Junot Diaz, "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" (2007).

Once or twice a year a new author bounds upon the popular literature scene, and compels the attention of the rapidly shrinking American readership. Often the author gets a boost from Oprah Winfrey, and maximizes the profitability of the release. Sometimes a book gets its acclaim by winning a prestigious award, although this isn't as sure a means into the nation's consciousness as the aforementioned coronation via day-time talk show queen. I would hazard a guess that the proportion of society that can actually name the year's Pulitzer Prize* and National Book Award winners is less than one half a percent. I make a point of reading a lot of fiction, and (to be honest with you), I can't do it.

Generally books come into my hands through one of two means- either someone I know personally makes a recommendation and/or loan, or I read about it on Amazon. Rarely do I scour the shelves and discover stuff I have not heard about previously. There's only so much time in my day to devote to reading nowadays, and I want as close to a sure thing as possible. My habits are increasingly self-directed, and that's why it's a real pleasure when I end up liking a friend's suggested title. That's the case with Junot Diaz's The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. Even though I had seen that several of my newer favorite authors liked Diaz's writing, it might have been a long time before I actually sat down to read it.

Ultimately I'm glad I did. Normally I tend to resist writers who are transplanted Americans. I don't know why this should be so, and I'm certainly not proud of it. It's a very provincial attitude. I guess I'd just typically assume that I wouldn't get into a story unless I have a degree of cultural identification with the author. In the case of the Dominican-born Diaz, this would have been a real loss. Not only does the main character (Oscar De Leon) hail from Paterson, NJ (a mere hour-and-a-half from my own hometown) , but he's also heavily informed by the type of comic books and culture that I digested growing up. The kid may be black, nerdy, fat, and an ugly virgin... yet somehow he strikes certain chords of recognition.

Oscar is more than just a late-bloomer. He's truly at risk of never blooming at all. Aside from his mother, sister, and grandmother, he doesn't have a lot of admirers. He spends his time writing science fiction and fiddling around with role playing games. That doesn't mean he doesn't have the conventional needs of a red-blooded American (let alone Dominican) male. He just doesn't have any sort of success with the ladies. In this respect, his misfortune mirrors that of his broader family. While his clan doesn't share his clumsiness with the opposite sex (in fact they are all players), they do seem cursed to eat shit. Somehow they manage to run afoul of a motley assortment of genuinely bad actors.

Diaz is not merely concerned with telling Oscar's tale, but rather with sharing an informal history of his native country, and the brutal regime of the dictator Rafael Trujillo. I've heard about the type of atrocities dictators of banana republics can visit upon their people, but this guy was extreme. I'm assuming that the historical context that Diaz provides throughout his novel is accurate, and that the events occurred as he portrays them. If nothing else, reading The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao should make the reader grateful for his/her life. The entire DeLeon family endures such misery from an apparent fukú (curse) that appears to be supernaturally merciless. Still it makes for some rip-roaring reading.


* Diaz won the coveted prize in 2008.

William Gay, "I Hate to See That Evening Sun Go Down" (2002).

I wonder. How many times will I have to write a review of a William Gay book before everyone that reads this blog will run out and get one for themselves? This is an essential question because there is a particular imminence to my recommendation. Gay is still alive. How many times have you thought to yourself that you'd like to find a classic American author while he/she is still alive? You have that chance right now. Get in your car (or on your bike) and go to whatever local book store has the largest selection of lamentably obscure fiction. Now buy anything they have by William Gay. He is a living master. And he's about 66 years old. Go give him some of your hard-earned cash while he is still alive, because he won't last forever.

As for me, I'll patiently await the release of his next novel- The Lost Country. I have no other choice, since I've read virtually everything else that Gay has published in book form. Likely there is a treasure trove of unedited work lying somewhere that has never seen the light of day. That stuff can trickle out posthumously. For now I just want Gay to be as prolific as possible. I tried to save something for a rainy day, but I just couldn't. I had to read it sooner rather than later. Today I've finished I Hate to See That Evening Sun Go Down, an amazingly well-crafted collection of stories that I'm certain will linger in my subconsciousness for a long time. It is constructed with a detailed hand that manages to wend its way into the substrata of my imagination.

In fact Gay writes with such a deft touch that I'm just a little bit scared when I read his stuff. I'm afraid that the events and themes that he writes about will slip off the page and began to manifest themselves in my life. That's the type of power and force that I attribute to the experience of reading his words. He manages to meticulously capture a sense of foreboding inevitability that is at once shocking and believable. There have been numerous times when I was reading his tales when I stopped short in the middle of a paragraph, at once divining what was to happen to one of Gay's characters. It's a heartrending experience, but there is nothing to be done but continue with the thread.

This specific collection underscores one of Gay's repeating obsessions- the idea that there are certain doors that, once opened and traveled through, cease to function as portals forever after. There are actions that entail such severe consequences that they permanently alter a life's trajectory. These form a "before" and "after" that define personal eras. As we watch a protagonist drift toward a certain decision, we become aware of the vicissitudes of fate. These people may know less than the reader, but at a cellular level they seem to realize exactly what they are heading for. In the case of Gay's tales, these destinations are always transformational, and seldom for the better.

Whether it's a successfully married man of thirty years gunning down his wife's annoying lapdog or a straying spouse finally succumbing to the worst sort of temptation, we know that Gay's characters will pay a steep price for their lapses andindiscretions. I can only speculate as to the real-life lessons that William Gay has accumulated. His hardened features seem to betray a series of disappointments and tragedies that have become his inescapable companions. Maybe we are better off with his fictions. They serve, as often as not, as cautionary tales. Perhaps we will subsequently go off and make the same mistakes we've seen documented in his books, but at least we will have a better facility for imagining the worst case scenarios.

Kerry Max Cook, "Chasing Justice" (2007).

As if I didn't have enough stuff to think about, I continue to struggle with my support for the death penalty. It's not that my perception of humanity has altered in any significant way. I still run up against the thorny juxtaposition of my diet (which includes many animal products) and my belief that people are simply animals (albeit a bit more sophisticated in their brain development). If I'm willing to eat something, then I have to be willing to put it to death, or at least be responsible for its slaughter, right? Sure, I'll take a pass on the feast of the dead criminal- but that doesn't mean I'm willing to forgo his/her passing. All "god's" creatures die, one way or another... and we all have a hand in that process.

Yet I'm not altogether comfortable with the company that this particular position puts me in. All too frequently I find myself at odds with death penalty advocates on just about every other political issue. And on an intuitive level, I usually don't want to be associated with them. On the other hand, the majority of those who would seek to abolish executions are folks that I respect and sometimes even admire. Why wouldn't I want to throw in my lot with them? On the other hand, I can't seem to transcend my repulsion toward the idea of out-of-control homo sapien proliferation. I guess it's akin to the way most people feel about cockroaches. There's just too many of them, and they overwhelm environments once they take root.

That doesn't mean that I don't love individuals. I can usually find something to care about in everyone, once I get to know them a bit. I'm definitely not a misanthrope on a personal level. It's only the idea of humanity that bothers me. Anyway... so yeah, why not just eliminate those who are clearly beyond redemption? Pluck them from society so they don't perpetuate their behavior? I don't find many of the counterarguments convincing. The ultimate penalty is unfairly applied, but that's a systemic issue. The appeals process is costly, but once again it comes down to management. These are problems that must be addressed. However, they aren't sufficient to convince me that capital punishment is "wrong".

