures the intense few months of filming that basically involved the entire island.  There are so many photos here that I've never seen before -- it blew me away.  This book is a must have for film fans and Spielberg junkies.

JAWS: MEMORIES FROM MARTHA'S VINEYARD

For fans of Stephen King:

I saved the best for last.

11/22/63 is Stephen King's finest novel in fifteen years.  It's a time travel novel where everything goes right and everything goes wrong, and it's a story only Stephen King could tell.

I'll say no more and just let King's writing do its job.  Forget Christmas presents -- go out now and get this book for yourself.

11/22/63

My Bud, Shecky

Meet my bud, Mike Speller.  I call him Shecky.

We've been friends now for twenty years -- You believe that, Mikey? -- since the days I was a regular at the Adventurers Club in Orlando, and Mike was one of their first and best actors; and although we're separated by miles, I know we're connected through our foul, telltale hearts.

Mike is a professional actor, having performed in tv's Welcome Freshman and in such films as Passenger 57 and my personal favorite, The Night Becomes Charlie.  Became Charlie?  Can't remember.  His role in that fine film was "Man in Road."  Oscar-worthy work.  Check it out on Netflix.

Today Mike is a professional storyteller, wandering around the semi-frigid climes of Chicago and the midwest like a zombieified Jack London.  You can go to his site here and see all about him, or even book him for a performance.  But this post is all about Mike's newest venture: blogging.

If you'd like insight into acting, comedy, storytelling, or if you'd just like to get to know an all-around nice guy who's also one of the most intelligent guys I've ever met, he's posting here on Blogspot.  He's way too modest, but throw him a cookie, and maybe he'll tell you about the time he, Darin DePaul and I helped an adventurer save Christmas.

Santa still owes us.

More on the Slow, Impending and Eventual Doom of Newspapers

As lascivious, corporate greed and the fall of the American economy both continue unabated, the bowties in their towers built upon strata formed by ink, hot type and pulp look down upon their megacorpconglomeranational empires and, merely, wait.  They abide.  For they know, no matter what happens to the newspaper industry today, tomorrow, or by 2017, the year when the last major American newspapers are predicted to have died, that there is absolutely nothing they can do.  At all.

They also know their executive bonuses and perks are safe, no matter what happens.

They'll never admit this.  Ever.  Right now, even though newspapers are closing and layoffs are massive, print newspapers bring in more revenue than their online counterparts.  And it's predicted -- accurately, I believe -- that their online counterparts will NEVER bring in an equal amount of revenue.

The bowties will never admit any of this because it will devalue their stock even more than their stock is devalued now.

It is, after all, not about news, not about journalism, not about loyal employees, and not about what the community needs.

It's all about money.

The question remains: How can they stay in business?

The bowties already know the answer to this one.  Hell, it's as simple as an answer can get:

They can't.

Warren Buffett summed it up for them.

"Should you find yourself in a chronically leaking boat, energy devoted to changing vessels is likely to be more productive than energy devoted to patching leaks."

I've written about Jeff Jarvis before, and I think he's usually on point about his predictions and trendspotting for the newspaper business.  He's written a piece you should read, that gets to the heart of the issue: deliberately shutting the newspapers, firing thousands, and moving on . . . but to what?

"To take advantage of bankruptcy, a company has to have courage and bold visions of the future. Do newspaper companies? So far, we haven’t seen evidence of it."

His facts jibe with Papercuts, a site that's keeping track of the layoffs at newspapers across the country.

The countdown has begun.  2017 is right around the corner.

The bowties better get used to wearing sweat-stained t-shirts and dealing crystal meth out of their doublewides.

Here's a brilliant but BRIEF RANT by Bret Victor, a guy who knows his way around graphic user interfaces.  His thesis is that our current wave of handheld devices, as exemplified by ereaders, smartphones and tablet computers, is merely a sidestep in a technological evolution that actually leaves out a valuable part of human experience.

