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.

Chuck Klosterman, "IV- A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas" (2006)

You have to be either extremely pretentious or tragically hip to bill your own book as containing "dangerous ideas" in the contemporary media environment. Chuck Klosterman certainly fits into the latter category. Throw him in the bundle of latter day pop culture critics that insist on injecting a self-conscious and irreverent post-modernism into their work. I'm under the impression that IV has been named to reference the number of books that the author has been successful in publishing previously. It's also apparently a shout-out to what Klosterman considers the genesis of the heavy metal rock genre- the Led Zeppelin album of the same name. That's a heady presumption for someone analyzing the state of modern music.

It's easy to make fun of a guy like Klosterman, who commits his rather formidable wit and imagination to topics as inane as Brittany Spears, classic rock tribute bands, and the movie Road House. In fact, a quick Google search will provide plenty of exposure to the vast pool of negative reaction to Klosterman's antics. But all of this should be taken in context. The periodicals that the Minnesota-native has written for have been an odd mix of mass market pap and respected establishment vehicles (GQ, Esquire, The Washington Post, Spin, The Believer, etc.). Sure, his attitude is decidedly populist, but that kind of approach is increasingly in vogue in this post-ironic environment.

That's not to say that Chuck Klosterman is without a certain degree of cynicism. He is perfectly capable of identifying the worst instincts of the American collective consciousness. Still he seems to be beholden to a Midwestern respect for the everyman. In one essay, he absolutely rejects the notion of a lightly-held "guilty pleasure". He points out that one may actually derive enjoyment from something morally unsound, but that's not what people mean by the term. Klosterman is stridently defensive about his tastes. He insists that his love for Billy Joel, KISS, and other bad hair metal bands is sincere. The last thing he would feel compelled to do is apologize for his preferences.

What you have to understand about this collection of essays is that Klosterman takes his subjects seriously, regardless of whether he is analyzing the contributions of a white basketball player, the significance of Johnny Carson, the lyrics of a British hip-hop artist, or a rock-and-roll cruise featuring the likes of REO Speedwagon, STYX, and Journey. If mass consumption disturbs you, it is likely that the themes throughout IV might leave you a bit cold. This is a guy who suggests that one of society's greatest needs is more substantial video game criticism, and he is convinced that anyone that fills that niche will be wealthy. But he'll also let you know that he doesn't necessarily have time for that.

It would be foolish to say that Klosterman's writing is devoid of compelling insight. Oftentimes he is provocative and original in his ideas. There may be a high level of superficiality, yet the spectrum of social commentary includes a wavelength for which he is ideally suited. And he is clever. One of the features of IV that I found interesting was the inclusion of inquiry-based introductions for each piece. In order to draw the reader into what may be a litany of observations about minutiae, Klosterman posits some "very big questions". An example: Would you rather be anonymous, or remembered for something completely peripheral to how you lived your life? It seems to me that Chuck Klosterman is hedging his bets.

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.

Mark Jacobson, "American Gangster" (2007).

I'll admit being a recent convert to the idea that one can be a bit more self-indulgent in one's reading habits during the summer months. The truth is that over the last several years I have tended to devour a lot fewer books during July and August. There's just too much to do, and I generally lack the patience to sit in the heat for long periods. Movies tend to suit my mood a lot more during the "dog days". But this year has been different. I've definitely slowed down, but I am maintaining reasonable progress toward my annual goal. Part of this transformation is due to my selection criteria. I have embraced a form of "light reading". There will be no post-modern epics until it gets colder outside. I won't strain myself with footnotes.

I feel that I've earned some latitude. I don't necessarily need to challenge myself. Yet I'm not tempted to pick up the stereotypical "beach reads" that many folks drool over. There will be no Wally Lamb or Dean Koontz for me. Instead I have chosen to read salacious true crime stories and gossipy essays by contemporary authors. Mark Jacobson's American Gangster certainly fits the bill. C'mon really... Ridley Scott made a film adaptation from one small part of this book. It's a collection of pieces that Jacobson wrote for a such venerable publications as New York magazine and The Village Voice. In totality they express the author's love affair with much of the seamier side of Gotham. In that way, Jacobson is a bit like a pulpy Luc Sante.

The title work is based upon Jacobson's interactions with Frank Lucas, who is perhaps the gamiest thug ever to haunt the pimpin' streets of 70's-era Harlem. This is a guy that actually smuggled kilos of pure heroin in secret compartments of the coffins transporting dead American soldiers home from Vietnam. While now an old man and languishing in the bosom of the Witness Protection Program, Lucas is still a menacing character according to Jacobson's accounts. In fact, the elderly gangster actually threatened to disenfranchise the writer that helped bring his story to Hollywood's attention. Still, in Lucas' own words- "People like the fuck out of me"- and Jacobson appears to be no exception.

It's fairly evident that Jacobson finds a place in his heart for all of his subjects, no matter how coarse or brutal. Peep his account of the rise and fall of Jason Itzler, one-time owner of NY Confidential- a fine purveyor of high-priced "escorts". This Jewish kid sprung from money, and clawed his way into the sex-for-hire-marketplace, eventually becoming a multimillionaire owner of a chic Manhattan penthouse/harem, before landing with a prominent thud in Riker's Island. Many journalists would feel obligated to write him off as an exploitive brat, yet Jacobson allows him to tell his own story. In this day and age, the lack of moralizing is not only notable, but nearly non-existent. Imagine a writer allowing his readership to form their own conclusions.