What does give me pause is the reality that the innocent are sometimes executed. Since techniques to establish DNA comparisons have become cheaper and more accurate, over a 100 men have been released from death row. Kerry Max Cook is just one of them. He spent 20 years in Texas prisons (notorious for being among the worst in the nation), and he put everything he had along the way into establishing his innocence. Incredibly, the very conservative Texas Court of Appeals reversed his conviction three times. There was so much corruption in Smith County (where Cook lived) that prosecutor misconduct caused a long series of injustices. Reading this man's autobiography is a harrowing experience.

Kerry Cook was a young, sexually ambivalent man when he was charged with raping, killing, and mutilating a woman who lived in the apartment complex where he was staying. There was scant evidence that Cook was guilty, but it was used to build a distorted version of the tragic events that took place. The depictions of the courtroom dramas that sent Cook repeatedly back to prison are troubling. Perhaps even more so are the accounts of horrid abuse Cook faced while incarcerated. Chasing Justice seems like a reasonably objective retelling of the author's experiences, and lacks the pretension that often plagues convict memoirs. It certainly makes me think twice about allowing such a thing to occur in our "open and democratic" society.

Sara Gruen, "Water for Elephants" (2006).

Every once in awhile a book hits the wider public consciousness, and the relatively small group of readers left in this nation recommend it to each other. Sometimes it is an activist effort- new age beliefs or other ideas that challenge the contemporary belief construct, masquerading as a novel. These often seem revelatory while you are reading them, and then slightly silly in retrospect, after a bit of time passes. And then there are other books that are hyped for their pure escapism. The discriminating reader is usually just as suspicious of these works as he/she is of polemical fiction. If it's as popular as it seems, it follows that it could well be an appeal to the lowest common denominator. In these instances, one considers the source(s) of the recommendation.

There is reading that you do while laying in the sand at the beach, and there is the kind that you engage alone at night on your living room couch. Obviously these categories are subjective and mutable. If I can identify a single quality that distinguishes Sara Gruen's Water for Elephants from most of the offerings of the American publishing industry, I'd have to say that it is a title that would find an appropriate home in the hands of a sunbather and/or a domestic recluse. It's not necessarily "highbrow literature", but it won't insult your intelligence unless you are hypercritical. It's 300 pages (and change) that turn quickly, and it has just enough meat on its skeleton to sustain the reader's imagination.

I know why the people that told me to read this did so. They know that I have a moderate obsession dedicated to "show business". I use this term in the old sense, referring to "outmoded" forms of entertainment such as vaudeville, carnivals, and independently-run amusement parks. Of course it is a reasonable leap of logic to suspect that I'd be interested in a story set within a circus company in the 1930's. Indeed it didn't take me long to get captivated by the vernacular of the traveling show. It's easily apparent that Gruen took the time to learn the language, and her work wouldn't be nearly enjoyable if she hadn't. For me, it's a quick way to my heart. I love getting into the intricacies of argot, especially when it comes to the bygone "show era".

The plot itself is only marginally compelling. The protagonist is a newly-orphaned young adult named Jacob Jankowski, who drops out of his veterinary program at Cornell right before final exams, and hops a train. He happens to land on bed of a stock car used by the Benzini Brothers Circus, a spectacle in between a "Mud Show" and Ringling Brothers. It doesn't take long for Jacob to realize that he needs to grab whatever opportunity he can, given that he is living in the midst of a Great Depression that is ravaging what used to be the Middle Class. So he embraces a new way of life, and becomes a "First of May" in the rough-and-tumble, gritty world of performers and working men that separately and together ensure that the show goes on.

Sure, Jacob falls in love with a woman (Marlena, who so happens to be married), and manages to ingratiate himself to the owner (Uncle Al) and the Superintendent of Animals (August, who is Marlena's husband), at the same time becoming mired in a nasty love triangle. It's pretty typical melodrama... basically soap opera stuff. But for me the point is not the narrative, but rather the details. Gruen took the time to research the ambiance and background of her thematic material. This effort lends a sense of authenticity to her tale. For this she deserves unreserved accolades. Ultimately it doesn't matter that the plot is predictable, or the relationships cliché. She has successfully evoked a time-and-place long past. That alone justifies all her efforts.

William Gay, "Twilight" (2006).

I put off reading William Gay's Twilight for months after I found it on the shelves of a used book store. I had already been through his first two novels over the past twelve months, and I didn't want to run out of his works too quickly. Gay is an older man at 65, and I'm not sure how many more novels he has in him. I like the idea of setting one by for a rainy day. On the other hand, I've become accustomed to thinking about this author as one of my favorites, and I feel some obligation to complete my reading of his output in its entirety. Now I have just one collection of short stories to go, and then I'll have to wait for the publication of his work-in-progress, which is apparently titled The Lost Country.

Unlike Gay's previous two novels (Provinces of Night and The Long Home), Twilight is almost devoid of humor. It concerns a macabre discovery unearthed by siblings Kenneth and Corrie Tyler. Apparently the local undertaker (Fenton Breece) is kinkier than his job should allow. Gay doesn't necessarily linger over the details of Breece's perversions (at least not at first), but the reader is meant to understand that this creep has overstepped the lines of criminal decency. The Tylers are alerted to his activities because they have recently lost their bootlegging father and they have espied Breece removing a precious article from his grave. Upon further investigation, they realize that the man is up to no good.

While one might be tempted to immediately blow the whistle on such a ghoul, sister Corrie see these circumstances as an opportunity for her and Kenneth to escape the poverty of their life, and get out of town. She would like to blackmail Breece, but needs proof of his wrongdoing. This comes in the form of polaroid shots of the undertaker abusing dead bodies in his workshop. Despite her brother's hesitancy, Corrie approaches Breece and demands fifteen thousand dollars for the return of the photos. Now Fenton Breece is a bit of a pampered aristocrat, but he doesn't relish being extorted by a teen-aged girl (especially one that he has lusted after in the past). So he hires the meanest cuss in town to get the photographs back.

Granville Sutter is a bad, bad dude from rotten stock. It's no secret that townspeople fear him, and Kenneth Tyler would like to give him a wide berth. Unfortunately Sutter has targeted the young man as the weak link, and believes that the threat of violence against the siblings will compel them to give up the game. Sutter doesn't necessarily approve of what Breece has been up to, nor does he really want to know any of the gory details. He just wants what's coming to him when he delivers the goods to Breece. And he's bound to employ any means to accomplish his mission. Not surprisingly, things turn ugly for the Tylers. Soon enough Kenneth finds himself on the lam, pursued by the maniacal Sutter.

Much of Twilight takes place in a vast tract of overgrown wilderness called the Harrikan. It is in this haunted terrain that Sutter attempts to overcome Kenneth Tyler, and the boy in turn encounters some truly archetypal Southern Gothic figures. Gay is able to make the Harrikan come alive with his efficient yet evocative description of flora and fauna. Interspersed within the woods are the abandoned detritutus of coal and other industrial operations that accentuate the sense that the characters are passing through a forbidden "no man's land". A feeling of impending doom accompanies the text, so that the reader is not sure what might happen next, but remains continuously aware that the possibilities are virtually endless.

J.C. Hallman, "The Devil is a Gentleman" (2006).

Last year I reached my reading target in May, and by June I had consumed 50 books. I felt pretty certain that I would set a personal record with my annual total. However, I got complacent and limped along to the end of the year, largely neglecting anyone's written words but my own. Being largely a creature of habit, I have allowed that lack of forward momentum to infect this first month of 2009 as well. I intend to turn this around, and acknowledge that it is going to be hard work doing so. Falling out of the practice of daily reading has made me slow. It doesn't necessarily help that I've made a couple selections of rather dense material so far. One such title is J.C. Hallman's The Devil is a Gentleman.

