The LawDog Files.

Buy it now at Amazon here. 

LawDog is a friend of mine. He has led a career in rural Texas law enforcement (he still does), just as I have, and he tells a great yarn. Almost twenty years ago, he started posting humorous posts online about encounters on the job. They were always crowd-pleasers.  Since then, I've been part of a literal crowd of people, demanding that he put a book together.

He's finally done it.

The LawDog Files is an easy-reading collection of short stories which were written, edited, and compiled by LawDog. Most are very funny. But as we sometimes find, those who can write humor can write a helluva sad story well, as well.

LawDog is one of the best writers that I know, and for a measly $4.99, you can instantly download his book to your Kindle or Kindle Ap on your phone. It takes seconds, and gives you fun reading for little commitment.  (I feel very smug when I find myself having to wait in an area with no cell reception, and I've got an anthology sitting on my phone to read while I wait.)

Larry Correia, author of the very fun, New York Times Best-Seller List series Moster Hunter, Inc, not only implores you to buy the book, but he wrote the forward to the book.  Larry knows and loves a good story, and is telling you: this is a bunch of them.

Go buy one. You'll be glad that you did. I loved every story, and can't wait for him to get the next book put out.

This is what class looks like.

Longtime online pal Marko Kloos is so classy, he even apologizes for being a little rude when he correctly identifies a rude individual.

Winning a Hugo, up to now, has always been very valuable for a science fiction writer.

If you're like many of us, you want to find a magical story that will divert you from the drudgery of reality, without having to wade through the crap. Just give me the good stuff. So, it's incredibly alluring to see that list posted up on the wall of your local book store with the Hugo winners by year. I've been guilty of having perused the list, found a title that I haven't yet read, and pulled it off the shelf and immediately gone to the cash register. It's that simple: I didn't have to read the slush pile.

I know that I'm not the only one. As do smart people like... well, like Marko Kloos.

Marko, however, found himself in a very weird situation. He had written a very compelling page-turner, which would have found itself in the running for a Hugo anyway-- but which was pushed to the short-list by an unsavory person.

Vox Day, AKA Theodore Beale, is not a person I would invite into my home. He is racist. He is misogynistic. He was expelled from the Science Fiction Writer's Association because of his attacks on fellow writers based upon their race and gender. He is bitter. The funny thing is, the man can write. If he weren't so obnoxious, he probably would have won something by now. But there are lines which you cannot cross without having some backlash, and he crossed them. He will never win an award in science fiction.

To make up for this, Beale/Day came up with a scheme: pack the nominations. Campaign on fairness! Your favorite writers have no chance to win, through no fault of their own! Though they have wrought the best stories, their only sin is that they are white males!  The P.C.-minded establishment wants a multicultural field of nominees, at the expense of Quality! Hell, it sounds good. We all just want the best writing. Who cares what color or gender the author is? We all hate reverse discrimination, because it's just another kind of discrimination, right?

When I saw that online pal and best-selling author Larry Correia was being labeled as a racist (!) and misogynist himself, I began to think, Yeah, I can understand why you'd get ticked about these things. Larry's a good man. Larry is not a racist. He may be a conservative, but he's not a woman-hater. Larry's writings depict strong woman characters, multiple cultures in his good guys... anyway, you get the picture.  So Larry's corner started up a little group called the Sad Puppies. And frankly, I was on board.

Then Vox Day starts up the Rabid Puppies. He endorses a group of authors for Hugo nominations, and they get short-listed. Marko Kloos was one of the authors.

For a few days, it was heady times at Castle Frostbite. Think about this: You're nominated for the Hugo --one of the most well-known awards in your profession*-- and word is that you've got a very good chance of winning it. Heinlein won that award. Asimov won that award. Clark. Le Guin. Dick. Niven. Haldeman. Gibson. Card. Those are the giants on whose shoulders you will get to stand. I'm not gonna lie: I'm giddy just knowing a guy who gets to have his name mentioned in the same lists as those people.

The same rocket ship badge that is on every paperback of Stranger In A Strange Land could be on your books.

But then comes the crashing reality, which is that people would associate your nomination with the unsavory person who put your name on a list that he advocated be nominated.

Some stains you can never wash clean of.

So Marko, faced with that situation, quit. He pulled his book Lines Of Departure out of the running.
He took his ball (which he was winning with), and went home to Castle Frostbite.

Drop the mic.

He'll write more. And we'll get to read it. But when he takes the awards, it will be on his terms, and not via some shady deal co-opted by a shady jerk.  Hey, Vox? Marko was never your kind of people.
______________________
*Though, apparently, not really as critically-judged as you might hope. "Hugo Award nominees and winners are chosen by supporting or attending members of the annual World Science Fiction Convention, or Worldcon..." LawDog writes on his disappointment about the process.

Thursday morning Randoms.

--While I agree that we should absolutely brook no foolishness, and should arrest judges and cops alike for DWI --as apparently has been happening in Broward County, FL to three (!) judges this year-- I am impressed at the foolishness of Public Defender Finklestein's comments:

Finkelstein said he doubted Judge Rosenthal’s claim of the Ambien CR affecting her. “I have a little bit of experience with drugs. That is not from an Ambien at 10 o’clock at night,” Finkelstein said. “The fact that she refused the urine and the blood test is gonna keep people wondering.”

Way to get all prosecutorial, Mr. Public Defender! Hope you don't find yourself on the judge's blacklist...

--While watching an old Magnum P.I. episode (Look, don't judge me.), I see Magnum checking his load in his Government model while in the middle of a gunfight in a dock warehouse. He drops the magazine, and we see that he has two rounds left in the magazine. More importantly, we see... that it's a 9mm!  No! Say it ain't so!

In almost the next scene, he's firing, and you can clearly see the muzzle is not a .45.
So disillusioned. This of course is why he almost immediately gets shot and spends the rest of the episode in "Limbo".

--Wait-- Jeff MacKay is dead? But, he was the best sidekick!

--Wait-- Zsa Zsa Gabor is still alive? At 97, she's still ki-- er, ticking. (She lost a leg a couple of years back.)

--My patrol car suffered hail damage last month. The state insurance agency has totaled the car, for minor peens on the top surfaces, which didn't even crack the paint. Yeah, the car has some years on it, but it runs great! I understand the insurance company's math (the cost of refinishing the surfaces costs more than they reckon the car is worth), but this does NOT work out well for the department. The check that we get will nowhere nearly get us a new patrol car.  I wish we could take back the claim. But we can't. The insurance is dropped. That car will never run another patrol. Honestly, I'm thinking about following up on where the insurance company sells it; it's a good vehicle.

