Browsing through my favorite bookstore, I picked up a copy of Beat the Reaper by Josh Bazell. I don’t usually buy national bestsellers at an independent bookstore, but the manager highly recommended it, and I respect her opinion – so there ya go.

When I’m unfamiliar with an author, the first thing I usually do is check the back of the book for a bio. And what do I see? A conversation with the author – okay, maybe a little self indulgent, but a creative way to learn about him. Then following that was a section – Questions and Topics For Discussion. I’m beginning to question the manager’s opinion And then it follows with Bazell’s suggestions for further reading. Who does this guy think he is? This is his debut novel for pete’s sake! All right – enough. Time to get to the actual story.

I don’t think that I’ve ever seen footnotes in a fiction novel, but by page two, there they are. I don’t like footnotes, and I found that I especially don’t like them in novels. They’re a distraction and they break up the flow.

Okay, enough whining – again, onto the story.

Beat the Reaper starts off at a sprint and doesn’t slow down (except for the footnotes which just as easily could have been incorporated in the main text). Told in first person, Bazell’s prose is highly intelligently and comical that will keep you thoroughly entertained. But this is not a book for the squeamish. The graphic violence might turn off some readers. Dr. Peter Brown starts his narration by kicking the crap out of a would-be mugger. From there he goes into the hospital and calmly starts his rounds, scaring the hell out of the would-be mugger as he sits in emergency waiting to see a doctor. The humor and irony is consistent throughout. The chapters alternate between present and past, and without giving anything away (other than what I’ve already given away in the title of this review), they are artistically woven so you’ll continually be asking questions, but they all will be answered. And the final fight? All I can say is eeewwwwwww. Far fetched, but I loved it.

With all of my misgivings before I even started reading the book, Josh Bazell won me over by the first page. If you’re into high-paced, dark (yet hilarious) humor thrillers. This is the book for you.

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Bucky Bleichert and Lee Blanchert are boxers turned coppers who have recently forged a friendship and partnership after kicking the shit out of each other in a highly-publicized, post-retirement boxing match that resulted in huge headlines, cash for the LAPD, and a promotion for Bucky in James Ellroy’s fictional take on a true crime, The Black Dahlia.

They are on the job when the Black Dahlia’s body is found in a vacant lot around the corner on 39th and Norton. The torso is severed, and her face has been sliced ear to ear — mafia style. The body has been drained of blood, and the organs removed.

Lee goes from zero to nutso, using the case as a way to resolve the murder of his own sister. Bucky does everything possible to get out of working the case, and instead spends his time trying to undo the crazy his partner is unleashing. At the center of this is Kay, Lee’s special lady who is also making bedroom eyes at Bucky.

A frenzied, hopped up Lee goes missing. Bucky chases him to Mexico. Meanwhile, no one is closer to solving the case. In Lee’s absence, Bucky catches Black Dahlia fever, and follows a lead involving a Black Dahlia lookalike with a prominent father. This leads to loads of deviant sexual situations, crooked coppers, and more twists than a bag of licorice.

The Black Dahlia is based on a true story of the  still-unsolved murder of Elizabeth Short, an East Coast girl and wannabe actress who got mixed up in her own lies and too many boys. It is filled with 1940s-style race relations, politics, and guys guys. It’s the kind of noir crime novel where the lingo leads a character to say something like: “Then you’ll top out your twenty rousting [racist term favored by Mark Twain] piss bums. Or hasn’t anyone told you that cops who take things personal end up from the hunger?”

Ellroy solves the crime in his own way, but getting there involves sifting through dozens of characters and threads and dead ends. It’s a good solid mess of thick personalities and plot and a seedy glance at post-war Los Angeles.

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The Pittsburgh Post Gazette reviews Pete Hautman’s How to Steal a Car. Pete (who answered our 6 questions not too long ago) will be reading with John Nielson at 5:30 p.m. on Tuesday, November 10th at Kieran’s Irish Pub.

The LA Times reviews Mary Karr’s latest memoir, Lit. Karr will be reading at the Barnes & Noble in the Galleria at 7p.m. on Wednesday, November 11.

