Spitting Fire And Spewing Smoke

17928016Songs Of Willow Frost by Jamie Ford
My Rating: 4/5 Stars

Worthless, spineless, gutless, emotionless, insignificant, cowardly evil bastards filled this novel to the point that my world overflowed with a god-awful stench that smelled worse than elephant dung and monkey poo and singed every last nose hair. This tale burst forth with enough villains to occupy an entire wing of the county jail and had a few folks that might need to sit in the electric chair. Spitting fire and spewing smoke, I finished SONGS OF WILLOW FROST while cursing social workers with no social skills; a stepfather and father that proves any man filled with semen can knock up a woman, but the term father is earned through hard work and dedication to the cause; an aunt with high and mighty airs that needs a firm dose of reality along with a side helping of a smack down by The Rock; a lily-livered, pussy-footed halfwit who focuses more on tradition and not disappointing his family than following his heart…and fuck me I need a drink. Or better yet just leave the bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold and a wastebasket, and I’ll see you in the morning.

If our country ever becomes overrun by Uncle Leo and Auntie Eng and Colin Kwan and Mrs. Peterson and Charlotte’s pathetic excuse for a father, I’ll defect to Australia and commune with the crocodiles and probably double my happiness quotient. But William Eng and Liu Song carried this tale with pomp and plenty of charm and charisma. These two proved beyond tragic, as the world stomped on each of them time and time again. I constantly found myself asking how much worse could it get, and this question was followed by yet another tragedy. If I could have found a way, I would have asked the bad man to leave. The disasters were so profound I found myself wondering if I might benefit from the addition of prescription medication or electroshock therapy while clenching a piece of rubber between my teeth.

But like William and Liu, I wouldn’t give up, and I wouldn’t give in, and I wouldn’t let the bad man win. Reading this story proved a study in perseverance and courage and profound dedication, because every time the nail dropped my foot exploded in a white light of pain, and I cursed a blue streak loud enough to resurrect a Chinaman from his grave. But what kept me reading as much as the wonderfully drawn characters was the beautiful prose and animated spirit that flowed out of this novel and tickled my senses. Even if I had tried to pull myself away, I wouldn’t have made it far.

Disappointment rained down on me, and the characters, with hail the size of golf balls and clouds as dark as sin. In the end, though, there’s a positive message here: Pure beauty can come from the most horrid experiences. And on that note we shall depart, as I seek out a pumice stone to rub my entire body and cleanse my tainted aura.

I received this book for free through NetGalley.

A Gay Day

17138311The Suite Life by Suzanne Corso
My Rating: 3/5 Stars

With this novel, I’m willing to hold my pencil in my right hand and my ballot in my left hand and make a noncommittal commitment and say this was an average read for me. It reminded me of hayrides and meandering joyrides. It provided insights into a world where affection proved at a premium and offered up sexless marriages and ambition and ego that overshadowed all other experiences and problems. It filled me with broken promises and unfulfilled dreams.

Suzanne Corso lets her love of Brooklyn and “The Big Apple” and Manhattan, the Statue of Liberty, congestion, population overflows, toll roads and toll bridges and bountiful high rises and dollar bills and cab rides, limos, Mercedes convertibles, and BMWs and stock options and Wall Street and Main Street shine through on the page. What would a novel that includes the NYSE be, though, without acquisitions and mergers and accounting irregularities and power and authority and reckless greed and constant excess and careless abandon and penile injections and horny dogs and $20K a day porn stars. In that regard, THE SUITE LIFE reminded me of Congress and the DC area.

But this novel proved to be a bit more than just A Gay Day. Sure, it had the syrupy air and atmosphere of women’s fiction, but I enjoyed the somewhat loose connection to a Wall Street powerbroker with a private jet and helicopter and his Long Island compound, even if Alec DeMarco did like to shoot himself full of HGH, testosterone, steroids, alternative and natural medicine, designer drugs, and popped the occasional Percocet.