--I shot a police pistol match on Friday with my newly-issued Generation 4 Glock 31, shooting our new duty ammo, 147g Hornady XTP .357 Sig. It shot very well. I put the ski-jump big grip swell on the backstrap, and it felt good, so I'm leaving it on. I plan to purchase the Gen 3 Glock 31 that I carried for 7 and a half years. Interestingly, the Glock-branded steel tritium night sights were dead-on. As I have complained for years about the lack of quality of the Glock factory sights, let's hope that this kind of sight quality is the new standard. No scores from the match yet, but I didn't completely cover myself with shame. (At 30 seconds a miss, I shot slow.)

--I'm putting off taking my car in, now that I've cleaned it out to be turned in. Heck, I even threw a little Armor-All on the dash.

--Measles cases are at a 20 year high in the U.S. Jenny McCarthy and Andrew Wakefield can choke on a bowl of oversized phalli.

--You know that crazy woe-is-me narcissist who killed people at UCSB? Two observations:
1. When you show his videos and pictures and repeat his manifesto and say his name, you're putting out sugar for the ants (other people with issues who want to go out in a big enough blaze of glory that they reckon will make you HAVE to say their name.).
2. It was people with guns who stopped the rampage. Wouldn't it have been nice if someone had shot at him even earlier? Keep in mind that the shots at the bad guy don't have to kill him. This guy got hit in the hip, and then shot himself in the head.

--I finished The Watchmen, after having slowed my reading to about a chapter a night (well, maybe just a little faster). It was interesting. My brother was excited that we had something to talk about, and wants me to get into Daredevil. I don't see why not. But I'm not buying this over-priced thing.

--We are out of coffee. Except for that canned stuff, which doesn't count. Friday afternoon is payday, when I get more. (We've been paying huge surplus payments to our standing debt, to make it go away, which means that I suddenly long for Friday.)

--The weather is FAR better than what we usually get in late May. It's not even in the 90s. Blue skies with the odd fluffy white cloud for decoration.

--My daughter was inducted to the National Honor Society last night. Lots and lots of good and great kids are NOT so inducted. But I will say that of those NHS members on stage last night, none of them were regular "customers" of mine. Good kids all. I can be pretty glad that my kid is a member of their little local chapter.
 

Without fear.

Because I have a lot of nerdy friends and wanted in on the social references that they made, I bought a graphic novel that came highly recommended. But this post isn't about that.


The adult comic book was originally published by installment in 1986, and was written in 1985, which was set as the present, with a lot of reflection on the previous half century, at which point it had diverged from our real timeline.


What was fascinating, though, was how scared we were of pending war. In this book, the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan seemed clearly to indicate that, without some kind of major interference, an invasion of Pakistan would occur. And from the man on the street to the POTUS, World War III seemed inevitable.


But it was just another timeline, in an imagined universe, by a good writer and his illustrator.


Friends, I remember being afraid, as a little kid, of nuclear war. I remember being afraid of something that our nation couldn't control, coming in and taking our lives away from us.


As the 1990's came, and the USSR fell, the nuclear threat (or the fear of it) diminished. I grew into adulthood. I had the opportunity to decide my future.


At no time in my adult life have I felt afraid that our nation would be attacked on a wide scale. Sure, individual attacks can and have happened, but think about how indignant we were to have even those occur.  When you attack our country, there are major consequences. It's not a good idea. We send guys like John Shirley and his mates over to kick your butt.


We don't think a whole lot about our military, because of how effective they are at letting us lead our quiet normal lives. I'm not saying that it's right, but I'm pointing out how well they do their job: we as a nation get to continue to be self-absorbed and silly, without paying attention to what our military really does, because they're just that good.


For about 364 days of the year, it's actually okay to be self-absorbed, and not think of who guards our freedoms.


Today, we think of our soldiers, our marines, our sailors, our airmen, and our guardsmen who gave everything. Because we really don't have to. You can bet that their families think about them a lot.

Thanks.

Lines Of Departure

So, my friend Marko Kloos today celebrates the release of the second book in his science fiction trilogy. In his first big release, Terms Of Enlistment, Marko introduced us to the not-too-distant future world in which Earth is colonizing as fast as it can, and needs extra-terrestrial Terran military to assist in this (and to quell the riots back home on a rapidly-deteriorating Earth.).


Now, his protagonist is a veteran, who has relationships in the military, and takes the next step in his career as an off-world soldier.


I've read a couple of chapters today, and it's smart writing that reads easily.


I hear that one might should keep an eye out for certain characters that we may know, too.


One of the joys of having a Kindle and an Amazon account is being able to instantly download Lines Of Departure for $4.99.


Marko is a good writer, who can do that magical thing, wherein he conjures up characters out of whole cloth, and keeps them true to their nature. When one questions whether a book is plot-driven or character-driven, the answer ideally should be "both," because the nature of the characters develop the plot. Marko Kloos writes plots, with characters whom you know, after awhile.


In this one, his spacefaring soldiers address 80-foot-tall alien invaders who are taking over planets that Terrain colonists have been terraforming. For starters.


Go read.

Thursday's Prattlings.

--We're due to reach 100 degrees for the first time this year today. That's actually pretty late, for us.
Edit: We broke into triple digits with a bang:

--I write this as much for my future reference, and for my kids' future reference, as for anyone else.

--I have a decent blog-worthy story that I can't post right now. But it ends with the question: "What caliber for douchebag?"

--It's pronounced /puh Kawn/. PEE kan sounds like what you put under the bed at night.

--I worked a 24 hour shift with the fire department yesterday, and not only ripped the tags off of the new wildland firefighting apparel* that they got me about a year ago, but also got it smokey and covered with soot. A welder caught some tall grass while putting in corner posts for a new fence, in the dry 17 mph wind. Right next to him was a stack of sections of old fencing that had probably 10 years' worth of weeds and brush growing up amongst it. I can think of no finer way to start a fire without accelerants. We had to unstack the flaming pyre and douse each level of stacked fencing one by one, and then get the particle board beneath it, and then go moving old rusty farm implements to get under all that. Finally we got all that done, and went to mop-up. When we finally got all the flaming cow turds busted up and stomped out, I climbed dirty and sweaty and ash-stained into our brush truck with our paramedic firefighter, and remarked that the hymen on my new brush gear had been perforated. Startled, he said what?!? I suggested to our best medic that he had heard me just fine. He laughed.

--I just finished reading Cormac McCarthy's No Country For Old Men on my Kindle. I reviewed the movie five years ago, in which I said of the main character, aging sheriff Ed Tom Bell:

I know this man. I've been around him for years, wearing different faces, standing different heights, and carrying different weights. They mostly all spoke with a drawl, and they all wondered sometimes how it all got to be so crazy. Between McCarthy, the Cohens, and Jones, I saw the bewildered squint of people that I've known personally, perplexed and aghast.

 Having read the book, I'd have to say that the Cohen brothers kept the movie's dialogue very true to McCarthy's original work. Sheriff Bell knows that the nation is doomed, and feels like he has lost control of the part of it that he is supposed to keep peaceful. He feels like a failure. I have to admit that I thought a little about whether I help the big picture. I don't take it as personally as he did, I don't think. I know my limitations. The job of a law enforcement officer is to limit damage; he rarely gets to stop it altogether.

