Non-Fiction: “How To Archer” by Sterling Archer

Sterling Archer is the world’s greatest secret agent. And while the FX series that details his escapades (titled after himself, naturally) is animated, one shouldn’t assume that means it’s fictitious. After all, one knows what it means when one assumes. It means you’re a dick.

Mr. Archer was asked to write a how-to book on espionage for HarperCollins. Unfortunately, Mr. Archer thought that they were asking him to write his memoirs:

“A how-to book?! A book can’t teach someone how to be equal parts deadly and sexy! That’s like asking a cobra to write a book about how to be a cobra!”

“Well, I’m sorry, but a how-to book is what you just signed a contract to write.”

I pause, thinking about my options. And about money. And John Huston. And cobras.

“Could it have a chapter about cobras?” [xiii]

SPOILER ALERT: there is no chapter about cobras. And don’t think he doesn’t ever let that go.

And so, Mr. Archer sets about writing 30,000 words of how to espionage. Or spy; whatever. I believe the greatest compliment I can give Mr. Archer is: for (or, in spite of) all of his epic poonhoundery, he is a rather kick-ass spy, and he gives us a lot of information. I wouldn’t necessarily call it a “how-to” book, though; more of an overview.

Anyway. The bulk of the overview is on the day-to-day work that is espionage. He does warn us, however, that he has mixed feelings about giving all of his trade secrets away in trade paperback form:

In addition to possibly enjeopardizing my life at some point in the future, sharing my secrets of tradecraft is wildly irresponsible: I bet this book won’t be in stores twenty minutes before some dumb idiot kid catches himself on fire trying to make a Molotov cocktail (see Molotov Cocktail, page 84). But that’s HarperCollins’s problem. And apparently they have the best lawyers in the world. ^6
^6: So good luck with your lawsuit, anguished mother of that dumb idiot kid who caught himself on fire. [1]

Oh right, PS, there are footnotes throughout, which are not only hilarious, but also count towards the overall word count.

Mr. Archer jumps right into Things That A Spy Does That Is Not Drinking Or Screwing. Essentially, there’s a bunch of alphabetical indexes for various categories. Found under “General Tradecraft” is this explanation of Dead Drop:

A dead drop is a secret location that makes it possible for two (or more) agents to exchange information without having to meet in person. One agent places the information in the dead drop — for example, a mailbox. He then uses a prearranged signal to alert a second agent that a drop has been made — for example, a small red flag on the outside of the . . . Goddamn it. An hour of research. To basically just learn how the U.S. Postal Service works. [7]

He goes into a bit more depth in the weaponry section. A little bit. [just the tip?]

FLARE GUN
While the flare gun — also known as a Very pistol — was originally designed for use as a signalling device, you can also use it to shoot people. People who then catch on fire. [25]

Mr. Archer is also very knowledgeable on makes of pistols. For those wondering (which should be all of you), he prefers a Walther PPK to the American-made Colt .45, because a, it’s smaller and therefore doesn’t ruin the fall of his suit, and also b, shut up.

When discussing poisons, Mr. Archer does not help to discourage an idea that a dear friend of mine has: namely, that I (and another dear friend) write for the ArcherTV show:

Often these poisons are fast acting: if you got hit in the neck with a dart tipped with poison[^47] from the tiny Phyllobates terribilis, also known as the Poison Dart Frog (holy shit – true story – I just this second got why they call them that) you’d be dead before you reached the end of this sentence[^48]
^47: They say stress is the silent killer. But poison darts are also pretty damn quiet.
^48: If you happened to be reading that sentence when you got neck-darted. [43]

I can hear Sarah confirming now: Shit happens! People get shot in the neck with darts! [Silent, poison darts.]

Torture (or, interrogation techniques) is one aspect of espionage in which Mr. Archer does not engage. Mainly because it’s messy, but also, it’s controversial.

Torture is one of those things that Americans constantly whine about (e.g., the inhumane treatment of cows), but then they go out and exhibit the exact behavior (e.g., gobbling down a big platter of delicious sliders) that perpetuates the necessity of that thing in the first place.

Americans are repelled by the very thought of their government’s sanctioning torture, and yet they demand to not be blown up by terrorists. But it’s the exact same principle. Except that the cows are now terrorists — a chilling thought in and of itself — and national security is now a steaming plate of hot, juicy miniburgers. And you can’t have your sliders and eat ‘em too, folks. [60]

Once Mr. Archer divulges as many secrets about the spy trade as he can (which is quite a lot, actually), he still has about 15,000 words remaining. So he gives us a section on cocktails [alcoholic] and cocktails [waitresses] to help round out the lesson.

The Alcoholic Cocktails section is also an alphabetic compendium, and while I, a renowned alcoholic, am familiar with a lot of these recipes (and have, in fact, improved upon many), it is worth it to read the recipes if only for Mr. Archer’s wit and wisdom.

Moscow Mule
I was worried that, given the overall espionage theme of this book, the Moscow Mule might seem like too obvious a choice. But then I realized go write your own fucking book. [85]

Sidecar
Why doesn’t anyone drink sidecars anymore? Or, for that matter, ride around in them? Because I can’t think of a single thing I would rather do than get totally ripped on a thermos full of these babies while somebody motorcycles me around town and country in an actual sidecar. [89]

Whiskey Sour
Oh my God. If I’d known that America had a gomme syrup-based economy, I would’ve invested in whatever stuff gomme syrup is made out of. I can’t do that, however, because I obviously have no idea what that stuff is. The only thing I know is that Woodhouse is in trouble. [91]

(According to the footnotes throughout the section, recipes keep popping up with gomme syrup as a major factor, and sadly, Mr. Archer’s valet Woodhouse is out getting oranges and is unable to define gomme syrup for Mr. Archer. Mr. Archer is going to pain Woodhouse dearly upon his return.)