Since I could practically live on food and finance and books and movies, I didn’t mind all the references to stocks and bonds, trading companies, investment firms, and real estate and restaurants and shows, clubs, strippers, hookers, and escort services and porn, pot, and pills. But keep in mind, this book does have the occasional college age floozy and loose women who strive for more.

It proved to be a relatively light read where I could park my brain at the door and forget who I was for a few hours. And that was A-OK by me.

I received this book for free through NetGalley.

Escape From The Real World

43641Water For Elephants by Sara Gruen
My Rating: 4/5 Stars

With 48,386 reviews, including this one, most of what could have already been said about WATER FOR ELEPHANTS has probably already been said. But that’s not going to stop me from trying, because I have confidence and determination and I often find myself in lineups where I’m the one who appears out of line. And when weirdness and eccentricities are encouraged, it tends to work better than Miracle-Gro and direct sunlight and watering.

Jacob Jankowski proves more than a little odd beneath his shirt collar. He has flashbacks to his circus days where he spent all of his time shoveling shit and smashing watermelons and filing toenails (Rosie’s) and hopping on trains and off trains and carrying knives between his teeth and chasing after married women and chasing after elephants and shoving his hand in a tiger’s cage and waiting for the flag to drop and speaking Polish (most of which I didn’t understand) and training elephants and speaking more Polish. But I could relate rather easily because I spend much of my time staring at white space and filling it with Times New Roman font and pretending that people actually think I’m witty and charming and wonderful when my reviews and novels are placed in avid reader’s hands. Because if Jacob hadn’t skipped out on one life to chase after another and I couldn’t pretend I was someone else for hours at a time, the real world might close in faster than a mushroom cooked in a skillet.

But I wasn’t blissfully ignorant after this tale, though. Finding out many of the antidotes contained in this story were at least partially, or in some cases whole-heartedly, based on actual events with the names changed to protect the guilty proved a rather outstanding addition. Since, on occasion, I do like the prospect of getting smarter, especially when I can have fun while doing it. And this was a rather enjoyable tale with Uncle Al and Rosie and August and Marlena and Kinko and plenty of other secondary characters with full-fledged personalities who proved to be more than just a series of caricatures thrown in for good measure to make the main character look pretty and exciting and interesting.

Set during a rather depressing time in our nation’s history, this story wasn’t the least bit depressing, although men were tossed from the train faster than shot glasses tossed back at a bar by some guy with antelopes for arms. While that might turn folks off, I was rather pleased with the thought of bubble gum and candy corn and candied apples. If I want to feel dejected and disheartened, I can find plenty of reasons to sit in a corner with my head pushing against my ankles, thank you very much. I don’t need it from a vessel that I like to use as an escape hatch from the real world where fairies and wands and cooch tents and sexy sheer night gowns and six-dollar smiles and two-dollar whores can be had whenever the mood strikes.

If I didn’t end with more than a few words on Barbara, though, my world wouldn’t be complete. She commanded center stage at the cooch tent with her foot long breasts and feminine wiles and brown nipples the size of paper plates and painted expressions, as she danced and swung her hips like a supermodel down a runway. Her happy sacks increased in width at the end and her smudged lipstick and smokin’ tobacco and sexy sheer nightgown where I could literally see and hear her bare breasts slapping together. All of which resulted in a totally titillating experience from which I shall never be the same.

As for this novel, it proved to be a rather entertaining escape from reality.

Where Have All The Detectives Gone

Why does chick lit seem to get all of the attention? I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of Nora Roberts, Jennifer Weiner, and even Nicholas Sparks capturing the vast majority of the reading public’s as well as the news media’s attention. When I sit down to read a book, I want action scenes and plenty of them. I want a strong male lead that is bound and determined not to take crap from anyone, including the freak with a machete in one hand and an AK-47 in the other. I want explosions, bar fights, gun fights, car chases, and rooftop scuffles. The more the merrier. And I don’t want to get in touch with my feelings, unless I’m being dragged by the collar into the heart of the action, and I come out on the other side with more bruises than I can count on both hands.