The Strib loved Kevin Kling’s Holiday Inn. He’ll be reading at 7 p.m. Thursday, November 12 at the Central Library, Nicollet Mall.

Masha Hamilton, whose novel, 31 Hours, David Fingerman loved will be reading from that novel at 6:30 p.m. Friday, November 13 at the True Colors Bookstore (4755 Chicago Ave. So., Minneapolis, MN).

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While reading American Born Chinese, by Gene Luen Yang, I had to consistently remind myself that it was graphic novel for young adults. Without that reminder I found myself growing a little weary of the premise — dealing with racism in America, trying to find your identity, etc.

But when I kept in mind that this book is not meant for the jaded, cynical eyes of an adult reader I found myself delighted with the way Yang told this story.

Yang presents his point through three stories. First we have the tale of the Monkey King who goes to a dinner party of the gods and is rejected because he’s a monkey. The gods are not nice and make the Monkey King embarrased of who his. He spend the rest of his story trying to overcome that.

Then we’re introduced to Jin Wang, an American boy of Chinese parents. Jin’s dealing with all kinds of crap being the new, different kid at school. He longs to be a Transformer when he grows up (and the way this toy represents the overarching theme of the book is almost, but not quite, too precious). Then one day another new Asian kid, Wei Chen, shows up. Eventually, they become friends. Once they reach high school, Wei begins dating the only Asian girl, Suzy, and Jin develops a crush on a white girl. His pursuit of Amelia is sweet and funny and not unlike the things all teens regardless of cultural background go through.

The third story is a sort of sitcom about an blonde American teen named Danny and his Chinese cousin, Chin-kee, who comes to visit and wrecks all kinds of havoc on Danny’s life. Chin-kee is the essence of all kinds of Asian stereotypes — he has slits for eyes, big, beaver-like buck teeth, and speaks with a heavy accent. Chin-kee attends school with Danny and continues to embarrass him by answering all the questions the teachers ask, peeing in the captain of the basketball team’s Coke, and all sort of other things that play into the Asian stereotype. The Chink-kee scenes can be somewhat painful and the illustrated reminder of a sitcom’s laugh track at his most asinine moments made me cringe. It reminded me of the movie “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” where Mickey Rooney plays the Asian landlord, it’s awful.

Each of the three threads running through the novel are well-told and illustrated, they stand on their own. It’s when Yang starts to weave them together that things start to feel a bit contrived and convenient. Well, at least the Monkey King part. Part of it is that I enjoyed that aspect of the story so much, I didn’t want it sullied by the other two more mundane pieces of the book. That being said when the Chin-kee and Jin stories collide, I can see how a younger reader would find that powerful and profound. As a thirtysomething, it seemed kind of obvious.

But, despite all that, American Born Chinese is a quick, captivating tale of a young man struggling with who he is. It’s a coming of age story that’s more than worth the 2 hours it will take you to read it.

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I love a new take on an old tale. It’s why I see every version of Hamlet I can. There is a comfort in knowing what comes next, but there is also sheer excitement in never having seen it in such a way before. Lynn Roberts and her illustrator brother David Roberts have given us some very fresh, very stylized versions of three snoozer fairy tales.

Their first venture was Cinderella: An Art Deco Love Story. In this version Greta, later known as Cinderella, is a 1920s flapper girl. Yes, her mother still dies, but her father lives to marry another woman with two mean daughters, Elvira and Ermintrude. E & E swipe all of Greta’s fabulous Gatsby-esque clothes and make her sleep in the kitchen. Of course the prince announces he’s looking for a bride (on the radio, because it’s sooo 20s), and of course there is a ball. When the stepmother and stepsisters step out in all their finery they look like they are stepping of 1920 magazine covers.