The intellectual center of The Devil is a Gentleman is made up from observations the author made about the life and work of philosopher, psychologist and writer William James. This eminent scholar has been the focus of much study over the last century, and Hallman wisely forgoes an in depth analysis of his work. Instead he concentrates on presenting a skeleton account of James' life, along with a smattering of his more important ideas and thoughts. Ultimately Hallman is compelled most by the accounts of observations that James compiled in The Varieties of Religious Experience (1902). The fact that it's so hard to identify this great man's ultimate conclusions allows the reader to personally identify with various facets of his journey.

This ambiguity inspired Hallman's own personal quest of "seeking". Today's world presents just as many opportunities to study man's relationship with god as existed in the era of William James. If you scratch the surface, you will find no end to the strange assortment of approaches to spirituality lying just beneath society's orthodox veneer. Hallman travels to Southern California on a pilgrimage to the site of the Heaven's Gate suicides and tries to interview the neighbors. Finding a predictable resistance, he broadens his exploration of the area by visiting an extant UFO cargo cult. He thus establishes a baseline of weirdness for what follows throughout his book. The insights he constructs are often as fascinating as the individual tales he unearths.

In my opinion, one of Hallman's keys to success is found in his open minded attitude toward what many Americans would consider disturbing and confounding takes on faith. It's manifestly apparent that Hallman wanted to engage the objects of his study on their own terms. This strategy allows him a level of access that many writers would preclude due to their own preconceptions. Instead we get to be present alongside Hallman when he attends the bible study of a group of "Born Again" Christian professional wrestlers who seek to transform souls through their performances. He also participates in a Wiccan ritual and a Satanic "Black Mass". He even takes a Scientology Training course.

Alongside these perambulations (and those of William James), Hallman includes lots of contextual information and historical data about the religious groups he interacts with. The stories of the founders of many of these odd belief systems provide some of the most interesting higlights of The Devil is a Gentleman. Who knew that there was an Atheist community dedicated to the support of non-believers? For that matter, who imagined a group of neo-Pagans holding their convention in a casino? Ultimately though, the concise descriptions about Jamesian "Pragmatism" are likely to stick with me the longest. For years I've always considered the outcomes of belief more important than their rationalizations or origins. I just didn't realize that there was a name for that perpsective.

David Hajdu, "The Ten-Cent Plague" (2008).

I was a bit surprised a week or so ago to learn that my father had bought me a "pre-Xmas present". He told me to look for a package, and explained that he sent me the gift because he thought I would be particularly interested in it. I had no idea what to expect, and so I awaited it with anticipation. When it arrived, I can honestly say I was puzzled. It was a a book by David Hadju (with whom I was completely unfamiliar), and it was entitled The Ten-Cent Plague. By scanning its jacket (which featured a great drawing by Charles Burns, one of my favorite cartoonists) I learned that it was a history of a period during the early development of the comics. It focused on the 1930's through the 50's, during which the new artform came under increasingly intense criticism.

While I am certainly a fan of (what I can only refer to as) "alt-comics", I didn't have a lot of curiosity about genre comics, with superheroes and the like. Still I resolved to plow through Hajdu's study, and hoped that it would give me some insight into the stuff I choose to read now. It started off with a fairly comprehensive look at the invention of the form, and an explanation of how a brand new industry sprouted to produce these "picture books". At the very start, comics did not necessarily focus on men in tights at all, but rather tended to reflect the existing genres of entertainment- horror, crime, war, romance, early sci-fi, and comedy. They were almost exclusively targeted to adolescents.

Hajdu did a good job at conveying the spirit and the attitude of the early comic creators. Fortunately for his book, many of the major players from the beginning were still alive for him to interview, including Will Eisner, Charles Biro, Bill Gaines, Al Feldstein, Bernie Krigstein, Will Elder, Harvey Kurtzman, etc. These now iconic figures spoke of their free-wheeling approaches to a brand new entertainment medium. As comics reached the end of their first decade of existence, they were so novel that the field was wide open, and for all intents and purposes without limits other than market-driven concerns. This freedom allowed sales to increase astronomically and individual creativity to flourish.

Many of the businessmen, artists, and writers that made comics were from minority groups that had nowhere else to become successful. As a result a lot of the content reflected an outsider perspective that tended to glorify facets of society that many conventionally-accepted adults found troubling. But the kids loved it! The more extreme, the better- gore, lust, perversity, violence, and general mayhem prevailed. And then the authorities noticed, and a reactionary backlash followed. The Catholic Church, professors of education, psychiatrists, and some of the more prudish politicians began to bemoan the general lack of respect for authority exhibited in comics. They began to accuse the comic companies of contributing to juvenile delinquency.

Obviously there are modern-day parallels to other forms of youthful amusement. Over the years, movies, television, cartoons, rock-and-roll, and videogames have all taken their turn at being vilified. Society is always looking for a scapegoat for the "wicked ways" of its members... especially the kids. However the level of vitriol and shrill hysteria over comics was amazing to read about. It didn't take long for the powers-that-be to work together with the cultural guardians, and crush the independence and sheer fun of comics. It took decades for the form to recover even a smidgen of its relevance and energy. Ultimately The Ten-Cent Plague tells a larger story about who we are, and who we've been, as a nation.

Frederic Baumgartner, "Longing for the End" (1999).

Last week I mentioned that I was reading a book about millenialism (or millenarianism, which is a synonym), called Longing for the End. Frankly, I often found myself in sympathy with the book's title- not because I wasn't interested in its subject, but rather because of the author's exceedingly dry style. Frederic Baumgartner knows his stuff, however I wouldn't characterize him as a particularly adept storyteller. While that wasn't enough to make me put his work down before I finished it, I was certainly tempted to do so on a few occasions. In Baumgartner's defense, I had a lot on my plate while making my way through this modestly-sized book. Still, with the nature of the subject, it could have been a lot more captivating.

Longing for the End starts with a glossary (this probably should have been a red flag) that lists all kinds of words having to do with apocalyptic end-times. Some of my favorites were "parousia" (a Greek word meaning "coming", specifically referring to Christ's return) and "chiliasm" (Greek for "one thousand", used to denote the belief that the savior's thousand year reign on earth is imminent, and that violence is necessary to expedite his arrival). These were appropriate words to seize upon, as Baumgartner's chosen task was to detail the history of eschatology within Western civilization. Obviously the "end of the world" is closely tied to the future activities of God and Jesus within our society.

I was amazed by the length and breadth of this tradition. Since the beginning of recorded history, the faithful have been busy anticipating the wholesale destruction of life as they knew it. This makes an odd sort of sense, because religious adherents are drawn to the idea that the world should be made over in the image of their god(s). If they were satisfied with the status quo, they likely would not be drawn to worship the heavens. In order to get there, some process must be put into play that brings about the massive changes required. There's a quality of desperation in the fanatical that prohibits an embrace of incrementalism. It's really an all-or-nothing proposition. These folks do not work within the system.

I find it interesting that believers invest much more time imagining the exact qualities of the period leading up to salvation than the conditions they expect to be rewarded with once it has passed. Most millennial thinkers are vague about what "paradise" will look like once all the sinners have been removed by fire. Perhaps there is just something infinitely more compelling about suffering. After all, it isn't that interesting to describe complete satisfaction and bliss. Humans are more interested in the horrific specifics of revenge and hell. The tribulations that many predict to precede the savior (as outlined most notably in the Biblical book of Revelations, with its accompanying wars and holocausts) are often lovingly described. I guess it's like staring at a fatal accident- one can't look away.