So what’s gone wrong? There was a time—and not all that long ago—when Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler ruled the page and gathered a large handful of memorable quotes, as well as a passionate audience that extended around the globe. A time when Ian Fleming was a literary genius, and James Bond developed a massive following that extended beyond the page to the widescreen. You may argue—and you would certainly be correct—that James Bond is still alive and well today, with the great Jeffrey Deaver writing the latest James Bond masterpiece, and Daniel Craig showing his prowess on the big screen. But James Bond has had two periods of dormancy on the big screen, most recently related to the financial struggles of United Artists. While James Bond is still popular, and will continue to remain so, he has lost a bit of his charisma and casual charm.

Embrace Strong Masculine Leads

We shouldn’t shy away from strong, masculine leads; on the contrary, we need to embrace these characters with open arms. Men have discarded reading like a pair of day old socks, with over 80% of readers being female. But all hope is not completely lost. We have what Stephen King has called MANfiction, a genre still alive today. Lee Child, Michael Connelly, and Robert Crais are three MANfiction authors, who are building large followings in their own right. And you have new authors, like yours truly, breaking onto the scene year after year. But we need more. MANfiction is escapist fiction for men the way chick lit is escapist fiction for women. It brings us to the very heart of what manliness is about, and it reminds us that no matter where we live, or what profession we are in, there’s someone out there who can kick some serious butt, and he’s going to use his mouth and his fists to point himself in the right direction. It’s a wakeup call on the essence of manhood, and if you like to read, I can’t think of a better form of entertainment. Men can learn a lot about being men, especially if the good guys normally win. MANfiction transcends the page to the very heart of unadulterated living.

How To Create MANfiction

If you’re a man, and you want to spin such a tale, what do you need to do? In this case, it’s all about the main character, and you want him to be as bold as the next Presidential candidate. His feelings should be shown with a .44 Magnum or brass knuckles. In fiction, leave relationships to women, unless we’re talking about short-lived endeavors. Let’s face it men, they are better at it than we are. We still need to try, because there’s something to be said for effort, but once in a while, it’s nice to focus on what we’re good at, take pride in it, and relish it for all that it’s worth: conflict spoken through a boxing match or a grenade launcher. If you’re writing a romance novel, or paranormal suspense, because it’s popular right now, then you might want to take a step back and reevaluate your situation, along with possibly your manliness. Popularity ebbs and flows like the ocean in the middle of hurricane season. You can’t trust it, and you certainly can’t judge where it will be tomorrow. But you can count on men, massive amounts of them to read MANfiction, as men continue to read men, not because it’s popular, but because it’s ingrained in our core, to the heart of our existence. Even some women enjoy action, strong male leads, and the occasional dip into the MANfiction pool. All you have to do is mention the name Jack Reacher, and you’re liable to get a few rosy cheeks and a few women short of breath.

Leave Feelings Out Of It

So what about your feelings? Talking about feelings isn’t something men normally do, and it’s not something that should be present in MANfiction. Instead of talking with their mouths, men talk with their fists. And it’s the exact same scenario in MANfiction. Delivering quick wit, however, is highly encouraged, and oftentimes necessary to get your point across. But a little bit of dialogue and introspection goes a long way. No need to prolong the inevitable, when the next action sequence is right around the corner, and the man on the other side has barbells for arms and a refrigerator for a chest.

Less is often more, and it’s very much the case with MANfiction. If you can use flowery words, vivid descriptions, and create imagery that will make the clouds part and the seas divide—don’t. It’s a waste of space, a waste of words, and readers are likely to skip over it to the next big fight scene. Of course, you don’t want to completely skip over description—that’s not what I’m advocating for—but you don’t want to bask in all of its glory and have it be the heart of your novel either. When, like description, there are plenty of other novels you can read. If you want a good, old-fashioned, ride-of-your-life, hanging to the cliff by your fingernails sort of ride, then grab your paperback, hardback, Kindle, or Nook, raise it high—like you would your bottle of Bud—and salute MANfiction for all that it was, all that it is, and all that it can be. You’ll be glad you did.