Naturally, Cinderella’s fairy godmother appears, and helps her out. But in Roberts’ version she changes a leek into a gleaming Rolls Royce and that’s how Cinderella arrives, in style. Naturally, the prince sees her and falls in love, but she has a curfew and leaves the glass slipper behind. Because Roberts doesn’t kill off Cinderella’s father, he’s able to come to her aid when the prince arrives the next morning looking for the girl whose foot can fit the shoe. Roberts also gives Cinderella a healthy dose of forgiving kindness, since the last page is a wedding photo of Cinderella and her prince with her two stepsisters playing bridesmaids and making silly faces in the photo. This is the moral that resonates in this updated version; it’s not someday your prince will come, it’s that even though people treat you poorly, you should forgive them.

In Little Red: A Fizzingly Good Yarn, Little Red’s real name is Thomas and Thomas loves red. Thomas’ parents own a cozy inn called “Ye Olde Belch.” It is here where Thomas packs his basket of goodies for Grandma, including a keg of ginger ale – made at the inn. While much of the story stays the same as the traditional tale, Red bests the Wolf with the ginger ale. First Red tells the Wolf that he’s not very tasty and ginger ale would be much better. The Wolf chugs down the keg, burps up Grandma and promises to stop eating people if Red continues to bring him a keg of ginger ale every week. Done and done.

The last book (so far) is Rapunzel: A Groovy Fairy Tale. This story is set in the late 1970s, and Rapunzel’s long hair fits right in with the groovy vibe, retro clothes, and platform shoes. Rapunzel lives in an apartment building owned by her evil Aunt Esme, and guess what? The elevator is broken, so Esme, not wanting to walk downstairs takes Rapunzel’s Red Hair Express. Rapunzel stays in her room watching her lava lamp, playing with a Rubik’s Cube, and listening to Bowie records. She’s a modern girl, but hasn’t set foot outside the apartment.

One day, a cute boy rides by on his banana seat bike and spies Esme (the school lunch lady) coming down a long rope of hair. Curious, Roger calls up and gets hauled into the apartment by Rapunzel’s hair. Instantly they fall in love. Of course. Roger plays in a band, so they share music and talk all the time. But one day Rapunzel spills the beans to Aunt Esme saying something to the effect that Esme is much heavier than Roger. Esme promptly cuts off Rap’s hair, and kicks her out of the apartment. Then waits for Roger to show up to give him what for. Sadly, Rap roams the city, sleeps in a doorway, and befriends a stray cat. Roger shows up to the apartment and unknowingly gets pulled up by Esme with Rap’s cut off hair. Esme pushes Roger out the window. Luckily, the hair breaks his fall, but he hits his head and doesn’t remember a thing. After seeing a poster for Roger’s band at a music store, Rap shows up to his gig. He takes one look at her, remembers everything, and they live happily ever after making wigs from Rap’s old hair.

While all three stories are retold by Ms. Roberts, they wouldn’t be half as good if it weren’t for such extraordinary artwork by David Roberts. Cinderella and Rapunzel really stand out artistically. And in the Illustrator’s Notes, Mr, Roberts imagines Cinderella and Rapunzel to be related some how, so there are somethings from Cinderella that
have been passed down to Rapunzel. Which is just cool. My four year old daughter loves these books. She’s heard the stories before, but the modernization of the tales and the groovy visuals help her to understand that while she might recognize the names and plots, they are told differently, they look different, and different is good. As an adult, these stylized tales are a real treat. I don’t mind reading these books over and over again. The artwork is so detailed that you see something new with every turn of the page, no matter how many times you’ve seen the page before. Simply wonderful.

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There’s something entrancing about a brainiac flirting with a mobster… especially when he flirts back. Moonlight in Odessa is a steamy and somber novel that gives the reader a love story caught in a world of beauty and corruption. It’s hard to believe this is the debut novel by Janet Skeslien Charles. Her characters are well defined and the plotline is a daring choice for a newcomer.

Odessa is a town in the Ukraine on the coast of the Black Sea. Like so many other European cities the town is filled with great architecture, vibrant art, and breath-taking beaches. Daria, used to people uneducated on geography or history, simply says “Russia” or “the dark former Soviet Union” to those who give her confused stares. Bribery and corruption are a basic part of life, just like black-outs, food shortages, and e-mail order brides. Daria is educated, independent and her luck is strong. Top-notch English skills allow her to work an esteemed desk job at a foreign shipping company and moonlight at a match-making service that connects Ukrainian women with American men called ‘Soviet Unions.’