Mr. Archer also discusses dining, style, how to finance your operations both personal and professional, and how to sex up the ladies, both amateur and professional. (Tip: Keep the money in your sock, keep your sock on your foot.) He also includes a handy, hand-drawn map of the brothels found in Phuket, Thailand. Finally, he has one last index: brief information of all the nations in the world (that are worth knowing). Even Andorra:

Andorra
This tiny principality is actually a co-principality, meaning it’s ruled by two princes. Which makes me wonder: What ever happened to the Spin Doctors? Were they all murdered? [159]

I would recommend this title for anyone who has ever seen the television show Archer, as well as those with a sense of humor. But there are some stories he tells where it’s helpful to have some knowledge of the escapades he’s revealed on the show.

The only thing missing from this tome of excellence is one sweet, spotted ocelot named Babou. Without him, it’s like … Meowschwitz in here.

(Sorry — couldn’t help myself.)

Grade for How To Archer: 5 stars

(no seriously, if that fox-eared asshole Babou had made an appearance it would have easily made that sixth star.)

Memoir: “Retail Hell” by Freeman Hall

Okay, so, I know I said the next book I was going to finish would be Breaking Dawn, but guys — I tried, okay? I mean, I saw the movie, and then got through the Part I Movie portion of the book, but dudes, Part II? Is fucking boring.

And I couldn’t exactly bring Breaking Dawn to work to read on my lunch break, because look, if Brad and John are teasing me for never seeing Pulp Fiction and Fargo and Caddyshack, can you imagine the ration I’d get if they caught me reading about sparkling vampires? So that caused me to pick up The Maltese Falcon, but that got boring too, and more importantly, work became … let’s use the term “crazy” to stand for so much more than I can get into in this space, and I needed to know that I wasn’t the only one feeling these feelings.

Enter a book I had purchased on a whim over two years ago, which (of course) was currently holding up one of the piles of books on top of another pile of books in a bookcase. Thankfully, no piles collapsed during the reading of this title: Retail Hell, by Freeman Hall.

Dear Freeman: You and I are kindred spirits. If you ever visit Maine, I would love to buy you a margarita.

Freeman’s memoir (of sorts) is about his time at The Big Fancy, a high-class department store in Burbank known for its superior customer service. (Hm, where have I heard that phrase before?) He is the first male salesman in the Handbag department, and he still believes that the only reason he was hired for Handbags is because he’s gay (and there are no openings in the Menswear section). He bonds quickly with three women — Cammie, Marci and Jules — and also has to deal with the three Sales Demons, one of whom he tenderly refers to as ‘Douche,’ mainly because she steals sales out from under his nose.

The book is a series of scenes from his life as a handbag salesman, and in those scenes we meet a variety of characters, including the Shoposaurus Carnotaurus (a heavy spender who devours everything in sight, but ends up being extremely loyal to her salesperson), the Picky Bitch, and the Nasty-Ass Thief.

The Nasty-Ass Thief is actually a character I’m quite familiar with. Being someone who is currently mid-level management in a local-yet-internationally-known retailer with a history of superior customer service and a stellar return policy, we see Nasty-Ass Thieves all the time. [Note: they are certainly not Nasty Ass-Thieves.] We may not get people trying to return extremely expensive handbags, but I’ve authorized many a return without a receipt that puts over $500 on a gift card. And of course, they always try to get cash back first:

A woman wearing a dirty Mickey Mouse sweatshirt appears at the counter with a $3,000 Marc Jacobs handbag stuffed into a plastic grocery bag. She wants to return it and get her cash back. [vii-viii]

Then there’s this quote about the type of people Freeman experienced as being shoplifters:

Like handbags, Nasty-Ass Thieves come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. There are men, women, teenagers, children, white, Black, Asian, Latino, Russian, Middle Eastern, European, and yes, even Alien. They are fat, skinny, young, old, gay, straight, ritzy, trashy, pretty, ugly, poor, and yes, even Warren Buffet rich. [123]

This line made me think of our old shoplifting video we used to show in orientation, which would make me giggle every damn time. I can’t find the transcript I made of it (and thankfully, it wasn’t unique to our business), but essentially, the narrator said something like everybody steals but then only singled out teenagers, drug addicts, and rich people. But the best was the final line: “Old people steal lots of things!” That last one is a direct quote — there is nothing that could make me forget that line.

There are also the — *shudder* — evil Sale Monsters. We will be dealing with that at my place of business in a little over a week, and I am already sick to my stomach thinking about it. There’s the idiots who can’t read:

I then spent ten minutes explaining to a woman that 25% off an original price does not mean an additional 25% off. The women kept arguing saying “But that would mean it’s an additional 25% off!” Finally I went all Sale Hell Bitch on her: “Does it say ‘additional’ on the sign? NO! They are NOT an additional percentage off. THEY ARE 25 PERCENT OFF ORIGINAL! THAT’S IT!”