Embracing MANfiction

It doesn’t matter if you’re a reader of MANfiction, a writer who has an idea for the next masculine lead, or someone who has never picked up a hard-boiled tale, it’s time to embrace these novels for the escapist fiction that they are, before chick lit takes over the world. MANfiction provides the yin to chick lit’s yang, and the world needs both to balance out the universe.

Cocksure Attitude

11367726Defending Jacob by William Landay
My Rating: 4/5 Stars

I hated Jacob and would have preferred to rub his cocksure attitude into the sand, knock him over the head with a shovel, and then bury him with said object about six feet under. He’s more emotionless void than passionate Picasso, and he feels absolutely no responsibility for his actions. That’s your typical teenager, at least on the latter, but not having a heart is not exactly what I strive toward every day of my life. And yet I ended up completely immersed in legalese and legal suspense.

William Landay has a knack for plotting novels, or at least based on the merits of DEFENDING JACOB. The spoon-fed trial details, the slipping between the present and the past almost effortlessly, the family history that comes out later like a pissed off reptile, and the emotional struggle to hold a family together even as it’s being torn apart all make for one glorious read. And yet he takes nearly 431 pages to answer one basic question: Is Jacob guilty or not? If you peel back all the emotional layers and struggles and doubts and accusations, that’s the bottom line. To put it mildly, he does it really, really well.

Andy Barber doesn’t want to answer this question. He doesn’t want to believe he could have made an error raising his son; instead, he chooses to focus on the goodness and righteousness that he sees every day in Jacob. He’ll do whatever it takes to defend his boy, even if it means lying or circumventing the truth or covering up details along the way. But then I’m the kind of person who thinks celebrities and other public figures should act in a professional, civic manner, and I hold myself to the same standards that I hold others to (often to be disappointed by said individuals somewhere along the way). None of that detracted from my overall reading experience, though. It just gave me a few additional thought molecules.

But I will say I didn’t like the ending. Even though it doesn’t change my rating, I would have been happier had the book ended about 30 pages sooner. Sure, it was an excellent twist, but it’s not one I was particularly happy about.

Snowballed Downhill Faster Than A Model T

17784738The Bones Of Paris by Laurie R. King
My Rating: 2/5 Stars

The reading slump marches onward, as do I. I almost feel like the poster child for one of those anger management classes where we discuss our feelings and the source of our discontent and why we have problems dealing with our emotional issues and why we can’t get along and actually be productive, contributing members to society. I don’t have a valid reason for my current behavior, other than to say I’ve been disappointed and repelled with the current crop of books that has made its way onto my Kindle. Most of it is of my own doing, but I couldn’t say no to free books, and I wanted to broaden my horizons a bit with some different reads. I’d like to apologize in advance as I attempt to control my out-of-synch behavior and reach that happy place—that book loving utopia—that I know is out there waiting for me, but alas, I will not find with THE BONES OF PARIS.

That’s not to say this tale is a bad or horrid or evil or wicked or corrupt read. Oh, no, this novel held promise and writing talent and dangled both in front of me like the proverbial carrot, as my jaws snapped at the proffered present, and I clenched nothing but air between my teeth. I tried and tried and tried again to end up sucked into a world where Paris, France stood tall and proud and larger-than-life with characters who felt realistic and hopeful and truthful, and I ended up flat on my back with my legs sticking straight up in the air in a sort of bike pedaling motion.

Harris Stuyvesant proved to have one-too-may sticks up his bunghole, and try as I might, I couldn’t pull them all out without removing most of his personality in the process. While he was certainly an admirable character, I never felt emotionally connected to him, almost as if he stood at a distance, while I stood at an easel and politely provided a portrait. Nancy Berger and Sarah Grey, however, proved much more to my liking and every bit as entertaining as I had hoped poor Harris would be. The rest of the cast of characters proved both interesting and a bit off-putting in a snooty sort of air that left my feathers more than a bit ruffled.

The main plot proved engaging, but the sidebars and sidetracks and subplots and runaway tractor trailers kept me from ever being fully engaged in this tale. Instead, I stood on the side of the road with my thumb pointed upward, as this tale passed me by without even a second glance in my direction. And for a while the writing was good enough that it didn’t matter, but about a third of the way through I began to have my doubts that only snowballed downhill faster than a Model T.

