Pilgrim's Progress **

** Pilgrim's Progress, John Bunyon, 1678

Yes, I know it's a classic. I am sufficiently independent of thought to not feel intimidated by classics or obligated to like them. I am not like the character in Robertson Davies A Mixture of Frailties, of whom he wrote:

During the first day or two she attempted to get on with War and Peace, but found it depressing, and as time wore on she suffered from that sense of unworthiness which attacks sensitive people who have been rebuffed by a classic.

I'm not a sensitive person, I guess.

I realized I haven't reviewed the audio books I've listened to this year, which gives me some more fodder for Thursdays.

I found this book diverting, and listened to it mainly while working, since I like to multitask. But allegory wears thin for me after a while, and soon I got weary of all the doctrine and moralizing. Your mileage may vary.

Andy Mazilli

From the Songs you won't hear on the radio files:

Five or six years ago, when I was living in Honolulu, I went to the SF Bay area on business. I dragged Pierre, a co-worker from Montreal, to JJ's Blues in Santa Clara to hear the moving guitar work of Laura Chavez, who was playing with the Lara Price band. [Note to self: Do a Songs You Won't Hear On The Radio episode on Laura.]

Short discursive paasge: I first heard Laura by chance. I bought a Baby Taylor at the Guitar Center across the street from JJ's Blues and noticed a Texas band was playing that night. I came back. The warm-up band was Lara Price and Laura Chavez blew me away. Her work on Little Wing brought tears to my eyes. At that time she was 18, still in high school, and her parents were at the gig. I chatted with them and learned more about her background, teaching herself blues from SRV and other records when her guitar teacher wouldn't teach her to play blues.

So I dragged Pierre to hear this guitar goddess. We got there in time for the open mike and a guy got up and played some of the most raw Hendrix-influenced guitar I've ever heard. I talked to him between sets and learned his name was Andy Mazilli. Later on he approached our table with a turqouise Mexican Stratocaster and tried to sell it to me for $200, saying he hadn't eaten in a day or two.

I didn't, and still don't, have any use for an electric guitar, and I told him flat out I wasn't interested. Pierre made interested noises. I repremanded him, saying, "Look at this guy. He's serious. He's hungry. Don't play with him. You're not going to buy this guitar." "I might." "What, you going to put it in the overhead back to Canada, with no case?"

At this point Mazilli cut in and said, "OK, how about a CD?" I said sure. He left and returned with an Office Depot CD he had burned himself on his computer. He asked my name and signed the CD itself with the phrase, "Thanks for your support."

I listened to it in the rental while driving around town that week. According to the liner notes [a little photocopied square of paper tucked into the Magic Maz poster he folded into a CD holder] it was recorded in one day in a studio with a pickup band for $100. It sounds like it. On the song Too Much Pollution, a string breaks in the guitar solo at 4:22. Maz tries another lick, but it's thrown out of tune. He switches to creating a rhythm with deadened strings and wah-wah pedal for the rest of the song, scat singing after the lyrics to the end.

It also sounds like a guy who had mainlined SRV and Hendrix for decades. But it had a raw, free quality that resonated with me. Jail Farm is my favorite. Raw and sloppy, but personal and fluid. For me it really comes down to passion and authenticity and not to technique and polish. Passion trumps precision in my book.

I later learned he had played with such greats as John Popper, Joan Osborne, Greg Allman, and Kim Wilson. Check this quote from John Popper. "I think Andy Mazzilli might be the best guitarist I know in New York City."

I was working on the Songs You Won't Hear On The Radio series and thought of Mazilli for the first time in years. I did some searching on YouTube and found some live recordings for your dining and dancing pleasure. I also discovered that Mazilli evidently died in 2007 at age 40. RIP Maz. You are not forgotten.

Here's a cut called Guitar Payne that gives you the flavor of his playing. Finding My Way Back To You Thorn Bird Jam.