Then, for the millionth time, a woman came up to me and asked, “Why isn’t everything on sale?”

I bitched back at her, “Because life isn’t fair.” [197]

And then there are the vindictive bitches who must have it i wants it i needs itwhen they could live without it five minutes ago, but that’s since changed since someone else wants it now:

From experience, I knew what was going to happen next. You see, whenever there is only one left of something on sale, and two women suddenly start eyeing it for whatever reason, the one that picks it up first wins. And even though the winner may not really want it, if she’s a bitch, she’ll buy it out of spite, just to keep the other one from having it. It’s a common occurrence in the Handbag Jungle. [201]

I could get into all the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad customers that I’ve had to deal with on a daily basis, and how they sometimes intersect with the incredibly stupid, sometimes to the point of illiteracy customers, but I’m … don’t want to. It’s not important. What is important is that, while reading it, I realized I am not alone in my complete irritation at the general populace.

But really, the one place I truly felt that Freeman and I are the same person, only he lives in Burbank and I in Maine, and also, he is a boy and I am a girl and both of us like boys, is when he talks about the stupid-ass things (stupid ass-things? [I could get fired for that]) upper management does to try and make our lives as Retail Slaves better (so they think), but ends up making our lives complete Hell.

For instance, the schedule. Speaking as a leader, I am not allowed to limit my availability. Which is fine — I completely understand that. As a leader, I need to be able to be there at any time of day to see the entire team. But what that can also mean is that, this is the schedule I worked for pretty much all of November until I finally went to my boss and asked him sweetly, “Do you hate me? Or, at least, the idea of a sleep cycle?”:

Every week my schedule felt like a vomit-inducing thrill ride at Magic Mountain amusement park, except that I was anything but amused. I’d open, then close, then open, then work a mid-shift (11-8), then open, then close. [87]

And, like Freeman, I’ve had to work the more-than-six-days-in-a-row-to-get-a-day-off routine as well:

You see, in order for me to end up with three days off in a row, I had to work eight days in a row. During those eight days of opening, then closing, opening, then closing, and opening, then closing, without a day off, all the normal living shit that needed to be done didn’t get done. I’m talking about laundry, cleaning, grocery shopping, haircut and color, tanning, and exercising. [182]

And BELIEVE ME, when this happened? I kept my fucking mouth shut and ran like hell:

In the world of retail, having two days off in a row is unheard of. Three days is like a vacation. So when the General accidentally gave me a Saturday, Sunday, and Monday off because the schedule overlapped into the next week and she wasn’t paying attention, I took it and ran like I’d been awarded a Get Out of Jail Free card. [181]

Every retail store, regardless of square footage or importance, has an employee entrance. I’ve always compared my place of business to Disney World: there’s a separate employee entrance and a Habi-trail hidden from the customers’ view, so we can go all over the store without people seeing us; when we’re on the sales floor, we are on stage in a (sometimes) completely different persona, and also, our lines are very long and our rides suck sometimes. And occasionally, there are mascots walking around. Now, my employee entrance is up a small stairway, and it’s not that inconvenient. Freeman’s is an eight-flight walk-up with no chance of elevator. He calls it Mount Fancy. And one day, his corporate bosses decided to brighten up the employees’ hike up Mount Fancy by turning it into the lamer version of Studio 54, except with only three disco songs and a single disco ball, twirling unsightly and sadly on level 3. Climbing eight flights of stairs with Donna Summers’ “Hot Stuff” blasting was enough to drive Freeman crazy:

I endured the Mount Fancy three-song disco for almost a month before I snapped. I just couldn’t take any more celebrating YMCA hot stuff. Disco Death Star had to be destroyed. I tried to reach the player, but the bastards had thought of everything. The shelf was just high enough so the volume slider and off-button couldn’t be reached.

Was that done on purpose? Did they know we would get irritated by this? I became even more irritated by the thought of their preparing for our irritation. [211]

And then there’s the morning rallies, wherein we pump up the selling force to hit our goals, create an experience for our customers, sell the credit card, and have a good day! I notoriously made a seasoned rep nearly piss his pants from laughing when, one stellar, sleep-deprived morning, my rally speech consisted of, and I quote: “… make budget, sellthe credit card, blah blah blah, be awesome!” But I have to admit, my rallies are nothing like the ones Freeman attends:

“THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT, PEOPLE!” she gloated into the mike, with an oversized, eerie cartoon grin, “DOESN’T IT FEEL GREAT! DON’T YOU JUST LOVE SMILING?” [78]

Of course, all I want to say after that is I just like to smile, smiling’s my favorite!“

One thing Freeman deals with which, luckily, I don’t, is that if someone returns a handbag he sold, he loses out on some of his commission. And when his boss warns him that he’s not making his sales goal and he replies it’s because of the high return rate, his boss just tells him to sell more. He almost hits the roof:

What next sale? Hello. We are closing! It is the last day of the pay period and Greasy’s $2,000 return is about to make my sales a negative number for the day.

I feel like a hooker who gave a ten-hour blow job and was beat up and robbed by the john, just to have the police officer who witnessed it all say, “Oh well, better luck on the next blow job.” [8]

Here’s how I described my job at one point:

“I feel that They meet me at the employee entrance with a shovel. When I open the door, They beat me repeatedly about the head, shoulders, and my upper body with the shovel. And when I’m bloodied, bruised and battered, They hand me the shovel and tell me to dig a hole with said shovel. Then They ask me to climb inside that hole, take the shovel away from me, and instruct me to pull myself out of that hole.”