I just downloaded Blood Meridian. The reviews show that it's a pretty dark portrayal of the American West in the mid 19th century. We'll see if I start it anytime soon.

--A family member and friend of mine is grieving the passing of a close friend of hers. I've been pretty poor about helping her deal with it. Recently, my wife pointed out the meaning of the lyrics to the Grateful Dead's song "Box Of Rain." I've never much been a fan of the Dead, but I've got to admit that there's a gentle calmness that one can feel from auditing this (first) song.

"What do you want me to do, to do for you to see you through? 

A box of rain will ease the pain, and love will see you through." 

--Speaking of music, my daughter was singing the title music to Singing In The Rain, and I wanted to hear the original, so I played this video. I come away thinking: (1) Gene Kelly was a genius dancer. (2) Even accounting for the poor synching of the sound to the video by YouTube, it's obvious that they dubbed in the tap sounds. But Gene Kelly was still a physical genius. (3) That street was a giant sound stage in Hollywood, right? Where they had to make their own rain? That was a BIG budget movie scene. (4) I cringe seeing Kelly dance through the puddles in his brown leather shoes. I can not stand having soaked shoes.

--Lately at work, I'm plagued with subpoenas to get. Think I don't beg help from the DA's investigators? Haw.

--I need a best location along the coast of Oregon or Washington (Olympic Peninsula?) for two things this summer: Tide pools and yerts.

--I'm planning an epic vacation with the girls and my wife.

--My friend Susan makes a good point: "When hanging around with drunk people...if the topic of conversation takes a turn toward Kennedy Assassination Conspiracy Theories...it's time to leave!!"


_____________________________
*Typically abbreviated to "wildland gear," which then becomes "Wild man gear." This is tough, light Nomex jeans and topshirt (usually comes with work gloves and boots, but I just use my fire gloves and bunker boots) that one pulls on over street clothes, which prevent embers from immediately burning through, but which have no insulative properties. Combined with a light plastic helmet (kept on the brush truck) and light goggles, this gear actually provides some protection without causing your firefighter to succumb to heat exhaustion in regular bunker gear.

Dallas for the day.

Things are going missing around the G household.
Probably I'm just disorganized, but for the past month I can't find my most favorite Kindle, which I bought from Marko Kloos, and my most favorite flashlight, the PolyStinger D.S.

So it was time to get new.

I found on Craig's List that a lady had a NIB Kindle Paperwhite Touch for $40. I negotiated the sale, and went to the area of Cedar Springs and Oak Lawn to pick it up from her husband, a recent graduate of business school who explained that she had gotten the device as a work gift, and already had an iPad.

We shook hands, and, being in the area, I went to EatZi's for lunch. I hit the bakery, and was saddened that they no longer bake the prosciutto and black pepper loaf. But they still make the Kalamata Olive Loaf, and I got one, along with a 4 Cheese And Chili Boule, and had them run them through the slicer. Then I gawked at the cakes and stuff:

For scale, that's about a 10" wide cake under that buttercreme.
 

I've eaten their stuff. Given the quality, these prices are actually downright reasonable.

I had the deli man slice me some very thin Molinari Finocchiona Picolocini, which has fennel in it. Paper thin slices made you think that you had taken a mouthful. Economy of flavor, even at $13/lb. I also got a quarter pound of Citterio Spresata Salami, and a quarter pound of Molinari Capacolla Hot (Only $15/lb). I had them ring me up for these, along with the salad that I had them make to my specs, with lots of rare roast beef and stuff.  Then I sat at a broken tile mosaic wall-side bar on a stool, and drank good coffee with my salad as I listened to some Italian tenor. Not a bad lunch.

I then went by GT Police Supply, and bought me a Stinger DS LED HL. This thing puts out 640 lumens, in the same size as my old 360 lumen Stinger. I can't convey here how much light this little rechargeable flashlight puts out. It's enough to note on the sidewalk at midday in Texas summer.  Sadly, I grabbed a box with a metal, rather than poly, stinger. I'll be getting a new plastic one, soon. I need another flashlight, anyway.

I then fought traffic on the way back home. What should have been about an hour and a quarter was extended significantly, because two cars had a fender bender and waited in the left lane for the police to arrive, blocking one of the three lanes, and causing an unforeseen bottleneck which caused merging that did not, as one would expect, slow the traffic by 1/3, but actually slowed the drive-time traffic to less than 1/3 of its normal slow pace. As I passed the two vehicles, I noticed that both drivers were sitting in their cars with the windows up, so that they could enjoy their air conditioning on this 94 degree day. The BMW and the Land Rover neither had incapacitating damage. I'm afraid that I (in my un-air-conditioned old beater car) may have hollered at them to move their car, as they were in violation of Texas Transportation Code section 550.022(b), which states:

 If an accident occurs on a main lane, ramp, shoulder, median, or adjacent area of a freeway in a metropolitan area and each vehicle involved can be normally and safely driven, each operator shall move the operator's vehicle as soon as possible to a designated accident investigation site, if available, a location on the frontage road, the nearest suitable cross street, or other suitable location to complete the requirements of Section 550.023 and minimize interference with freeway traffic.

...which they were violating.

I'd've written 'em each a citation for it, were I the Dallas County Traffic Enforcement deputy.
The whole business of "I can't move my car, because the officer needs to see the crash scene as it occurred" is only applicable to crashes involving injury or fatality.

Last night, I fed the family with open-faced sammiches made from the high-end bread lightly-toasted with butter on cookie sheets, then broiled with paper-thin slices of the meats and some white cheddar and smoked gouda, with thin slices of onion atop them. The kids picked off the onion, and ate heartily. The wife added spiced mustard, and ate heartily. I just ate it as it was, and was happy to find two left this morning when I got up late (I work evenings today.). You could claim that your breakfast was better than mine, reheated with a cup of black coffee, but I would not believe your claim.

Go home, Frank C Barnes. You're drunk!

One of my favorite books to kill a few minutes with is the great work by (the late) Frank C. Barnes: Cartridges Of The World. Barnes started the project in the mid-century, and periodically updated it with new editions. I finally threw away my old and yellowed worn-out 2nd Edition copy without a cover, which was missing pages. That old copy referenced .25-06 and .35 Whelen as "wildcats," and which didn't have 10 mm, .40 S&W, or .357 Sig in it. It talked about how the .257 Roberts was being pushed out by the "new 6mms," and talked about how the .45-70 was almost 100 years old!! 

Barnes passed away in the early '90s, and Richard A. Mann picked up the task of updating the mandatory reference manual; it is in its 13th Edition now.  He left in some of Barnes' original descriptions about different cartridges, and put in his own. By and large, he's done a pretty good job, of a pretty good job that Barnes had done. Keep doing a pretty good job for long enough, over a field as broad as this, and you end up with a real work of value. While everyone reads the historical notes and general descriptions of the cartridges, there is also a very valuable specifications section at the back, which gives gross measurements of each cartridge. Most of the rounds have descriptive loads in each section, but I will caution you NOT to use those for hand loading reference. But if you're a shooter, or a collector, or any kind of aficionado of firearms, this is a necessary household reference book.