Perhaps it's because Jacobson is so familiar with his chosen milieu that he can get away with his overt stance of moral relativism. After all, there are enough armchair quarterbacks to pass holy judgment. The essays in American Gangster are concerned with providing vistas into airtight rooms and closed societies. How else is he going to get these ne'er-do-wells to reveal themselves without maintaining a value-neutral approach? I don't want my summer reading seasoned with salt-and-pepper ethical pronouncements, whether the subjects are heroes like Wynton Marsalis or comedy kingpin George Schultz... or shady characters like Chinatown gang-leader Nicky Louie. After all, I'm after escapism.

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.

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.

Jim Thompson, "Roughneck" (1954).

Jim Thompson was an interesting figure in American literature. He was primarily known as an artist of hard-boiled crime fiction. During his lifetime he wrote more than thirty novels, many of which were published by pulp fiction publishers. Although he only received a little critical attention during his lifetime, he has subsequently been lauded as one of the best writers within his genre. His more refined writing incorporated surrealism and unconventional plot devices that elevated his best work to the status of literature. In fact, many contemporary authors and filmmakers have gone public with their appreciation of his output. Robert Redford, Harlan Ellison, Stephen King and the directors Stanley Kubrick, Sam fuller, Stephen Frears and Steven Shainberg are among the many cultural celebrities who are on record as being Jim Thompson fans.

Thompson was born in Indian Territory (Oklahoma) in 1906. His father was a county sheriff who was forced to leave office due to rumors of embezzlement. While his family lived a nomadic existence, Thompson developed a reputation as a hustler at a young age. One of his first jobs was working as a bellhop in a hotel, where he supplemented his income by trading in bootleg liquor during the prohibition era. This time in his life is documented in the entertaining memoir Bad Boy, and was adapted by Shainberg for his 1996 feature Hit Me. His truck with underworld figures and petty criminals left him plenty of material for the stories he was submitting to a variety of true crime magazines.

Later on he would become an oil field laborer, and then the head of the Oklahoma Federal Writers Project ( a position created as part of Franklin Delano Roosevelt's depression-era New Deal programs). During World War II he worked at an aircraft factory where he was eventually investigated for a brief flirtation with the Communist Party. Out of this experience came the fodder for his first novel, Now and on Earth (1942). Subsequent works became progressively violent and dark, and Thompson slowly built a following. Eventually though, having become frustrated by his lack of commercial success, he turned to writing television programs and novelizations in Los Angeles. He died of a stroke at the age of 71, his health ravaged by alcoholism.

Roughneck picks up where Bad Boy leaves off. It finds Thompson entering the struggles of young adulthood in the rough economic climate of the 1930's. He got married young, but had difficulties finding work to support his wife and child. His memoir chronicles his desperate search for legitimate employment. It tells of his associations with various shady characters, who lure him into schemes and con games. At one point he gets a job as a strong-arm collector for an installment shop that caters to clients with extremely bad credit. Thompson's deep humanity and affinity for the underdog shine most strongly in this account. In the midst of tramping around the country looking for sustenance, he never abandons his dreams to write great books. Unfortunately his family often pays the cost of his determination.

The stories of Thomspon's hardships are often funny, but contain a hint of deep pathos about the cold, implacable nature of life. His tale of trying to extract a derelict oil pipe from a backwoods site dramatizes the almost epic battle between intention and fate. His attempts to negotiate the bureaucracy of the Works Project Administration and write a history of the unions underscores the often unavoidable futility of honest effort. Even his modest bid for domestic comfort seems doomed to failure. Thompson finally finds himself in the position to buy a house for his clan only to discover the structure infested by bedbugs and centipedes. Despite the essentially bleak outlook and the rather scattered narrative, Roughneck is an illustrative reminder of just how tough it has been (and can yet be) to make it in the USA.

Anthony Haden-Guest, "True Colors" (1996).

Because I can't get enough of the bickering and twisted maneuvers of the New York City arts scene, I decided I 'd plunge ahead and read Anthony Haden-Guest's True Colors (1996). Coincidentally, this book picks off where Burnham's The Art Crowd left off. The year was 1973, and the auction houses were beginning to drive the prices of contemporary art to ridiculously high prices. The Abstract Expressionists were ceding their position at the top of the heap. Pop artists like Jaspar Johns and Robert Rauschenberg were commanding six and even seven figures for their work. And at the same time a group of young wise-assed conceptualists were getting ready to pronounce painting "dead".

Haden-Guest does indeed manage to maintain an extraordinary diplomatic approach to the parade of freaks that inhabit his book. Perhaps he really respects all of those 'revolutionaries' who seemed intent to drive art to its ultimate conclusion. Dennis Oppenheim made his name by making designs on his bare chest with a 2nd degree sunburn. Chris Burden one-upped Oppenheim by having a couple of friends nail him to a Volkswagen and then drive him down the street in the spirit of crucifixion. Still not content, he had himself shot in the arm by another buddy, and displayed photographs of the provocation. Piero Manzoni showed his respect for the dialog by shitting in a series of cans and trying to sell them to collectors. Shortly after that he committed suicide.

Things were moving fast and furious in the 70's. Leo Castelli finally began to show his age, and gallery owners like Mary Boone and Holly Solomon started their ascendancy. Just as people started to sour on performance art, Julian Schnabel and David Salle ushered in the era of Neo-Expressionism. Donald Judd and James Turrell worked their formally academic magic in the harsh austerity of the desert. And a second wave of pop artists hit the island, merging itself in complex and confrontational ways with Graffiti and other forms of street art. Jean-Michel Basquiat, Kenny Scharf and Keith Haring received the approval of the Great Andy Warhol, and became household names.