It doesn’t matter who the ‘They’ in that situation is/are. It could be customers, it could be employees, co-workers, bosses, or a combination of all of the above. Regardless, when I crawl out to my car, I am a battered woman.

And it always amazes me when I get stopped on the sales floor, clearly outfitted in the dress code, wearing the sales walkie and carrying forty pairs of pants from the fitting room, and I get stopped by a customer and asked — well — :

And like the cherry on top of a shit sundae, a new customer forces her way up to the counter and shouts in my face:

“Excuse me, do you work here?”

I look like an octopus at the Aquarium of Insanity. How can she even ask me that? [viii]

I usually respond, “No, they just gave me the nametag and the outfit to raise my self-esteem. But when that failed, they gave me a job instead.”

Another thing that ties me to Freeman is that he maintains a job in retail to support his career: writing. I lie to myself and say that that’s what I’m doing — sacrificing sleep to stay up until the wee hours of the morning, banging out a thousand words a night (on a good night), working towards finishing a novel that, deep down, I’m afraid that only I will read. But I keep at it, because, as the joker said to the [Nasty Ass-] thief, there must be some kind of way outta here.

Grade for Retail Hell: 4 stars

Fiction: “The Pirates! In an Adventure With Communists” by Gideon Defoe

I love pirates. I LOVE pirates. Here’s how much I love pirates: for the premiere of Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest, I bought a pirate’s costume, drove to Springfield Massachusetts to the midnight premiere to watch the movie with a friend of mine. Whole experience cost me close to a hundred bucks, but it was worth it. That year, I recycled my pirate costume for Halloween (or, tried to), but when the bosses at work told me that all of a sudden, Halloween costumes weren’t allowed, I instead snuck in a jar of dirt to protect me from rogue kraakens.

So when I saw the title The Pirates! In an Adventure With Communists, I of course bought the damn thing post-haste.

This is the apparently continuing story of The Pirates! (exclamation mark is completely necessary) and their gregarious, charming leader, the Pirate Captain. Building on their previous adventures with Scientists and Napoleon, this time they land in London. Once they set foot on land, the Pirate Captain is mistaken for Karl Marx.

So Karl Marx asks the Pirates! to take the Communists to Paris. Once they get to Paris, the Pirates! attend Wagner’s latest opera and the Pirates! and the Communists (and Karl Marx) band together to defend the crowned heads of Europe from a Mecha-Nietsche.

I SWEAR I am not making this up.

Forthwith, some quotes:

This is the dedication:

To Sophie:

who, taking into account the effect of compound interest, must have even more than a quarter of a million pounds by now, so this is her absolute last chance to do right by me or else I’m dedicating Book Four to that billionaire Onassis girl, or maybe the really nice one out of Lost.

IT JUST WON’T LEAVE ME ALONE.

And as if that weren’t enough proof that Gideon Defoe is the reincarnated soul of Graham Chapman:

‘… it’s become something of a witch hunt.’ [...]

‘But you’re not witches? There’s some way of telling which I can’t really remember. I think it’s if you can dive to the bottom of a swimming pool and successfully retrieve a brick whilst wearing a dressing gown, then you’re a witch. But it might be the other way round.’ [48]

But … I thought … because you burn witches, they’re made of wood and they float because they’re made of wood, and if they weigh the same as a duck, they’re a witch?

‘Hello, lads,’ said the Captain, grateful for the distraction. ‘Something I can help you with?’

‘Yes, Captain,’ said the pirate with the monobrow, trying his best to look resolute. ‘A few of us pirates have been listening to Dr. Marx, and we have come to the conclusion that we, the workers, are being unfairly oppressed.’ [72]

All together now … HELP HELP I’M BEIN’ OPPRESSED

‘Before we do this, I’d like to point out that I’d written much more,’ the Captain started to explain, ‘but it vanished in the night. Probably eaten by weevils. Terrible problem on a boat, weevils are.’ [77]

Look! It’s a call-out to me! PIRATES LOVE ME JUST AS MUCH AS I LOVE THEM.

Mostly the French communists looked like somebody had just that second told them the truth about Santa. [83-84]

I just thought that was funny.

The three sets of pirates all arrived back at the salon at the same time to find the Pirate Captain stretched out on a chaise longue in the middle of the room holding forth to Marx, Engels and an appreciative-looking audience of Parisian intellectuals. The pirates waited politely for him to finish, because he was clearly in the middle of some important philosophising.

‘…and that’s why, in a straight fight, I think a shark would most likely defeat Dracula,’ said the Pirate Captain thoughtfully. [97]

Okay, here’s why this was funny: my friends and I have totally had screaming matches over who would beat who in a fight. From Wolverine versus Spider-Man (“ADAMANTIUM CLAWS AND THE BERSERKER ATTACK!” “WHAT THE FUCK, SPIDER-MAN CAN TOTALLY DUCK THAT SHIT!”) to the immortalized (heh) fight about who would win, Zombies versus Vampires from this past New Year’s Eve. Here’s a snippet (names anonymized for anonymity’s sake):
Dude: [Says something about a zombie attack I DON'T KNOW I WAS DRUNK AND THE VIDEO'S NOT THAT GREAT]
Friend 1: Oooohh … you’re talking about Resident Evil zombies, not real zombies.
Friend 2: ‘REAL ZOMBIES’?! DID YOU JUST SAY ‘REAL ZOMBIES’?!

