Tales From Development Hell: The Greatest Movies Never Made?
By David Hughes
Titan Books; 368 pages; $15.95 

Movies are a part of life for all of us, even if we don’t watch them. An endless array of film-themed advertisements, t-shirts, and toys invade our everyday existence — especially those associated with Disney. It’s annoying for a non-moviegoer, nirvana for a film lover.

David Hughes brings us the story behind some of the biggest films of the last 30 years in the updated and expanded edition of “Tales From Development Hell.” Movies such as the “Indiana Jones” franchise and the remakes of “Planet of the Apes” and “Batman” suffered through what he calls “development hell,” that period before filming begins when a great story is transformed into schlock and must be sent back for a complete rewrite. The way Hughes describes it, it’s a time that would make a sober person ask what drugs were in vogue at the time.

The focus is mainly on the development of scripts for the films; Hughes is a journalist and aspiring screenwriter and has experience with the frustrations that go with script development. It’s an inside look at Hollywood, which has a “fondness for developing a great script into a mediocre one by throwing too many writers and too few ideas at it.” Hughes’s loosely defined development hell is a slow torture of the writer, first by the producer or studio executive, then by actors and directors, over a period that could extend for years. Hughes presents Hollywood as a culture that is rife with petty sniping and inflated egos — and that’s well before the actors get involved.

The book relies heavily on previously published interviews and articles from industry magazines such as “Empire” and “Cinescape,” so much so that at times it seems little more than a collection of articles. There is also a tendency to overdo the plot summary of movies (like “Total Recall” and “The Sandman”) that turns the book into a reader’s hell. These are minor foibles though, especially if you’re a cinephile. One of the highlights is the impact of current events on films. The main character in “Total Recall” was originally named “Quail,” but was changed to “Quaid” because of then-Vice President Dan Quayle. And an Arnold Schwarzenegger film titled “Crusade,” about the 11th century Christian crusades, was shelved after the events of 9/11. Studio executives also have trouble recognizing hits; nearly every studio in Hollywood rejected the original “Indiana Jones” movie. They’ve no doubt been kicking themselves since the first one opened.

Hughes has also published a book called “The Greatest Sci-Fi Movies Never Made,” and states that he will not regurgitate material covered there. He’s obviously a sci-fi fan; most of the movies covered here may well be rejects from his other publication. He has tried his hand at script development and he concludes with the story of his (mostly failed) attempts in the business. He’s found the next best thing though: if you don’t succeed at something, you can always write about it. – Mark James

Chasing Midnight

By Randy Wayne White

$25.95; G.P. Putnam’s Sons

Marion “Doc” Ford returns in Randy Wayne White’s 19th installment of the popular series. This time it’s sturgeon slaughter for caviar, the government agency that’s interested in the sturgeon slaughterers, and the eco-terrorists who want to stop them — and teach the world a lesson at the same time. White wastes no time; “Chasing Midnight” is a non-stop thrill ride that keeps you on edge, and may find you yelling “Look behind you!” or  “Don’t go in there!” It’s vintage Randy Wayne White: putting snobs in their place, saving women, and making America — and Florida — a better place to live.

The story takes place over the course of a single night; no strung-out story lines for this offering. There are flashbacks to fill in those unfamiliar with Doc and his friends, such as Tomlinson, “an unrepentant hipster who reeked of patchouli oil and enlightenment” and is “open-minded when it comes to excess.” Doc is also preoccupied by his personal life. His 16-year-old son “lives in Colombia with his regal, bipolar mother” and is being recruited by the Military School of the Americas, or Military School of Assassins, as it was previously known. To make matters worse, Doc’s lust interest, with whom he had enjoyed “marathon lovemaking,” walked out the door after one of those “talks,” and his former lover has decided to move to Belgium with their toddler daughter to marry her girlfriend. Could his day get any worse?

It’s a wonder that Doc can function with all those distractions, but he’s all business in trying to uncover the purpose of the meeting between four of the world’s largest caviar suppliers. White, as usual, has done his research into his subject matter, and it’s not a pretty picture. He takes the time to list the litany of Japanese “fishing transgressions” that continue to devastate the whale population, but also virtually “destroyed the bull shark population in Lake Nicaragua.” But their transgressions pale in comparison to the Chinese “scorched-earth policy at sea,” to say nothing of their influence on the caviar industry at large. It helps that the caviar moguls are from Iran, China, Russia, and Turkmenistan — none of them exactly bosom buddies with the red, white, and blue. It’s as much of an exposé of the Asian fishing industry as a go-get-’em whodnnit. They’re enemies no matter how you look at it, and the fact that they’re raping the ocean makes them arch enemies of Doc.

The action never leaves Doc’s familiar waters around Captiva Island. White was formerly a fishing guide in the area and puts his local knowledge to good use. The book culminates in a boat chase so exciting, the likes of it haven’t been seen since Steve McQueen climbed into his Mustang in “Bullitt.” “Chasing Midnight” is a righteous page turner with a social conscience that rivals any of its eighteen predecessors. If we’re lucky to have the Doc Ford’s of the world, we’re even luckier to have people like Randy Wayne White, especially when they give us such excellent fare as “Chasing Midnight.”

Red Flags
By Juris Jurjevics
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt; $26; 320 pages

Review by Mark James

The Vietnam War, or “Conflict” as the government labeled it, continues to torment us over 35 years after we left. Histories have appeared and been revised, and a collection of fiction is accumulating. Juris Jurjevics adds to that collection with “Red Flags,” set in the early days of our involvement. Jurjevics is a Vietnam veteran who served for 14 months, 9 days, and 2 hours, his departure complicated by the Tet Offensive,” or so it states on the book jacket. It’s an implication that Jurjevics didn’t enjoy his time there, a sentiment that is explicit in the story. It was a nasty time full of nasty people out to get what they could, and Jurjevics brings them to us in this retrospective novel set in the remote outpost of Cheo Reo.

Erik Rider is a veteran living out his days in the isolation of Northern California. His hermitic life is interrupted by the arrival of the daughter of a colonel who was killed in Vietnam. She wants to know the real story of her father’s death; Rider grudgingly obliges, and over the course of the night and into the morning, he tells her of his time serving with her father. He was there as an undercover agent investigating a drug operation; what he found was a veritable maze of corruption, double-crossing, CIA complicity, and American stupidity that came to define our time there. It’s set during the early ’60s, when Americans were still “advisors,” but as one South Vietnamese colonel says in his broken English, “My country old, like this war. We fight French, Japan, Chinese all time … Now America teach to us how make war.” It was an irony not lost on Rider, but one that cost the American colonel his life.

Red Flags is a crime novel on the surface, but cloaked beneath that façade is a exposé of the powers that came together to guide, and profit from, the war. Jurjevics spares no one — Americans, Vietnamese, French, even the churches that were “ministering” to the local population. Masking his story as a crime novel is a shrewd choice; his military detective gets to investigate everyone, but ultimately is not allowed to do anything about anyone. Everyone who is anyone is protected by someone, and whether it’s intentional or not, this crime novel looms as an analogy, and commentary, on the war as a whole.

The novel opens with the statement, “Someday was standing on the gravel in front of Bert’s store …,” a poetic opening for a crime/war novel. Jurjevics cultivates an appreciation for the country and culture through his prose. Rider tells his own story, and his descriptions of their customs, from births and funerals to the food, offer an education that evokes sympathy for the Vietnamese villagers and Montagnard tribesmen caught in the middle. It’s a human side to the undercover agent jaded and haunted by what he experienced there. He knew the colonel’s daughter would show up someday, just as he knew that he would probably give her what she wanted. In the end, she gives him what he deserves in the form of a simple “Thank you.”

Cocktail Hour Under The Tree of Forgetfulness
By Alexandra Fuller
Penguin; 256 pages; $25.95

Review by Mark James 

Reading is sometimes a form of travel for me; I can visit faraway places without having to actually spend money to get there. But Africa has never been on my list of places to go. It’s sometimes referred to as the “Dark Continent,” and my only literary trips have been through Ernest Hemingway’s short stories and Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness,” on which the movie “Apocalypse Now” is based. Those tales are more about the human condition though, with Africa serving as a foreboding backdrop. Alexandra Fuller offered that literary tour in “Don’t Let’s Go To The Dogs Tonight,” her wistful memoir about growing up in Africa, and now follows that with “Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness.” It’s the same story, but told through her parents perspective and the history of 20th century Africa.