It's justification, as far as I'm concerned, that what I've said for a few years now will become the future -- the future of books.  Victor doesn't come right out and say it, but the point of his essay is, ultimately, the reason that books will never be replaced, no matter how many varieties of ereaders eventually tsunami the market.

Books, simply, work.

Two Tomes from the Tomb of Terror!

For my fellow Halloween lovers, here's a look at two new editions of two classic tales of terror and the supernatural.

Dracula, the scion of every vampire story since its publication in 1897, is reprinted here by Intervisual Books.  There's no need for me to review Bram Stoker's novel itself: it is the standard to meet and beat.  It is the single best vampire novel ever written, even now, after 114 years of its unparallelled influence on popular culture.

So let's review this particular edition of Dracula.

As far as I'm concerned, each new edition of a classic should try to do something new, different and innovative.  Maybe one edition has a brand new introduction by a Dracula scholar, a vampirologist, or a writer of horror.   Maybe another has great interior illustrations or extremely cool cover art.  Since the book was written generations ago, maybe another edition could be heavily annotated to bring today's reader up to speed with the world of the Victorian era and fin de sicle London.

On the surface, this edition by Intervisual is beautiful.  From the small photo of the cover above, you can tell it's kind of cool, kind of sinister, maybe even a bit modern.  The hardcover binding is a black leatherette, which is always classy; and they've provided each copy with an embedded ribbon marker of scarlet satin.  Not bad.

Unfortunately, beyond the superficial beauty, this edition doesn't really offer anything original at all.  It's completely derivative of other editions -- and even of other, tangentially related sources.

The cover typeface, for instance, has been used in countless vampire books since the 1980s.  The introduction is basically a one-page biographical sketch of Bram Stoker, offering no insight into the man, or, especially, into his best work.

The cover art, at first glance, is certainly evocative.  At a distance, it looks appropriately sinister -- it's all shadows and swirls of smoke or blood.

Take a closer look.  Is Dracula bald, or is he wearing something cowl-like on the top half of his head?  Is that a cloak of darkness, or a very familiar black cape?  And the clasp holding the cape together . . .

Take a step back and look.  The artist didn't create a portrait of the lord of vampires.  He stole the comic book image of Batman, cut off the pointed ears, and put in a fang.  (And just one fang, at that.)  And the clasp?  It's Batman's insignia, in the same spot the shield is on his superheroic chest.

I don't believe the combination of Batman and Dracula is a coincidence -- Dracula is the original bat-man and anti-hero; and Batman is the anti-Dracula.

It's interesting, but this edition is for kids and teens, as far as I'm concerned.  Dracula fans should buy it only to complete their collection.  If you want the best and most illuminating versions of Dracula:

*  *  *

Let us talk now of serious fear.  A story that has made grown men tremble long after the covers were shut, long after the credits flickered off the screen.

The Exorcist is a story sui generis.  It stands alone, and deservedly so.

William Peter Blatty had a hell of an idea: to take a newspaper article about a boy's "possession" in 1949 and rewrite it as a story taking place at the cusp of the 1970s.
(Does that sound familiar at all?  A few years later after The Exorcist, Stephen King would take Dracula and rewrite it, placing the setting in 1970s Maine, as 'Salem's Lot.)

As a novel, The Exorcist is not particularly literary, not exceptionally well-written, and many of the characterizations are quite thin.

What it is is a good story, told for impact in both literary, non-literary and dramatic fashion.  There are grammatical errors, made deliberately, in order to have impact with the audience.

I say all this because of a writing instructor I had at Old Dominion University.  Tony Ardizzone is a fine writer and a fine instructor of writing and English.  I learned a hell of a lot in the writing workshops I took with him, and he was primarily responsible for my understanding and 100% acceptance of non-rebuttal criticism.  I might explain that in a later post, but what I mean is, I accepted the classes' criticisms without argument, no matter what they said.  It's a hell of a way to figure out that, yes, your shit certainly can stink.