‘His Royal Imperial Excellency the Crowned Head of Bootyopia,’ announced a statuesque blonde. ‘And his elderly butler, Carruthers.’ [107]

The joke about “Bootyopia” is followed up on the next page by saying that Bootyopia is like Ethopia, but with more Booty. And come on: who doesn’t want an elderly butler named Carruthers? I could use a Carruthers. Oh, Carruthers? I could use some more ice cream.

‘…I have to say, if it was going to be something supernatural, I was hoping for a vampire, because they’re a doddle. Stakes, garlic, holy water, true faith, sunlight, fire … I’m not sure there’s anything that doesn’t kill a vampire.’ [129]

SEE STEPHENIE MEYER THERE ARE DOZENS OF WAYS TO KILL VAMPIRES YOU DUMB BITCH

‘If I’ve learnt one thing as a pirate, it’s that wherever you go, from Chesterfield to Matlock, there are only two kinds of diabolical villain: there’s the misunderstood kind who are doing it for the attention, and then there’s the evil-to-the-core kind. Actually, I’m forgetting zombies. There are three kinds of villain: misunderstood ones who are doing it for the attention, evil-to-the-core types and zombies. And inscrutable foreigners as well. Four types –’ [154]

No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!

And finally, what to name your sock puppet (and when to use it):

On Discipline Running a Pirate Boat
An old sock and a couple of shells can be used to create a sock puppet that acts as a useful teaching aid when dealing with the slower puppets on your crew. You can name your sock puppet anything you like, but I’d recommend either ‘Socky’ or ‘Lord Socklington’. [165]

And for those of you that know me, you know I’m putting Lord Socklington right next to my jar of dirt in my office.

Grade for The Pirates! In an Adventure With Communists: 3.5 stars

Fiction: “Dawn of the Dreadfuls” by Steve Hockensmith

Over a month ago, I responded to Quirk Publishing’s call – they were “offering bloggers a first look” at the prequel to PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES, Dawn of the Dreadfuls. When I saw the post on Facebook, I was riding pretty high on the comment left me by Charles Ardai, the creator of the Hard Case Crime imprint. I felt that things were finally looking up for ol’ Liz Lemon Alaina. I said to myself (and out loud, because that’s how I roll), “Holy crap, that’s awesome, I want one!”, immediately emailed the lovely people at Quirk, and two weeks, later, I got a copy.

link to Dawn of the Dreadfuls on Quirk Classics

What a lovely sight to see in the mail. I immediately tore into it.

The story takes place approximately four years before PPZ (Mary is 14, and she is approximately 18 in the original). We open at a funeral for a local man, which quickly gets interrupted as the local (dead) man starts to sit up in his coffin. Mr. Bennet takes the reins of the situation and asks for Jane and Elizabeth’s assistance in killing the dreadful.

This leads to Mr. Bennet training his girls in the ancient art of zombie warfare:

“I built this dojo — this temple of the deadly arts — not just for myself … I built it for you. My children. So that you, too, would be schooled in the Shaolin way. Now, far too belatedly, we begin your training.” [29]

There are new characters in this entry: the Baron Lumpley, Jane’s first suitor. He does not compare to Mr. Bingley in the slightest. Lumpley is fat, pompous, arrogant, selfish, conceited, and kind of hilarious. There is also Capt. Cannon, commander of the troops newly arrived to Meryton (but not Lydia and Kitty’s precious soldiers of the future). Sadly for Capt. Cannon, he had all of his limbs torn off in the Troubles, so now he has two soldiers act as his Limbs. (He actually calls them “Limbs.”) We also meet Dr. Keckilpenny, a doctor who attempts to rehabilitate dreadfuls back into proper English society; and Geoffrey Hawksmith, the Master sent by Mr. Bennet to tutor the girls.

What I enjoyed about DOD is the way the author showed Mr. Bennet’s doubt. He is wrestling with many things: needing to train his daughters as he had pledged to during the Troubles, but then reneged (along with almost all other Englishmen) when it appeared the Troubles weren’t going to resurface (heh); needing to see his daughters married to respectable families (well, maybe that’s more Mrs. Bennet, but the point will stand in four years); and sending his daughters off to a very bloody war night after night. I think Mr. Hockensmith was able to touch on this emotional self-war without being too preachy. I mean, I come from a Buffy background, and this reminded me of the relationship between Buffy & Giles – Giles knows that Buffy is going to die: he sends her out night after night to kill vampires, but he absolutely hates doing it, and if he could, he would trade places with her to save her life (until Buffy finds out and punches him unconscious. But theirs is a complicated [platonic] love).

To me, there weren’t as many scenes of ‘ultra-violent zombie mayhem’ in this iteration as there were in PPZ. That’s not necessarily a bad thing – in PPZ, the girls were full-fledged warriors, and part of the awesomeness was derived from the fact that these prim and proper girls were able to gut a zombie in less than a minute. Here, they are still learning (I am reminded of my sister proclaiming the same thing when I was teaching her to drive: “I’m learning!”), so while there are scenes of violence, it’s not as violent as we may be led to expect.