Fuller’s mother, Nicola, was born in Scotland, and “holds dear to her heart the values of her clan: loyalty to blood, passion for land, death before surrender.” She was born during a time when England was still a colonial power and spent most of her life living in a colony. Even in austere conditions such as those in Kenya in the 1950s and ’60s, she was reared as if she belonged to the privileged English gentry, developing a taste for classical music and becoming a champion equestrian. She never lost that sense of imperialist entitlement even after experiencing the brutal Mau Mau uprising, and would later manage their farm while her husband was fighting in the Rhodesian civil war. Fuller’s father moved to Africa as an adult after a series of failed jobs in the Caribbean, but it’s “Mum’s” story that dominates.

Africa is a difficult place to live. If it’s not for the Mau Maus and the Africans thinking they should run their own countries, there are deadly snakes, large carnivores, and malaria. Mum and Dad lost three Jack Russells to cobras and a cat to a python, all of them inside the house. That was in addition to losing a farm in the Rhodesian War and three children to disease and drowning. It was a place where Mum and Dad “slept with an Uzi and … rifle next to the bed” and taught Fuller and her sister “how to shoot to kill” during the civil war. The family tried living back in Scotland for a bit, but they had “been possessed by this land,” and returned to Africa. The allure of Africa doesn’t quite overcome the hardships and losses; the Fuller’s return is more a comment on them than it is on the land.

Fuller now lives in Wyoming, but looks back on Africa with nostalgia-infected prose that almost makes this more about her than about her parents. She avoids crossing over from nostalgia to sappiness to fashion the tale of a family choosing to live their life on the edge in many different ways. Fuller creates a virtual tour of Africa that’s well worth the read, but also provides insight as to why it’s called the “Dark Continent.” She satisfied any curiosity I may have had about Africa; the next time I head east, it will be to Scotland.

Book Review: In Stitches
By Anthony Youn, M.D.
Gallery Press; 288 pages; $25

Who knew that the movie “Revenge of the Nerds” was based on a true story? Not really, but the inspiration could have come from the story of celebrated plastic surgeon Anthony Youn, who tells of his upbringing in a Korean immigrant family and his ordeal to first get into and then graduate from medical school.

Tony, as he is known, was born in the United States and spent his childhood in tiny “Greenville, Michigan, population 7945.” His father is a “baby doctor” who speaks little English and pushes his son to go to medical school. He wants Tony to be a surgeon, though; anything less and he may as well be a bum.

Youn’s circle of geek friends at tiny Kalamazoo College could “scare away a horde of zombies” and are “socially inept and repellent to women.” He managed to make it through Kalamazoo with only one date, a “carnie” who dumped him before they even ordered dinner. Youn was eventually accepted into Michigan State medical school with one mission in mind: “to get laid,” but he soon discovered that there wasn’t much time to accomplish that; his first two years were filled with nothing but studying, junk food, and sadistic professors.

His story reads like a cross between “Revenge of the Nerds” and “American Pie.” He’s one of the smartest people in his class, but he wishes he looked like everyone else just so he could impress girls, who are a source of constant tribulation until he meets his future wife. It sounds like typical teen angst, but Youn is capable of finding humor in his trials and misadventures while evoking empathy for his plight. His female obsession accounts for a fair number of pages, but it is his fear of disappointing his father that is the true story.

Youn lives in fear of his father, a perceived slave driver who once canceled Christmas so his sons could study more. When Tony considers family practice, his father retorts in his broken English, “But if you want family practice, it’s okay. You go into debt, you won’t be able to afford a house, or a car, or new clothes, or food, or shoes, and you cry yourself to sleep every night, but it’s okay. Daddy’s not mad.” Tony waited for years before introducing his non-Korean girlfriend to his parents because he feared their reaction. Ultimately, they were simply happy to discover that he wasn’t gay.

Plastic surgery is not all about serving the vanity of the rich and famous; Youn opens with the story of 14-year-old boy with “severe gynecomastia … ginormous man boobs,” and he’s able to bring some normality to the boy’s life through breast reduction surgery. The bond he forges with the teen stems from his own experience as an immigrant/outsider, a burden he was able to overcome through his success.

Now an ultra-successful doctor married to his dream girl, Youn is the type of person you love to hate, someone who seems to have it all. It wasn’t always that way, but at least now he can laugh about it. — M. James

The Skateboard: The Good, the Rad, and the Gnarly
Written by Ben Marcus; Photography by Lucia Daniella Griggi
MVP Books/Quayside Publishing; 255 pages; $35

Reviewed by Mark James

I don’t really care for coffee table books, those dust collector/footrests/paperweights that are must-haves but are hardly ever cracked before they end up at the Goodwill store or in the trash. But this one brought back so many memories — skinned knees, torn Levis (and a pissed-off mother), running from the police after trespassing at the St. Augustine Amphitheater to skate the only hill around — that it made me want to do it all over again.

Ben Marcus traces the history and evolution from early roller skates (invented in the 1760s in London) and early twentieth-century scooters (check out a “Little Rascals” movie) to “sidewalk surfing” and urethane wheels. The first commercial skateboard may have been made in 1956, but no one knows for sure. Greg Noll sold some in his shop in the late ’50s, but he didn’t see the potential in it and stopped making them, a decision he later regretted because, as he says, “a lot of guys got rich from something I didn’t think was going anywhere.” The business and popularity experienced ups and downs until the likes of Tony Hawk made it profitable and always fun.

Marcus states in the introduction that “cred is important in skateboarding,” and he immediately establishes his. He’s lived a good bit of skateboarding history, growing up and skating in Santa Cruz in the ’70s, and he’s there to trace the history that took off in the 1960s. It’s a history that includes the advent of Vans (the first men’s pair sold for $5.99) to the Ollie, and all the way to the X Gamers of today. But it’s the pictures that make this book.

Marcus has dug up photos from Surf Guide, an early ’60s publication, and Quarterly Skateboarder, an early magazine devoted strictly to skateboarding. There are pictures of kids in the early ’20s riding homemade “bun boards” (according to Greg Noll, “We called those boards ‘bun boards,’ because when you fell you were always busting your ass…”), pictures of celebrities such as Farrah Fawcett riding skateboards, and pictures of surf/skate lore from Mickey Dora to Jeff Ho, Tony Hawk, Stacy Peralta, Tony Alva, and Andy MacDonald. And then there are the boards, from wooden planks with steel roller skate wheels nailed to them to today’s modern marvel composites.

Marcus has collected photos from the Library of Congress, G&S, Santa Cruz Skateboards, Jeff Ho, the Santa Barbara Surf Museum, and a host of other sources. Photographer and collaborator Lucia Daniella Griggi adds her own images to the historical collection to capture a sometimes exhausting picture of the craze, even from times when it wasn’t a craze. Literacy is not required to enjoy this book. Take a few hours (maybe more if you’re old enough to appreciate the early stuff) to flip through the pages, then you can put it down for a few weeks or months, or even years. It will still be enjoyable when you pick it up again — and you will.

Bitter Bitch
By Maria Sveland; Translated by Katarina E. Tucker
Skyhorse Publishing; 240 pages; $22.95

H. L. Mencken once said that the only really happy folk are married women and single men. But Mencken never met Sara, the bitter bitch in “Bitter Bitch.” Sara is so unhappy, bitter in fact, that she must take a respite from husband and child and the cold of Sweden to lounge in the warmer clime of Tenerife. But the couples she observes lounging at poolside or ignoring each other at dinner during her “voluntary solitude” convince her that maybe her life ain’t so bad after all.

Sara and Johann are a thirty-something couple living in Stockholm with their impish-aged son Sigge. She is a freelance journalist and he is a filmmaker struggling to establish and juggle the demands of careers and family. But Sara is angry — so angry that she realizes that she has become a “real bitter bitch, a bitter c*nt, in fact.” She’s so angry that she just can’t take it anymore, and off she goes. The inequality between women and men is what brought her to this point; she even comes to the conclusion that sometimes, the “only way of achieving balance is to assimilate the behaviors and manners of men.”

