Twelfth Book, 12th Man
Quite a feat, reading 12 books in three months. Why, that's one a week! Pretty sad, really, for a professional writer, but I have a child and Rotisserie baseball season is coming. It depresses me, as I've taken on this 50 Book Challenge for no good reason, to look at, say, Bookslut, who's on something like her 35th book, and most of those books are actually current and interesting and haven't been sitting in a pile by her desk since the winter of 2003.
With that in mind, I did finish book #12 last night, while I drank two glasses of red wine, because I'm deluding myself into thinking that's good for my heart. At least I resisted the temptation to pop half a Vicodin. This book is Blitz, by Ken Bruen, about whom I've talked here before. Blitz comes at the recommendation of Sarah Weinman, another tragically unpaid critic whose judgment I respect. She was right. Blitz is better than Bruen's other South London books. The plot is smoother and the set pieces more vivid. Still, do you have to start every chapter with an epigraph? Ninety percent of them made my teeth hurt.
In other news, while the rest of the country is going nuts over the quasi-professional biracial slave auction that is the NCAA Tournament, I'm preparing myself, mentally and physically, for the most exciting NBA Playoffs since 1993. My Phoenix Suns, now that Tim Duncan is no longer able to do Downward Facing Dog on his off-days, will definitely end up with the best record in the West, and possibly in the NBA. All you naysayers (I'm looking at you, Stephen A. Smith), had better watch out. They are going to be hoisting the trophy in Phoenix next fall. This road journal by the Suns' 12th man is the funniest basketball writing I've ever read. Paul Shirley will become the NBA's Jim Bouton, if he can get it past David Stern's prudish morality sensor. I want to know who's on Shirley's "all-ugly" team, and I want to know what percentage of NBA players smoke a little gange before the games. Hint: It ain't zero.