I peered at the men in the semi-darkness. Some looked confident. And rightly so. They were a rare commodity here. We looked at them and saw three-course meal tickets with cell phones and credit cards. A direct flight to the American Dream: money, beautiful homes, stability.”
-pg 59

The idea of a better life, to most in Odessa, means an American life. Daria tries hard to fight the pull of America, just as she fights to ignore her lust for Vladimir “Vlad” Stanislavski, the local mafia boss. Unfortunately, life is lonely in Odessa and men are scarce. While Daria has slickly avoided sexual advances of her boss, she just can’t stop writing to American men, and she definitely can’t stop falling for Vlad.

For all her book smarts, Daria is still naïve. She spends most of her time fantasizing about an ideal life in the states, full of freedom and riches. Her stubbornness and quest for perfection, at times, make her a tough character to like, but hers is a journey we can’t help be mesmerized by. Ultimately, Daria falls into the willing arms of Vlad, but after he disappears for months without so much as a phone call, she makes her choice. When Vlad finally shows up with ring in hand, reeking of vodka, she raises her chin and finishes packing her suitcase.

I was marooned in the country.
We didn’t live anywhere near San Francisco.
My husband was not who he’d claimed to be.
He gave me no privacy unless I was in the bathroom.”
-pg 246

Daria discovers America is not at all that she imagined. Her new husband is controlling and demanding; he even calls her Dora, because it’s easier to pronounce. It seems fitting that that book drags in this section, but portions seem almost stagnant. The grass is definitely not any greener in America, especially when it takes two years of marriage to get a green card. Armed only with a visa that could be revoked at any moment, Daria is faced with a situation much more difficult than bribing port officials, but nothing a tough Ukrainian girl can’t handle.

This novel presents the reader with stark contrasts and contradictions; a mobster with a heart, a sleazy boss who turns out to be hero, and backstabbers who used to be best friends. Skeslien Charles has a knack for writing about relationships and everyday people. Her description of bored housewives, waitresses, and hustlers comes alive on each page. Moonlight in Odessa proves you don’t need a man to succeed in life, but a little bit of love always helps. Skeslien Charles crafts her first novel expertly.

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Last week I was talking with my writing teacher, Dale, about graphic novels. I was reading one before class started and he, pretty unfamiliar with the form, was curious what a lit snob like me thought of them.

I told him I was pretty new to the form myself, having only started reading graphic novels seriously for the past year or so. What I had found, I said, is that I tend to like the books that feature a writer and artist team. It seemed to me that the novels with just one person doing the art and the story often seemed to come up lacking (though I do have to take that back because a lot of the graphic memoirs I’ve read and enjoyed are by one person). The artist-written stories were a bit tired, cliche, stories I had already read before. He wasn’t surprised since visual art and writing are two completely different art forms.

Of course, Jeff Lemire has either blown that theory to bits, or proven to be the exception to the rule. I’m not sure yet.

What I am sure of is that The Complete Essex County has both a beautiful story and fabulous art.

Set in rural Canada, the story starts with Lester a young boy who wears a superhero cape and mask and who, after his mother dies, has to live with his uncle Ken on a farm in Essex County. Lester befriends Jimmy a sort of weirdo loner who runs the gas station and whose claim to fame is scoring one goal as a member of the Toronto Maple Leafs. The relationship between Lester and Jimmy is tender and sweet and it isn’t until later in the book that you find out the significance of their friendship.

From Lester and Jimmy we move on to hockey-playing brother Vince and Lou, two Essex County farmboys who move to Toronto in the 50s to play what I think would be called minor league hockey. The two brothers are, of course, in love with the same woman, and their story is told mostly in flashback by an aged Lou who is about to be forced into a nursing home. His story, the flashbacks, are so infused with regret and loss that reading some of the panels was very nearly painful. There is one panel of hockey players clicking their stick on the ice that made my eyes fill with water.

Finally, we read about Anne, a country nurse, who ties all the stories together in a way that is reassuring and fulfilling without feeling contrived at all.