True Colors documents the ridiculously excessive 80's, which ushered in an art boom that mirrored the 16th Century Dutch obsession with tulips. Larry Gagosian became So-Ho's super dealer of the secondary market, and consolidated his ever-growing empire of power. It was a time marked by Jeff Koons, who seemed to exemplify the perversity of the era by issuing a series of photographs that depicted him having some very distracted sex with his future wife- an Italian model named La Cicciolina. His excessive whimsy (or whimsical excess?) somehow distracted an entire generation of critics and collectors. And while the market seemed to outlast the economic downturn brought on by too many years of Ronald Reagan, a crash was imminent.

The 90's would bring a significant lull in the excitement of the NYC arts scene. Warhol was dead, and no one was buying. But a new generation of art stars like Matthew Barney and Damien Hirst were waiting (not-so-patiently-in-the-wings) to receive their fair share of adulation. So the story continues apace until the end of the century. And it's a brisk read. Unlike Burnham, Anthony Haden-Guest doesn't spare us the bitchery so endemic in the epicenter of the art world. That's a good thing, because the reader is all-the-more-entertained by this fortunate choice. There's nothing that can make us feel truly one with the scene than a heaping dollop of oil-based gossip. Who said what about whom, and why does it matter? Haden-Guest was there to tell us about it later.

Sophy Burnham, "The Art Crowd" (1973).

When I first started showing my work a few years ago, the last thing I thought I'd be mulling over was the 'business of art'. Like many people of ordinary, late 20th Century, middle class backgrounds, I had a naive sense that the pursuit of art was somehow transcendent. The truth is that everything in the United States is vulnerable to the processes of commodification. The day you decide to exhibit your artwork is the beginning of a drastic re-imagining of what it means to participate in the 'art world'. Whether or not you are showing your work with the intent to sell, someone is going to inevitably bring up that possibility. The reason for this is the cost of space. Every parcel of land, and every wall within has been demarcated as property. Whether or not you have a specific proprietary interest is beside the point.

To tell you the truth, I am fascinated with the idea of art as part of the marketplace. Art is so inherently subjective that putting a value on it is largely a subjective enterprise. Ultimately a piece is worth what someone will pay for it, and in that respect it differs little from any other product we might buy or sell. But where did the rules come from? How did the market for art develop? Certainly we'd need an exhaustive historical study just to get close to coming up with a basic answer. However, here in America we can get some idea of its development by looking at the art scene in New York during the post WW II era. It was during this period that contemporary art was introduced as a viable economic investment. That fundamentally altered the way that things were done.

For as significant a change in the cultural landscape as it was, the emergence of contemporary art speculation was characterized by an inordinate amount of mystification. To a large extent it still is. Try to find a body of literature that explains the forces behind art market valuation in layman's terms- its rather difficult. I found an obscure book written in 1973 by Sophy Burnham that seemed to offer some basic insight into the phenomenon. The Art Crowd focuses on the various forces that combine to attribute monetary value to modern art. Burnham takes us on a journey that introduces us to artists, museum directors, collectors, dealers and the all powerful institutional trustees. She identifies the internal workings of the marketplace and describes how the various principals interact with each other.

Along the way our guide includes the results of a series of interviews she conducted with the movers-and-shakers of the art world elite. It is remarkable how incestuous these circles are. This is a comparatively small milieu, and key individuals have a disproportionate amount of power to determine which artists become 'successful', and which among them languish in perpetual obscurity. There are a lot of dual relationships, with the same men and women curating works from the very artists that represent the bulk of their collections. It doesn't take much scratching to reveal the extent of unethical behavior beneath the sophisticated veneer of this 'Art Crowd'. Critics accept gifts from artists that they review. Museums receive deep discounts from dealers looking to increase the profile of their respective stables. And trustees use their connections for influence and profit.

It wouldn't take much for a reader to become quickly disenchanted with the the idea of purchasing art. That's probably why this title has such a low profile. Burnham herself seems to have been discouraged from further exploration. A quick internet search reveled that the author now identifies herself as a 'Medium' and practitioner of Reiki. Maybe she divined something so rotten at the core of The Art Crowd that she permanently disengaged from it. But the book is an interesting snapshot into the way things were done during a pivotal point in the evolution of the contemporary arts scene. I don't think it's a stretch to believe that much of the current situation remains the same. The faces and names may change, yet the actual machinations that propel the scene continue to be enigmatic to outsiders.

Scott Zesch, "The Captured: A True Story of Abduction by Indians on the Texas Frontier" (2004).

Imagine for the moment that it is the 19th Century. You are a 12-year-old boy whose parents recently decided to seek opportunity on the Texan frontier. Your nearest neighbor is a mile and a half away, so life is filled with a deep sense of isolation. It is a hardscrabble existence for you and your family, and everyone is expected to put in their share of work. One evening you are finishing up your chores at twilight. You are tired and lost in dreams of other places. Because you are preoccupied with your thoughts, you don't notice that there are three riders on horseback approaching your family's homestead. Only when they are within 300 yards do you snap out of your reverie to examine them. You have to assume that they are cowboys, as there are often buffalo hunts and cattle drives in the territory. But as they draw closer you realize that you were horribly mistaken. You are looking at Indian raiders.