There were plenty of formulations and figures within Longing for the End that I'd be interested in learning more about. Baumgartner's volume is a survey, and many of the passionate personalities he wrote about were sketched briefly and with little detail. I'd like to explore the story of John Nelson Darby, who the author identifies as the founder of the modern fundamentalist evangelical millenarian movement. It would also be interesting to hear more about the human scale of these influences. What was it like to be a follower of a prophet that turned out to be essentially mistaken? How did devotees process their disappointments? I'm feeling a further compulsion to dig deeper into modern-day parallels. Perhaps I'll have time before the apocalypse arrives.

Jonathan Pincus, "Base Instincts" (2001).

There are numerous theories as to why certain individuals commit terrible deeds, and through my extensive reading in the true crime genre, I've encountered many of them. As you are probably aware, Americans are particularly drawn to the idea that "evil" causes the unwary to strike out against their fellow humans. According to this perspective, the devil makes them do it. This explanation reinforces their belief that man is best served by seeking guidance in the Lord. It also appears to justify a general societal orientation toward punishment, rather than treatment or prevention. There are "victims" and "perpetrators" and it is easy to determine who is who. People are endowed by their Creator with "free will" and are solely responsible for the consequences of their actions.

I'm not totally unsympathetic to this characterization. I sympathize with those who have a fully developed sense of justice. While I shy away from descriptors like "good" and "evil", it is often quite clear that some of the people in our midst wish to do us harm. I have no desire to see the death penalty eliminated. I think the ultimate focus should be on identifying the ne'er-do-wells and applying every strategy to minimize their ability to cause social discord. There should be no tolerance for any individual that seeks to force their will on another by violence. That role belongs to society as a whole, and is determined by a process involving "consensus" and "democracy". In other words, it's appropriate for public debate- not private action.

Still I have no doubt that prevention is the most effective way of decreasing the incidence of violent crime. Unfortunately we've entered an era more interested in reactionary responses than proactive measures. Cries for retribution surround us as the complexity and chaos of our environment increases. Anti-intellectualism is a growing force in the United States, and people seem less willing to participate in objective analysis. The results are rampant inefficiency in the criminal justice system and social regression. Because of these threats, I wish more professionals involved in law enforcement (and especially those working in the court system) would read Jonathan Pincus' Base Instincts.

The central idea behind Pincus' study is that violent crime is the result of a coincidence of factors that includes neurological damage to the brain, abuse during childhood, and mental illness (such as paranoia, mood disorders, etc.). This may sound like common sense, but it is surprising how many people refuse to consider the ramifications of NOT taking into account these factors. So many are looking for the magic bullet, or the unifying theory that can explain every criminal action. I understand that temptation, but it is at its root simplistic and naive. The suggestion that one must decide between "nature" or "nurture" components does more harm than good. They are quite obviously not mutually exclusive.

Jonathan Pincus is no "mere" social philosopher, but rather a practicing neurologist at the Georgetown University Hospital. He has conducted in-depth research with a diverse range of murderers. He has experience with serial killers, mass murderers, and those violent individuals we have been fortunate enough to arrest before they could graduate into one of those first two categories. Throughout his book, he covers the importance of social histories, neurological examination, and psychiatric testing. There are sections throughout that present terribly disturbing firsthand accounts of violent actions. Gradually he focuses the reader on the importance of confronting child abuse, as he identifies that strategy as the one containing the most possibilities for success.

I recommend Base Instincts for any serious reader with a strong stomach and an unflinching commitment to confronting dark realities.

James Ellroy, "Destination: Morgue!" (2004).

Once again I've returned to the work of the hard boiled L.A.-scribe, James Ellroy. Previously I've read and blogged about The Black Dahlia and My Dark Places. Although there were things about those books that bothered me, I decided that there was enough in the author's work to continue my explorations. Thus I picked up Destination: Morgue! (2004) during a recent spending spree at Half Priced Books. I didn't know whether this title was supposed to be fiction or non-fiction, and after reading it I'm still not sure. That in itself would be no reason to discount the quality of the writing. Ellroy consistently dwells in a netherworld that seems to merge reality and fantasy. Just so, he probably shouldn't be using those kinds of labels.

Destination: Morgue! is broken up into two parts. The first is given the heading "Crime Culture/Memoir", implying that it fits under the True Crime category. If these tales are accurately classified, there are some troublesome associations for the author. I already knew that Ellroy had a tough upbringing, what with the unsolved murder of his mother, and the untidy and untimely death of his Dad. And I knew that the young Ellroy fell into some maladaptive behavioral trends... but I had no idea about the extent of his perversions. It's one thing to be drawn to the seedy and violent side of life if you can contain yourself to voyeurism. It's quite another to get directly involved.

By his own account, Ellroy was (at the very least) a bit of a miscreant. He started off with garden variety shoplifting, and worked his way up to eating Benzadrine inhaler cotton wads, peeping, breaking-and-entering, and stealing panties. Considering his literary (?) obsessions with "hot prowls" and rape/torture/murder, I wouldn't be surprised if the guy didn't flirt with more serious crimes. Even if he was able to hold himself in check, he certainly succumbed to a life of dissolution. After spending time in various forms of incarceration, and ending up close to death from sustained alcohol poisoning, Ellroy "went straight" and got a job as a caddy at an L.A. country club. It was during that period that he was first successfully published.

While Ellroy has a certain facility for describing crimes scenes and investigations in great detail, he appears to have a lot of difficulty keeping his internal and external lives separate. He often conflates his own deeds and drives with those of historical figures, as well as his own creations. What makes this tendency particularly irksome is how self-righteously judgmental Ellroy gets. Despite his own flaws he fails to see the humanity in others (a major disability for a writer). Just one example of his hypocrisy is a completely irrelevant condemnation of Bill Clinton that he tacked on to the end of his own litany of perversion and crime. It's as if he feels justified to label others "good" or "evil" based upon political affiliations (or race, gender, sexual preference, etc.).

Indeed, Ellroy's proclivities are reinforced in Part 2 of Destination: Morgue! Here he presents a trilogy of novellas about a far right wing vigilante cop who enforces justice without regard for civil rights. And he can't restrain himself from peppering his narrative with a string of offensive ethnic slurs of all types (EX: "color coonordinated Tommy Hipnigger"). As if this weren't enough, the author continues what becomes an almost interminable habit of throwing arbitrary alliteration into every single paragraph. Dig the square loner trying to come on hip- "Local louts loitered. Porch punks paraded. They hopped house to house and shared Schlitz malt liquor." You think that's cute? Try 389 pages of that unrelenting crap.

Dash Shaw, "Bottomless Belly Button" (2008).

Dash Shaw is one of the youngest rising stars of alternative comics, and of course that means that you've never heard of him. You won't be able to find his graphic novels at the large corporate chain of your nearest strip mall. In fact you'll likely have difficulty getting your hands on his just-published Bottomless Belly Button, regardless of where you do your shopping. But if you want a substantial work of art in book form, you'll go to Amazon today and order your own copy. I had a hard time getting mine. It took several stops to my reliable local indie comics store. Fortunately for me I'm a valued repeat customer, because this title seems to have quickly sold out of its first edition. I'm sure there will be more on the way, but I can't say when.