One must assume that she is referring to the balance between the sexes, but it’s ultimately difficult to empathize with Sara, although I am at a disadvantage from the gender perspective. She rants about her lot in life, yet never seems to come to any resolution. It’s a sad story, but a bit of actual tragedy would have helped the empathy level. Sara develops a list of “conspiratorial facts” that remind her to be a bitter bitch. They run the gamut from mental health statistics to organ donations, and “all injustice: abuse, rape, prostitution, salary discrepancy, . . [that] can be likened to global apartheid.” She has experienced few of the injustices, with the exception of job discrimination, yet seems well on her way to becoming a mental health statistic.

“Bitter Bitch” is a translation of the Swedish novel first published in 2007. It’s a bestseller in Europe, but its reception on this side of the Atlantic may not fare quite as well. Sweden is socialistic, and some of the social intricacies that underlie her anger don’t translate well to our capitalist society. One source of anger is that her husband didn’t take the maternity leave that he is legally allowed, and therein lies the rub. It’s not really her gender that is the cause of her anger; it’s her husband’s perceived lack of resolve in overcoming what society says is his role.

Sveland alternates between present day and recollections of Sara’s life with her parents. She comes from a dysfunctional family, and some of the most poignant passages come from her reflections on her childhood with an alcoholic and abusive father. But she has escaped that environment and built a happy life with her husband and young son, even by her own standards. She adores her son, and even enjoys having sex with her husband — how bitter can she be?

Honor Bound

By Robert N. Macomber

Pineapple Press; 364 pages; $21.95

If you’ve ever viewed the St. Johns River on the way to Orlando, then you probably have a good idea of what Florida looked like 120 years ago. Robert N. Macomber brings those images to life in his “Honor” series of novels featuring Commander Peter Wake, USN, and his faithful sidekick, Sean Rork. “Honor Bound,” the ninth novel in the series, begins in St. Augustine in 1888, takes a railroad trip to Punta Gorda, and then goes by sail to Key West and points beyond. It’s a trip rife with “murder, kidnapping, mercenaries, spies,” notes one of Wake’s companions. “What the hell did we get into here? And just how the hell do we get out of it?” He neglected to mention a little fightin’ and lovin’ in between.

Peter Wake is a navy veteran with a reputation for “‘unavoidable delays’ in sending reports … and unique excuses for the same” among his peers and superiors. He and Rork are undercover agents in naval intelligence, and they’ve just completed a mission in St. Augustine collecting information on the Spanish Navy in Cuba. With two months of hard-earned leave ahead of them, they intend to retire to Wake’s personal island of Patricio to engage in the new sport of tarpon fishing. But as with many adventures, it seems that there’s always a woman who interferes with a man’s best-laid plans. Wake’s come in the form of Cynda Saunders, an old friend whose son is lost at sea. She presses Wake to help her find him; Wake feels “honor bound” to help, and the adventure begins.

All of Macomber’s novels are historically accurate; there are notes on each chapter at the end of the book explaining what is factual and what is not. The cast of “Honor Bound” includes an ethnologist, an ichthyologist (someone who studies fish), and a naval architect, perfect companions for what lies ahead. They leave Florida fairly quickly; along the way they come across Bahamian Seminoles, “Chickchannies” on Andros who “prey upon humans who behave badly to other humans,” a little-known civil war in Haiti, and an obscure Russian spy agency working to keep the tsar in power, all of which are factual. The author is also a sailor, and his descriptions of plying the shallow shoals of the Bahamas and riding out hurricanes under sail are told through the eye of experience.

Wake and company spend a great deal of time on Haiti, revealing much about the island’s history, but the fantastic events that unfold there, even though feasible, stretch the imagination. They have traveled outside of Florida in previous novels, but it’s their time in the state that is the true attraction. It is almost uncanny how Macomber manages to envision Florida as it must have been, with sunsets where “the shadows of the gumbo limbo and coconut palms lengthen, the heat dissipates, and the moist sweet scent of jasmine flowers, swamp detritus, bananas and citrus, and fish roasting for dinner mingles and wafts everywhere.” Only a woman could make someone leave that paradise.

Baseball in the Garden of Eden: The Secret History of the Early Game
By John Thorn
Simon & Schuster; 384 pages; $26

The cold weather is gone and another season of our national pastime is underway; all is well. But wait; John Thorn is at it again. He is now attacking the legitimacy of the Mills Commission that “investigated” baseball’s historical record and crowned Abner Doubleday as its inventor. Could something so silly really happen in baseball?

Thorn is the preeminent baseball historian, and he once again digs into the history of game. Thorn has discovered documentation of a form of baseball being played in the 1790s, and estimates that it could have been played as early as 1735. That is in direct contradiction to the time honored “truth” that Abner Doubleday sat down one day in 1839 and created the rules in Cooperstown, N.Y. Thorn is of the persuasion that baseball evolved from other similar ball games known as rounders, town ball, and even cricket, that originated somewhere else. If that is true, then can baseball really be considered our national pastime?

The Mills Commission was formed in 1905 to reach a final determination on the origins of the game. Albert Spalding had been a formidable pitcher in the late 1800s, but recognized the gold mine in the popularity of the game. He formed Spalding Sporting Goods and began selling baseball equipment and uniforms to teams all over the country. He made his fortune quickly, and used his money and influence to control the game for decades.

All was well until one of Spalding’s colleagues published articles stating that baseball was “little more than rounders,” a game with English origins. Spalding proposed the formation of a committee to “learn the real facts concerning the origin and development of the game.” The Commission concluded that Civil War hero Abner Doubleday was the one who created the game on the basis of a letter from a man who claimed he witnessed the event when he was five years old, a tidy conclusion that pleased Mr. Spalding.

Thorn pits the “evolutionists” who believed the game evolved from earlier ball games, against the “creationists” who made up the Mills Commission — thus, the “Garden of Eden.” Spalding believed that a true “national” game should be free of foreign influences, so the Commission anointed a creator, even though there was overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Abner Doubleday became the “man who did not invent baseball but instead was invented by it.”

It’s sometimes difficult to determine what Thorn is hoping to accomplish. Is this a history of the early game, an exposé of the Mills Commission conspiracy, or is he just ruminating on his favorite subject? He explores the early history of baseball in sometimes excruciating detail; multiple notes on virtually every page are provided at the end of the book. His research was meticulous, but did he really need all of that to support his claim that the Commission was a sham? There will be those who will argue the point no matter what evidence is presented.

It is baseball after all; like corked bats and spit balls, it’s all a part of the game.

–  Reviewed by Mark James

The Bone Yard
By Jefferson Bass
William Morrow; 336 pages; $24.99

Growing up in Florida in the 1960s, my mother often warned me that I would end up in the reform school in Marianna if I didn’t “straighten up and fly right.” Judging from the new Jefferson Bass novel based on that hellhole, it was no empty warning. “The Bone Yard” is a work of fiction that revolves around a Panhandle reform school. The authors take extreme care in distancing their subject from the real reform school in Marianna; unfortunately, the historical record provides a disturbing amount of fodder.

“The Bone Yard” is the latest in the “Body Farm” series featuring Dr. Bill Brockton, a forensic anthropologist at the University of Tennessee who studies the decomposition of bodies. His “laboratory” is a campus plot where donated corpses are exposed to the elements and studied over time. Brockton comes to Tallahassee at the invitation of FDLE lab technician Angie St. Claire to assist in the investigation of another crime. He begins the “most interesting two weeks I ever had” when a dog brings home several human skulls as a gift to his owner. Brockton, St. Claire, and FDLE agents discover the hidden mass grave alluded to in the title. The narration is informed by the discovery of a diary written by a reform school inmate over forty years before. The waterlogged pages are recovered and revealed through a painstaking process that parallels the investigating team’s shocking discoveries.

It would be easy to assume that anyone who spends most of their time around decomposing bodies would be emotionally insulated from pain and suffering. In this book alone, Brockton hangs three corpses for long term study, and observes a shotgun fired point blank into a fresh corpse to study the slug’s trajectory. But he is also something of a renaissance man — he quotes Hamlet, resolves to increase his charitable donations after watching a disturbing documentary, and sheds tears over the revelations in the boy’s diary. It’s sometimes difficult to reconcile the two personas, but the emotional depth of Brockton’s “human” side is just enough to balance out his cold, scientific side.