At some point while Tony Ardizzone was in college or grad school, they dissected The Exorcist in one of his writing classes, and skewered it.  I can understand this on one level: it was a non-literary bestseller, and bad writing deserved to be excoriated.

The other level, and the one I agree with: The Exorcist was a story, well-told, but not told in a literary fashion.  It was written as a story, structured to have impact on the reader, and even the language and the grammar (or the lack thereof) was constructed for maximum impact.  It was not meant as "literature."  It was a story told the way it needed to be told.

Wow.  That's a hell of an idea.  Break the rules to actually have an impact.  Follow the rules?  Less impact, but official acceptance.

Tony's literary-based college environment could not accept The Exorcist, and so crucified it.

Sorry, but a story is a story is a story.  The Exorcist is pure story, and it's powerful.  1973's  film version rightly distilled the finest elements of the novel into their purest, most visual forms.  The movie remains one of the very few films that are better than the novel upon which it was based.

This edition offers a polishing by the author, William Peter Blatty, and an original scene with a new character.  It doesn't add much, but it certainly is a nice touch, and I recommend you buy this and enjoy it immediately.  Then watch the movie again -- the enhanced version with the spider-crawling scene added in.

The sow is mine.

Love it.

Book.
Movie.

Occupy Richmond Needs to Look at the Local Media Giants

A too-true and fascinating article came out today over at the New York Times, and I urge you to read it because it explains in detail -- mostly via a glimpse into the inner workings of the Gannett Company -- how the CEOs and principals of our media interconglomeranationalcorporations are screwing their own companies, their loyal employees, and the overall state of journalism in order to rake in obscene bonuses and payouts, no matter who else is hurt.

The article may be about Gannett and Tribune, but it's also about ALL the media companies -- and even about our local, most notable Media Giant.  This piece from June 2011 is just the tip of the Richmond iceberg.  And this article, from just five days ago, shows how truly committed the bowties are to cutting costs -- at the expense and damnation of everyone and everything else.

Finally, some Wall Street dude, in "This Pig Might Fly," suggests buying stock in Richmond's Total Disgrace because the parent company is at such an incredible, all-time low.  I'm sure this paragraph must have had the bowties shitting in their executive wide-ass Pampers:

Horrific management and governance: MEG's management team is awful. CEO Marshall Morton has led MEG's overpaying acquisition spree in digital media, acquiring Blackdot and DealTaker in recent years. DealTaker recently suffered a big set back in February 2011 when Google altered its search algorithm. Since then, MEG is blowing money on consultants to help fix this issue but as of Q2 2011 has nothing to show for it except continuing declining sales and negative cash flow for this segment.

And people wonder why newspapers are failing.  Hmm.

 

Take a Good Look at the Last Trek

I've had it.

Seriously.  I have to draw the line somewhere, and this is it.

One of my guilty pleasures, along with cheesy '70s horror movies and comic book superheroes, has been Star Trek.  All things Star Trek.

I attended the 2nd ever Star Trek convention in NYC in 1974.

I saved all my magazines and comics and posters.

I read and collected all the books, from the first tv show adaptation --

-- to the first original Trek novel --

-- to the first original Trek novel (1981) after Star Trek: The Motion Picture was released in 1978 --

 -- to the 1979 limited edition of the movie's novelization, signed and numbered by Gene Roddenberry (although the real writer was Alan Dean Foster, uncredited).

In all that time, decades of Trekking, never ONCE have I loved a Star Trek novel.  Never once have I sat back and said, "Damn, that was a good book."

But I have, on occasion, kicked a Star Trek novel across the room because it was so bad.  And I have, in the past, told myself that I will never buy a Trek novel again because they are never any good.  They're not even fun any more.  The worst are tedious and dull.  The best are...tedious and dull, because there is no best.