*BEGIN SPOILER* The climax and resolution left me more than a bit underwhelmed. To have the villain blame the machine for the rather fantastical killing spree seemed just a wee bit much to me. And what kind of a name is Le Comte Dominic de Charmentier? He sounds as pompous as a proud politician, but yet he’s this criminal mastermind that pretty much spouts at the mouth like a fountain telling Bennett Grey the reason for his actions, and then he’s going to off himself with his own gun. It all seemed a bit too Candy Land for me. *END SPOILER*

I received this book for free through NetGalley.

No Plethora Of Adverbs

16130073North Sea Requiem by A.D. Scott
My Rating: 1/5 Stars

“To a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail.” – Mark Twain

With the publication of this review, Simon & Schuster and Atria executives will have bleeding ears and red faces and I’ll be placed in the crosshairs of a hit man named Jeb and I’ll be quietly removed from NetGalley and Amazon will put me in chains and lock me away and I’ll be alienated and isolated to the point that no one will talk to me but my wife and some little dog named Fluffy who will come and visit me when I’m put in an insane asylum and shoved in a straitjacket and thrust paper cups at random intervals filled with blue, white, and yellow pills.

If I could provide a one-sentence summary, it’d be as follows: Aspiring authors should read this novel for what not do as a writer. Forget Fifty Shades, this is your Bible. Study it, learn it, and then don’t ever fucking do it. Okay? Okay.

Here are a few of the highlights/lowlights:
Passive voice? Check.
Exclamation point minefields? Check.
Repeated dialogue? Check.
Circular communication? Check.
Not getting to the point? Check.
Am I making myself clear? No.
Verbose to the point that I wanted to offer up editing services? Check.
Overuse of accent and dialect? Check.
Historical? Yes.
Mystery? Possibly but it was a side car on this happy train.
Plenty of clichés? Check.
Used thought/saw and likeminded words to the point that it pulled me out of the story? Check.
Overuse of telling instead of showing? Check.
Stilted dialogue? Check.
Stilted characters? Check.
Plot twists? Possibly but I missed that particular train.

This novel made me so angry that I thought I had developed a complex. I wanted to tackle Santa Claus, throttle the Easter Bunny, and punch out the tooth fairy. And I had this absolute darkness lingering over me like a rain cloud. On the bright side, I came up with a character that will have a mother lode of shit dumped on his head, as I explore the depths of darkness ordinary individuals can sometimes face. If not for this particular book, this wouldn’t have been possible.

Oh, and Stephen King will be pleased that at least one element of his craft was followed—there wasn’t a plethora of adverbs.

I literally wanted to pound the shit out of NORTH SEA REQUIEM with a hacksaw, hammer, battering ram, and a flack vest. And then pick it back up and do it all over again.

Curtain calls and fancy halls and soccer balls and…you may finish this sentence however you like.

I received this book for free through NetGalley.

A Disturbance In The Creative Force

17928002Alex by Pierre Lemaitre
My Rating: 1/5 Stars

If I may be so bold, I’d like to begin at the end and say there’s definitely a “disturbance in the creative force.”—thanks Amanda Or at least that was my first thought after completing this novel.

If I didn’t want to embrace books with a warm hug and proceed to shove them out into the world by talking about them, promoting them, and engaging in lively discussions with informed readers across the space and time continuum for the rest of my life without fail, I could very easily just write ALEX off and move on with my life, rubbing my palms together, and then ducking under an overpass while the train rocks the tracks above my head. But that wouldn’t be okay, and it certainly isn’t a productive use of my time. Maybe I’m half-sensitive, half-crazy, prone to second-guessing, and have enough of an ego that I feel like I need to somehow be a productive member of society and make some sort of contribution before I dissipate off this Earth faster than a fart in the New Mexican wind, so here we are, wonderful reader and I, dancing the tango over yet another book review. Where I hope to impart a few thoughts, informed opinions, and constructive criticisms, and you can pretend that you actually give a flying fart.

