I read four and half of the first five books in Robert Zelazny's Amber series this week: Nine Princes of Amber, publiished in 1972; The Guns of Avalon, 1972; Sign of the Unicorn, 1975; and The Hand of Oberon, 1976. These are a little difficult to find--they've been published and reissued by a number of groups, but none have done so in the past 10 years that I can find...(maybe I'll look this up in WorldCat for you folks later, but it's early Monday morning now and I'm still sleepy).

Anyhow, the stories chronicle the mythical city of Amber and the fight for power--and later for the safety of the city itself--between Amber's nine successors to the throne. It's a neat read, and I apologize using "neat" to describe, but it's really what I mean. Corwin, the protaganist and next in line for the throne, is a mixture of 70s cool and mythological hero. The characters are all deep and multi-faceted, and the world of Amber is juxtaposed with a variety of "Shadow" worlds, including 1970s America.

I'm finding the series well worth the read, but you might want to hide it on your morning train--it's bound to be a nerd magnet.

Nightmare Alley

A few weeks ago, I put down the Truman biography long enough to finish William Lindsay Gresham's Nightmare Alley, the second-to-last novel in an anthology of crime novels that I got for Christmas.

Wow, it's a doozy! Each chapter is introduced by a figure from the tarot deck, and loosely based upon it. Told through multiple perspectives, trekking across America at the dusk of vaudeville, Nightmare Alley at times reminded me of Faulkner in style - if Faulkner had found a more interesting subject to write about than "the South." Here, the subject is scamming. Stanton Carlisle is an illusionist working with a travelling carnival. Like many carnies, he sees the public as a mass of willing suckers. He develops a successful mentalist act and makes the big time, and from there develops a long grift as a spiritualist preacher. Not just the rise-and-fall of a performer and con-man, Nightmare Alley is really enjoyable for its detailed exposition of how all of these common cons were performed. [The first lesson, for example, is in how to make a geek... but I'd better let Gresham explain.]

Gresham seems equally influenced by Freud and Jung - perhaps to a fault - but his broad interest in psychology works well in developing a cast of distinct, memorable characters. I would recommend this one to almost anyone interested in potboiler fiction, con scams, rich characterization, carnivals, magic, tarot, spiritualism, or psychological fiction. Also made into a movie with Tyrone Power and a comic book by Spain Rodriguez.

It's Wrybrarian's first celebrity read! Finished reading ...Or Not to Be: A Collection of Suicide Notes last night, which comedienne Sarah Silverman recommended in an interview she did with Chunklet magazine.

Or Not to Be Editor Marc Etkind, who provides a running commentary for the collection, which is organized by type of suicide notes, maintains that they are a last desperate attempt to communicate with the public, rather than a private matter. Also, all of the notes published in the book have been published elsewhere before. That said, I still feel guilty for thoroughly enjoying them.

I've just spent the past two hours scrolling through Craigslist's Readers Choices. Some of these are fantastic.

I knew I recognized Jim Crace's name from somewhere when I checked out Genesis, his novel about an actor with a strawberry birthmark who impregnates every woman he sleeps with, but I didn't think it was from my own lukewarm review of Being Dead, dammit (which I'd link to, but Google's advanced search isn't showing me much love today. All the more reason I have to get the booksearch function set up here, but that's for another day).

Anyhow, much like Being Dead, Genesis is stuffed with beautiful imagery and lots of sex, but meanders its way around a plot that sounded a lot more promising on the jacket than the real thing. Now that I'm halfway through (and stuck at work without an alternative), I might as well finish it.

It's not everyday I get to read a book with a companion online game. But Max Barry's Jennifer Government, in addition to being just the kind of jaded futuristic cyber-pulp that gets my juices flowing, is also providing me with an additional evening's entertainment. How cool is that?!

p.s. Did I mention that Max Barry is also cute?
p.p.s. Not as cute as a certain other delinquent blogger who I'm shacked up with, of course.