At any rate, this morning while awaiting my coffee to perk, I let the book fall open where it may, and noticed something odd, for the first time, about the illustration for the classic old black powder cartridge, the .38-40 WCF:

This most certainly is NOT the .38-40 WCF. Perhaps it's the .38-40 WTF?

Without a scale, it's hard to know what caliber is portrayed there. It's obviously a belted magnum, likely of .38 caliber. It has a fairly sharp shoulder, and a long neck. It is most certainly NOT the .38-40 Winchester.
Hey, accidents happen.

Random thoughts: For my entertainment.

-- We got a SodaStream for Christmas. As a guy who loves soda water, this thing is awesome, so far. But I've not yet gone though the canister swap, which is reported to be just like swapping your propane canister for your gas grill. It takes about 10 seconds to turn a litre of fresh water into soda. The flavorings are actually really good (The sugar-free grapefruit is fantastic.). I've enjoyed having very carbonated soda water for rickeys and my now-world-famous holiday bourbon sour.

--We've been watching Sherlock on NetFlicks. I have to say: It doesn't suck. Give it a shot.

--Two nights ago, we saw the first (of THREE!) installment of The Hobbit. We liked it, even though we thought that two would have been enough for the book. The battle scenes were over-wrought (there's one scene where the dwarves are "suddenly" captured by goblins, which takes longer than it would take to load and fire and reload a muzzleloader cannon. In the dark. In the rain. "Suddenly", my hind foot.).  We liked it. But then, my wife is big on Tolkien, I like it, and my kids like the movies a LOT (elder daughter's ready to plunge headlong into the books.).

--We noticed, about halfway through, that Martin Freeman, the actor who plays Bilbo, is also the actor who plays Dr. John Watson on Sherlock. That guy's a good actor.

--My wife seems to have a bit of a crush on the little guy. I'm okay with that.

--My wife needs to remember my easygoing reception to such things, the next time I'm paying rapt attention to Christina Hendricks, or Kate Winslet.

--My step-mother put on a hell of a feed on our (observed) Christmas. I couldn't name all the items presented, but my favorites were roasted sweet pecans and roasted salty pecans (separate dishes), ham rolls, deviled eggs, queso dip with chips, Scottish shortbread biscuits, really good eggnog, and shrimp. Seriously, I'm not referencing half of it. Good company.

--I had planned to plant a good-sized hardwood at their place on the southwest side of the house to provide attractive shade. The snow on the ground made this unfeasible. Next week.

--We had a white Christmas for only the fourth time in my life. 4" of good snow, and a hard freeze to make it stick. Pretty to look at, but I had to work in it, and that gale blowing it in was a bit bracing.

--I find that I load myself a little heavier when going to a movie, nowdays. Not a lot, but instead of just a reload, I've got a BUG and a reload. I don't over-react, but then again, I didn't whine when my kids picked seats in the upper corner behind the wall overlooking the exit ramp, either. (Kids pick seats while Daddy buys popcorn, now.)

--How long until we have a BlueTooth or WiFi-enabled set of movie glasses with HUD with closed captioning for the hearing impaired? We have the technology. I'm ready for it. I couldn't understand half the dialogue the other night. We always have CC on at the house. It's a lot better than it used to be.

--I realize that, with my talk of food and drink, I sound like Joe the Fat Boy from Dickens' Pickwick Papers. Though I don't (yet) suffer from Pickwickian syndrome, I do work nights, and I did drift off several times during the opening of the presents on Christmas day.

She's good. You should go read.

Normally, when I send folks to a URL, I mean for you to read their online stuff.*
For the past couple of days, I've been formulating in my head a book report on Kathy Jackson's book The Cornered Cat: A Woman's Guide To Concealed Carry, which I've been reading.

Kathy Jackson and I both posted a lot on TheFiringLine.com, and were co-moderators at TheHighRoad.org. She is a superb writer. She's also been training men and women to shoot in the Northwest for years. She has a lot of experience, and has thought about the issue in some new ways that I hadn't seen before.

While I was talking to Kathy at the NRA Convention in St Louis this April, Rob Pincus told me that Kathy's book is something anyone interested in concealed carry should read. I noted that, because Rob is not a girly man, and he was endorsing a pink book with a kitty cat on it.

After returning from St. Louis, the book lived in my suitcase for a few months, and when I was getting ready to head to Blogorado last week, the book came out. I've been reading it, and am half done. It's great. Seriously. Kathy points out some superb points about mindset, early on, which I will use for myself, and will pass on to others. I believe that it is Chapter Three which is called "Dying Of Embarrassment", and points out how people often permit their lives to be endangered out of fear that they will break a social more.

The book is written to be appealing to women. But that doesn't mean that it's not valuable to men. This is not a Secret antiperspirant advertisement-- it's a strong endorsement by a man who carries guns and advocates responsible self-defense. Guys, if you have to tell yourself it's for the woman in your life, then buy it, read it, and give it to her. But don't miss the chance to read it before you pass it on.

People that know me know that I don't give false compliments, ever. I wouldn't have written this if I didn't mean it.


___________________________
*But on that note: good news! Kathy Jackson has a blog, and is blogging on it lately.

Random Wednesday Thoughts. Day after V[F]D.

--I'm older than I've ever been. And now I'm even older.

--There was a "BuyCot" yesterday, as you may have heard. Folks wanted to boycott Starbucks on Valentine's Day for going hands-off on gun-carriers and refusing to impose more restrictions than the state laws already did. Gunnies around the web decided to show support for Starbucks by giving their business. When I went in to get my wife a Great Big 'Un* coffee drink and myself a pound of coffee, I noticed a couple of middle-aged guys sitting about the place wearing vests, and unwinding with their coffee. I'll bet good money that I wasn't the only armed guy in the joint. While Starbucks reports their shares were "flat" yesterday, I'll bet that their revenues for the day took a little jump. But I don't expect them to volunteer such information. If I were Starbucks, I'd be of the exact same position that they've been taking, lately: "Look, we make and serve coffee. Don't drag us into that battle." That's all I want.  

--Valentine's Day was yesterday. I heard more backlash over it ("It's just a corporate-induced holiday to sell things and make the fat cats money!", "It's a damned quid pro quo by the women, who expect the man to do something for them if they expect the women to be physically affectionate!") than I ever had before.

--My 13 year old daughter came home with two carnations yesterday. One was from her girl friend, but another was from a boy. She insists that he's "just a friend," and it's true that he hangs with her circle of girl friends a lot, but still, it's her first flower from a boy. She reported that another one of her friends received from her boyfriend a necklace with a diamond and ruby pendant on it. These kids are in 8th grade. I explained to my daughter that if she received such a gift from a boy, she would be returning it.

