Went to France for 2 weeks. See my photographic travelogue here. I read these books while in the state of waiting:

Coyote Waits by Tony Hillerman (c.1990) is kind of a by-the-numbers painting, but I always felt outside the frame looking in on a strange but wonderful mythology visited on an equally mystifying natural landscape, yet peopled by characters I either knew too well or not at all.

Dark Hollow by John Connolly (c.2000) is almost a Dean Koontz approach to the detective genre. Quite verbose regarding the protagonist's tortured angst. The Mafia seems welcomed into the plotline for nothing other than spectacular shoot-outs, as if the moody snow landscapes, creepy killer channeling, and unwanted nostalgia biling up and spilling the final act weren't enough. Connolly could develop if he refines, edits, and quits tryin' to be a sensitive, New Age kinda guy. This is a tough's genre, after all. Compare the gay hitmen couple with Bond's Diamonds are Forever's (script version by Maibaum and Mankiewicz) Mr. Kidd and Mr. Vint. Thank God times have changed.

Guilty Pleasures by Laurell Hamilton (c.1993). The society-tolerated vampires, ghouls, zombies, werewolves turn this into a bloody bodice ripper. This is not satire, but just plain silly. I gave up when the heroine—Anita Blake, Vampire Killer, aka The Executioner, debuting the series—got attacked by a were-rat.

The Night Gardener by George Pelecanos (c.2006). At the top of his game in cynical yet earnest police procedurals, Pelecanos is an adroit plotsman, with the skill to texturize the dialogue and cityscape with grit, guts, and heart, while trying his best to keep politics and social theory on the back burner. Personally, I prefer The Wire on HBO, but only because I'm more visually orientated with this genre.

Started Vernor Vinge's Rainbow's End, but there were too many introductory character arcs for my fried synapses. I realized right then and there that August was:

VACATION MONTH

So I dropped the UCSD professor's book and decided to go there instead. San Diego, that is. Ah, the beach. And beach books. No serious reading for the whole month. Just war & crime novels, espionage, and pornography. Besides, it's time to take sum pictures.

Went on to Missoula, Montana around the middle of the month. Read these during down time:

Sympathy for the Devil & Night Dogs (c. 1987 & 1996) by Kent Anderson. Combined, these novels are the trials of a character named Hanson, who goes to Vietnam for 2 tours wearin' a green beret, and then becomes a Portland, Oregon policeman. They are wrenching and need a review of their own. Very insightful into the nightmare noir world of the Vietnam Vet. They ask some tough questions about culpability, integrity, and trust, and have answers you don't really wanna hear, you liberal, you.

Buffalo Soldiers (c. 1992) by Robert O'Conner. After Anderson's brutal intensity, this work felt pretentious, glib, and doper boring. With a so-what? shrug, I bailed at page 57 out of 324. It's about what goes on at a US Army base in Germany, as useless soldiers do their best to lower their IQ to match the room temperature with heroin, whores, and bullying. The Protagonist makes an ass of himself by constantly saying things like, "mental weather report remains partly cloudy . . . relative paranoia index very high and climbing." Any satirical insight seems overwhelmed by weaseling attitudes and the need to withdraw into skunkdom. It probably got better and renounced all its earlier affectations.

Sand in the Wind (c.1973) by Robert Roth is possibly the most straight forward, un-embellished novelistic account from a Marine rifleman humping the infamous Arizona Territory in 'Nam. Unfortunately, it has no literary sparkle, so there's a dull, copper taste along with rust in your eyes when you finish a passage. It appears to have the same structure as S for the D, introing the main meat in-country, then backpeddling to Basic, then back to the firebase for a cronological march to the climatic battle ending. Not much blowing and blood, but a wealth of common, textural details. I busted out of Boot Camp amidst its capitalized shoutings at page 117 out of 498.

Knowing nothing about the Korean War, I picked up The Marines of Autumn (c.2000) by James Brady, a novel chronicling the longest retreat in American history of MacArthur's disastrous two-pronged invasion of North Korea in the fall of 1950. Journalists that try writing fiction tend to overuse the omniscient point of view. Real historical characters turn into fact dispensers, not personalities, and, by making the reader privy to multiple and unrelated takes on the described action, the core characters get demoted and lost. The book does not tell a great story, but serves as a timely document observing what it's like existing for weeks in sub-zero weather while fighting off pesky ambushes from an army twice your size and on your heels as you stagger out a narrow, valley road, and losing over half your fighting force (figures vary widely, but probably about 30,000 men entered into the Chosin Reservoir conflict) in the process. A far more succinct account can be found here. No wonder "men just shit in their trousers as they marched."

The monsoons are drying up, so it's time to return to serious Literature dealing with Real Things That Matter, you know? So, after a Labor Day trip to Silver City, New Mexico (and, yes, I did manage some rather peculiar photos with the help of Art and his IR camera, which can be viewed here), it's back to work.

10/16/07

Flew over to Santa Fe for a quick fallcolor fix. Stayed at La Posada (rm. 219) and read Tim Dorsey's The Stingray Shuffle (c.2003). I laughed out loud on the plane. Hilarious. Carl Hiaasen hilarious. It follows the exploits of serial killer Serge Storms as he flits around Florida. What's funny about serial killers, you say? Well, first of all, this is the 21st century, where reality is brought to you by the Public Relations Dept., which means everything can be exploited for its satirical possibilities. It's the only way to stay sane. Plus, he only slaughters scumbags who need to be murdered. Forgiveness is in the how. Like inserting this goon into a golf cart that herds up the balls at a driving range, but stripping off the protective screening before sending him out. A mental Snickers bar for the Here and Now. When I got home, it was ambushed by more pressing works and subsequently abandoned at page 220 out of 380.

GOODBYE 2007

As the year progressed, I lost interest in what I'd chosen to read. The last 2 novels, although worthy, will never get reviewed; the 2 previous to that deserved a more serious, critical eye. I turned pages on about 40 books this year. The historical gems were definitely C.L. Moore & Fritz Leiber. My top 3 reads were:

1. Ash: A Secret History

2. Sympathy for the Devil/Night Dogs

3. The Rope Eater

While traditional reading habits in SF/F seemed not very appealing, the genre crossovers grabbed and held my attention. My photographic pursuits increased as I bellied up to more and more possibilities and fascinations. The Year's Best Of images can be seen here.

Summarizing 2007 with regards to fantasist literature is probably best illustrated by the major award winners. The Nebula, Hugo, World Fantasy and Stoker statues were palmed by familiar, established authors with Seeker, Rainbow's End, Soldier of Sidon, and Lisey's Story respectively. Across the pond, Dusk rode off with the British Fantasy award, but its second half, Dawn, is said to be an in-route breakdown analogous with 2 flat tires and only 1 spare. And End of the World Blues weaseled its way to the checkered flag for the British Science Fiction award. All are certainly solid works, but not particularly innovative or distinguished savors. Admittedly, I've only read 1/2 of them but none made the Crawford List, and I don't anticipate that changing. I hope I've sated some literary sweet tooths while avoiding the inevitable cavities.