I’m digging this Ken Bruen book, Ammunition, that I found at Parnassus Books in McMinnville. It really crackles along, hard-boiled for sure, good one-liners, and for all of its short chapters and abrupt edits, full of enough this-aint-gonna-end-well subplots for a six-hundred pager. If Albert Ayler honked a nasty solo over a slow Booker T. groove that might describe it. It’s the feeling that the world imagined here is complete, while what you get is a perfect fragment of it. And no one holds your hand—you don’t wanna live here anyway. This clips along, you can knock it out in a couple hours. The compression blooms, the exposed wires crackle.
Yet another reason to buy books, and discover new writers, by their covers, browsing in a store where you can smell actual papery pulpy mold. Now there’s an idea: Smell-0-Matic Amazon Kindle with USB Musty Paperback Odorizer.
This weekend is a three-party tour. Last night we celebrated my lovely lady and best pal with a few good folks, a two table antipasto array, and lasagna two ways. Then his-and-her holiday work parties tonight and tomorrow night. Only gotta get through one white elephant gift exchange, thank our lucky stars.