Jefferson Bass is a collaboration between Bill Bass and Jon Jefferson. Bill Bass founded and operates the real body farm at UT. I’m not usually a fan of collaborations, particularly in fiction, but the co-authors succeed in creating a singular, distinctive voice for the first-person narration. They also did their research on northwest Florida. The fictional county seat of the fictional Apalachee County is a “sleepy, pretty little town . . . surrounded by live oaks and azalea bushes.” Perhaps it was created to avoid offending any one in Marianna or to avoid legal issues, but it could be any town between Tallahassee and Pensacola. All the “Body Farm” novels exhibit a moral ethos in the treatment of both the living and the dead, and Bass and Jefferson continue that in exposing a “dark chapter in Florida’s history of ‘juvenile justice.’” Unfortunately, a quick review of Florida’s recent history reveals that it is an unfinished chapter, and one that I am happy to have avoided.

Night Vision
By Randy Wayne White
G.P. Putnam’s Sons; $25.95; 352 pages

Could all the uproar about illegal immigrants have come at a better time for Randy Wayne White? Or is it the inspiration for his latest Doc Ford thriller? It’s no matter which came first; “Night Vision,” the eighteenth and perhaps best in this long running series, offers a sympathetic perspective of those who come here in pursuit of a better life — and righteous justice for those who exploit them.

Marion D. “Doc” Ford, Ph.D., is a marine biologist who resides at the fictional Dinkins Bay Marina on Sanibel Island. He collects marine specimens for laboratories, and while it is a legitimate business, it also serves as a cover for his “shadow life” as a government agent. He travels the world collecting specimens, conducting research, and honing skills bad guys generally find troublesome. His best friend, Tomlinson, is an aging hippie with a legendary appetite for drugs and women. “Night Vision” opens with the two on their way to a trailer park inhabited by illegal immigrants to help a young girl. Strap yourself in; that’s about as tame as it gets.

Doc and Tomlinson almost immediately find themselves in a life or death struggle with Fifi, a twelve-foot alligator placed in the trailer park lake by manager Harris Squires, and used to dispose of “undesirable elements.” It’s a ludicrous concept to the average person, but White portrays it in such a methodical, yet vivid manner, that the wrestling match becomes believable and almost disappointing when it ends.

The park inhabitants proclaim ignorance when human remains are found in Fifi, but Doc and Tomlinson know that the disappearance of thirteen-year-old “thought shaper” Tula Choimha is somehow connected, and not in a good way. Doc eventually tracks her to a hunting camp owned by Squires, a steroid-cooking bodybuilder who intends to make Tula “disappear” because she witnessed him “feeding” Fifi. Doc unfortunately arrives shortly after the Latin Kings, a gang of drug dealers and pimps who are upset with Harris for killing several of their prostitutes, and Squires’ girlfriend, Frankie, who is upset with him for stealing some money. It’s a painfully obvious setup for a bloody finale, but White twists the obvious enough to keep it interesting.

Character and justice are recurring themes — Doc possesses the former and dispenses the latter — and Doc’s empathy for the immigrants is a stark contrast to his adversaries who feel nothing but contempt for them. It’s a contrast that mirrors the current public debate, and is eerily apropos for an area with so many itinerant workers. Squires remains contemptuous until he is alone with Tula and comes to see her as a human being, an outcome that seems unfortunately far-fetched in today’s polarized environment.

Randy Wayne White is a former fishing guide who lives on Sanibel Island. All of the Doc Ford novels feature White’s kaleidoscopic descriptions of Florida life, especially the scenery of Southwest Florida. It is sometimes eloquent, sometimes brutal, but always authentic. White is at the top of his game. “Night Vision” is, perhaps, his most visionary work, a pleasant surprise in a series with seventeen worthwhile predecessors.

The Cobra

A two billion dollar budget. Check. Independence to act in total secrecy. Check. Authority to use any military unit for any reason at any time. Check. Another ill-advised war. Check.

It could be Iran or North Korea, but in this case it’s cocaine, a threat to the very foundation of our being. The premise of Frederick Forsyth’s latest “thriller” is to have the importation of cocaine reclassified as an act of terrorism, and to pursue the Columbian cartels as terrorists. It’s an intriguing premise; but in the end, Forsyth leaves you wondering if there really are any good guys.

Retired CIA analyst Paul Devereaux, aka “The Cobra,” is enlisted by the president to win this war. He earned his moniker when “some clever fast-track boy had remarked that he had all the charm of a cobra.” He doesn’t have much of a life. He never married and has no children, but he doesn’t need the hassle of his assignment, and won’t agree to it unless his demands are met. He is given everything he asks for and immediately begins assembling teams of Navy SEALs and British SAS. They cruise the high seas, seizing cocaine shipments and sinking or impounding the ships. He even enlists the “greatest intelligence-gathering agency in the world” — the Roman Catholic Church — to spy on the cartels on their home turf.

His opponent is the “unchallenged chief” of the Hermandad super cartel, Don Diego Esteban. The Don believes in three things, “his God, his right to extreme wealth, and dire retribution for anyone who impugned the first two.” The Cobra eventually induces gang warfare on two continents, but there is so much bloodshed that the president has to shut him down. Darn it — just when things were going well.

One of Forsyth’s hallmarks is meticulous research; he is accurate to a fault. La Familia really is a ruthless drug-dealing gang, Guinea-Bissau is the center of the African drug trade, and both are prominent in “The Cobra.” Given Forsyth’s penchant for accuracy, one must also assume that the ability to reclassify the supply of a recreational drug as terrorism is a valid assumption — a truly scary thought with regards to the power of the government.

The downfall of this plot-based offering is that everything goes according to plan. The military strikes with shock and awe, and the bad guys are always overcome. The machinery of good over evil never breaks down. But what kind of story is that? A boring one, as it turns out. It’s difficult to imagine that the author of such classics as “The Day of the Jackal” and “The Odessa File” has been reduced to this. “The Cobra” is touted as a “thriller,” but the only thrilling part is when it finally ends. To be fair, Forsyth includes an unexpected twist at the end, but it’s too late. By that time, he has made the good guys too good to try something so stupid. That’s the risk of populating a mechanical plot with mechanical characters; too bad Forsyth didn’t take some real risks to liven things up.

Life

By Keith Richards, with James Fox

Little, Brown; 564 pages; $29.99

Imagine sitting at a table with a couple of drinks as the person across from you recounts their life. There may be blank spaces, periods of time that are forgotten — or ones you wish the person had forgotten. Now imagine that person is Keith Richards, the former choirboy and Boy Scout who went on to define the rock and roll lifestyle. That’s the experience of reading his recently published autobiography, “Life.” “I haven’t forgotten any of it,” he says on the inside cover. That’s difficult to believe, but even if he has forgotten some, there’s enough here for everyone.

Richards offers few revelations; both his life and the history of the Rolling Stones have been well documented, and he assumes that the reader is familiar with the lurid details. Relationships are the recurring focus, primarily those with Mick, heroin, and music; he has both loved and struggled with all three. He loves Mick “dearly,” but their relationship began to sour as his life headed on the “downhill road to dopeville, and Mick ascended to jet land” just as their fame was peaking. The Rolling Stones have often been viewed chiefly as the duo of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, and he does nothing to dispel that notion. They remain “friends” and bandmates, but even the casual observer can see the effect of their stormy relationship on their music.

His struggles with drugs have at times overshadowed the music, but that is what has endured. Heroin is the “most seductive bitch in the world,” he confesses, but music is a “far bigger drug than smack.” Richards returns repeatedly to his discovery of the open G guitar tuning that led to classics such as Exile on Main St., and talks at length about his approach to songwriting and guitar playing. There are no apologies for the expositions; “readers who wish to can skip Keef’s Guitar Workshop, but I’m passing on the simple secrets anyway…” he says, but you won’t want to.

Incidents such as Brian Jones’ death and Altamont are glossed over; their light treatment compared to his deeply personal reflections on heroin and other topics leads you to believe that he was not particularly touched by either incident. He didn’t much care for Brian (“a cold-blooded, vicious motherf*cker”), and Altamont was a disaster before it even started, yet it’s difficult to imagine them not having left more of a lasting impression.