But, because I'm innately optimistic, because I'm a born reader, and because I am a Trek guy in my soul, I have held out a hope, a glimmer of optimism, that a good novel would come along and surprise me.

I hereby, officially, pronounce that that sense of hope is dead, killed by phaser fire while wearing a classic red shirt.

A paperback just came out that gave me hope -- a story about the early years, classic Kirk, Spock and McCoy.  I read the first paragrahs and skimmed the first chapter...and I gave it a chance.

It toyed with me.  And now I hate it.  It tasks me, and vengeance will be mine.

I recommend A Choice of Catastrophes in order for anyone even remotely interested in either science fiction or Star Trek to read, read the whole thing, devour the brain-dead son of a bitch, and learn -- learn exactly how good science fiction and good Star Trek stories can be absolutely ruined by dull writing and by padding -- that is, stretching a story out interminably with the literary equivalent of bullshit.

I gave it a shot.  I read the whole damn, misbegotten thing.

And it has moved me.

This, I swear:  I WILL NEVER BUY A STAR TREK NOVEL EVER AGAIN.

Now, of course, if Stephen King, Ray Bradbury, Harlan Ellison, Neil Gaiman, Jack McDevitt or any single good writer were to write a Trek novel -- if you could reanimate the corpses of Hemingway and Steinbeck and Fitzgerald and Asimov and Burroughs and Heinlein and get their zombified husks behind a keyboard --

I WOULD NOT BUY IT.  Now, I might borrow it, get it from a library, or even steal the thing from Barnes & Noble after I rip the magnetic strip out, and then ask it to do it's magic on me; and if any of those writers were to write a Trek story, I can guarantee you it would fill your mind with the wonders and magic of a night sky in the spring, no moonlight, just a velvet drape of darkness filled with tiny pinpoints of light, around which circle an infinite number of worlds where people like us could be looking at our own little star, dreaming...

Pocket Books, do you understand?

You have screwed a Trek lover, a Trek loyalist, for the last time.  You have given us dreck, you have given us formula, you have given us endless exposition and mind-numbing, repetitive space opera that has no worth, no merit.

My phaser is on kill, and I'm aiming for the Trek shelves.

Star Trek novels must die!

The Official Dick Van Dyke Book

It is certainly appropriate that TV Land held a marathon of The Dick Van Dyke Show all last week -- October 3 was the 50th anniversary of the series premiere on CBS.  It's also appropriate that the show is now on at a regular time: 7:00 pm each weeknight.  It is also certainly appropriate  -- and much deserved -- that a new and revised edition of The Official Dick Van Dyke Show Book has been released in time to celebrate the show's golden anniversary.

This is a big anniversary -- seriously, in the short history of television and entertainment, this one show has influenced more people than I can imagine -- including myself -- and I suggest that you visit the blog of Mark Evanier, an L.A. writer, who not only loves The Dick Van Dyke Show, but understands how important it has been in the scheme of things.  His blog is here, and his recent Van Dyke-related sites are here and here.

This book is is the best and most comprehensive book that I wish every good tv show could have.  Twin Peaks deserves this treatment.  Hill Street Blues, M*A*S*H, Twilight Zone, The Avengers, Dark Shadows -- the best and the most-loved all deserve books as thorough and as sheer fun as this.  Author Vince Waldron has surpassed this book's previous incarnations, including in its contents the words to the show's theme song (written by Morey Amsterdam), a bittersweet account of the show's emotional final days, a comprehensive episode guide, and even a few paragraphs about the 2004 reunion show.

In short, this is the perfect book for the tv comedy geek in us all.  Get it here -- but not at Barnes & Noble . . . and I'll tell why in a later post.

Turn Right at Machu Picchu

I made it to the land of the Maya a few years back and checked off one my bucket list items: experiencing Chichen Itza.

The site is magnificent; the architecture is awe-inspiring; the history is bloodthirsty and regal and primitive and mythic.