There would have been plenty of opportunites to hear stories about the Plains tribes in the hill country of central Texas. The Comanches and the Apaches were notorious for resisting the pressures of the Federal Indian Affairs Office. There was little that these nomadic peoples could do to stop white folks (especially German-American farmers) from encroaching on their tribal lands. The situation was increasingly desperate, and the vast herds of game that the Natives relied on were rapidly dispersing and leaving the area because of the presence of the White Man. Still the Plains tribes were fierce and proud, and loathe to voluntarily come in off the range in order to settle in reservations and adapt to an entirely foreign way of living. So they held on to their way of life, and made periodic raids on the white settlements.

One of the most extreme dangers you'd face if you were that preteen caught unawares out on the outskirts of your property was the prospect of being snatched up by the "savage" Indian raiders. Initially the Indians snatched little boys and girls in order to ransom them back to their distraught families. But eventually their numbers started to suffer because birthrates in the tribes were decreasing. More and more, Comanches and Apaches looked to bolster their strength through forced adoption. They were entirely race-neutral when selecting their captives. They grabbed Mexicans, Mexican-Americans, African-Americans, and European-Americans with the aim of transforming them into brave warriors. In order to have the best chance of turning captives into "Indians", they needed to get to kids before they were able to fully form their cultural identities.

You might expect that it would be difficult to get these young white children to embrace an entirely new way of living, especially after being kidnapped by strange and foreign men. But life on the frontier was grueling and confining for adolescents. Many of the hostages eagerly took to the adventure and freedom of Indian life. Scott Zesch's The Captured examines the cases of ten (or so) such children. In each instance boys and girls were seized by force, often with accompanying violence to their family members. The descriptions of the abductions are harrowing. It's hard for the modern reader to understand how these kids overcame the horror and brutality they witnessed firsthand, visited on their friends and family by marauders from the wilderness. Yet as Zesch reports, they did. And they often came to identify with tribal life more than their birth culture.

The stories in The Captured are truly unforgettable. Zesch is fascinated by the psychological processes that allowed these captives to respond favorably to an invading people. Withon a period of only a few months, several of these kids found themselves willingly participating in raids against the very settlements they had been recently stolen from. Contemporary observers might suggest the Stockholm Syndrome as the reason for this phenomena. But every one of these "white Indians" would retain their love for their adoptive tribes for the remainder of their lives. It didn't matter if they were recovered after six months or twelve years. Something about the lifestyle of the Plains Indians was inescapably compelling for these young individuals. Fortunately for readers, Zesch has the skills necessary to enliven a time-and-place that has vanished forever. This is a remarkable book.

Kalle Lasn, "Culture Jam" (1999).

Generally I don't seek out book recommendations from 14-year olds. While they may be tuned in to some pretty cool things, I just assume that their appreciation for whatever cultural objects they prefer is relative to their stage in life. Still it's probably a bit limiting for me to take that viewpoint, so if I think a kid is especially evolved and I know that he/she enjoys other things that I like- then I figure it might be worth a try. That's how I ended up with a copy of Kalle Lasn's Culture Jam. It's basically a screed against the consumer culture of the United States, and a manifesto suggesting ways to undermine it. The title refers to any action which seeks to disrupt the prevalent mentality of the society.

Lasn was born in Estonia, and hopped around quite a bit before finding himself quartered in Vancouver, British Columbia. At that point in his life he was working as a documentary filmmaker. He became interested in forest management, and decided to make a short film about an advertising campaign that was being promoted by the lumber industry. After completing the work, Lasn discovered that Canadian television stations would never show his work. Apparently he had yet to realize the influence advertisers have over the media, because this rejection inspired him to start Adbusters Magazine. Lasn then undertook a series of ventures intended to fight against corporate power.

Culture Jam is divided into four sections, each corresponding to a season. Lasn's conceit is that the process of 'culture jamming' will inevitably lead to a nationwide revolution. But first he needs to make the case that a problem exists with the current paradigm. This should not be a difficult task, given the state of the country. The truth is that there have been so many books and films that have sought to outline the damage done by unscrupulous corporations. One would have to be daft not to recognize the power corporations wield throughout the United States and the world. Still, in the face of such overwhelming influence, what exactly does Lasn think "culture jammer" activists can do?

Lasn recommends that people take whatever steps they can to resist the corporate state. He tells the story of how he experienced an epiphany in a grocery store parking lot, and proceeded to jam the coin slot of a gate releasing shopping carts for customer use. Somehow he felt that he was making a difference with this small gesture. Lasn suggests that people ought to refuse to give in to company procedures and policies during phone conversations regarding problems with products and services. He even goes so far as to prod vandals to deface billboards, which encroach on our "mental environment". Other ideas Lasn presents require large sums of money. He encourages ordinary citizens to buy 30-second advertising spots on television, in order to air "anti-marketing" messages. If station managers refuse to air them, Lasn says that we should alert the press.

Unfortunately there is very little in Culture Jam that strikes me as particularly useful in a potential confrontation with corporate culture. He provides a general outline that traces the evolution of the concept of "corporations" from 17th Century England to the present day. It's a section that provides information that should be well known to anybody who has devoted even a minimum of time to the subject at hand. And he touches on the situationist philosophy of Guy Debord, which lends a historical sheen to his efforts. Yet Lasn ultimately fails to convince the reader that his anti-consumer movement has anything to offer other than generalities and enthusiasm. This book could certainly be of some use to an adolescent trying to re-envision his/her place within society, but I can't recommend it for anyone who has already identified the basic problems that we face.