“Why did we stop at the 4-Dice Restaurant in Fordyce, Arkansas, for lunch on Independence Day Weekend?” he opens. It’s a question that seems to express some remorse, an odd opening for the story of your life. But there aren’t many who have lived their life like Keith Richards, and therein was the dilemma. He once vowed to “bring down this country and everything it stood for,” and although “Life” seems to be something of a catharsis for Richards, he is unrepentant about that quest or his lifestyle. As he says of his music, “I’m not doing it just for money or for you. I’m doing it for me.”

Play it again, Keef.

The Red Queen

The genre known as historical fiction tends to be a mishmash of bodice rippers, revisionist history, and twisted facts set during tumultuous times. Historical figures appear and disappear, or linger on the periphery of events that feature fictional characters. Philippa Gregory shuns such devices in her new novel, “The Red Queen,” bringing the actual characters to life in a suspenseful and often gruesome story about the future of England.

“The Red Queen” is the second of what has been dubbed the “Cousin’s War Trilogy.” Now known as the War of the Roses, it was a drawn-out affair that featured a series of conflicts over the disputed throne of England between the House of Lancaster — the Red Rose — and the House of York — the White Rose. The novel traces the life of Margaret Beaufort, who is married off at the age of twelve to Edmund Tudor, head of the House of Lancaster. Their son, Henry, has a tenuous claim to the crown, and Margaret feels it is her destiny to put her son on the throne of England.

The House of York has other ideas, and Margaret’s life is consumed with the seesaw war between the two, from her son being taken from her to his exile on the continent, her multiple arranged marriages, and the decisive battle that followed his return and hinged on the uncertain loyalties of a double-crossing nobleman. It is a true story rife with murder and secret deals. There is no need for fabrication; the English nobility provide all the grist needed for that mill.

Philippa Gregory was a historian before she turned her attention to historical fiction, and her stories are thoroughly researched. An extensive bibliography is provided; that seems counterintuitive for a work of fiction, the term “historical fiction” is an oxymoron after all. But the research is there for those who care. The story spans the years 1453 to 1485, an epic span for a single novel. A tedious but necessary battle map and family tree are provided to help decipher the twists and turns, but Gregory manages to convey the nuances of each marriage, battle, and conspiracy without getting bogged down in details. Dialogue is the only apparent artifice, but Gregory so skillfully constructs each character that the reader is left with little doubt that the words actually came from the speakers’ lips.

The seven deadly sins have a long history in literature; they are all present, and Gregory may just as well been writing about them as about the two families fighting for the throne. Lust is the basis of their behavior, whether for power or money. The irony is that they all believed their right to the throne, and thus the right to murder your brother, nephews, and in-laws, was ordained by God. “My God is the God of righteous battles,” Margaret proclaims, and she is a righteous woman. Is it any wonder that a culture so imbued with hubris would go on to conquer or enslave half the world? It was, after all, their destiny.

Girl by the Road at Night

The Vietnam War was a debacle the likes of which this country had never experienced. An underestimated opponent and fervent opposition at home combined to produce a calamity. David Rabe reduces that disaster to its most visceral in “Girl by the Road at Night” — that of the lust between a man and a woman brought together by conflict, but separated by culture.

Joseph Whitaker is in the Army because of a brush with the law; it was either the Army or prison. The novel opens after he receives his orders to Vietnam when “somebody at the Pentagon and this IBM computer got together and came up with my name.” He attends a peace march in Washington, D.C., where he meets veterans and hippies protesting the war, African Americans protesting racism, and neo-Nazis protesting hippies and African Americans. Whitaker drifts in a fog through this menagerie, eventually ending up at the home of the girl who dumped him to marry her other (and richer) high school sweetheart. Vietnam may well seem like a resort after all that.

Quach Ngoc Lan is a Vietnamese prostitute who lives on the edge of the jungle and caters to American GIs. Her meager earnings are shared with her family; her father worked himself to death, falling dead in a rice paddy one day. She walks a fine line between the Americans, the Viet Cong, and the South Vietnamese Army, whose violent tendencies are not always directed at each other. Whitaker falls in love with the slight beauty and dreams of returning home with her. Lan doesn’t know quite what to make of him, but begins to spend “time” with him free of charge. Her dreams, however, are occupied by the peaceful, seaside village of Vung Tau, far away from the armies and fighting and even further from the new john who can barely understand her yet can’t get enough of her.

The novel begins with a third-person, present-tense voice that provides a surrealistic feeling. Rabe is better known as a playwright, and at times it seems as if this voice is giving stage direction. He creates a sense of opposition by alternating chapters between Whitaker and Lan. His is a character obsessed with sex, willing to “spend money anytime for the body of a woman.” Lan uses sex for material gain, but even her “free-of-charge” time with Whitaker leaves her unfulfilled. Lan accepts that, but Whitaker never seems to realize it. Their relationship is ultimately a reflection of the conflict that surrounds them.

The Vietnam novel has been around for some time. Graham Greene practically invented the genre with “The Quiet American” before there was a Vietnam War. “Girl by the Road at Night” is in the same vein; there is no combat, but death is never far away. Rabe’s rendering evokes the sadness that still surrounds the war. Whitaker and Lan are pawns in a larger game they can’t win, and like the war, their relationship is defined by violence. There’s no doubt that it’s doomed from the start, a reality no one was able to grasp.

Star Island

By Carl Hiaasen

Alfred A. Knopf; 337 pages; $26.95

The Skinks of the world have always been my heroes. Not the endangered four-legged variety that inhabit Central Florida, but the one and only former college football star, Vietnam vet, and ex-governor who has become a fixture in Carl Hiaasen’s novels. Hiaasen’s Skink inhabits the swamps of South Florida, and has a penchant for righting the wrongs of environmental rapists who prey on Florida’s natural beauty. “Star Island” includes such a character, but Hiaasen’s sights are set squarely on celebrity lifestyle.

Cherry Pye is the pop star du jour for Jailbait Records, and has the “attention span of a gerbil” and “sings like a frog with emphysema” — and that’s just her bodyguard’s opinion. Cherry also possesses a healthy appetite for substances — any substance that will alter her senses. Her appetite is so healthy that her “team” has been forced to hire lookalike Ann DeLusia to take her place during her frequent bouts of “gastritis.” Cherry exists in a world, or perhaps cloud, of her own. It works for her, but it’s misery for everyone around her, except for Bang Abbot, the paparazzo who is obsessed with her.

Skink and Ann meet when she swerves to avoid running over him while he is removing his next meal from the middle of the road. Skink pulls her from her wrecked car, and she awakens to find herself in the camp of the bald, one-eyed, road-kill eating “homeless” person. But Skink is not without his charms, and the two quickly warm to each other. Ann is eventually kidnapped by Abbot, who mistakes her for Cherry, and she calls on Skink to come to her rescue. He is smitten with the young actress, but his attention is torn between saving the environment and saving her.

“Star Island” is not Hiaasen’s most cohesive work. There are too many diversions that distract from Cherry’s escapades and Skink’s rescue. The two competing story lines (environmental rapist versus celebrity misadventures) never come together, and don’t complement each other in any fashion. The environmental angle even suffers an early, albeit anemic end, when Skink convinces his former lieutenant governor to use his influence to rescind all of the permits. Unnecessary characters are also in abundance, such as country music turned gospel star Presley Aaron (as in Elvis Aaron Presley?), a cross between Hank Williams and Elvis who shares a manager with Cherry. He drifts in and out of the story, but his presence doesn’t contribute anything. The diversions are so scattered that it’s almost as if Hiaasen were injecting an audition as a stand-up comic into his fiction.

Carl Hiaasen has never suffered from a lack of humor, and “Star Island” is no exception. His wit hits the mark with both the truncated environmental disaster and his skewering of celebrity culture. This is satire, and there’s no need to get serious worrying about diversions. Hiaasen doesn’t make that mistake, and neither should we. The emergence of Skink’s softer side is a concern though. Let’s hope he recovers the wits he lost to a female and lives to exact his unique justice on more sleazy characters.