It’s a little tough to write about the stories in Essex County for fear of giving too much away. The way the art and stories intertwine and give you tiny clues about the bigger story going through the book is the most enjoyable part of the collection. I wouldn’t want to ruin that for anyone. Part of the joy of reading a book like this is how very smart and perceptive you feel when something you suspected, something you thought you picked up on is finally revealed, and you were right all along.

The Complete Essex County is one of those rare graphic novels where the art and story have equal weight and work together beautifully. It doesn’t happen that often, and when it does it is pure magic. It’s graphic novels like this that really demonstrate what a powerful and evocative art form graphic storytelling can be.

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Here’s a confession: I did not read Chuck Klosterman’s entire book Eating the Dinosaur. This slighting came with his permission, nay, his insistence.

Klosterman busts through the fourth wall in his essay about football to suggest that if you aren’t into football, you can jump this chapter: ” … I will understand if you skip to the next essay, which is about ABBA.” And if a reader hangs around a bit longer, thinking, perhaps, “Meh. Who cares. He’ll probably say something about Britney Spears in here somewhere,” Klosterman  stops the bus and holds open the door once again:

“If you’d still rather get to the shit about ABBA, you should go there now.”

Friends, I went to the ABBA.

Klosterman’s most-recent compilation of essays includes comparisons between David Koresh and Kurt Cobain, the mislaid career of a once-great athlete, and why observing his longtime neighbor through her window was never really interesting. He talks about why Weezer fans never appreciate Weezer albums, Twitter, and the Unibomber.

It is all done with Klosterman’s patented template. He seems to randomly draws two topics out of a hat, finds a way to weave them together, then throws in an opinion on why an intelligent, shape-shifting metal is more believable in “Terminator” than time travel.  Sometimes it’s smart and makes you think about, say, authenticity.  Sometimes it makes you shudder and think “Dear sweet gentle Jesus, don’t ever let me get stuck in an elevator with this man.”

This book is fine. There is not a lot that differs from any of his other books — post Fargo Rock City — including the ones that are fiction or first cousins of fiction. Sometimes this is fine. I like Klosterman and plan to continue to read everything he publishes in book form. It’s like always ordering the wild rice burger and beer battered fries from the Brewhouse. It tastes good, but it doesn’t come with a hell of a lot of surprises. Sometimes it feels like Klosterman could be more something. “Funny” is one word that comes to mind. “Spontaneous” is another.

This is what it is like to read one of Chuck Klosterman’s compilations of nonfiction essays: It is like being on vacation in a small town in a weird state and seeing some guy wearing a T-shirt with the name of your favorite dive bar printed on the front. It’s like “Oh! You’ve been to Dick’s Crab Shack! We go there all the time!” Except in this metaphor, the T-shirt is Klosterman’s pop culture references. There you are in a mess of words that may or may not interest you and he mentions something you like or remember liking. “Saved by the Bell,” or “WKRP in Cincinnati.” So you nod and keep reading. And these driblets make me like him.

At one point while I was reading this book, Klosterman mentioned Matt Dillon and the band Was Not Was (although the song “Walk the Dinosaur” this has nothing to do with the title) within a few pages of each other. Both of these topics had come up in a conversation I’d had with my boyfriend earlier in the day.

I can’t tell if this means we are all psychically linked, or if it just means that Klosterman talks about everything in the world at least once.

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Yes, I’ve been reading vampire novels in October. Shocking. Not just any vampire novels, serial vampire novels! I understand if you question my judgment. I certainly do. After reading eight books back to back they all blend together. However, I can tell you that while Ms. Harris has created a new rush in reading, her writing and storytelling doesn’t improve through the course of books. Reading an entire series of books is a feat. And if authors are going to put out a series, they need to gradually raise the bar to keep readers interested. Ms. Harris has created a half-cooked heroine in Sookie Stackhouse. She’s a cute, country mouse with telepathy And she stays that way, through all eight books. Yes she’s charming and brave and weird, but we never see her evolve. Sookie constantly questions her telepathic ability as being a talent and instead calls it a disability. Sookie goes up against vampires, shape-shifters, fairies, were-animals, killers and surly bar-patrons. But never once do these experiences make her smarter. Friends and relatives die and these tragedies don’t shape her ways. Ms. Harris only tells us Sookie is sad, never shows us. Even Harry Potter got sick of his bad luck.