Guy Claxton. "Hare Brain, Tortoise Mind" (1997).

What would be your criteria for the best non-fiction books? In order for me to find such a work compelling, it must change the way I think about things- at least for the duration of the time that I'm reading it. But my standard for the ultimate non-fiction is a quality that I take away from the reading that remains with me for a long time. A lot of stuff seems profound only as long as the author is explaining it, and leaves no residue in the reader's life. Naturally there is some sort of continuum that describes the extent to which something one reads will stick with him/her. It's not something to be measured in absolutes. Guy Claxton's Hare Brain, Tortoise Mind certainly intrigued me when I was in the process of absorbing it, but whether or not it's going to linger is tough to determine.

Claxton is most of all moved by the concept of the unconscious, which he refers to as the "undermind'. If you've ever taken a basic survey course in psychology, then you are likely familiar with the term. You'd encounter it whenever you studied Freud and Jung. They defined it as a dark and enigmatic region of the mind that we are ordinarily unaware of, but nonetheless affects the way we think, and the choices we make. Freud most associated the unconscious with sex, while Jung paired it with dreams. When they first introduced their versions of the concept, it entered the popular mind fairly quickly. But over the subsequent decades, it has become progressively discredited, and viewed as essentially unscientific.

Western society seems to have sided with Descartes, with his reliance on the conscious mind as the only source of true thought. Claxton calls the prevalent attitude a reliance on "d-mode" (deliberation or default, alternatively). We have been taught that the only worthwhile mental activity involves logic and/or analytical reasoning- byproducts of the conscious mind. Meanwhile the unconsciousness, which has always been an essential component of Eastern spiritual and cultural traditions, is either viewed as suspect or ignored altogether. Claxton views that as a mistake, if not a fatal position. His contention is that these two disparate modes of thinking are equally significant, and respectively appropriate for different situations and problems.

But before we can give the unconsciousness its proper due, we have to accept that it actually exists, and discover its nature. In order to establish its parameters, Claxton cites many experiments conceived by a wide range of cognitive psychologists and other scientists. He doesn't belabor the reader with overwhelming details, but instead presents the findings in easy-to-understand, direct language. Even without the copious references included in the footnotes, these studies are convincing. There is no doubt that the brain processes an almost unimaginably large amount of information that we are never consciously aware of. To add a layer of additional authenticity, Claxton includes several fascinating puzzles which demonstrate the presence of unconscious processing.

In order to cover all of his bases, Claxton presents a detailed look into the world of neurology. He offers an accessible look at the structures of the brain itself. He explains how neurons work, and how the patterns of fired electricity that course through the brain relate to both conscious and unconscious learning. His writing style makes an extremely complicated subject sensible to the layman. The elegance of the system is remarkable, appealing to both the rationality of the conscious mind, and the intuition of the undermind. In a relatively short (yet dense) volume, Claxton manages to accomplish amazing feats of exposition. As in an optical illusion, his revelations seem at once deeply profound and inexplicably obvious. I would certainly recommend Hare Brain, Tortoise Mind to a general audience of inquiry, and I would consider it almost indispensable for artists, writers, business managers, salesmen and educators.

Ralph Blumenthal, "Stork Club" (2000).

It's likely no coincidence that I thought a lot about social capital last weekend. I am often influenced (in sometimes subconscious ways) by whatever book I am currently working my way through. It just so happens that I was reading Ralph Blumenthal's Stork Club last week. Before I picked it up, I didn't know anything about the Manhattan club of the title. Apparently it was a major social institution in mid-Twentieth Century America. A list of its patrons would typically include actors, journalists, authors, singers, gangsters, socialites, dandies, debutantes, dancers and politicians. If you were recognized by its high-toned doorman, then you knew that you were somebody. A starstruck Midwesterner visiting the "Big Apple" could get his/her fill of celebrity at The Stork.

The origins of the club were not nearly so exclusive as one might expect from its eventual success and reputation. It was owned and operated by a man named Sherman Billingsley. Born in Kentucky, Billingley migrated with his family to Oklahoma when he was just a young child. His father was eager to claim a piece of Indian Territory, which was newly opened to settlement by the federal government. Sherman and his siblings were farm kids, and they learned to work hard and find money wherever they could. Logan (Sherman's eldest brother) decided to try his hand at bootlegging, and his younger brothers followed in his footsteps. When the 18th Amendment prohibited the sale of alcohol, it created a fortuitous niche in the economy for the Billingsley Boys. They made a heap of cash, and also ran afoul of the law.

Having made his pile in the underground liquor trade (and spent time in jail for his missteps), Sherman followed Logan to NYC, where a fortune was being made in real estate development. He opened up a string of corner pharmacies where he sold nostrums that were really just clandestine bottles of alcohol. He made money quickly, and was able to open up a speakeasy in midtown. It did well, and attracted the attention of some truly bad actors. Billingsley's ties to mobsters (like Frank Costello, Owney Madden, and "Dutch" Schultz) were a necessary evil in the nightclub industry. Proprietors had to pay off racketeers in order to stay in business. Billingsley claimed to resent their involvement, but seemed to ultimately benefit from their protection throughout his career.