The Last Templar **

** The Last Templar, Raymond Khoury, 2005

Back in the 90s I read The Name of the Rose, Umberto Eco's first novel. It was great. So I read his second, Foucault's Pendulum. It's a mesmerizing maisma of counterfiet conspiracy theories disturbingly come to life, in a sort of Our Man In Havana fashion, only with bigger words. And, as all good conspiracy books do, it harkened back to the Templars. In fact, Khoury gives a nod to Eco on page 74.

"You know what Umberto Eco said, right?" "No." "'A sure sign of a lunatic is that sooner or later, he brings up the Templars.'"

Liking what Eco did with the Templar vibe, I saw this book on the bargain rack in a weak moment and thought perhaps I'd give it a whirl. To cut to the chase, it's not as bad as The DaVinci Code, but it doesn't miss by much.

Khoury is no Eco, but then, who is? Even so, New York Times bestseller status notwithstanding, a book that uses the world clambered even once is suspect. When it uses it somewhere around a dozen times, occasionally twice on the same page, we're talking about some regrettable writing.

On page 14 my fears were confirmed when I read this paragraph about Tess, the female lead:

People just noticed her, period. They always had. And who could blame them. The seductive mass of curls that framed the warm green eyes that radiated intelligence usually triggered it. The healthy thirty-six-year-old frame that moved in relaxed, fluid strides confirmed it, and the fact that she was totally oblivious to her charms sealed it. It was too bad she'd always fallen for the wrong guys.

Well, of course she did. And why wouldn't she? Doesn't everyone? Especially female protagonists in romance novels and conspiracy thrillers? And then this on the next page.

She could hear traces of chamber music and tracked it to an all-female string quartet tucked away in a corner, sawing away energetically but almost inaudibly at their instruments.

And if Tess can be unreasonably beautiful while falling for the wrong guys, why couldn't the quartet be "sawing away" at their instruments? Why, indeed?

Despite such a discouraging beginning, I clambered through the whole freaking thing, all 523 pages. It's a story of religious fraud and a massive secret suppressed for centuries by the Catholic church that could destroy Christianity as we know it. Hmm. Where have I heard that before?

Add in a 20-page exposition on the Templars 1/4 of the way through, a 30-page religious argument 3/4 the way through, and a purple storm sequence worthy of the opening pages of The Bourne Identity, and what's not to like?

***SPOILER ALERT. But the thing that annoyed me as much as the writing, if not more, was the main message. Suppose an authentic historical document were discovered that conclusively and indisputably proved that Jesus, by his own admission, was just a man with some good ideas and that the Church invented the Son of God idea to retain power over the masses. The conclusion of the book is that if such a document were discovered, it would be better to destroy it and let the world continue to believe a lie. Devout Christians (in this case, the male protagonist and a cardinal from the Vatican) and agnositics who see the good the church does (the female protagonist) would endorse such an action. I may be completely delusional, here, but I think that most devout Christians are seekers after truth and would rather deal with the truth than base their life on a lie. Well, I would at any rate, so the premise did not ring true with me. SPOILER ALERT***

If you're stuck on a plane for several hours and you find this crammed between the seats, it would be a toss up between reading it or catching some sleep. Your mileage may vary.

Welcome to the Monkey House ***

*** Welcome to the Monkey House, Kurt Vonnegut, 1998

Back in the 70s I fell for a chick who didn't fall for me. I know, a real heartbreak. That's the bad news. The good news is that as a result, I found The Woman, who always was and always will be the chick for me. And, the other chick and I still remained friends, although via the US postal service at considerable geographic distance, which is the best way to do things with former objects of one's affections.

A year or so later she turned me on (via handwritten letter, a complete anachronism now) to Kurt Vonnegut. I immediately went out and bought a 3 book boxed set and delved into his early stuff from the 50s and 60s. My favorite was Player Piano, his first published novel which he graded as a B novel (on a A-D scale).

It's been many years since I've read Vonnegut. I snagged this collection of short stories from The Number One Son after I proposed a new song-writing project. We shall see if anything comes of that.