--My 13 year old had made home-made chocolate truffles in four flavors to give to her friends at school. She then made cute origami boxes with separators and lift-off lids to give them in. That kid's got skills.

--My 9 year old daughter made dinner last night. She pulled out her Mollie Katzen cookbook the other night and  reported that she was making the meal, and we were all expected to attend. So, after school yesterday, she set about to making a hearty soup (she modified the vegetable soup to be vegetable beef soup, because she likes meat), a Mediterranean salad, and a rich chocolate desert. She then set our table thusly:

That kid's got skills, too**. Very good soup. I am told that the soup was better this morning, but I was not left so much as a bite.

--I didn't get to finish my bowl of soup. I got a fire page during dinner. It was an alarm at an apartment complex, and those can be nothing, or very, very nasty. I got up and said, "I'll probably be right back," I said. "No, you won't," my wife said. "But go, anyway." She smiled at me. I got there in time to gear up and jump on the engine. This was the first time that I had ridden in what is traditionally the Captain's seat, front right. As I got in, the air horn went crazy. The driver mildly informed me that I was stomping on the horn button on the floor. I moved my foot off in a hurry. The mechanical siren cranked up, LOUDLY, with us still in the firehouse bay. I had moved my foot to another button. How many buttons were there, anyway? (Three, it turns out.) Given the size of my fire boots, the best thing for me to do was to try to tuck my feet up under my seat, which is how I rode to the call. At each intersection, I called out traffic conditions to my side, and tapped the air horn briefly. It was only as I arrived on scene that I realized that I had forgotten to put on the headset.

The fire alarm was inconsequential. It was my first run.

--After going home and getting the girls to bed, I got toned out for another pair of calls. I went back to the station, and found that most of the apparatus and all of the crew were gone to the calls. I checked in on the radio, and was advised to stand by at the station, in case we received another call. I hung out with a lonely brush truck for an hour, while the other guys worked a wreck several miles out of town, and staged for a police call just out of town (but in our fire district). Here I was: a guy that barely knew where the bathroom was (literally, I had to ask last week. I just hadn't needed to use it before, there), and yet I was the sole guy with the penultimate piece of apparatus in the city (there was also a tanker) there to answer fire calls. I laughed at myself (I know I've got a LOT to learn, and don't take myself too seriously). But it made me feel good to be there for the city, if something DID happen. Like a gun of minor caliber ready in a closet or a drawer. Not ideal. Probably not even adequate. But serviceable, and a hell of a lot better than nothing. This is why I volunteer.

--If you're shocked to read that a rookie volunteer firefighter would be given such a responsibility, don't be. That's how lots of volunteer fire departments are. By area, most of our nation's land is served by VFDs

--I've made a vow to myself to be the slowest, most careful apparatus driver in the department.

--I'm waiting for the mail. I have a small paper presentation due in class today, and the text book that I'm referencing for it, which I ordered a week ago, hasn't arrived. I know that it's been en route for two days. If it doesn't arrive by the time I finish this post, I've got to download it on my Kindle, and effectively pay for the same book twice. That galls me. My fault, though. My class starts in three hours. Better hurry, Matt!

--Just checked the mail again. The book has arrived. (And Matt is again rewarded for procrastination, which might not be best.) Got to run.





_________________________________
*I refuse to use their silly terms for size. A big iced mocha is served in a cup that is closer to a quart than to twenty ounces, so "vente" is just stupid. As a bonus, I got to watch the barrista flinch when I said it. I liked it so much, I ordered a second one. Damn, but those things are tasty. My bride liked her afternoon coffee pick-me-up  more than the two dozen tulips that I brought to her office.

**Yes, I see the error in the place setting. No, I didn't see it last night. Not sure I would have said anything.

Bringing up Men in an age of sissies.

I've a good friend (let's call him Red) who has married a good woman, with two boys. At ages 12 and 9, they're decent kids, but they've been reared for the previous several years by their mother, alone, and before that, with an ufortunate man. Red's new bride is delighted to see the boys now have a positive male role model, and my buddy Red is more than happy to step in and provide them direction in that role.

Long before Red proposed to her, he began helping the boys. After they got married, he began working in earnest to show them how to grow up to be Men. There are little things, like how to shake hands like a man, and how to wear clothing. Then there were bigger issues, like not coming inside and just sitting on the couch to watch television all day long, simply because it's hot outside. (It's Texas. You can expect triple digit temperatures in the summertime. Drink lots of water, and get back to playing outdoors.)

The younger boy has shown an uncommonly strong love of WebKinz. Okay, says Red. Fine. But try not to be silly about it-- boys at some point shouldn't carry around dolls. And when that doll is a wolf, a boy traditionally names it "Fang," or "Spike," or "Timber"-- not "Jenny." Red isn't trying to impede the boy's creativity, but he does insist that the doll get left home in the boy's room when they're out and about town.

Wailing and gnashing of teeth were observed.

Looks like Red has his work cut out for him.

The other day, Red reported to me that his boys were coming in the house, whining about what to put on an ant bite that each had sustained. He was incredulous. "You could rub some dirt on it," he answered. "If that doesn't work, maybe we could find you some cream for it, from your Mother's bathroom!"

Red isn't intolerant. If the boys grow up to actually be gay, he's fine with that. But he will be DAMNED if he will let them grow up to be wussies.

We have discussed how the world has changed since we were kids. Nowadays, boys are taught that there is zero tolerance for violence, so that even throwing a punch back at someone who has punched them in the face is grounds for expulsion. Boys are taught to cry more readily, and come seeking the ready attention of their mothers, rather than learning to deal with adversity themselves. Red's wife is a very, VERY good mother. She gives her boys lots of mothering. The problem is, they've been receiving double doses of mothering, without much fathering, in the past. Red is trying to overcome that. He figures that he doesn't have much time.

The good news is, the boys have taken to him like a duck to water. They will literally follow him around, doing work with him. They learn lessons from him about telling the truth (this has been an issue with them), treating their mother and other women with respect (also an issue), and speaking plainly. Of course these aren't exclusively the providence of men, but some lessons seem to take better to boys, when taught them by a grown man whom they respect, and who walks the walk. Talk is cheap.

I reckon that Red is just doing what's right, and no more. But because so few seem to do just that, it makes him stand out some. I'm proud to call him my friend.

We've been talking about culturally manly things to do. He takes them fishing, and they do the sports thing. I mentioned that he needs to watch some John Wayne movies with them. Maybe The Cowboys, and The Searchers, and The Sons Of Katie Elder. I like The Wind And The Lion, partially because it's actually a movie about men, rather than just cultures.

Any other ideas I can pass on? Favorite books? Important activities?

I myself was fortunate to have been reared with a definitive positive male role model.

Late to the party. Again.