Between a Heart and a Rock Place: A Memoir
By Pat Benetar with Patsi Bale Cox
William Morrow; 245 pages; $25.99

Memoirs clutter the literary landscape these days. They tend to be very personal in nature, and are often written by people unknown to the masses. Pat Benatar doesn’t suffer from such a malady. She was one of the biggest selling acts of the ’80s, and arguably the biggest female rocker since Janis Joplin. She came out of New York, and stormed across the country winning millions of fans and four Grammys in the process. Most people have at least an awareness of the public Pat Benatar, and now comes a glimpse behind the scenes at that creation.

Patricia Mae Andrzejewski was born into a lower middle-class family in Brooklyn. It was 1950s America — the Cold War and Davy Crockett; Vietnam was nothing more than an odd word. Her vocal talent was recognized early on, and she was soon spending hours in classical voice training. But “there wasn’t much room in classical music to go crazy;” her true love was rock ‘n’ roll, and the harder the better.

She married high school sweetheart Dennis Benatar just before he shipped out to Vietnam, and declined a scholarship to Julliard because of him. They moved around to different Army posts after he returned, and she began singing in local clubs. After some success in Virginia where they lived, she took off for New York City. She landed a recording contract, and met the love of her life while auditioning band members. Neil Giraldo had just come off the road as the guitarist in Rick Derringer’s band, and he turned out to be the soulmate she needed to turn the sounds in her head into music.

This memoir is ultimately about the two biggest relationships in her life — the one she shared with second husband Giraldo and the other with her record company. Giraldo is the one who fashioned the sound of the band (though they were billed as “Pat Benetar,” it was a band). He produced much of their catalog, even though he didn’t receive much of the credit. Benatar gushes when talking about Giraldo, so much so that it is sometimes difficult to imagine her as the tough rock-n-roller that was part of her stage persona.

Her relationship with the record company was the exact opposite. Their contract gave the record company almost complete artistic control. Benatar unfortunately relied on a club manager and friend to guide them through the recording industry maze, and he was not quite up to the task. She declared the record company “officially the enemy” after battling them to grant Giraldo the production credit he was due on their second album. It was only after she fired her manager that she found out she could renegotiate the band’s contract, and gain artistic control of their music.

Pat Benatar, a devoted wife and mother, has led a boring life compared to other artists of the era. There are no destroyed hotel rooms or tales of drunken debauchery. The fact that she is a female in a male-dominated world makes this an interesting story. Although she touches on the inspiration for some of her songs, her fans might appreciate a little more focus on the music. But Benatar is still young and continues to record; there’s time to add more chapters. Time is still on her side.

Flying Fish
By Vern Hobbs
Aberdeen Bay; 332 pages; $15.95

At first glance, “Flying Fish,” appears to be yet another quirky Florida novel in the vein of Carl Hiassen and Tim Dorsey. But while it is peopled with suitably unusual characters (including a ghost), Vern Hobbs’ debut novel is something much more

Set in the fictional “hardscrabble fishing village” of Juniper Key, where a ban on fishing has been implemented, “Smiley” Randolph, the reserved editor of the town’s weekly newspaper, is caught in the middle of the town’s struggle to survive. Guided by the ghost of a long dead community icon, Smiley tries to divest the locals of their obstinacy to hear out two unorthodox strangers who may have some solutions to their plight. Can Smiley overcome his limitations to help save Juniper Key? What’s more, can the people of Juniper Key overcome their prejudices and open themselves up to change? These uncertainties are at the core of Hobbs’ splendid, inventive tale.

Hobbs, a Cape Canaveral-based freelance writer, avid sailor, and longtime Resident contributor, could have embraced the easy Hiassen/Dorsey approach for “Flying Fish,” but opted for something eminently more satisfying. “Fish” does have its fair share of intrigue — there are some delicious mysteries to unravel and plenty of behind-the-scenes political machinations — but the key to the novel’s success lies in Hobbs’ respect for simplicity and skill at characterization. It’s almost a given that Juniper Key’s inhabitants would be eccentric, but Hobbs gives them warmth and more flesh, which imbues them with a timeless, almost Dickensian presence. More resonant archetypes than straw-stuffed caricatures, Luraleen, Ginny, Polly, Rodney… all of them, however minor, linger long after the book ends. Smiley himself is a fantastic character; we grow with him as each event unfolds and root for his victory. Moreover, you root for the lovable people of Juniper Key who develop in tandem.

Hobbs also evokes the quintessence of Florida life with gentle mastery. Along with its characters, Juniper Key comes to glorious life through creative suggestion, much like Steinbeck’s Cannery Row, a place that’s eternal as it is inchoate.

Add to these qualities a gripping, multi-armed plot, and you have that rare summer novel — one that keeps you turning its pages and provokes thought. We can’t wait to hear more from Vern Hobbs… and Smiley Randolph. — PTB

Flying Fish is available for purchase through Amazon.com. Visit Aberdeen Bay online at: www.aberdeenbay.com.

Book Review: The Long Song by Andrea Levy
• Reviewed by Mark James •

The Long Song
Andrea Levy
Farrar, Straus and Giroux; 320 pages; $26

July, the narrator of “The Long Song,” warns early on that if you cannot find interest in her tale, “then be on your way, for there are plenty books to satisfy if words flowing free as the droppings that fall from the backside of a mule is your desire.” This seems a bit contradictory given the windiness of the warning, especially for a novel of this title. Fortunately Andrea Levy prunes the “mule droppings” from this tale about a Jamaican slave’s journey to freedom and fulfillment.

July tells the story to her son in her later years. Set in Jamaica in the early 1800s, July is the result of overseer Tam Dewar’s rape of her mother Kitty. She is taken from her mother by Caroline Mortimer, the overweight sister of Amity Plantation’s owner. July, who Caroline insists on calling Marguerite, serves almost as a toy for the mistress; that is until the Christmas Uprising, an actual slave revolt that shocked England and hastened emancipation in the British Empire.

Caroline fears for her safety and abandons the plantation while her brother fights the uprising. July and a freeman named Nimrod take advantage of the unguarded house and tumble into the “massa’s” bed. Thomas arrives nine months later, is given to a white family, and taken to England where he receives a formal education. He takes over a printing business he brings back to Jamaica many years later, takes in the woman he believes is his mother and urges her to preserve her story for future generations.

The slaves have been freed in the intervening years. July falls in love with white overseer Robert Goodwin, becomes his lover, and bears his daughter. This seems an odd coupling for an ex-slave, but many see the future through their children, and believe the only way to escape the legacy of slavery in Jamaica is to breed them white, from mulatto to quadroon to mustee to mustiphino. For the “mustiphino’s child with a white man for a papa, will find each day greets them no longer with a frown, but welcomes them with a smile, as they at last stride within this world as a cherished white person.”

July switches between third person narration for her younger self and first person narration for her older self, and it is not until about halfway through the book that we discover the narrator and the main character are the same person. This ploy adds a little confusion some may call mystery, but Levy does not appear to be courting mystery. It is also told as a memoir, but July recants portions of her tale with the excuse that she is telling it as she wishes it had been. Preserving her memories seems to serve as her forgiveness of her owner, and thus as her absolution. “It is at last complete,” she says near the end, as if the telling of her story has completed her life. It is a happy ending to a sad, but long song.

Book Review: The Executor by Jesse Kellerman
• Reviewed by Mark James •

The Executor
Jesse Kellerman
Putnam; 352 pages; $25.95

The dictionary informs us that an executor is someone who “executes” or “performs a duty or assignment” such as taking out the trash. It can also be someone who performs the dirty task of taking someone else’s life. The line between the two is a little blurry in Jesse Kellerman’s new novel that tracks the descent of a thirty-something Harvard graduate student who can’t seem to execute his studies. His doctoral dissertation on free will is in freefall, and his life is following close behind.

Joseph Geist has spent nearly eight years cultivating the persona of a rumpled philosophy professor. “It’s my nature to wonder. It’s who I am,” he tells us. But his Iranian girlfriend has grown tired of it all, and Geist opens with his dismissal from her apartment and her life. To make matters worse, funding for his research has been cut off, and he finds himself bouncing from couch to couch. Relief is found when he answers an ad from someone desiring “intellectual conversation.” Alma Spielman is an aging Austrian woman seeking conversational company for a few hours each day. She traveled the world, never married, and never had children. She also coincidentally pursued, but never completed, a philosophy degree.