How desperate am I for work? I just got off the phone with a potential client about proofreading OBITUARIES. I had to cut the call short, because after informing me that the pay rate was less than half what I usually make and assuring me that "flexible" hours meant I would NOT be permitted to change shifts, she had the nerve to ask what it was that interested me about reading through obituaries. I told her, "I'm a professional proofreader. You'd be amazed at the kinds of things I read all day." Then I said I needed more time to think about the job and hung up.

I'm just going to get back to proofreading a brochure about this summer's 84 Lumber Golf Tournament now.

Speaking of Diesel Sweeties, I just found the Poop Journal. Dear Lord, this has been a bang-up week. First Lynne Cheney's bosom ripper, and now this? Some days, I can't believe how lucky I am.

We made some mexican-ish food yesterday, so i have to let you all know that this morning's pooping was a smashing success! pow pow pow! fast, dense and fiesty.

Lo-Res, Hi-Style

Hey, did anyone see Robotic get illustrated by my favorite girl-on-robot web comic artist, R. Stevens? I had heard you were going to be in Chicago magazine, but I didn't know you'd be pixelated! (Sorry if this is old news to everyone. I've been really absent from Wrybrarian, on account of being SUCH a slow reader, and the Truman biography being SO VERY long. Can you believe I started it in February?)

Was welcomed back to the working world after having not one, but TWO busses blow by me this morning. The driver of third--and local--bus, who witnessed the driver of the Express bus leave me behind, shook his head and said "that's the little fat man," as if this might explain why he leaves unsuspecting proofreaders on the curb.

[Insert witty transition here]

I am nearly finished with The Final Confession of Mabel Stark, the fictional autobiography of the world's greatest female tiger trainer, recommended by Cindy T months ago. I am in love with the book, in particular with Mabel and tiger Rajah.

Problem is, I am so in love with Mabel and Rajah that I can't bear to finish it, because I know the final 100 pages are going to be sad. And I don't wanna get all weepy.

So I did what any self-respecting literary reviewer would do, and left it sitting on my nightstand while I tore through two bosom rippers, both by Johanna Lindsey, who has had that same picture on the back cover of her books as long as I've been reading them, which is about 15 years. Gulp. Anyhow, the first book was about the maiden Kelsey, who sold herself to be a gentleman's mistress at a whorehouse auction and of course ended up falling in love with the Lord Whoever who "purchased" her services, and the second was about another fiery maiden whose plain features were transformed when she smiled (and eclipsed by her curvaceous figure), who got seduced by a scotsman. Viva la romance. I think I'm just a few weeks away from starting to write my own bosom ripper.

Seriously.

abject sexual vassels, eh?

robotic, i am counting on you to get a copy (and pass it along)...

Oh, say it's so! Did our own Senora Vice Presidente Esoposa Cheney write a bosom ripper?! Ahem, by bosom ripper I of course mean a "novel of a strong and beautiful woman who broke all the rules of the American frontier... "

Apparently Lynne V. wrote a number of other page turners. How could I have missed this for three years?! I have nobody to blame but Laura, for taking all of the bibliophilic (I made that word up) credit herself.

What are Chicago Blue Line riders reading? What do YOU think?

I was reading the Red Streak? Red Eye? (That's like asking the difference between the cuisine served at McDonald's and Burger King) over the shoulder of the guy sitting next to me this morning.

I just finished reading The Boy on the Bus, Deborah Schupack's creepy tale of a mother who goes to pick her son up from the bus stop only to find that the boy waiting for her isn't the same one she sent to school.

This is one of those books where nothing ever really seems to happen, but you somehow manage to stay engrossed, waiting for the boy or his mother to do something horrific. Think Twin Peaks meets Stepford Wives (the Ira Levin version, not the movie!). In Vermont. And read it despite its missing plot--might make those little hairs on the back of your neck all prickly and shit.

Well, well, well. It seems that I am not the only reading rocker (rocking reader?) making my way through the shelves of Chicago. And look, Brian the reader just happens to be affiliated with indie rock website of the guy who gave me some job leads from the Thick board. Small world, ain't it?