Part of the appeal is the romance of ruins (to borrow a title), and the enigmas inherent in abandoned temples, sacrificial ceynotes, and broken glyphs carved into moss-covered stelae.

There may perhaps be no more inaccessible ruins than those of Machu Picchu, an abandoned Incan citadel situated high in the Andes, hidden amidst the clouds.  I think it's next on my bucket list -- but you actually have to do a little adventuring to get there, and my kind of adventuring is really more like reading about adventuring while sitting by the hotel pool, as multiple gin and tonics are brought to me by tanned, bikinied waitresses.

Turn Right at Machu Picchu is a hell of an adventure book, the narrative of Mark Adams and his quest to follow the trail blazed by Hiram Bingham in 1911, when he "discovered" Machu Picchu and brought knowledge of its existence back to Western Civ.

 Hiram Bingham in 1931, then a senator, posing on the wing of an honest-to-God autogyro -- the preferred mode of travel by pulp heroes and cloaked avengers.  No idea who knickers dude is.

This story is told pretty much in alternating chapters of how Bingham found not only Machu Picchu, but three other important Incan sites, and how Adams, almost a century later, braved the Peruvian jungles for insight into the true meaning of the city in the clouds.  Plus, it's a travelogue with a sense of humor.  Adams doesn't hesitate to show just how much a city boy he was, trudging through the tropical jungles with coca-chewing natives, wild llamas and experiencing living in a tent for the first time.  It's his wry humor and his self-deprecating fish-out-of-water story that give personality and charm to what could have been a dull travel book.

I know for sure now that I want to go to Peru and walk the Inca Trail in the shadow of Bingham.  Until then, I'll have to settle for Mexican restaurants and ice-cold Tecates.

It could be worse.  And I hope there's a Machu Picchu Hilton.  With a pool.

Go here for general info on Machu Picchu.  Go here for the book.  Have a great trip!

Some Completely Unrelated Reviews of Good Books . . . and Some Bad

Right.  Let's save the best two for last.

First, a good one: The Rude Pundit's Almanack is a hell of a collection of essays and blog posts by Lee Papa, who blogs under the sobriquet of the Rude Pundit (whom I have written about before).  And he is refreshingly rude.  He accurately calls out the liars and the hacks on the right wing who are fucking up this country for their own political gain.  He doesn't hold back.

I love it.

About Bobby Jindal, gov. of Louisiana, who once thought about running for President:

He'll lose when everyone realizes that Stephen Hawking has a stronger spine.

On Dick Cheney:

In 1990, when he was George Bush the Smarter's secretary of defense, Cheney was an advocate for the policy of arming the "rebels" in Afghanistan.  Also financing and arming the mujahideen was a Saudi from a wealthy family, Osama bin Laden, who got fighters from mosques around the globe.  So Dick Cheney and bin Laden once, more or less, worked together.  After the war with Afghanistan helped destroy the Soviet Union, various mujahideen groups became the Taliban and Al Queda.

In other words, Dick Cheney's actions led directly to 9/11.

The fact that Cheney is a free man, decaying from his dessicated heart to his gout-ridden legs in his huge houses paid for by oil profits, speaks of just how feckless and corrupted our body politic has become.

And about Glenn Beck's ghost-written holiday story:

I would rather have my balls waxed by a beautician with hooks for hands than have to sit through Glenn Beck's performance of The Christmas Sweater again.

Yeah, that's good shit.

The Rude Pundit's blog is here.  Follow the links to buy the book.

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Here's a weak one: Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day by Ben Loory.  Loory is a hip, current writer, which means he's glorified by the literati in NY and LA and small presses that publish writers no one has ever heard of.  Reviewers on Amazon even compare him to Ray Bradbury.

No.  Wrong.  Bradbury has always known how to tell a solid story.

Solidity is definitely missing here.