Warding off the tough guys amounted to just another in a long line of hassles and expenses Billingsley confronted during his ascendancy. Later on, when much of the crime syndicate was pushed from Manhattan, it would be the service unions that prompted the greatest portion of Mr. B.'s grief. The Stork Club was picketed for years by disgruntled ex-employees. Billingsley was notoriously anti-labor. Perhaps he acquired his elitism from hanging out with the high company that patronized The Stork. Anyway, he would often use his contacts as a bludgeon against unions and other competitors. J. Edgar Hoover (the legendary FBI director) was notably useful for this purpose, as were Walter Winchell and other journalists who favored Billingsley's place.

For a couple of decades The Stork Club remained the preeminent place to see and be seen. Blumenthal's book includes photos with his luminous clientele, which featured the Kennedys, the Roosevelts, Marilyn Monroe, Earnest Hemingway, Damon Runyon, Frank Sinatra, Alfred Hitchcock, and Henry Fonda. The list of names mentioned in conjunction with The Stork is indeed amazing. It reads like a Who's Who of America from the 30's to the 50's. In fact (in this reader's opinion) Blumenthal seems a bit too starstruck in his account of the place. He could have given over more space to the many controversies Billingsley was involved in. He could have more closely examined the club owner's prejudices (he once had a famous feud with Josephine Baker), or provided more background information about the phenomena of unionization during the 50's.

Still, if you have an interest in the high-living antics of prominent people during this era, then you'll no doubt enjoy this book. It's also interesting to read about Billingsley's often troubled relationship with his staff. He was watchful to the point of paranoia- even going so far as to practice active wire surveillance over both his workers and customers. Blumenthal seems flippant about these spying tactics, but it's not too much of a leap to believe that Billingsley might have been paying for Hoover's favor with illegally-obtained information about the nation's elite. A chapter on that aspect of Sherman Billingsley's life would have drawn significant attention. Perhaps Blumenthal's research just didn't support that avenue of inquiry.

Steven Levitt & Stephen Dubner, "Freakonomics" (2005).

If I made a hierarchical list of my reading interests, the subject of economics would be close to the bottom. When I was an undergraduate, course requirements included a semester each of macro- and micro-economics. I remember very little of anything that was presented in those courses. I didn't pay much attention because I found the material tedious. Since then my understanding of the way economies work hasn't gotten much further than the laws of supply and demand, and diminishing returns. I consider my curiosity fairly broad, but for some reason I'm not compelled to learn much else about economics. So if you suggested that I would be likely to find myself reading a book on the topic, I'd probably laugh at you.

Yet somehow I am reading a book that can be nominally defined as a study of "economics". Still I'd characterize Steven Levitt and Stephen Dubner's Freakonomics as a work more aligned with sociology than any ordinary approach to economics. Levitt is a Harvard-educated academic who is considered to be among the very best economists of his generation (he recently turned 40). In 2006 Time Magazine included him on their list of "100 People Who Shape Our World". But it is not strictly his theoretical genius that has earned him worldwide fame. Actually he's best known for his unconventional approach to the application of economics. He uses the tools of the field to examine phenomena in politics, law enforcement, and education.

Freakonomics is the result of repeated requests from publishing houses for Levitt to write a mass market book on economics for laymen. Having judged himself an insufficient writer, he enlisted the help of Dubner, who had interviewed him previously. Together they set out to write a book that the average reader could understand. Levitt expresses a distrust of the typical obfuscations that the mathematics of economics employs. In fact he has been noted as having said "I just don’t know very much about the field of econometrics." His basic belief is that the rules of the field can be applied to virtually anything. And together the authors convey a set of these structures in "common sense" language that doesn't require a background in economics to understand.

But what makes this work eminently readable are the mysteries that Levitt and Dubner study, and the conclusions that they draw. Likely the most controversial finding is their contention that "Roe Vs. Wade" is responsible for the steep decline in American crime rates during the mid-90's. It was this bit of analysis that brought Freakonomics to my awareness in the first place. Upon its initial release, there was a wave of protest about this idea. The authors explain that the huge increase in abortions after legalization eliminated a large portion of the criminal class that would have come to age in the early part of the last decade. The underlying assumption here is that unwanted babies grow up with a greater risk of transforming into law-breaking adults. This was obviously damaging for the growing number of moralists and fundamentalists in the US.

This slim volume is packed with similarly intriguing (if mostly less incendiary) material. Levitt and Dubner talk about the commonalities of Japanese sumo wrestlers and American teachers. Apparently both groups will cheat if given the proper incentive. They describe the asymmetrical information advantages of real estate agents, and how the Internet is actively undermining that imbalance. They even present an insider's look at the accounting logbooks of a chapter of the Black Gangster Disciple Nation. We get to see exactly how lucrative crack-dealing is, and for whom. All in all, this is an entertaining and informative read- if only a bit thin conceptually. Although I don't feel that it offered me an integrated way of thinking about the world, Freakonomics did let me peer through some unlikely windows for unique perspectives.

Pope Brock, "Indiana Gothic" (1999).

I've come to the conclusion that a reader should have significant doubts about the objectivity of a tragic story, especially if the narrator is related to any of the participants. If the difficulty of applying an even standard to the actions of all players is acknowledged ahead of time, then the account can be read with the confidence that the writer is at least honest with him/herself. Otherwise the reader should direct a jaundiced eye toward any inherent bias of the author. He/she should remind him/herself that there is no single inviolable truth. We all have personal understandings mediated by relationships, experience, and individual personalities. How could it be any other way?