What's particularly shocking about the commercial success of Bottomless Belly Button is that it carries a retail price of $29.95. That's a hefty price for a graphic novel by any cartoonist. But for a relatively unknown quantity, it's almost unheard of. The truth is that before this publication few (even among alt comix fans) had even heard of Dash Shaw. Still, reviews of BBB's quality have passed by word-of-mouth within my little subsection of the underground consumer demographic. This is a 720-page epic detailing six days in the life of the Loony family. However, don't let the surname throw you- this isn't a wacky brood. These aren't the Simpsons or the Bundys. They are fully fleshed-out characters with complex personalities and real-life concerns.

David and Maggie Loony are the eldest members of the clan, and they are the reason why this mostly estranged group comes together at the book's beach house setting. After 40 years of marriage they are getting a divorce. Their three children (Claire, Dennis, and Peter) all have their own ways of dealing with the shake-up. Dennis, who is accompanied by his wife (Aki) and baby son, is driven to seek out a buried reason for the impending separation. Claire (who has teenage daughter Jill in tow) has already been through her own divorce, and is trying her best to be supportive. And then there's Peter, who alone among all of Shaw's characters is anthropomorphized, and (almost) exclusively portrayed with a frog's head.

In more than one way, Peter seems the black sheep of the family. He's a would-be filmmaker who is floating through the confusion of young adulthood with the aid of chronic masturbation and beer. It's clear that at 26 he lacks experience with the ladies, but Peter gets his chance to address that deficit when he meets a youth counselor (Kat) on the beach. While each of his relatives go through their own personal dramas back at the house, Peter stumbles on to what appears to be his first love. The emphasis on the nature of relationships, both old and new, underscores the entire tale that Shaw shares with the reader. There is much to be said for his deft and subtle touch in showing personal dynamics, rather than feeling some need to explicate every inner detail.

Shaw accomplishes his achievement with a tremendous facility for conveying inner emotional states through movement and facial expression. He adds to those skills an eye for telling details and skewed perspectives. All of this is filtered through a loose and slightly-quivering line style that somehow lends a fragile and wistful tone to the story (I thought alternatively of John Porcellino and Jeffrey Brown). Bottomless Belly Button is a series of moments chained together to form a gestalt that coalesces only gradually through accumulation. Shaw wants you to take time with his creation, which only seems fair as it must have taken an inordinate amount of hours to complete. It is broken up into three parts, and he asks the reader to take a break in between each. I respected his wishes and was rewarded with a genuinely moving experience.

Chuck Zito, "Street Justice" (2002).

Chuck Zito is a quintessential tough guy. He might even be the premiere hard-ass of our times. As a young Italian-American boy in Brooklyn, he hardened himself into an amateur boxer, and even won a few rounds of the Golden Gloves Tournament. He's also a self-proclaimed expert in several martial arts. But it's his associations as much as his physical prowess and street sense that have led to his fame. Once the president of the New York Nomads Chapter of the Hells Angels, he gradually insinuated himself into the world of celebrity, becoming the bodyguard of such luminaries as Liza Minelli, Sean Penn, Charlie Sheen, Mickey Rourke and Sylvester Stallone (who he bears more than a passing resemblance to).

I first became aware of Zito through his work on the HBO series OZ. He plays "Chucky Pancamo", a mobbed-up enforcer who takes absolutely no shit. And apparently he carries that reputation beyond the screen. As he seems fond of pointing out, Zito knows the difference between "reel life and real life". While his pedigree as a guy that "walks the walk" is clearly impressive, he's not an altogether admirable character. That becomes clear in his "autobiography", as told to reporter Joe Layden. Street Justice is a paean lovingly dedicated to Zito's perception of himself. He often comes across as self-righteous. His values appear a bit murky. At one point in his book, he fervently insists that he is not a bully.

Yet even by his own account, he has played the bully role on the streets. He shares anecdote after anecdote about incidents where he initiated violence because he believed someone was "disrespecting him". The litany of his victims is outlined in Street Justice. Rival outlaw motorcycle gang members seem to get the worst of it. However he doesn't limit himself to that sort of turf competition. In fact he notably beat down Jan Claude Van Damme at a strip club for talking trash about him. Anyone that looks at him cross-eyed, or dares to challenge him verbally gets popped. He even beats down a twenty-something who makes the mistake of "name-dropping" a NYC gangster. That specific beat-down serves to underscore another one of Zito's personality flaws- he's a bit of a hypocrite.

Zito is an inveterate name-dropper himself. He's constantly referring to the parade of movie stars and professional fighters he has been involved with. The photo section included in Street Justice is inundated with posed shots including a smiling Zito with diverse luminaries. Additionally, you can't find a single scene in his book where he is at some restaurant or club when he is not reminding the reader of his associations. If you were ever curious who owned this or that trendy New York or L.A. nightspot in the 80's and 90's, look no further than this book. Zito's palled around with them all, despite his contention that he has never touched drink or drugs. Still he's earned his bonafides, and spent plenty of time with the outcasts. Not only has he been tight with his bike buddies (who he has since apparently disassociated himself from since publication of his bio), but he's also served six years in federal prison on conspiracy charges*.

The strange thing about Zito is that despite his tendency to come off as a preening blowhard, it's hard not to like the guy at least a little. He does seem to value loyalty to his friends, and he's obviously garnered enough good-will to befriend a lot of prominent public figures. He's got an adopted daughter and a wife that he would do anything for, and he doesn't seem especially apt to hold grudges after his temper dies down. He's also led a truly interesting life, despite lacking many of the advantages of his colleagues in show business. To top it all off, Street Justice is a rip-roaring page turner. It's essential summertime reading. Besides, this reviewer wants to extend him due credit. The guy's personal motto is, "Treat me good, I'll treat you better; treat me bad... I'll treat you worse." I certainly wouldn't want to get on his bad side.


*Random trivia: Zito claims to be the only one associated with the series OZ to have actually served substantial time in prison.

Steven Millhauser, "Little Kingdoms" (1993).

Sometimes when I develop a taste for a certain author, I decide to read his works over a long span of time, in the hope of making a good thing last. In the case of Steven Millhauser, circumstances have led me to make my way through a few titles in a relatively short period. While this has given me a clearer understanding of the continuity of his perspective, I think it may have also led to a subtle fatigue. I still feel that he is an interesting and talented writer, but I found myself continually checking to see how many pages were left in Little Kingdoms. However it's not the case that it contains inferior tales. Maybe Millhauser is simply better appreciated in the depths of winter. While his themes are accessible, his style is often fairly dense.

Regardless of whether or not Millhauser is appropriate beach reading, there is much to savor in Little Kingdoms. It contains three novellas of wildly divergent settings and approaches. The first is entitled "The Little Kingdom of J. Franklin Payne". The titular character is a young man from Cincinnati who steadily distinguishes himself as a newspaper cartoonist. He gets married and finds his way to Manhattan in the first decade of the 20th Century. While he continues to turn out editorial cartoons and Sunday funnies, he labors into the night working on an animated cartoon distinguished by tedious precision and unfettered fantasy. As he does so, his marriage slowly dissolves. Still he manages to create an art that is truly out-of-time.

"The Princess, the Dwarf and the Dungeon" occupies the middle portion of the Little Kingdoms. For this tale Millhauser abandons his typical turn-of-the-century urban milieu in favor of medieval towns and castles. It describes a tale of palace intrigue between a prince, a princess, and a visiting noble. When the sovereign finds himself suspicious of his beautiful wife's fidelity, he decides to engineer a test. He urges her to offer herself to the noble (who happens to be his longtime loyal friend) and report the results of the situation back to him. Obviously this is a no-win situation all around, and the reader sees the eventual outcome as inevitable. The dwarf of the title is particularly treacherous, and perhaps a slight to "little people everywhere".