But on this we both agree: this book is killer diller. And we both came to the same conclusion, that the most powerful story in the book is Adam, the penultimate story. Holy freaking cow is all I can say. There's other good stuff here, too, but by all means, read that story.

The Miernik Dossier **

** The Miernik Dossier, Charles McCarry, 1973

I'm not big on spy novels, but I like the occasional well-written specimen. I'm particularly fond of Wm. F. Buckley's Blackford Oakes novels, which I'll re-read one of these days.

Back when I was writing Hell in a Briefcase for Phil Little, he frequently mentioned Jason Bourne. I'd seen the movies but not read the books. Since I'd never written a thriller, I decided it would be a good idea to read these seminal works, starting with The Bourne Identity. The first paragraph of which goes like this:

The trawler plunged into the angry swells of the dark, furious sea like an awkward animal trying desperately to break out of an impenetrable swamp. The waves rose to goliathan heights, crashing into the hull with the power of raw tonnage; the white sprays caught in the night sky cascaded downward over the deck under the force of the night wind. Everywhere there were sounds of inanimate pain, wood straining agasint wood, ropes twisting, stretched to the breaking point. The animal was dying.

I wish I were kidding. We're not in Kansas any more, Toto. We're out where the Bulwer-Lytton buses don't run, raving like Eddie on acid.*

Not that I'm one to gainsay millions sold, movies made, fame and cash (especially the cash) to be garnered. If I knew I would make that kind of cash writing that kind of trash, I'd write it all day in bucket loads. But no man is guarranteed tomorrow, or best-seller status, regardless what he writes.

But we're not talking about Ludlum (not anymore, we're not), we're talking about McCarry, who is no Ludlum, thank God. With accolades from the likes of Richard Condon and P. J. O'Rourke (for crying out loud) I figured it was worth a trial spin. I grabbed a few Paul Christopher novels, but research showed I was missing the first in the series, so I shelved them conveniently out of reach until I could snag The Miernick Dossier, which I did last month. A plane trip (which is a story in its own right) afforded the opportunity to dig in, and I did.

This book, McCarry's first published novel, gets 3 stars for intruige but is downgraded to 2 stars because of the narrative style. It's literally a dossier, a collection of documents written in different voices and styles. It's done well, but the self-imposed restriction of his choice prevents the kind of character development that would have made this book truly enjoyable.

However, I did like this line from the title character: The wretched will always find something they do not undertand to die for.

We shall see how the next one goes.

*Edward George Bulwer-Lytton is the author of the infamous starting line, "It was a dark and stormy night." The full opening sentence went thus: "It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness." I'll give Ludlum this. Like Bulwer-Lytton, he got a semicolon in the first paragraph. Good on ya, mate!

The Closers ***

*** The Closers, Michael Connelly, 2005

Another Bosch book. It's been a while since I read one. This one has some interesting twists and is as addictive and consuming as the others. Bosch hasn't lost it. Don't miss it if you can.

Roto Rooter Good Time Christmas Band

From the Songs you won't hear on the radio files:

I spent a lot of time trolling through cutout racks in the 70s. I discovered this gem in 1975. Took it a year to make it from LA to Fred, Texas. The album featured an incredible trombone-laden, barbershop quartet version of Purple Haze that revolutionized my life. They closed with this version of Happy Trails that Van Halen later ripped off.

Noted for obliterating classics like Swan Lake (Swamp Lake) and Hungarian Dance No. 5. Here's their redition of the Flight of the Bumble Bee aka Bumble Bee Boogie.

How about the Beer Bottle Polka?

Catching Up

I finally got my quota of screenplays read for the Austin Film Festival, earning a Producer's Badge. Last year it got me into a party where I chatted with Danny Boyle of Slumdog Millionaire fame for 10 minutes or so. (Yes, that's me shamelessly name-dropping.)