This collection contains some good ideas -- and Loory can certainly write, I'll give him that -- but every single story reads like flash fiction, like they were written on the spur of the moment, with the germ of an idea, but then they eventually lead to nothing of importance, usually providing resolutions that are unsatisfying, to say the best. The title is derivative of the classic television anthology series, the Twilight Zone, and its "middle ground between light and shadow." 

This collection is the Twilight Zone for the ADHD generation.  Short attention span fiction.  Light, shadow, and nothing of substance.  You have been warned.

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This one had so much promise . . . so why was I so bored?

Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children is a quirky little novel, published by the quite respectable publisher of absolutely gorgeous books, Quirk Books.  The book design is beautiful and impeccable.  The photographs, strange and wonderful, used throughout the novel, are well-integrated into the text.

I love books that combine text and art, and I keep waiting for one that will absolutely enthrall me.  This one gave me hopes -- the story of a boy looking for the truth of his grandfather's past on a Welsh island.  Combine a coming-of-age quest with good graphic design, and I'll give you a shot.

Unfortunately, the novel itself left me cold, and I had really wanted it to kick my ass.  I go into novels -- every damn novel -- with the expectation of, "Okay, here I am.  Do me."

The story here, however bordered with the sparkly trappings of magic, oddity and wonder, is told in the universally-weak language of telling, not showing.  The opposite is a mark of excellent storytelling -- a good writer shows or evokes, not merely tells.

This is a long story that needs so much development.  Instead, it's told in shorthand, perhaps for a juvenile or non-discriminatory audience.  I can't recommend Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children for any reader looking for the next novel filled with Harry Potter-like wonder and magic.  And that's a shame, because I really thought it had a shot.

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This one is for men who like to read.  Ladies, you can read and enjoy this, too -- but I'm talking to the boys out there, especially the ones who read before they go to sleep.

The Gentleman's Bedside Companion is a compendium of facts, information and trivia written in fifteen-minute snatches -- just enough for a guy to read in bed while he's waiting to fall asleep.  From quoting the Batman TV series of the '60s to the story of heroin, from a glimpse at great war movies to the Best Ever Book Titles (such as The Day Amanda Came and Invisible Dick).

There's so much here, and it's all fun.  Enjoy -- and get a good night's sleep.

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These last two will keep you up reading way past the point of no return.  Finish the books, call in to work, and sleep the rest of the day.

The Magician King is Lev Grossman's sequel to The Magicians.  The first book was Harry Potter for grown ups.  This one reminds me more of Michael Moorcock and J. R. R. Tolkien mixed together with some realistic New York snark and an anti-Hogwarts magic school.  It continues the story of Quentin's inner turmoil as a man, magician and king -- king of Fillory, a Narnia-esque land of enchantment -- and the journey he undertakes to save his friend, Queen Julia.

But you and I know that journeys and quests are really about the journeyer, and The Magician King is the story of Quentin's all too real ennui in fantasyland -- and how he grows to become the hero he always wanted to be.

I liked the first novel better than this one -- beginnings and origin stories are almost always better than the second book in a series -- but I'm waiting for Book 3 nevertheless.

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Anno Dracula is a sprawling evocation of the Ripper's London, built upon the idea that Bram Stoker's Dracula was a nonfiction book, and that the immortal vampire lord succeeded in conquering England.  Dracula has become the Prince Consort to Queen Victoria, and vampires and humans across the world mingle like hunters and cattle.

This is novel set the stage for The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, in that author Kim Newman took the general conceit of an alternate sequel to Dracula and populated his bloodworld with numerous vampires of fiction and film.  Count Iorga is here, as is the original Nosferatu; Barnabas Collins does things his own way across the pond, and Lord Ruthven seeks power and prestige in the court of Dracula.

This is a wonderful novel, one of the best vampire novels since King's 'Salems Lot.  You can get it here . . . and just for curiosity's sake, here's the Italian cover.