Here are a few of the issues:
Constant telling to the point that I wanted to rip my hair out? Check.
Inside Alex’s head way too much, to the point that I could set up camp, read a newspaper, and smoke a cigarette while balancing a tumbler on my left knee? Check.
Shaggy dialogue? Check.
Exclamation point minefields? Check.
Not getting to the point? Check.
Am I making myself clear? No.
Piss-poor similes and metaphors? Check.
Overstated, redundant, bloated prose? Check.
Stilted, stiff, wooden, overformal, mannered, and pretentious dialogue? Check.
Overemphasis on ellipses? Check.
Repetitious to the point that I thought I had developed CRS disease? Check.
Drama and heightened tension sucked out of the prose faster than a Hoover by mediocre writing? Check.
Excessive stammering to the point that I wanted to offer speech lessons? Check.
Mystery? Possibly but it was a side car on this happy train.
A supposed thriller minus most of the thrills? Check.
Plenty of clichés? Check.
Immediate and unexplained epiphanies? Check.
Brings words like pussyfooting to the foray? Check.
Penchant for passive voice? Check.
Almost seemed to switch POV in the middle of a few scenes? Check.
Editing comments that were both annoying and frustrating and over explained the difference between French and English? Check. (This should be fixed upon the official release, otherwise readers are in for a real treat.)

For the first two-thirds or so of this tale, Alex Prevost just might have been my least favorite character of all time. I’m not sure I could have looked at her, or even been in the same room with her, and being in her head for so long proved rather torturous, corrupting me on more than one level. *BEGIN SPOILER* But once I did understand the motivations for her actions, she did grow on me however slightly, even though it was probably a bit too late in the game for me to come full circle in my way of thinking. And the ending itself proved a bit farfetched even for this roller-coaster-induced tale. *END SPOILER*

If I didn’t already have some sort of complex where I tend to question myself, ponder the meaning of life, and seek out both the good in people and books, I might be perfectly fine with writing two one-star reviews in a row. But I can’t help but feel as though I have somehow failed the universe.

Upon finishing ALEX, I don’t really feel anger or frustration or fury or annoyance, I feel a lingering, profound sadness that hangs over me like the sun, a sense of defeat and loss and despair that clings to me like a wet t-shirt, and then I don’t really feel much of anything at all.

I received this book for free through NetGalley.

New Literary Superhero

11323841Domestic Violets by Matthew Norman
My Rating: 5/5 Stars

Tom Violet is my new literary superhero. This man is fan-fucking-tastic. He’s a god among the rest of us mere mortals with his smartass attitude, literary pedigree (his dad is Curtis Violet, the greatest writer of the modern era, at least according to himself), ability to attract women more than ten years his junior, obsession with great exit lines, and he’s capable of more one-liners than a basket full of fortune cookies. His dad may have a bit of a drinking problem, but he’s a Pulitzer prize-winning author, who ends up being handed literary awards the way children are passed ice cream cones. And his old man seeks out love with a passion better reserved for one woman, yet he’s constantly trying to one-up himself in the love department.

Despite being in his sixties, his old man’s latest discard (stepmother Ashley) could be next month’s Playboy centerfold with a killer body and an attitude and freakish personality to match, even going so far as to stalk Curtis in a skintight black tracksuit and faking her own death. She’s the human equivalent of plutonium, but she’s just one in a laundry list of characters strong enough to celebrate her own novel, yet relegated to the confines of secondary character status.

As for Tom, since DOMESTIC VIOLETS is really his nirvana, he keeps a file of Gregory’s HR complaints in his desk drawer and reads them when he’s bored or needs a little pick-me-up, which at least for him, is apparently better than Red Bull. He also manages to please himself and confuse his insurance company by name-dropping a different rock star’s real name with his doctor’s secretary before each visit. Last time he was Gordon Sumner (Sting); this time he transformed into Paul Hewson (Bono). And this is just one of many gems contained in this dastardly funny read that had me laughing so hard I was glad I wasn’t drinking at the time.