You ever had friends reference a book as being great, and you nod, knowing that you SHOULD have read it, but can't quite admit that you haven't? You're agreeing that it probably is good, because people you know and trust have said so, but you're not saying "Yes, I read it." That would be dishonest.

But still, you don't want to openly admit that you're among the unwashed who hasn't yet read this classic.

Maybe I'm the only one.

Anyway, I've been acquainted with Larry Correia for about 7 or 8 years. I wear shirts that he designed and distributed for The Firing Line staff (Larry had actually joined the site months before I did). We've been staff members together on The High Road.

Larry's an interesting guy. Big. Really big. Portuguese descent, lives in Utah, is an accountant who put himself through college the hard way. He also, I believe I've mentioned, started up FBMG, a fun little shop that sells any kind of firearm that can be had. No, not just those-- ANY kind. They have a bit of fun out there in the high desert.

Well Larry's latest iteration of self is that he's a writer.

A writer who discusses the practical extermination of monsters.

Vampires? Sure thing. Three kinds, and thanks for asking.
Werewolves? First shake out of the box.
Zombies. Wights. Gargoyles. Golems. All are slain in Larry's first novel.

Slain with shotguns, pistols, rifles, Gurkha knives, flamethrowers, and RPGs.

For every one of you out there who's sick and tired of the Twilight series taking over everything, this is your vindication. In Larry's book, vampires are killed by the good guys, because they are dangerous, predatory, and evil. (Seems like there's a moral in there, somewhere.)

Most of you reading this already know very well that I'm talking about Monster Hunter International, the critically-acclaimed book by Larry Correia that was released by Baen books back on July 28th, 2009.

Larry writes about what he knows. He knows about being a giant in a small man's world (right there with you, pal). He knows about being an accountant who has "other skills." He knows about guns. He knows about having to deal with a big government that he doesn't have a whole lot of respect for. And you gather that he's always known, down deep, that there's something less-talked about, which lurks beneath the concrete surface of reality as we know it.

I'm ashamed of the fact that I hadn't yet read it, even though I had been around to read some of his early drafts before he sent them off-- even before Kathy Jackson proofed them.

I meant to. But I wanted to have my copy inscribed by Larry, himself.

So it was with great pleasure this Christmas, when I got a nice package from FarmGirl and FarmMom, with cookies... and a copy of M.H.I that had been personally dedicated to me by Larry Correia, with his logo above his signature. What a delightful and thoughtful gift from FarmGirl.

I'll tell you right now-- it's a great read. At over 700 pages, it's a surprisingly quick read, as well.

On his bio at The High Road, Larry Correia lists his occupations as "Accountant, gun/gear dealer, wannabe writer." I've since read that he's updated his bio elsewhere to "accountant, writer, retired gun dealer, and finance manager at a defense contractor."

If his next book is as good as his first, he'll need to retire the other jobs, too.

Go get a copy, and enjoy a fun read.

Book meme

From Tamara, who got it here:

1. Pick up the nearest book of 123 pages or more. No cheating!
2. Find page 123.
3. Find the first five sentences.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.

Here's my three sentences from Cormac McCarthy's The Road:

The water was so clear. He held it to the light. A single bit of sediment coiling in the jar on some slow hydraulic axis.

So I pick Breda, and LawDog, and John Shirley, and, uh, ClaireBell.

------
And, yeah, I know I owe some other memes that I've been tagged on. Pic is taken for yours, Breda.

When good things happen to good people.

My online pal, accountant cum merchant of death (and author of a fun book that is destined to become a kickass B movie) Larry Correia has officially opened his new store. To say that it's being well-received would be an understatement.

Fuzzy Bunny Movie Guns (FBMG) is there for all (and I mean ALL) your gun needs. Yes, they're out of Utah, but they can find and acquire for you all the Class III stuff (legal silencers, machine guns, recoiless rifles, etc) you desire. They are full service. And Larry C. is a hell of a guy.

I have not yet pimped his newly-published book Monster Hunter International, because I've not yet acquired my own copy to give you a proper book report on, yet. I enjoyed the rough draft that he sent me to read a couple of years ago, so I know that I'll love the novel. But I'll hold off on that for another post.

Michael Jackson-- the only one that matters-- is dead.

I met Michael Jackson, AKA "The Beer Hunter," in Austin at a home brew competition I had entered, and it was like getting to shake the hand of a rock star*. This man had single-handedly brought beer from the back cabinet, and put it on the counter for inspection, study, and praise. His writing and studies and categorization was responsible for the microbrewery craze of the 1990s.

Michael Jackson was a heavily-bearded, curly-haired British man with a quiet laugh and a background in journalism. He said that he had for years found that he and other newsmen would gather at day's end, discussing beers of all kinds, their peculiarities, and where to find and try new ones. Yet when he approached editors and publishers (often those same newspapermen with whom he would have long discussions with about beers), he was always told that "people aren't interested in reading about beer." He finally did a book on pubs, in which he managed to sneak a little beer lore in, and from there managed to get a book on beer, and then another, and then another. He then started a BBC television series, and writing monthly columns in numerous publications about it.

Then he set to writing about Scotch.

Most of what I know about single-malt Scotches, I learned from Michael Jackson. He wrote some fine books on single-malts, and I own a couple. My old roommate Bill Hall and I would occasionally buy a new bottle of single malt (though Bill was by far the more avid collector; he had several dozen different representatives in his collection), and we would play "Name that Scotch," with one of us choosing a bottle from Bill's collection and pouring a secret dram into a clear glass for the other, while the drinker sat with a copy of Jackson's book on single malts, and would try to determine what exactly he was drinking. As there are 7 discrete styles, scores of labels, and hundreds of bottling, this isn't an easy game to play, but it certainly is a fun one to practice.

Jackson was, of course, cursed with a name that was made more famous by a pop star with questionable proclivities. He had a good sense of humor about it, and said that, while he couldn't dance, he did possess a good singing voice and a glove.

As someone who managed to convey to the world that good beer is every bit as worthy as any wine every made, he did the world a service. He brought dignity to the common man's pint, and taught pinky-pointing sherry-sippers that there was finery to be found in malt.

He died this past week at 65. He'd been living with Parkinson's for his last decade.

Rest in peace, Beer Hunter.

_ _ _

* The third place ribbon that I received for a fruit ale (a peach cream ale) was just icing on the cake. I got him to autograph one of his books.

What am I doing here?

On this blog, I mean.

The other day I was driving over to pick up my dad's pickup to facilitate a fencing project. On the way, I listened to NPR on the radio. They interviewed writer Anne Fadiman, who was plugging her new book (coming out next week), a collection of essays At Large And At Small. By the end of the interview, I decided that I would at least find this book in a library, if not buy it outright; Fadiman has a good eye.

Fadiman's passion is the "familiar essay."