But overall, I felt that Dawn of the Dreadfuls didn’t quite match up to the awesomeness of PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES. And I’ve taken two weeks, trying to figure it out.  And look, that doesn’t mean I didn’t love it – I did.  It just wasn’t as awesome, in my head, as PPZ was.  But why?  Is it because my love for PPZ was so high that anything else would pale in comparison? Was it that DOD read as really good, very polished fanfiction? I mean, the same could be said for PPZ – taking the characters of a very popular novel and having them interact with other characters in interesting ways with a bit of wish-fulfillment thrown in (in this case, zombies).

And I finally figured it out: Dawn of the Dreadfuls is Ocean’s Twelve. Now that may seem as harsh words to some people, but hear me out. I love Ocean’s Eleven. My friend Kerri and I can recite parts of it, and do so, regularly. Ocean’s Eleven, in itself, is a reincarnation of the Rat Pack movie of the same name, but it made it better, and slicker, with more electromagnetic pulses. Here’s how much I love Ocean’s Eleven: when it came out in 2001, I was a freshman in college. Franklin Pierce University College got a copy of the film for Spring Fling. My friends all went to this raging party thrown at one of the towers, and I was going to go with them, but I watched Ocean’s Eleven instead. Now that’s love.

So when Ocean’s Twelve came out, I was excited again. Woo hoo! Danny and Rusty, together again! Now in Europe! And I saw it, and I bought the DVD, and it was good. It wasn’t great, but it’s something that I will still pop into the DVD player when I feel like it.

My analogy:
Ocean’s Eleven (1961) = Pride and Prejudice
Ocean’s Eleven (2001) = PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES (where the electromagnetic pulse = zombies)
Ocean’s Twelve = Dawn of the Dreadfuls (where Tess masquerading as Julia Roberts is Mr. Smith. Once you read the book, you’ll find out why that’s funny.)

I enjoyed Dawn of the Dreadfuls very much. I give it 3.5 stars, which is high praise for me – my readers know that if one of my favorite books of all time rates 2.5 stars, 3.5 is awesome. The fact that the Bennet girls have governesses in this book (only for a couple of chapters, but still) isn’t going to keep me from reading it again further on up the road (in Pride and Prejudice, the girls never had a governess. In PPZ, the girls never had ninjas. I’m not sure if in the PPZ-verse that means that while the girls never had ninjas, they can have governesses. Not sure how that works.) I always had a smile on my face while I was reading this book, and recommend that everyone who read PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES give this a shot.

However: now I’m waiting for Ocean’s Thirteen, where the Bennet girls travel to China to continue their studies. How long until that comes out?

Thank you, Quirk, for this marvelous opportunity. And now, I am pleased to offer my fabulous readers a chance to receive fabulous prizes, and I am not being sarcastic or making false promises for the first time ever! (disclaimer: I offer these by proxy, and in offering I in no way guarantee actual winning of said prizes.)  ANYWAY. The following link will send you to a public message board over on Quirk Classics, and if you so desire to comment where you read the review, you will be automatically entered to win one of 50 Quirk Classics Prize Packs that I will now describe:

• An advance copy of Pride and Prejducie and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls
• Audio Books of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters
• A password redeemable online for sample audio chapters of Dawn of the Dreadfuls
• An awesome Dawn of the Dreadfuls poster [I can attest to this: the poster is quite awesome]
• A Pride and Prejudice and Zombies journal
• A box set of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies postcards

When you comment, please use the following link: http://thtswhatsheread.wordpress.com/.

ETA: Hi.  I’m an idiot.  Here’s the link to enter for the prize pack.

Good luck, and — I don’t say this enough — thank you for reading.

Fiction: “Fool” by Christopher Moore

All together now: Aaaaahhhhhhh… That’s better. No moralizing and prim women to be found here. Thank Jeebus.

Fool is the comic retelling of King Lear, from the Fool’s perspective. The Fool’s real name is Pocket, named by the nuns who took him in as an abandoned baby because he could fit in the Mother Superior’s pocket. (I know the term for her was not Mother Superior, but the book is in the other room and I don’t want to get up right now.)

As I’ve said before, I’ve read a good many of Christopher Moore’s novels. I’m down to two: The Island of the Sequined Love Nun (most likely no relation to the aforementioned Mother Superior) and Coyote Blue. In terms of humor, Fool falls somewhere between Lamb and probably Bloodsucking Fiends. I never fell out of my chair as I did during the Sermon on the Mount, but it was much funnier than Fluke was.

Pocket tells the story with a bawdy tone: wenches and laundresses have “gadonkability,” there is much “bonking,” and his epithet of choice is “Fuckstockings.” Yes, I will totally start saying “fuckstockings” in my daily life. Go ahead: try it. Say it out loud. Try not to giggle afterwards.

Christopher Moore does take some liberties with the plot. Somehow, Macbeth‘s Three Witches from Birnham Wood appear (I’m not entirely sure the Witches themselves were of the Birnham Wood in the original play [Macbeth, not Lear, duh], but Birnham Wood was supposed to march upon Elsinore … no, wait, that’s wrong … y’know? Don’t correct me. That’ll be a goal of 2010: Read all of Shakespeare’s plays) (longest. digression. ever.), and there’s always a bloody ghost.

I think Moore does an admirable job attempting to bring some humor into one of the darkest tragedies Shakespeare’s written. He at least gives it a somewhat happy ending. But there are still double-crosses, Edmund’s still a bastard (literally and descriptively), and at the end of it, he’s able to wrap some odd loose ends up in a little pretty bow with bells on it.