Alma suggests that Joseph move into a vacant room in her house when she discovers his circumstances, and an emotional bond soon develops. Joseph discovers that her only other contacts with the outside world are through her lawyer, doctor, a Romanian maid who may or may not understand English, and a ne’er-do-well nephew who is constantly asking her for money. Joseph guides the reader through this relationship maze in an unhurried, almost nonchalant voice. It is what it is — that is until Alma dies and leaves Joseph much of her fortune, provided he completes his dissertation within two years.

“The Executor” is not a thrilling page-turner, but it is difficult to put down. Kellerman lures you into Joseph’s psyche until you almost feel you were him, or at least hoping that he overcomes all the bad luck. He stumbles a bit when the nephew tries to collect his due after Alma dies. Bad things happen, and Kellerman switches to a second-person narration. It provides a sense of surrealism (i.e., “You pick up the trash. You take it to the curb.”), as if Joseph were acting in a trance. But the narration shift is cumbersome, especially given the ridiculousness of Joseph’s behavior. Kellerman fortunately reverts back to first-person narration when Joseph comes to his senses and begins behaving like a responsible adult for the first time in the story.

There are no unexecuted plot lines in the end; everything is neatly packaged. Kellerman has a tendency to use obscure words (carrel; fungible), but his prose is fluid and easy to follow. Obscurations aside, “The Executor” is a good read, and leaves you looking forward to Kellerman’s next offering.

Let’s Ride: Sonny Barger’s Guide to Motorcycling

What is the world coming to? We have an unending war, the world economy on the brink of collapse, and now Sonny Barger writes a “How-To” book? Is this really the same Sonny Barger who is a founding member of the Hell’s Angels? The same Sonny who did time for… oh, never mind — this isn’t about Sonny; it’s about what it takes to become a lifelong motorcyclist, one of Sonny’s stated goals in writing this guide. To Sonny, a motorcyclist is a person who may not even own a car; a person who doesn’t just ride a bike to work when the weather is nice, but takes extended cross-country trips; someone who can have a relationship with an inanimate object — and his hope is to make you one.

Sonny knows bikes, and he gives you a good bit of the knowledge he’s gained over his 60 years of riding. He assumes the reader knows nothing, and goes over every nut and bolt and insurance policy and biker stereotype, beginning with his reasons for riding, from better gas mileage and the brotherhood (especially if you’re in a club), to the freedom of the road. He’s a “buy American” guy, but surprisingly not a Harley fan, and he thinks even less of Italian bikes. “If you must buy Italian, it’s best to stick to their guns and shoes…” he advises.

I’m not a rider, and what would have turned into a boring book for me was made palatable by Barger’s sense of humor. Unfortunately, Sonny appears to get a little bored himself about halfway through as his humor fades away. This also seems to be about the point where the proofreader quit (both grammar and spelling suffered, i.e. “there” versus “their”). These may seem like small transgressions, but not something you would expect from a reputable publisher. And does he really need to tell you to “get a metric tool set” if your bike “uses metric-sized bolts and nuts?” Even I know that. The evolution of motorcycle design provided an occasional relief from the mundane world of nuts and bolts. Of particular interest is how Harley Davidson “sold motorcycles that were worn-out antiques even when they were new.” But Barger stuck with Harleys because they were the best American bikes, until Victory came out with a better one in the mid 1980s.

This book is for the person who knows nothing about bikes, but wants to in a bad way. Barger states over and over that it takes dedication to be a rider. He talks of the brotherhood he feels through his membership in a “1%” club, and the dedication it takes to be a member, never mentioning that this club is the Hell’s Angels. That shouldn’t matter, but I would never have known of Sonny Barger if not for the Hell’s Angels. But again, the book is not about Sonny or the club he belongs to. It’s about what it takes to be a motorcyclist, and who better to write it than someone who has truly devoted his life to it.

Bangkok may well be on most people’s list of places to visit, but if you’re like me, it’s probably not within your budget. No worries, John Burdett’s series featuring Royal Thai Police detective Sonchai Jitpleecheep serves as a nice surrogate, whether you want the sex or the drugs, the tom yam gung, or simply the mystery of the Orient. “The Godfather of Kathmandu” is the fourth and most ambitious in the series, and features all the above.

All the novels begin with a bizarre murder, and Burdett doesn’t deviate here. The victim is a famous, but eviscerated American television producer who’s had his skull removed, and his frontal lobe apparently served up as his killer’s lunch — or dinner if you like. The coroner can’t quite determine the time of death, but does conclude that he probably died from the loss of blood, but not until lunch (or dinner) was completed. Such a sight may shock most, but it is nothing to Sonchai, who is preoccupied with the recent accidental death of his six-year-old son, and misses his ex-prostitute wife who ran away to a nunnery after the accident. To make matters worse, his boss, Chief of Police and top mobster Col Vikorn, has become enamored with the movie “The Godfather,” appointed Sonchai as his consigliere, and charged him with brokering a $40 million heroin deal with his chief adversary and a Tibetan guru who wants to use the money to invade China on the eve of the Beijing Olympics. There’s never a dull moment in Bangkok.

Sonchai is the son of a Thai prostitute and an American GI sired during the Vietnam War. Even though he is half farang (a foreigner, especially Caucasian, and sometimes a derogatory term), he is a devout Buddhist, and thinks that “farang suffer greatly from a disease called hypocrisy.” His religion leads him to examine his destiny as a drug dealer; his Buddhist side believes he was likely a dealer or user in a past life and may be doomed for all eternity to repeat. But his farang genetics provide a unique insight into the ways of westerners, and he uses this to uncover the twisted nuances of the murder, all while walking a fine line with money hungry heroin dealers.

“The Godfather of Kathmandu” encompasses almost the entire Asian continent. Sonchai travels to Kathmandu and Hong Kong, and he interviews Tibetans, Americans, Australians, and Chinese. He also manages to slip in historically accurate references to farang invasions of the area. Most of the action takes place in or near the Bangkok red light district, but it seems like the sex trade is only there to lend a touch of decadence. Considering the nature of the murder and the impending drug deal, the sex trade is disappointingly tame and ultimately unnecessary.

The narration is in the first person, and Sonchai assumes the reader is farang, explaining the nuances of Thai culture, even asking the reader questions from time to time. But he really seems to be asking as a means of reassurance that he is doing the right thing. Burdett doesn’t need to ask such questions — he scores again with “The Godfather of Kathmandu.” — Mark James

TORTILLA FLAT

John Steinbeck is one of a handful of American authors awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in the last century. He is perhaps best known for “The Grapes of Wrath,” and to a lesser extent, “Of Mice and Men.” While those novels are dramatic in nature, the lesser-known “Tortilla Flat” features a cast of lovable losers even Tom Joad could both laugh at and relate to.

The novel revolves around a group of men who spend most of their time looking for wine and two or three dollars rent to pay their friend Danny, who inherits two houses in the Tortilla Flat area of Monterey, California. Danny allows his friends to live in one — at least until they burn it down and move into the remaining house with him. Pilon, Pablo, Big Joe Portagee, and Jesus Maria are all ne’er-do-wells looking for an easy buck or gallon of wine, but their interest always lies in the well-being of others, particularly Danny.

“Tortilla Flat” is not so much a novel as a collection of stories. In one episode, Dolores “Sweets” Ramirez, a woman “whose eyes could burn behind a mist with a sleepy passion which those men to whom the flesh is important found attractive and downright inviting,” takes an interest in Danny. Danny succumbs to her wiles and “assaulted her virtue with true gallantry and vigor.” He “procures” a vacuum cleaner for her, even though she has no electricity, never mind that the vacuum cleaner has no motor. Sweets is proud of her appliance and can be seen sweeping her floor every day. She “did not neglect Danny,” who now spends every night at her house. His friends grow worried about him, and “reprocure” the vacuum cleaner to save Danny from this selfish woman.