The final installment is "Catalogue of the Exhibition", and perhaps the most fascinating from a structural standpoint. It is divided by descriptions of various paintings the main character (Edmund Moorash) completed during his lifetime. The notes on the content and style of these works are supplemented by the kind of historical context you might see in curatorial statements. They gradually unveil a story of two pairs of siblings that spend time together in a rural idyllic setting, and the ramifications of their intensely formed individual bonds. Ultimately the developing plot takes on a tragic quality, as we see Moorash increasingly affected by the relationship between his artwork and the events of his life.

I was particularly struck by some of the formal experimentation of Little Kingdoms. As noted above with "Catalogue of the Exhibition", Millhauser has chosen to employ some atypical means to relate his stories. While I found "The Princess, the Dwarf and the Dungeon" fairly trite in terms of the plot-line, I was mildly intrigued by Millhauser's choice to have an anonymous townie as the narrator. He uses this device to examine the nature of folktales in general, with mixed results. Obviously "The Little Kingdom of J. Franklin Payne" hews most closely to the traditions of Millhauser's most celebrated works. While I found the other two included novellas to be a bit contrived, I still enjoyed the author's consistent mastery of the language and his amazing facility for description.

Luc Sante, "Kill All Your Darlings" (2007).

I first became aware of writer Luc Sante when I stumbled on a used copy of Low Life: Lures and Snares of Old New York (1991). His grasp of late-1800-era Manhattan led me to believe he was a perpetual scholar of that time and location. Low Life is chock-a-bloc full of stories of political corruption, gambling, boozing, and the entire milieu of a now vanished sporting life. As a relatively uncommitted student of 19th Century American history, I found it refreshing to find an unsanitized version or urban existence in our nation's most important cultural center. I resolved to track down some of Sante's other works on the subject. I was surprised to discover that there was nothing else along these lines by the author.

Anyway, when I saw an opportunity to pick up another one of his titles cheap, I did so without even paging through it. Such an impulse buy is not my normal modus operandi, but in the case of Sante I felt it was justified. Fortunately I wasn't at all disappointed. Kill All Your Darlings: Pieces 1990-2005 is a collection of essays Sante wrote for such notable publications as The New York Review of Books, The New York Times, and The Nation. His erudition has been praised by such writers as Greil Marcus (who wrote the introduction) and William Gibson. He has been awarded the prestigious Whiting Writer's Award (1989), a Guggenheim Fellowship (1992-23), and a Grammy for album notes for a re-issue of a folk music anthology.

Simply put, Luc Sante comes across as absolutely brilliant. I was continually astonished to find his immense expertise in a wide variety of subjects. I kept wondering how a fifty-something, Belgian-born college professor could possibly have his range of knowledge. Whether writing about riots at Tompkins Square Park, or famous contemporary criminals like John Gotti and Rudy Giuliani, his NYC bonafides are clearly evident. But get him on the subject of smoking cigarettes, or worldwide New Year traditions, and his eloquence turns into poetry. Paging through Kill All Your Darlings is a satisfying adventure. His engagement with his subjects is absolute.

While there is very little possibility that any single reader will be interested in each and every one of his topics, it's easy to appreciate his rigorous approach to background research. If you let yourself go, you could end up taking numerous digressions of independent study inspired by each and every piece. When he gets on the subject of Bob Dylan's career, or the history of the American Blues, you may find yourself overwhelmed by the details. But still you won't be able to stop yourself from marveling at his cultural lexicon. And while you might be tempted to skip ahead to an essay about something you are already drawn to, you'll likely find yourself scouring every paragraph for the next vital anecdote he intersperses quite liberally.

For where else are you going to hear the story of how an obscure juke-joint musician named Buddy Bolden made an inspired exclamation that led to the musical definition of the term "funk"? In what other book can you turn the page from a humorous critical analysis of the transgressive art of Robert Mapplethorpe, only to find an in-depth analysis of Walker Evan's photographic work for the Farm Security Administration of the Depression-era 30's? What other author is going to outline his personal histories with such figures as Arthur Rimbaud, Allan Ginsberg and Tintin? Sante has packed an education into this 299-page volume, and delivered it with an elegant precision of prose.

Peter Biskind, "Easy Riders, Raging Bulls" (1998).

As someone who loves film, it would be hard to deny the power and influence of the American directors who came into their own during the 1970's. Young men like Francis Ford Coppola, Martin Scorcese, George Lucas, Brian DePalma, Robert Altman, and Steven Spielberg are among the filmmakers that developed their identities and reputations within that decade. But there were a whole host of other young lions that made their mark, only to burn out as the 1980's loomed. Bob Rafelson (5 Easy Pieces-1970), William Friedkin (The Exorcist-1973, The French Connection, 1971), Paul Schrader (Hardcore-1979), Hal Ashby (The Last Detail- 1973, Harold and Maude- 1971), and Peter Bogdanovich (The Last Picture Show-1971) were among a large group that made their bid for cinematic eternity.

Why was it that so many folks with so much promise burnt out while The New Hollywood was still in its incipient stage? Why did the movement flare so brightly, only to be overtaken by the "high concept" blockbusters that raged in the 80's? What legacy did these figures leave on the industry? To find out some answers, Peter Biskind's Easy Riders, Raging Bulls is a good place to start. Not only does it document the adventures of the aforementioned directors, but it gives ample attention to the producers, studio executives, editors, screenwriters and actors who contributed to the creation of an incredible body of work. Some of these people you'll recognize (Barry Diller, Robert Towne, Peter Fonda, Jack Nicholson, etc.) and some you will not.

The fact is that there was virtually no end to the crazy bunch of characters helping to push the celluloid to its limits in the 70's. And not only did they work together, but they fought, played and fucked one another as well. Before reading Easy Riders, Raging Bulls, I had no idea just how incestuous the scene was. Still I probably should have gleaned some hint from the book's subtitle- "How the Sex-Drugs-and-Rock n' Roll Generation Saved Hollywood". Truth be told this is an incredibly salacious account. Biskind doesn't spare his reader the blow jobs, the back-stabbings, nor a single gram of coke. Of course these details help its 439 pages proceed at a very brisk pace. There's nothing like blood and other bodily secretions to keep the reader piqued.

Frankly there were times when I felt downright dirty reading this. The sordid tales of infidelity among these Hollywood couples were particularly unsettling. The women in the circle were often treated no better than cold cuts shared at a Super Bowl party. They were consumed, marginalized, passed around, passed over, and taken for granted. Nobody is spared. The antics of guys like Warren Beatty, Dennis Hopper and producer Robert Evans are widely documented by other sources. The deeds of those silver screen wild-men are indeed notorious. But who would have known the extent of exploitation, emotional abuse and betrayal guys like Coppola, Shrader, Friedkin, Bogdanovich and Scorcese heaped on their spouses, lovers and friends?

Don't get me wrong. There is a lot more in Biskind's book than scandal and whore-mongering (although there is a hell of a lot along those lines). I felt like I got a much better understanding of the insider perspective of movie-making during one of the most exciting times in the medium's history. I don't know how Biskind managed to collect all of this information (much of it obviously quite damning), but I'm glad he did and happy that I found it. I'd say that it's indispensable for the modern-day film connoisseur. It's important to know why everything worked out the way it did, and why it couldn't possibly last. It also serves as a potent warning to any artist who dreams of quick success and unbridled liberation. Such conditions cannot possibly last long, given human nature.