I really wanted to get wowed by a book and then this little beauty came along. It knocked me on my ass, kicked me in the crotch, and then stole my lunch money. If I ever meet Matthew Norman in real life, I’d probably attempt to hug him, at which point the men covered in riot gear and dark sunglasses would tackle me to the ground, tase me, and after I’m done twitching like a dying cockroach, I’d be handcuffed and shoved in the back of a police cruiser.

The novel introduced me to new words and phrases like the anti-boner, morning missile, cock with narcolepsy, Cubeland, douche-baggery, flash fantasy, tractor beam of sucking, corporate communications turd, and probably my personal favorite: Darth Gregory.

He may have a mild case of erectile dysfunction, but at least he can consume a little blue pill and still manage to keep his sense of humor about the situation: “My normal, average-as-can-be penis has been replaced with something cartoonish and chemically altered, like a penis from the future.”

This probably tells you all you need to know about his mother: “When I was fourteen she tried to tell me about condoms and I nearly choked to death on a Nilla Wafer.”

His rivalry with Darth Gregory is the stuff of legends and during an otherwise productive lunch, he manages to toss Greg’s love of buzzwords back in his face: “Everything at lunch was going well until I said that I was going to leverage a strategy that could create a synergy between my chicken sandwich and my iced tea.”

A professor’s thoughts on capitalism that I found entirely entertaining: “According to him, there are only a handful of jobs that actually fuel the American economy and the rest are wholly orchestrated boondoggles designed to keep people in offices all day or in malls buying shit on weekends and not rioting in the streets.”

Describing his stepmother’s (Ashley) emotional range: “She’s a complex bomb in a movie about terrorists, ticking steadily toward zero in a crowded train station full of children and nuns.”

His exit line: *BEGIN SPOILER* “On my way out, not quite handcuffed, but definitely escorted, I invited everyone within earshot to the Front Page Bar and Grill a few blocks away for a happy hour.” *END SPOILER*

If you like to read, I’d say you should buy or beg for a copy of this emotionally charged laugh parade, but my view may be slightly tainted by my own euphoria.

Preponderance Of Nephilims

17365139The Angel Stone by Juliet Dark
My Rating: 4/5 Stars

I’ll be honest with you. I haven’t read the first two books in this trilogy. I approached this particular conundrum as a scientific experiment to see if I could follow along with enough of the story that I didn’t feel as though I had wandered around in the woods late at night without my shoes or socks. Since my wife reads all of my reviews before I post them, she’s probably shaking her head at this point, and I’m sure I’ll hear about it later. But I was able to follow along, and I did enjoy myself, although there was a bit of a learning curve. I did miss a few inside jokes, and I did scratch my head at times when I probably should have laughed. But I laugh more than enough as it is anyway. The challenge suited me, just as the unconventional often does as well.

THE ANGEL STONE, however, took unconventionality to new heights and then proceeded to aim for the direction of Jupiter while bypassing the moon entirely. Had I read THE DEMON WITCH and THE WATER LOVER, I still would have been overwhelmed by the preponderance of nephilims and fairies and witches and the angel stone and tartan cloaks and gnomes and owls and brownies (not the edible kind) and winged monsters and pirates and trows and gargoyles and folklore and romance and Tam Lin and Luckenbooth brooches and vampires and Fairy Queens and Kings and All Hallow’s Eve and enchanted woods and the incubus.

But once my body purged those half a dozen brain cells, I actually started to enjoy my life minus that IQ point that I lost. This novel blended fantasy and historical fiction and romance with ease, and the cast of characters proved both interesting and entertaining. After all, this is a college campus, and as such, fair women are taken advantage of through spells and enchantments and imbued beverages, and men are often prone to act like shitheads, especially when alcoholic cocktails and exorbitant amounts of testosterone are involved.

But the real heart of this tale is Cailleach (half-witch/half-fey) who proves strong and admirable and quite desirable and who jumps back in time to restore the balance to fair Fairwick, NY. And in the process, she discovers a manifestation of the love that got away.

I received this book for free through NetGalley.