Because of the inescapable reality of subjectivity, it must be pointed out that the author of Indiana Gothic is the great-grandchild of Ham Dillon, a man who was murdered by his brother-in-law. One might speculate that there are enough generations between the 'victim" and his killer that a fairly even approach could be taken in outlining the "real story". But as Brock himself says in the afterword of Indiana Gothic, "Almost a century later, Ham Dillon was still a golden boy in family legend." Therein lies the rub. It is eminently clear just how strongly Brock favors his ancestor in this tale.

Even with the obvious sentimentality that sprinkles Brock's portrayal of Ham Dillon, it is rather clear that the guy was objectionable. When his wife's sister (Allie Hale) comes for an extended visit to the family's Indiana farm, he wastes no time in finding her alone and putting the moves on her. This dalliance quickly builds into a full blown affair. Granted his sister-in-law is stuck within a passionless marriage to a rather pinched man who is much older than her, but this doesn't excuse the perfidy of the cheating couple. They even go as far as to plot out a way for them to be nearer each other, so they can continue their secret treachery for years. Ham convinces Link Hale (his brother-in-law) to give up a good job and a prosperous future, and move to a small farm community with the pretense that his wife can reestablish a close relationship with her sister.

Perhaps the torrid romance would have flamed out naturally had the illicit lovers not conceived a child, and tried to pass it off as Link's offspring. The little boy looked a lot like Ham, and Link couldn't help but wonder why. And it didn't exactly inspire confidence when the child's biological father suggested that the boy be named after him. Still the cheated husband tried to retain his misguided belief in his wife's virtue, and the integrity of his brother-in-law, who had made duplicitous efforts to help integrate him into the social world of rural Indiana (including sponsoring him for the Masons). Yet Link's self-denial eventually became too much to sustain. He caught the two of them in an embrace and finally confronted them with his suspicions. While his wife defiantly confessed, Ham Dillon lied to the end. Even on his deathbed he refused to admit his guilt to his own wife.

Indiana Gothic traces both the events that led up to the tragedy, as well as the court trial that resulted in its aftermath. The author's admirable attention to period detail can't obscure his essential unreliability. Because not only does Brock continually highlight the irrepressible charms of his adulterous great-grandfather, but he goes out of his way to represent Link Hale as a pathetic and weak man. It is almost as if Brock needs to find a way to justify the aggrandizement of his relative, in order to sustain the family legend. Additionally one wonders how Brock can pretend to faithfully relate the conversations, motives, and (even) inner thoughts of people who died before he was born. He makes no attempt to explain his conjectures, nor does he include an outline of his sources. There is no reason to believe in the authenticity of his account or any of the details, aside from the bare-boned facts accessible to anyone willing to comb through the newspapers of the time.

Darcy O'Brien, "The Hillside Stranglers"

Despite the beacon of joy that has recently arrived in my life, I still find myself inexplicably drawn to darker materials. I've told myself that I'm going to lay off the true crime genre, but it's more difficult than I thought it might be. It is actually getting harder to explain why I like reading this type of book in the first place. I suppose I could offer some pretentious theory about the totemic nature of defending oneself with the artifacts of killers. Maybe in some small way I am de-fanging the fear that accounts of such extreme behavior invoke. Or alternatively, in some ugly but indisputable way, I find a perverse satisfaction in learning about what other human beings have been capable of throughout history. Perhaps it reinforces my own sense of internal restraint and humanity.

For whatever reason, I chose to read Darcy O'Brien's account of the "Hillside Stranglers". Angelo Buono and Kenneth Bianchi were convicted of killing ten women in California in the late 70's. They were cousins of Italian-American descent, and seemed to have fueled one another's worst instincts. They shared a hatred for women, and an aggravated lack of compassion for other people. Before almost every incident of murder they perpetrated, they visited violent sex and torture upon their victims. Their crimes inflamed the entire city of Los Angeles with paranoia and panic, and they evaded justice for their actions for far too long. Unfortunately they both received life sentences instead of the death penalty. While Buono died in prison of a heart attack in 2002, Bianchi is currently incarcerated in Washington state.

What makes the case of the Hillside Stranglers so interesting is the interplay between the killers. It is widely thought that Buono was the dominant partner, yet Bianchi continued to kill on his own after being forced out of California by his cousin. Bianchi was actually caught first, after slaying two women in Bellingham, Washington. At first he tried to fake a multiple personality disorder under hypnosis, but he was eventually discredited in a dispute between psychiatrists. He only implicated Buono as part of a plea bargain that ended up saving his own life. Even though he had agreed to testify against Angelo Buono- he continued to lie through his court appearances, and almost sabotaged the trial with his unreliable participation. Fearing a jury's potential distrust of Bianchi's credibility, the District Attorney made a motion to dismiss the charges against Buono. If not for an unconventional decision by the presiding judge (an order to deny the prosecutor's motion), Buono would have walked on the charges of multiple murder.

Darcy O'Brien explains in his forward that he knew he needed to write The Hillside Stranglers in order to tell the stories of the traditionally ignored participants in the events- primarily the investigators, the victims and their family members. He does describe several of the murders in detail, and justifies this choice by explaining the necessity of portraying the horror of the crimes themselves, as well as the cruelty of Buono and Bianchi. Apparently he pieced together his accounts of these events from tapes that various parties made with Bianchi after his capture. I have no idea how O'Brien has reconstructed entire conversations that no one besides the accused men (and the victims) ever heard, or on what he based his analysis of the intricacies of their relationship. In fact the author doesn't include any endnotes, sources or references. This is a glaring omission, and makes me doubt the content of his book.