Danny is the lone Caucasian, and a revered figure to the others. In their eyes, he has suffered much through the war and the bad luck that always befalls them. The story collection finally comes together as a book in the end when Danny falls into depression and his friends organize a party in his honor to cheer him up. Danny grows to superhuman size through the night, walks outside in the early morning, and engages in what is described as a monumental fight with an unknown being. No one witnesses the fight that he loses, but all the friends seem to recognize it as a fight for each of them. The story is set in the years immediately after World War I, and the characters are all veterans. Their daily grind is to find wine, but Steinbeck infuses his characters with a certain nobility by using Shakespearean dialogue: “where hast thou been?”; “art thou thirsty?” etc. Doth thou understand? It can be read on many levels — as an indictment of the treatment of war veterans, as a social commentary that is a ubiquitous Steinbeck theme, or as a simple tragicomedy.

“Tortilla Flat” was Steinbeck’s first critical and commercial success. It’s difficult on the surface to find any redeeming qualities in the characters, but the noblesse oblige that would come full force in Tom Joad and George are beginning to emerge. It’s a book that can be put down for a few months and picked up again without losing any of the flow — and one that should never be considered for a yard sale. — Mark James

Open: An Autobiography

Agassi is the youngest child of an Iranian emigrant and a secretary from Chicago. His father had been a boxer with Olympic aspirations in his home country, and learned to play tennis from Americans stationed there after World War II. He saw tennis as the family path to fame and fortune. André was the only one of his children that displayed an aptitude for success, and he drove him mercilessly. He was shipped off to the Bollettieri tennis academy in Florida where his talent was such that he was able to negotiate his way out of school in the ninth grade to become a full-time tennis player at the tender age of 13. He turned pro a few years later and experienced almost immediate success. The rest is history.

This is no sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll exposé of professional tennis. His subject is himself, and there is the disturbing revelation of drug use (recreational, not performance enhancing); his lying to avoid public exposure; his dislike of Boris Becker and Jeff Tarango, to whom he lost his first match at the age of eight (Tarango cheated on match point); the hairpiece that almost caused public humiliation in the French Open final, and his infatuation with Steffi Graf, his current wife. Agassi returns to the Tarango incident several times over the course of the book, seemingly unable to believe that Tarango would cheat. Yet he readily admits that he cheated on more than one occasion, from faked school exams to lying to the ATP about his drug use.

Agassi has been in the spotlight ever since he became a professional. He was flamboyant in a staid sport that abhors flamboyance. He dated movie stars and hobnobbed with the beautiful people who praised him, eventually marrying Brooke Shields in an ill-advised union. And all the while, he told anyone who would listen that he hated tennis. No one believed him. How could you hate the game and be one of its greatest players ever?

Agassi divulges his opinions with no thought of consequences. The only player who approaches friendship with him is Pete Sampras, but Agassi doesn’t pass up a chance to take a dig at him, ridiculing him as a cheap tipper.

“Open” is a confessional book with himself as the sole subject. Brooke Shields once told him that he was an “undeveloped person,” and it’s almost as if the book is part of his twelve-step program toward developing completely. Agassi unfortunately never reconciles his hatred of tennis with his success, an oversight that is disappointing. Perhaps he’s never reconciled it himself. He does, however, offer compelling insight into the mind of one of the best to ever play the game — whether he liked or not. — Mark James

The Humbling

Doesn’t Philip Roth realize that retirement is part of the American dream? At the ripe old age of 76, he’s recently released “The Humbling,” his 30th book and eighth this century, and he has another due for publication in a few months. His latest is the story of an aging actor who has lost his ability — thus the humbling. Could this be Roth foretelling his own artistic demise? Can he be serious?

The story opens with Simon Axler, celebrated stage actor, interpreter of Shakespeare, Ibsen, and Chekhov, having lost the art that brought him fame and fortune with a reputation as the “last of the best of the classical American stage actors.” “He’d lost his magic,” the narrator tells us in the opening sentence. Axler begins to contemplate suicide in the same fashion as Ernest Hemingway (coincidence?), his wife leaves him, and he ultimately checks himself into a hospital. While there, he meets Sybil Van Buren, a woman committed by her husband after she witnesses him molesting their young daughter. She tries to convince him to murder the husband, but he can’t be convinced, and Sybil fades away when Axler checks himself out after 26 days.

Simon retreats to a lonely but comfortable existence in his country house until Pegeen Mike Stapleford arrives — a woman 25 years his junior who had “lived as a lesbian since she was twenty-three,” and also happens to be the daughter of old friends. Axler even won the honor of selecting her name in a contest before her birth. What he sees now is not a lesbian, but a “lithe, full-breasted woman of forty.” A relationship — both physical and emotional — develops, and he begins to experience a rebirth of sorts. Pegeen becomes the muse he lost; he flirts with the thought of acting again, and considers fatherhood for the first time. Just when he feels life may be worth living, Pegeen abandons him and all is lost.

Roth has often been unfairly typecast as a chronicler of the Jewish experience in America. Many of his books are about Jews trying to fit into a non-Jewish society in a fashion that sometimes tends towards nihilism. In a broader context, his characters are just outsiders that could ultimately be any minority. Roth never identifies Axler as Jewish, but he is an outsider — an actor whose skill for losing himself in the roles he plays. Once he loses his art, he finds himself in the unfamiliar role of himself, an undeveloped character trying to fit in.

There is ultimately no point to this story, much as Simon Axler can find no point to his life without acting. It’s also a bit short for a novel, almost as if Roth ran out of inspiration and decided to just end it. But given his prolific output of the past decade alone, it is difficult to imagine that it is autobiographical in any way. Even with the brevity and the pointlessness, Roth’s prose is still enjoyable — the work of an author who has not lost the magic.  — Mark James

Breath
By Tim Winton

218 pages; Picador Press, 2008

ISBN-13: 978-0-312-42839-6

Taking breaths on a regular basis is a good thing, so it’s a little odd that Tim Winton’s novel “Breath” begins with a teenager who isn’t breathing at all. But Bruce “Pikelet” Pike, the paramedic first on the scene, recognizes what the boy has done, and that event sparks a reminiscence of his teenage years, a foreboding beginning to what’s billed as a coming-of-age story for a couple of Australian surfers. But as Pike looks back thirty-five years later, it doesn’t seem as if any of these characters ever came of age — and only a few survive.

The 12-year-old Pike discovers a mutual attraction to thrill-seeking with Ivan “Loonie” Loon, and the two are soon fighting for waves in the cold waters off the western Australian coast. Sando, the local legend, takes them under his wing and eventually pushes them into surfing some secret breaks only he knows about. But Pike realizes his limits when Sando takes them to Nautilus, a triple-overhead wave one mile offshore that breaks in three feet of water. Pike realizes he’s in over his head in more ways than one, and Sando mocks him as he stays in the channel, safely away from the impact zone. As he watches Loonie take off on a wave he can never make, Pike realizes that he is “after all, ordinary.” Sando then begins to cut him out of his extreme sessions, eventually heading out on Indo surf trips with Loonie for months at a time.

Pike feels abandoned, a feeling he shares with Sando’s wife Eva, a former extreme skier trying to recover from a career-ending accident. The expected happens when boy meets girl, and as with surfing, he soon finds himself addicted to her despite their age difference. Like her husband, Eva takes Pike under her wing on a journey of sexual awakening. But he discovers that her sexual proclivities can be just as deadly as Sando’s wave selections, as she pushes him to places an ordinary person like him doesn’t want to be.

Later, Loonie, Sando, and Eva all leave Australia, each chasing their version of the “perfect wave.” Pike is the only one who doesn’t embark on that journey, and Winton chooses to summarize the time between the departure of his three friends and the discovery of the dead teenager who begins the novel. The story essentially ends as a result, and you wonder if the teenage years were a catalyst for the true coming-of-age experienced in the intervening years.

“Breath” was originally published in 2008, and has recently been reissued in paperback. It’s set in the early ’70s before competition ruined the surf world when the “legends” were shadowy characters, not sponsored and spoiled media hams. There were no leashes, high-tech wetsuits or high-performance boards, just foam, fiberglass, and one or two fins. Winton does an excellent job of capturing both the exhilaration of riding waves and the fear that sometimes comes with it. He’s also equally adept at capturing sexual exhilaration — and sometimes fear (read the book!) — for both Pike and Eva. Both are flirtations with death that Pike chooses to avoid. Winton invites a comparison between surfing and sex, as well as a conclusion: they can be a lot of work, but well worth the effort. – Mark James