Another way Ms. Harris keeps Sookie down is her country bumpkin language. Sookie keeps tearing off pages from her “Word a Day” calendar, yet her own language never improves and Ms. Harris makes it a point to let us know when Sookie is using her “Word a Day” calendar, which wears thin. I mean, if you’re sleeping with vampires, you should know what exsanguinates means.

Ms. Harris also keeps Sookie’s good-girl image so squeaky clean that four out of the eight books that I read didn’t have any sex in them. No. Sex. Isn’t the point of writing a vampire novel sexual by nature? Even Twilight had more sexual tension for crying out loud! While Ms. Harris does a great job of creating real world scenarios with these mythical creatures, she focuses so tightly on Sookie that we never see the background or history of any of the other characters, and I’m sorry, but Sookie is boring. There I said it. Even with her ability, she’s boring. Only once does Sookie believe in her own powers enough to use them to help, in All Together Dead. For that reason, All Together Dead is the best of the books that I read. Sookie must use her ability to save lives, but feels that even though the world has accepted vampires into society, she will be singled out for her telepathy and forced to use it in rescue operations and she doesn’t want that much attention or pressure. It’s sad and selfish and you can’t blame her for the decision she makes, but this is the most interesting character dilemma Sookie faces. I don’t count “should I sleep with the gorgeous blond vampire, the gorgeous dark haired vampire, or the big, sleek, handsome were-tiger?” much of a dilemma – poor Sookie.

Now some thoughts on the books versus the HBO series “True Blood;” the books stray away from the series early on, so if you are watching and aren’t reading (like I was) nothing is too redundant. If you’ve read the books and haven’t watched the series, I think the series is better. HBO has fleshed out more characters and there is way more sex in True Blood, which is why most people like vampire stores right, the sex? “True Blood” also has more comic relief than the books do, and with the scope of the world Ms. Harris has created, she takes it far too seriously. I can see where fans of the books are such fans of the show. But if you haven’t read the books, there is nothing in them that outshines what happens on the show.

Unfortunately, I have a hard time recommending these books to someone who has seen the show. They are light, fun, little books with a southern flare. If the hard-core vampire stuff creeps you out, these are just the books for you. If you like Stephanie Plum, you’ll like Sookie Stackhouse. If you like Anne Rice, you’ll yawn. Whereas Stephanie Meyer wrote about boys, Charlaine Harris writes the men, but not nearly enough for my taste, pardon the pun.

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I lived in Knife River, a small town north of Duluth, for 23 years of my life, more or less. At no point did I have any idea the area supported commercial fishermen. I had seen the black-and-white photos behind glass on grade-school field trips to the local historical society, sure, but I thought commercial fishermen had gone the way of buffalo-plaid wearing lumberjacks and fur traders.

Then I read Knife Island: Circling a Year in a Herring Skiff by Stephen Dahl. In 72 pages, I learned more about fishing Minnesota’s North Shore than I had from living in the area for more than two decades.

In “Knife Island,” Dahl records a year diary-style, noting what he’s doing during which season, how the conditions are and whether the fish are being caught. He also includes short pieces on local history, observations about the North Shore and even a few vinegary harangues on politics. Altogether, it’s an interesting read for a variety of reasons.

The temptation to romanticize the life of a commercial fisherman is obvious. Though Dahl seems to bristle at the idea, it’s a rather quixotic profession – a mostly solitary line of work spent tempting fate in an 18-foot skiff in exchange for an uncertain payoff (if the fish aren’t there, they just aren’t there, Dahl observes more than once). But “Knife Island” doesn’t give the life of a commercial fisherman a cute once-over. He talks about frustrations and money worries, and then in the next breath will talk about how he loves what he does. It’s a full picture, and an honest one at that.

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