Steve Almond, "(Not that You Asked)", (2007).

For some reason, we are seeing a rash of authors that blur the line between gossip, memoir, and essay during this first decade of the Twentiy-First Century. I suppose it has something to do with the success of David Sedaris. His funny autobiographical/exaggerated tales captivated a new generation of readers, and I suppose we shouldn't complain about that. After all, not many people are reading novels anymore. Still there is something slight about this new wave of young authors. They seem particularly beholden to a transient wave of postmodern irony. I wonder how many folks really expect that these books will still be read fifty years from now. I don't see a lot of candidates for core American Lit curricula.

A few of these writers are consistently entertaining (Sedaris is a blatant example). Others are uneven and cloying. Steve Almond is an illustrative case. The young secular Jew from California claims to write both fiction and non-fiction. But he is best known for Candyfreak : A Journey through the Chocolate Underbelly of America. It documented his quest for candy bars made by small companies. While dealing with a rather insignificant topic, it drew some critical attention and popular success. Candyfreak allowed the author to garner attention from the mainstream media, and resulted in invitations to appear on television. Almond has actually written about his participation in a proposed segment of a VH1 reality show that never aired.

There's a certain narcissism involved in deconstructing one's own relationship with fame. But it's an honest approach given the nature of our society. Our worship of celebrity seems to have no bounds. We've even expanded our definition of the concept to include anyone willing to present a fabricated version of themselves for the edification of the dull masses. This is the new lens through which we view ourselves, and now it's being applied in literary form. You can't really blame Almond for capitalizing on an obvious trend. However you can implicate him for a certain level of bitchiness and a penchant for offering superficial insights on a series of clichéd themes. He seems to actually invite the criticism.

(Not that You Asked) , Almond's 2007 collection of essays, was originally supposed to be entirely focused on the author's admiration for Kurt Vonegut. That's the proposal his publishers bought. We can only speculate on why they decided that they wanted a series of rants instead. Perhaps that's just what the market demands. But I'm hard-pressed to understand why any editor would allow the inclusion of a 12-page, hate-filled screed, directed against the lit blogger Mark Sarvas, and accompanied by a simpleminded dismissal of blogging in general. The only theory I have is that Random House is planning a major release of a Sarvas title in the near future. Regardless, Almond's obsession with his own personal cyber-critic comes off as especially whiny. It also reveals a strange sexual subtext that manages to be troublesome and creepy.

Yet despite the weak points of (Not that You Asked), I feel obligated to present at least a modicum of balance in opinion. I will admit to sharing Almond's basic political perspective. I too find the Bush Administration abhorrent, and Dick Cheney especially scary. I share his enmity for right-wing hacks like Condoleeza Rice, Sean Hannity, and Ann Coulter. I can also relate to his experiences with his new child. I've felt just as helpless in the face of fatherhood as he describes himself. Perhaps the emotional depth and maturity that customarily attends child-rearing will have a beneficial effect on Almond's writing. Maybe (as he suggests) he'll find a character to love as much as he loves himself.

William Gay, "The Long Home" (1999).

As I predicted in this blog about a month ago, I have eagerly devoured another heaping portion of Southern Gothic by the talented writer William Gay. This time I chose to read his very first book, The Long Home. As I've previously mentioned, this was the first novel that Gay published after toiling in obscurity for almost forty years. Not only did it garner prizes and critical acclaim, but it ensured that the author would have additional opportunities to access a greater audience. While it's a bit of a shame he's not better-known, I feel privileged to have come across his work. I made no secret of the fact that I was impressed by Provinces of Night, and I'm happy to report that his earlier title stood up to the standard of excellence that I expected.

The Long Home begins with an enigmatic event of great magnitude- a backwoods bootlegger named Hovington is almost swallowed up by a cataclysmic pit that spontaneously forms on his land. Soon after, his homestead is invaded by a darkly malevolent character named Dallas Hardin. This interloper takes advantages of Hovington's rather steady deterioration, moving in on not just the whiskey business, but on the man's wife as well. As the original master slowly fades, Hardin consolidates his power over both the household and the community. He begins to build a small empire of vice and will let nothing and/or no man stand in his way. Even Hovington's beautiful young daughter is held in his power.

That's particularly disconcerting to young Nathan Winer. This seventeen-year-old man has already had his share of misfortune. His father disappeared ten years ago, and his bitter mother suspects that she has been intentionally abandoned. Nathan is put off by her harsh recriminations of her long lost husband, and secretly believes that his Dad met a far worse fate than escaping his shrill harpy of a wife. But there's not much that young Winer can do about any of this. The only paternal guidance he gets is from an elderly neighbor who lives and works on a nearby plot of land. William Tell Oliver has been around a long time, and understands local secrets that he'd rather shunt aside. Still he cares a lot for Winer.

Despite the mild warnings that Oliver delivers to the boy, Winer decides to take Dallas Hardin up on an offer for a job. Hardin is expanding his operation with a large honkytonk, and he needs someone that can help with its construction. When the head carpenter on the project gets caught with his figurative pants down, Hardin decides to let Winer take his place. Even though Nathan has no formal training, he is confident that carpentry is in his blood (his father worked the trade). With a contrary resolve to mind his own business, Winer is brought inextricably into the gritty demimonde of a truly villainous character. Hardin is both devious and determined, and thinks little of destroying life for his own gain.

When Winer falls for Amber Rose Hovington (the orphaned teen who Hardin has "adopted" as his own), a brooding storm threatens to erupt. Secrets and betrayals are exchanged, and all the story's players assume their tragic roles. The violent consequences strike the reader with such force that one can only wonder whether they can be redemptive, or if they merely underscore the essential bleakness of the boneyard of life. Gay has struck a few deep chords of humor into his tale, but one suspects that they are only meant to serve as the sugar that helps the bitter medicine go down. There is a deep despair underlying the beautifully evocative descriptions in Gay's prose. I can only hope that he remains productive in his late years.

Aline Kominsky-Crumb, "Need More Love: A Graphic Memoir" (2007).

Despite the relative obscurity that most art comix creators toil in, a large proportion of the literate United States has no doubt heard of R. Crumb. The cartoonist has become a sort of cultural icon, from his youthful days in the vanguard of the revolutionary 60's to his eventual embrace by the fine art world. His work has been featured in museum retrospectives and his life has been documented on film by noted director and personal friend Terry Zwigoff (Crumb, 1994). Even though such recognition has chased him to an expatriate existence in France, he remains one of the most important American social critics of our time. Virtually every corner of his psyche has been examined, but still there is a glaring gap in this analysis.

Throughout the last three-and-a-half decades, Robert Crumb has lived and worked with his current wife- Aline Ricky Goldsmith Kominsky-Crumb. This extraordinary woman has made her own significant contributions to comics, and has slowly built a modest following of fans and admirers. Perhaps the second cartoonist to portray herself in a series of autobiographical comix (after Justin Green), Kominsky-Crumb was first recognized for her work in San Francisco, when she joined with a collective of female artists who were putting out an anthology called Wimmen's Comix. As her relationship with her legendary partner developed, she became increasingly at odds with Trina Robbins, who brought a heavy strain of feminism into the the collective.