If you liked Lamb and have a passing affection for Shakespeare, read this book.

Grade for Fool: 4 stars

Fiction: “Fluke” by Christopher Moore

I don’t think it’s a secret; I heart Christopher Moore. When his new book title and cover is released to the Internets, my eyes light up with the same intensity as when I discovered that some ice cream company in Britain made Daniel-Craig-pops (okay, not the same intensity, obviously. One is a very tasty treat that I would enjoy devouring, and the other is a book. There’s another joke in there, somewhere; something about devouring Daniel Craig’s Popsicle. But I’m going to walk away from that type of wit tonight and simply say that Daniel Craig can be my Good Humour Man any day).

Anyhoodle; I love Christopher Moore. My favorite book of all time is Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal. I re-read it every other year or so (which reminds me; it’s been about eighteen months since the last read), and I’ve read almost every other book he’s written and loved them all (the titles I haven’t gotten to yet: The Island of the Sequined Love Nun and Coyote Blue; Fool was just released this year, and is in my To Read Pile).

Fluke was on my list, and I picked it up about four months ago in my fit of Reading ADHD. Sometime in the middle of PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES, I picked Fluke up again, from the beginning, and was determined to complete it.

I did, just before midnight on the 31st of May. But I didn’t love it as much as Christopher’s other stuff.

The story is interesting enough, on the outside: Whale biologist Nate Quinn and his research assistant Amy are researching the humpback song. One day, while cataloging data from a humpback singer they were following, Nate sees the words “BITE ME” on the whale’s fluke. What follows is a series of mishaps and coincidences, which all lead to the underwater city of Gooville and the secret of the humpback song.

Christopher Moore’s stories always have a dash of the supernatural intertwined with normal people in extraordinary situations (see Bloodsucking Fiends, where poor Tommy falls in love with a girl vampire, or The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove, in which a seaside town is plagued by a sea monster). I think what threw me off with Fluke was the large amount of science (which one should know when talking about whale researchers; I know I can’t just make that stuff up). Also, the plot took a very long time to get going, and the ratio of questions to answers was exponentially high for a good amount of the novel. And I realize that we don’t want to answer a question as soon as we ask it; that way lies madness and a poorly written narrative. But we want to answer a couple of questions so we the reader don’t get lost or confused. It was starting to feel like the third season of Lost in this book for a while, with the more questions asked than answered.

The high point (heh) was the stoner kid, Kona, who talked in some pidgin Jamaican/Hawaiian stoner patois. The character had such a lust for life and huge enjoyment of the whales – it countered the research mode the other characters were always in.

I’d recommend this novel for a true Christopher Moore fanatic – it’s part of his ouvre, and should be enjoyed. For a casual reader of Christopher Moore? Skip it; move on to Fool. That’s my plan, anyway.

Grade for Fluke: Or, I Know Why the Winged Whale Sings: 2 stars

McSweeney’s Joke Book of Book Jokes

I wanted to finish this book first before I truly started on PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES (and yes, I think I must address that novel in that manner; it feels required to do so).

If anyone is not familiar with McSweeney’s, I would suggest you head over there and look around for a minute or too. The Joke Book of Book Jokes is full of short stories, lists, etc. related to books, writing, and general literary geekery.

Here’s my review: I LOVED IT. If you like books, classic literature, creative writing, anything of that ilk, and in addition to that you like laughing, this is the book for you.

Fiction: “The Gun Seller” by Hugh Laurie

Yes, you read that right:  Hugh Laurie.  In fact, on the cover of my paperback, the title is in fairly large letters, with Hugh Laurie in slightly smaller letters, all caps, and “star of the FOX-TV series House” under his name, as if there were more than one Hugh Laurie who had the potential to write novels and those of us that buy books at Borders are easily confused.  “No, not the Hugh Laurie, the star of House.  I want to read the novel by the Hugh Laurie who makes unusual objects out of Jell-O.”

But let’s talk about Hugh Laurie.  Yes, he stars in the hit TV series House, and has an impeccable American accent.  And the character of Dr. House is very sardonic, witty, and a bit of an ass.  But the real Hugh Laurie is not a doctor (though his father is).  He is, however, very funny, as evidenced by his turns in Black Adder, Jeeves and Wooster, and A Bit of Fry and Laurie.  I mean, heck, he even hosted Saturday Night Live a couple of times (although this latest episode wasn’t terribly funny — unless Laurie wrote the sketch “Bronx Beat,” in which case, he is a comic genius.  Otherwise, he was just along for the very sad, not-terribly-funny ride).

As I have never met the man, I cannot determine if the real Hugh Laurie is a bit of an ass.  I would hope not; he seems to be the sorty of guy you could go out for a pint with, bitch about your jobs for a while (“I don’t understand why Omar hasn’t quit already, for Christ’s sake.  It seems as if the writers are just looking for ways to make him pinch his face in ever week.”  [Hugh snorts jocularly.] “I know, right?  Although, it may have been that Bob surreptitiously sets off stink-bombs just behind the camera.”  “He still does that?”  “God, yes.  Can’t get him to stop.  Puts a dreadful stink over the entire production.  But enough about me, how’s your gig going?”  “Oh, work’s fine.  Although if Matt decides to ignore payroll for one more week, I’m afraid I’m going to have to punch him in the face with a brick.”  “Might I suggest a boxing glove filled with gravel?  Same amount of force involved, but doesn’t break any bones.”  “But I was looking forward to that!” and so on), then be invited round to each others’ houses for holiday parties and whatnot.