The familiar essay is a subset of the personal essay, but not quite as personal as the personal essay, that we know in the 21st century-- the personal essay, in which the writer essentially regurgitates his innards onto the page, and doesn't talk about anything but himself. In the early 191h century, essayists like Charles Lamb and William Haslet wrote what they called "familiar essays," that were about them, but also about a subject --that is, Lamb for example wrote about tailors, and drunkards, and annoying relatives. Familiar subjects that he knew well, and that his readers knew well, too. *

Hmmm. That sounds damned familiar. Giving my view on topics that I know something about, but which doesn't exclude the reader. Oh, it gets personal, but I think that some my better entries are more open than that.

I've wondered for some time what I was doing here. Am I just puking up my thoughts and personal events, or am I actually putting a decent perspective on concepts and events? I'd rather not have this be a simple diary of electronic performance art.

The interviewer asked Fadiman about blogging as a possible new form of the familiar essay, which made me smile, as I'd been thinking about that since the interview began. Of course it is, when done well. But the question puts Fadiman, a professional writer who's been vetted by publishers and editors, on the spot: can she declare her own writing style to be widespread and free? Well, not quite.:

I don't know if it's a form of familiar essay, but I do think that it's an interesting literary genre. There are a lot of terrible blogs, because of course they don't go through the usual filters --it's sort of like eating your coffee grounds raw, as Balzac often did, rather than filtering them, into a somewhat more refined brew, but many bloggers write beautifully, and there of course may be some advantages in not being filtered through the editing process. The hallmark of the familiar essay is that it is autobiographical, but it is also about the world; a lot of bloggers that I read do just the one, or just the other, but they don't combine the two. *

I wholeheartedly agree with her.

_ _ _ _
I love personal essays. Twain and Kipling wrote some of the earlier ones that I loved. London, and Dylan Thomas, too. I think that one reason I like them so is that they're always written in the first person, with a narrator who doesn't hide himself. Anyone who's ever written an account of pretty much anything knows that the first person is the easiest to write in. If you're going to give a good view of what you know, why not tell it from your own eye? For some reason, many departments have taught police officers to write reports entirely in the third person. The effect is to actually make the report far more difficult to understand. "Officer Smith responded to a report of a burglary," seems a little stilted, when right at the top of the report is the author: Officer Smith. I've refused to write reports in the third person unless directly ordered to do so.

Because it's easier to write in the first person, I believe it's easier to read works written in that fashion. Good detective novels typically are written in the first person, which makes the most sense: how can we empathize with a detective's mystery when we know more or less than he does? Somewhere I read that all good stories are really mysteries, and there's probably a little truth to that. A good storyteller usually knows better than to put the punchline in the first line of the story. A good story has a closing point that the reader feels compelled to read to.

My mama writes in both personal and familiar essay style. Here she writes a wonderful personal essay of the pleasures of summertime in New Mexico before air conditioning, while here is one written in more of the 'familiar essay" style, of May Day celebrations in New Mexico in the 1950's.

My buddies Ambulance Driver, BabsRn, and LawDog all write superb essays in both the personal and familiar formats. Most of them are personal essays, and indeed those are generally the most popular, especially in the case of the extremely popular "LawDog Files" stories that my fellow Texas lawman writes. I don't know how the hell to classify Tam's V.F.T.P. blog, but her Arms Room blog is generally of the familiar essay style [and is superb. And is not posted to enough. (Tamara, trust me on this: that blog is the one that will stand for hundreds of years, regardless of how much pleasure we all get from the Porch.)].

I think back to how I hated writing essays in school, and how I now voluntarily write them. (Usually. Heh.)

I don't really know why I write them. (I dashed out my first one over a couple of beers on a personal holiday.) But it gives me pleasure to do so, and if they occasionally entertain others or invite others to think, then I'm satisfied.

Tomorrow, The Stars

"Speak to me of summer, long winters longer than time can remember,

The setting up of other roads, to travel on in old accustomed ways.

I still remember the talks by the water, the proud sons and daughter that,

Knew the knowledge of the land, spoke to me in sweet accustomed ways."

"Starship Trooper: a. Life Seeker, b. Disillusion, c. Würm"

The Yes Album, Yes, ("b." Squire)

When Tamara posted about this photo of a Martian sunset, I was surprised at how powerfully it hit me. I have in-laws who regularly make fun of how the only thing the space program ever brought them was Tang, and they don't even like Tang.

-

I was reared differently. My mother sent in money, in the '60s, to the space program to help with the moon shot. When I was a boy, I had an 8X10 color photo of Allen Bean hanging in my bedroom. Dad had been reading Heinlein for decades before I was born, and our attic was stuffed with old issues of Analog and Isaac Asimov magazines. Both parents recounted how disgusted they were when they heard that the crowd at Woodstock had booed upon hearing how Apollo 11 had landed on the moon.

-

All my life, I've expected us to set foot on frontiers beyond this earth. Making it to our own satellite is a necessary step, but it hardly represents a stopping point. There is new talk of renewing our reach to the other planets. I may see it, and I may not. But my daughters will. They may even have a part in it.

-

My elder daughter returned last night with news that she was one of three in her class to make a perfect score on her state math test. Ironic, in that she's about as interested in math as I am in window treatments-- read: not at all. She'd have been prouder to have won the school-wide spelling bee that she qualified for earlier this year. But I'm proud of her. I know that she and her sister represent a chunk of our species' hope for salvation.

-

As I mentioned in my comments to Tamara's entry, Elder Daughter gets a copy of Podkayne Of Mars this summer. Next summer, Tomorrow, The Stars.

Library time

Oldest daughter is home sick. Yeah, whatever-- she's more lively than I've been in the last 5 years at any given time.

So we made a library run. She picked out some of the silly kiddie dreck that fills most of the shelves, but was happy enough when I directed her to the Newberry section. My daughter's a pretty voracious reader (genes will tell, but I think she's on the whole better balanced than I was.), but she'll be lazy, as any kid will, if left undirected. She'll pick up that Junie B. Jones book that frankly is about about 3 years below her level, and which she's read already, if you don't watch it. But give her a choice from the Good Stuff, and she's plenty happy, too.

I like visiting the library. On the whole, a local library is a good place. If you find yourself looking at a bond election where the issue is whether to put a little more money into the library budget, please consider that a library is more than just a place where one gets books. It's one of Ray Oldenberg's fabled "third places." Yes, many things you can get from the Internet. But not that space. Keep your librarys vibrant.

We went to the checkout desk. I forgot to have my daughter bring her card, so we put it all, hers and mine, on my card. The fellow of ambiguous sexuality behind the desk scanned my card's barcode with an optical reader, and an annoying buzzing sound made him take in his breath and say "oh!" It's never good when a scan of your card creates such a reaction, but I was ready for him; I had a few single bills on the counter, and just slid them across to him. "This won't quite clear..." he began apologetically.

"Well, it's going to have to push 'til next time; I'm tapped out," I said ruefully.

"Okay. We can let you check out this time, since the remainder is below $5.00," he acquiesced. I nodded. Hell, this ain't my first rodeo; I knew how it would play out before we walked in.