Kominsky-Crumb would eventually split off to initiate a collaboration with Diane Noomin, and thus the Twisted Sisters series was born. Through this publication, the pair would encourage a broader spectrum of possibilities and perspectives from women artists. Simultaneously the Crumbs put together and co-edited the tremendously influential Wierdo anthology- a project that (along with Art Spiegelman's Raw) carried the banner of "alt-comix" during the vacuous 1980's. The couple produced two other continuing works during this time- their daughter Sophie was born (and she continues the family tradition herself as a talented cartoonist), and they co-created an ongoing saga called Dirty Laundry, in which they play off each other to form an intriguing hybrid of their individual visions.

It's clear to the serious observer of comics history that Kominsky-Crumb would garner serious critical attention even without her association with her illustrious husband. Those who have consistently underrated her influence would do well to check out her 2007 graphic memoir, Need More Love. This nearly 400-page book chronicles her life in detail, incorporating comics, interviews, photos and illuminating self-commentary. Her Long Island-born Jewish obsessiveness, along with her self-deprecating humor, makes this a wonderful introduction to the phenomenon that is Aline Kominsky-Crumb. She is absolutely without shame, and details both the various strengths and embarrassing aspects of her own character.

One need not be a student of Kominsky-Crumb's interests (fashion, physical fitness, dolls, etc.) to enjoy this book. You don't even have to appreciate the raw aesthetic that she brings to her cartooning. If you are at all curious about the life of a trail-blazing artist during the tumultuous years of post WWII America, then you owe it to yourself to check this out. Even if you are merely another R. Crumb "camp follower", there is much information to be mined from Need More Love. Kominsky -Crumb no doubt owes some debt to her intimate association with genius, but the opposite must also be acknowledged. Either way the past fifty years in art comics would have been noticeably weaker without the contributions of this ebullient woman.

Scott Phillips, "Cottonwood" (2003).

You could be forgiven for never having heard of Scott Phillips. The sad fact is that most contemporary American authors languish in almost total obscurity. The few that do break out into a broader public consciousness (like Cormac McCarthy, for instance) never quite reach the status of celebrity. That's likely because of the increasing illiteracy of this country. But it also has to with the predominance of other forms of popular culture. Most of the drones across this wide land can identify even the most untalented actors who appear in mainstream movies. Even so, not everyone in Hollywood gets name recognition. Only the top three or four directors would be recognized by the average citizen. Screenwriters are even more anonymous.

So it should be no surprise that the release of The Ice Harvest (2005) did little or nothing to advance the fame of Scott Phillips. After all, he was only the author of the book by the same name. And to add a further factor of remove, he generally writes about Kansas. Middle America has never been particularly sexy as far as the media is concerned. Still Phillips is not necessarily writing inaccessible stories. Among the literary cognoscenti, he is known for writing darkly comic neo-noir crime fiction. Much of his writings have been set in the mid-20th Century and before, but as with most material dealing with betrayal, thievery, and violence- Phillips' themes are easily transportable to the modern mind.

His third novel is titled Cottonwood, and it is his only book that I have read. It takes place in a small Kansan town at the end of the 19th Century. Like many other places located in that geography during that time, Cottonwood is portrayed as a settlement on the cusp of major changes. A stranger from Chicago (Marc Leval) and his wife have recently come to town, and they are building the most elaborate household ever seen in the territory. Leval employs many of the long-time inhabitants in the construction trade, and therefore garners plenty of popularity from the start. He successfully predicts the imminent arrival of the railroad, and therefore inspires confidence in his tale of a new cattle drive route through town.

Leval quickly consolidates his influence by befriending the local barkeep, Bill Ogden. A former farmer and gravedigger, Ogden is at a sort of crossroads in his life. He has left his Dutch immigrant wife Ninna on the margins of civilization, snugly in the arms of the farmhand that he himself hired to till his fields. Oddly this doesn't bother Ogden much, as whatever affection had once characterized his marriage is long gone. So he's pretty much free to pursue his own devices, which includes running his saloon and sleeping with whomever he can wrangle an invitation from. Naturally this is a growing source of conflict between Ogden and Leval as they cement their new business partnership. Mrs. Leval is quite beautiful and equipped with a wandering eye.

There are other troubles brewing on the outskirts of Cottonwood. People have been disappearing during their journeys into the wilderness. It soon becomes clear that a German family called the Benders may have something to do with the waylaid travelers. They run a sort of bed-and-breakfast alongside their freakishly thriving apple orchard, and it seems that many who decide to spend the night end up sleeping there for an eternity. This doesn't bode well for Leval's plans to build a new metropolis, and so he and Ogden set out to confront the situation. Phillips shows a deft touch in integrating regional historical figures (the Benders) into an otherwise fictional narrative. His prose is simple and straightforward, and moves at a brisk pace.
While I wouldn't be tempted to call Cottonwood a "future classic", I can understand why Hollywood has come a'calling to the Phillips homestead.

Chris Ballard, "The Butterfly Hunter" (2006).

When did you first decide what you wanted to be when you grew up? I remember considering a few things, based upon what I thought I was good at and how interesting different jobs seemed. Even so I did very little in preparation to act on those vague ideas. I knew I was going to college, and I figured the matter would be resolved during the four years of undergraduate school. That wasn't how it worked out. Half way through my junior year, I still didn't know what I wanted to major in. So I got out a sheet of lined paper and added up all of the credits I had in each content area. The winner was 'psychology', so I declared that my field of study. I graduated on time, but had no clue what the next step was. I ended up going for a master's degree in Psychology in Education.

With the tightening of the US labor markets, it's becoming increasingly imperative to consider this career question at a very early age. The competition for quality jobs is intensifying. You need to figure out what direction you are going in, and then figure out the prerequisites and requirements. The stakes are high, so you'd better seize your first chance, as it could end up being your only one. I've often envied people that know what they will be doing from childhood. Apparently some people are "called". Others have to strike out blindly for years before they see the signs. A good number of folks end up merely working whatever jobs allow them to attain their chosen lifestyles. How many people truly enjoy their work?

Chris Ballard knows that's an extremely hard question to answer. Instead of trying to quantify worker satisfaction, this frequent contributor to Sports Illustrated decided to identify and interview a few of these select individuals. A couple of them said they received their "calling" at an early age, while others seemed to stumble into it through something akin to divine intervention. The common thread running through their lives was the fact that they would be doing what they are doing even if they weren't getting paid for it. That's how much they love their work. And their stories are collected in Ballard's The Butterfly Hunter. They are an eccentric bunch of characters engaged in odd pursuits.

While these men and women are not really famous, you have no doubt heard one of them (and no, that's not a typo). Don LaFontaine has been called "the voice of God". If you have seen a movie in the theater during the last few decades, chances are great that you've listened to his narration during a promo trailer. He's the guy that came up with the now ubiquitous "In a world where (so-and-so happens)" introduction. And he's a very wealthy man. Still it's obvious that he has put a lot of energy into his work. The same goes for the guy who makes eyeball prosthetics, the lumberjill who competes on ESPN, the mother and daughter team that analyze handwriting, a pair of nature-lovers that collect mushrooms and butterflies, and the rest of Ballard's subjects.

The problem is that there really isn't a whole lot else that these people share, besides toiling in weird niches that intrigued the author. Ballard may attempt to draw some overarching, generalized conclusions by comparison, but he isn't altogether convincing. Each of these stories is so idiosyncratic that it seems silly to try to manufacture arbitrary trends. Yet even if Ballard fails to draw a greater whole, the parts are themselves often entertaining. He is able to put these strangers at their ease, and he collects a few damn fine anecdotes in the process. Whenever he manages to avoid becoming bored, Ballard's curiosity is able to elicit interesting insights. Read The Butterfly Hunter as a collection of separate essays depicting a few peculiar obsessives, and you'll enjoy yourself.