There seems to be a very specific agenda on O'Brien's mind. He is particularly laudatory of the detectives and sheriffs from Los Angeles. At every step he goes out of his way to praise their honor and integrity. We can only rely on our own perceptions about people, along with suspicions that some things are being left unsaid, to challenge O'Brien's idealistic depictions of these men. One officer in particular has left his family after undergoing a torrid affair with someone involved in the case, yet O'Brien still manages to portray him as completely compassionate and selfless in his drive to prosecute Bianchi and Buono. It is continuously suggested that this character considers "stepping over the line" into abuse and other forms of unprofessional conduct- and it seems like O'Brien regrets the fact that he didn't. The author repeatedly laughs over this same officer's repeated put-downs of women he doesn't like. At one point he publicly calls a defense attorney a "cunt"... and then explains his choice of words by suggesting that she "likes it". All of this while simultaneously focusing on the misogyny of the Stranglers.

O'Brien constantly pines for the "olden days"when things were simpler, and there weren't so many pesky protections for those accused of crimes. He is not mistaken in his assessment of Buono and Bianchi- they are/were complete scum. Yet O'Brien's habit of furnishing all the cops with white hats seems neither appropriate nor particularly convincing. This is not a black-and-white world. It never has been. It is a shame that a reasonably-skilled writer felt such a pressing need to deliver so much stilted moralizing.

Hubner and Gruson, "Monkey on a Stick" (1988)

I've written on a few occasions about the Hare Krishna farm community in the northern panhandle of West Virginia. I have visited New Vrindaban four times. It is an impressive retreat located in the wild hills near Moundsville. Its central focus is Prabhupada's Palace of Gold, a grand edifice built to honor the founder and spiritual master of the Krishna Consciousness Movement. The place has a storied history, and has weathered a lot of controversy over the years. I learned a lot about its development by watching a documentary called Holy Cow Swami- a documentary film made by West Virginian filmmaker Jacob Young. I thought that Young's examination and portrayal of New Vrindaban was fairly balanced, and that his appreciation for his subject was sincere.

Still there are plenty of crazy and dark tales to tell about both New Vrindaban and the Krishna movement throughout the West. During further research on these topics I became aware of a book by John Hubner and Lindsry Gruson entitled Monkey on a Stick. It was written in the midst of the media frenzy that followed the trials of Kirtanananda Swami Bhaktipada (Keith Ham), and the shocking tales being told by disgruntled devotees and fringies* across America and beyond. People had viewed the Movement with suspicion ever since the New York Times covered the activities of the very first temple in Manhattan in the mid-60's. Despite this nation's professed respect for freedom of religion- if you are not a conventional Christian, a lot of folks will view you with distrust and confusion. Certainly some of the harsh criticism leveled against the Krishnas in the 80's was a result of such attitudes.

But if you dig a little deeper, you can find plenty of salacious details originating from within the Movement itself. Hubner and Gruson did a thorough job of cataloging the negative perspectives of both current and ex-devotees, along with those of independent observers, law enforcement figures, and peripheral adherents. Before reading Monkey on a Stick, I could have outlined a basic overview of some of the difficulties that New Vrindaban has faced over the years, but I was missing a lot of the background details that would explain some of the complexities involved in the community. This book filled in the gaps. Even more helpfully, the authors put the local problems in a wider frame by examining the conflict between the Governing Body Council of ISKCON (that was supposed to manage the Movement) and the initiating gurus who viewed themselves as individual succesers to Prabhupada himself.

Kirtanananda wasn't the only swami who ran afoul of the law after Prabhupada's death. A California-based guru named Hansadutta (Hans Kary) collected an arsenal of weapons near San Francisco to confront what he thought would be a massive invasion of Karmis**. He fortified himself with illicit drugs and sex with his female devotees. Jayatirtha (James Immel, the London guru ) used LSD to connect with Krishna, and decided to likewise avail himself of the flesh of his disciples. He was later killed and beheaded by his most ardent follower, who had decided he was a modern-day Rasputin. Bhagavan (William Ehrlichman) ruled over multiple European temples with an imperious approach. He had an overwhelming weakness for luxury that earned him the nickname "The Sun King". He lived a lavish life in a mansion and drank out of a $10,000 goblet made from pure gold.

Ultimately Monkey on a Stick makes a pretty convincing case that the downfall of the International Society for Krishna Consciousness followed quickly upon Prabhupada's passing in 1977. He gave instructions from his deathbed for succession. He designated 11 of his disciples rittvik representatives, and gave them the power to act as his deputies in initiating future devotees. Unfortunately the chosen ones viewed themselves as divine acharyas- or as the infallible representatives of God on Earth. They became trapped in Maya (the sensory world of the ego) and misused their perceived authority to further their insatiable desires for power. The danger of a religion based upon a master-devotee relationship is that it is particularly vulnerable to exploitation. Luckily for Krishna Consciousness there have been 'reformers' in the Movement like Ravindra Svurupa (William Deadwyler, Philadelphia) and Bahudaka (Peter Chatterton, Vancouver) who have arisen to keep ISKCON 'Honest'.

*"Fringies" are those that generally follow the teachings, philosophy and faith-based beliefs of Prabhupada and Krishna Consciousness, but do not adhere rigidly to the strictures of devotees.

** "Karmies" are the meat-eating heathens who have yet to embrace Krishna Consciousness. They are doomed to a cycle of reincarnation on the "material platform" until they surrender fully to God and work off their accumulated karma.