Yes, I tend to go over a tad. Pretty dumb, when I can nowadays recheck my books online, too. But it's still cheaper than buying the dadgummed things. I'm about done keeping more than reference books around my house. Nothing like moving to make you hate all possessions.

That optical scanner thingy made me think about Tamara's plea on behalf of Pleghm Fatale, for an old credit-card-style manual roller machine used at libraries. Why does she want one? Damfino. Maybe it's her initial thin scrape into the crust of the new world of nostalgia that's given birth to this new Steampunk genre of collecting. Frankly, some of the stuff is pretty swell. (I think I may buy my first cell phone, for the car.)

Last year I checked out a book at the University of North Texas Information Science Library (it was some high-falutin' mathematical theory book that I had no business trying to read, let alone check out), and the flyleaf had the glued-in label with a grid for the library folk to stamp your due-date in. They still do that at the ISL at UNT. The card proclaimed that the book belonged to North Texas State University, had been checked out four times, and was last checked out in 1978.

Book meme

Stolen from Ambulance Driver.

1. The Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown)
2. Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen) Sense and Sensibility
3. To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee)
4. Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell)
5. The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (Tolkien)
6. The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (Tolkien)
7. The Lord of the Rings: Two Towers (Tolkien)
8. Anne of Green Gables (L.M. Montgomery)
9. Outlander (Diana Gabaldon)
10. A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)
11. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (Rowling)
12. Angels and Demons (Dan Brown)
13. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Rowling)
14. A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)
15. Memoirs of a Geisha (Arthur Golden)
16. Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone (Rowling)
17. Fall on Your Knees(Ann-Marie MacDonald)
18. The Stand (Stephen King)
19. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Rowling)
20. Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte)
21. The Hobbit (Tolkien)The Silmarillion
22. The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger)
23. Little Women (Louisa May Alcott)
24. The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)
25 . Life of Pi (Yann Martel)
26. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams)The Restaurant at the End of The Universe
27. Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte)
28. The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis)The Chronicles of Narnia
29. East of Eden (John Steinbeck)
30. Tuesdays with Morrie (Mitch Albom)
31. Dune (Frank Herbert)
32. The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks)
33. Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand)
34. 1984 (Orwell)
35. The Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley)
36. The Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
37. The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay)
38. I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb)
39. The Red Tent (Anita Diamant)
40. The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)
41. The Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean M. Auel)
42. The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
43. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)
44. The Five People You Meet In Heaven (Mitch Albom)
45. Bible
46. Anna Karenina (Tolstoy)
47. The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)
48. Angela's Ashes (Frank McCourt)Tis
49. The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
50. She's Come Undone (Wally Lamb)
51. The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)
52. A Tale of Two Cities (Dickens)
53. Ender's Game (Orson Scott Card)
54. Great Expectations (Dickens)
55. The Great Gatsby (Fitzgerald)
56. The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence)
57. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (Rowling)
58. The Thorn Birds (Colleen McCullough)
59. The Handmaid's Tale (Margaret Atwood)
60. The Time Traveller's Wife (Audrey Niffenegger)
61. Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky)
62. The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)
63. War and Peace (Tolstoy)
64. Interview With The Vampire (Anne Rice)
65. Fifth Business (Robertson Davis)
66. One Hundred Years Of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
67. The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants (Ann Brashares)
68. Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
69. Les Miserables (Hugo)
70. The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)
71. Bridget Jones' Diary (Fielding)
72. Love in the Time of Cholera (Marquez)
73. Shogun (James Clavell)
74. The English Patient (Michael Ondaatje)
75. The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett)
76. The Summer Tree (Guy Gavriel Kay)
77. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith)
78. The World According To Garp (John Irving)
79. The Diviners (Margaret Laurence)
80. Charlotte's Web (E.B. White)
81. Not Wanted On The Voyage (Timothy Findley)
82. Of Mice And Men (Steinbeck)
83. Rebecca (Daphne DuMaurier)
84. Wizard's First Rule (Terry Goodkind)
85. Emma (Jane Austen)
86. Watership Down (Richard Adams)
87. Brave New World (Aldous Huxley)
88. The Stone Diaries (Carol Shields)
89. Blindness (Jose Saramago)
90. Kane and Abel (Jeffrey Archer)
91. In The Skin Of A Lion (Ondaatje)
92. Lord of the Flies (Golding)
93. The Good Earth (Pearl S. Buck)
94. The Secret Life of Bees (Sue Monk Kidd)
95. The Bourne Identity (Robert Ludlum)
96. The Outsiders (S.E. Hinton)Rumble Fish
97. White Oleander (Janet Fitch)
98. A Woman of Substance (Barbara Taylor Bradford)
99. The Celestine Prophecy (James Redfield)
100. Ulysses (James Joyce)

Re: Ulysses: I tried. Gawd, I swear I did.

Of the rest, some I'm ashamed that I haven't. Some I thumbed through and couldn't give a whit if I ever read 'em again (Anne Rice does that to me. I don't mean to criticize y'all who like her stuff, but it doesn't do a damned thing for me. I found myself flipping through, looking for the "good parts."). Some of them I've thumbed through, but couldn't really say I've read (eg: White Oleander, World According To Garp). Others, I believe that I've finished, but in piecemeal. (e.g.: The Bible.) Others, I simply can't remember ever reading, though surely I did...? (e.g.: East of Eden) Lots, I mean to read, and have a certain satisfaction that I still can. Ever realized that you're reading the last of a favorite author's repetoire? (Raise your hand if you turned the last page of To Sail Beyond The Sunset with slow regret?)


I agree with Ambulance Driver that there's a lot left out.

Just randomly, some books that either should be on the list or represent some interesting reading from recent authors:

101. Time Enough For Love (Robert A. Heinlein)
102. The Cidar House Rules (Irving)
103. Moby Dick (Melville)
104. Starship Troopers (R.A.H.)
105. Slaughterhouse-5 (Kurt Vonnegut)
106. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Mark Twain)
107. The Screwtape Letters (C.S. Lewis)
108. A Dirty Job (Christopher Moore)
109. Empire (Orson Scott Card)
110. The Naked and the Dead (Norman Mailer)
111. Peter Pan (J.M. Barrie)
112. Alice In Wonderland (Lewis Carroll)
113. The Wizard of Oz (Frank Baum)
114. James And The Giant Peach (Roald Dahl)
115. Letters From The Earth (Samuel Clemmons)
116. Barrack-Room Ballads (Rudyard Kipling)
117. Leaves Of Grass (Walt Whitman)
118. Lays Of Ancient Rome (Thomas Babbington Macaulay)
119. Crossing The Border (Cormac McCarthy)
120. Leaving Cheyenne (Larry McMurtry)
121. The Shipping News (E. Annie Proulx)

Aw, heck. How far am I going to take this? Somebody else have a swing at it.