And I got my own screenplay finished (the 6th draft, at least, who knows how many more I'll do) and submitted to the competition. And I've finished reading two books. (Reviews coming in due time.) But I have to tell you where I was last night.

I had a chance to chat with Roy Blount, Jr. at a Writer's League of Texas fundrasier. (Yes, that's me shamelessly name-dropping again!) They were taping Wait, wait . . . don't tell me in the Bass Auditorium and his sister is on the Writer's League board, so I guess it made sense for him to do a little talk and book signing as a fundraiser for the WLT while he was in town. He's authored 20+ books and is the president of the Authors Guild, pioneering the settlement with Google, which, as part of its scheme of global domination, has been practicing wholesale scanning of books for the past decade or so.

I got there a bit early, having stopped by Habana House to pick up my free monthly cigar. I loaded up on refreshments and stood alone at a white-table-cloth-covered bistro table. The next thing I knew, I was joined by Roy and Susan. We chatted a bit and I enlightened him about the joys of StupidInternetTricks.com, because, like, who wouldn't want to know about that?

Mary Gordon Spence kicked things off with a very long and hilarious introduction and Mr. Blount (as his close friends like me call him) followed with even more hilarious set of stories, interspersed with information and analysis of the Google settlement, which I signed onto and thanked him for pushing through.

Overall, the evening rocked. And I now have another book in the To Be Read shelf.

Half Price Books

As I've mentioned before, Half Price Books rocks.

The Woman wanted to check it out on Mother's Day, and who was I to deny her? We walked away with 15 books for $55 including tax. One of the books (a biography of Wodehouse) was $14, so you're looking at 14 books for $40 including tax. Hot dang!

Here's the haul. My purchases ($36):

• Wodehouse: A Life, Robert McCrum. P. G. Wodehouse is probably the most under-acknowledged writer of the 20th century.
• John Gardner: Literary Outlaw, Barry Silesky. Gardner's Grendel blew me away, 192 pages of genius.
• Story, Robert McKee. It's a screenwriting classic. I guess I better read it.
• The World Is Flat, Thomas L. Friedman. Enjoyed Beirut to Lebanon. Can't wait to pick this one up.
• Marriage Lines, Ogden Nash. I'm not much of a poetry guy, but it's only 108 pages. How painful can it be?
• They Shall See God, Athol Dickson. River Rising rocked my world. Aching to start this one.
• The Bookman's Promise, John Dunning. Finally getting around to the 3rd in this very entertaining series.
• The Miernik Dossier, Charles McCrarry. Last year I picked up 2 of his books based on the jacket copy, but wanted to get in on the ground floor (first in the series) so I've been holding off reading them until I got this one.

The Woman's purchases ($15):

• The Collectors, David Baldacci
• Stone Cold, David Baldacci
• Death of an Expert Witness, P. D. James
• Shroud for a Nightingale, P. D. James
• Devices and Desires, P. D. James
• The Murder Room, P. D. James
• The Lighthouse, P. D. James

She's a Baldacci fan. (I've never read him.) She got the James books because they were all on clearance for $1 (she's a sucker for a deal) and I told her I would eventually read them. Maybe when I retire, after I finish Agatha Christie. (Amazingly enough, I've only read one Christie. I'm saving her to savor when I have the time to lounge for a year on the deck with a refreshing beverage and read incessantly.)

As you can see, she got almost half the books, but spent less than a third of the money. Maybe I'll just count this toward Father's Day.

Austin Film Festival

Like last year, I'm reading scripts for the Austin Film Festival, which cuts into my recreational reading. These days, the elliptical is surrounded by stacks of screenplays, not novels.

Unlike last year, I'm also entering the competition. I'm working on my third screenwriting project. I have three weeks to get the sixth draft done before the deadline. We shall see. Overall, it means I'm seriously behind in my reading.

So, when you see another review from me, you'll know that I finally submitted my entry and waded through the pile of other entries I have to read. (In case you're wondering, I'm reading in a different category than I'm entering. Everything's on the up-and-up.)