But Hugh Laurie is also a sensational writer — a witty, funny, technical-jargon speaking writer, and I love him a little bit more now than I did before.  (Also, he has the prettiest blue eyes!)

Thomas Lang is the star of The Gun Seller.  Lang is ex-Scots Army, making his living as a freelance.  This incorporates bodyguarading, odd jobs, etc.  Lang does have a very strong moral compass: he isn’t a hired assassin.  He states this in the beginning of the book, in the customary “How I Got Into This Mess in the First Place” speech.  Lang is approached in Amsterdam, asked to kill an American named Woolf, and he turns the job down.  Out of guilt, he approaches Woolf upon returning to London to warn him about the hit on his life, and ends up interrupting the new hired killer, thus thrusting him into the thick of the mess.

The mess is about terrorism, gun selling, marketing, and government conspiracies.  In essence, gun manufacturers manufacture acts of terrorism in order to sell more guns, and Lang gets messed up in it because of a woman.

It’s always a woman.  Throughout the novel, there are three: Sarah Woolf, the daughter of the hit; Ronnie, a friend; and Latifa, a terrorist.

The Gun Seller reads like some funny British dude is trying to be like Philip Marlowe.  The best part is that it works.  Have some quotes:

It was the sheer variety of pain that stopped me from crying out.  It came from so many places, spoke so many languages, wore so many dazzling varieties of ethnic costume, that for a full fifteen seconds or so I could only hang my jaw in amazement.  [109]

Solomon was waiting for me at the rendezvous with one of the Sunglasses.  One of the pairs of sunglasses, I mean.  Although of course he wasn’t wearing sunglasses now, it being dark, so I quickly had to concoct a new name for him.  After a few moments’ thought, I came up with No Sunglasses.  I think there may be a touch of Cree Indian in me.  [212]

And speaking of Humphrey Bogart (although obliquely):

Don’t go to Casablanca expecting it to be like the film.

In fact, if you’re not too busy, and if your schedule allows it, don’t go to Casablanca at all.  [...]  But if Nigeria is the armpit [of Africa], Morocco is the shoulder.  And if Morocco is the shoulder, Casablanca is a large, red, unsightly spot on that shoulder, of the kind that appears on the actual morning of the day that you and your intended have decided to head for the beach.  The sort of spot that chafes painfully against your bra strap or braces, depending on your gender preference … [289]

I must agree with the back of the book and the bevy of reviewers in the front: this is a mix of James Bond and what I imagine Jeeves and Wooster is like (what?  It’s on my Netflix queue).  Having read a ton of thriller novels, the jargon is right up there with a Robert Ludlum or Ian Fleming:

The British-made Javelin is a light-weight, supersonic, self-contained surface-to-air missile system.  It has a two-stage solid-fuel rocket moter, giving an effective range of between five and six kilometeres, it weighs sixty-odd pounds in all, and it comes in any colour you want, so long as it’s olive green.  [332]

And because, after all, it’s all about me (and this supports my fantasy in which Hugh Laurie and I are fast friends):

‘You know what your problem is?’ said Barnes, after a while.

‘Yes, I know perfectly well what my problem is.  It buys its clothes from an L.L. Bean catalogue, and is sitting opposite me right now.’ [197]

In the end, the only regret about his book I have is — well, actually, two regrets.  The first is that it was too short, and I really wanted to get to know Thomas Lang more.  You don’t know too much about him aside from the terrorism muck he gets involved with.  You get glimpses, but it’s not fully-fleshed out.  And for this genre, it works, but I don’t leave the book feeling that I know the guy.  Secondly, that I read the words in a British accent, and the cadence in my head would put me to sleep every twenty pages or so.  Of course, part of that is that I read in bed laying down, usually after midnight when I should be sleeping anyway.  It didn’t cause narcolepsy when I would read it on my lunch break, so, it’s probably just me.

Grade for The Gun Seller: 3.5 stars

Non-fiction: “The Know-it-All” by A.J. Jacobs

Okay. Apparently, writing a book blog is harder than I thought. Without even counting the fact that it’s two a.m. on the day after Christmas (‘twas the night after Christmas / when all through the house / only Alaina was stirring / without internet, she is unable to locate another rhyme for ‘house’ except ‘mouse,’ which doesn’t make sense right now, so this parody is ruined, let’s move on), let’s also talk about the handful and a half of candy I just mainlined, so I keep getting letters mixed up on the keyboard because my hands are shaky from the sugar overload.

But really, that’s what this book is about: undertaking a near-insurmountable task, so the fact that I’m fighting a sugar high is not as ironic as I had anticipated (I’m also fighting a bit of ADHD – do I have “Sugar High” on my iTunes? HUH! I do not! What CD did I burn that to, because now I must locate it! Or, at least, watch Empire Records right now … which is back in Portland, one of four DVDs I did not bring with me for my forty-eight hour visit to my parents).

ANYHOODLE. The short story: A.J. Jacobs, erstwhile contributor to Entertainment Weekly and current contributor to NPR, decides he’s going to attept what his father could not: read the entire Encyclopaedia Britannica.