Crocodiles in England

My review of Paul Meloy’s Islington Crocodiles is up at The Fix.

I haven’t been this excited about an author in a long while. If you haven’t already left a comment for the contest to win a copy, please do so!

Least favorite thing about this collection: the cover. This is NOT a bunch of vampire stories. The cover couldn’t be more misleading.

What is it with publishers?

D.

I love the smell of brimstone in the morning

Hotter than Hell — now, more than just a KISS album! Although, admittedly, the tongue-action of the incubus protagonist, Daunuan, might well put Gene Simmons to shame. This is the third novel in Kessler’s Hell on Earth series, and I think it’s her best yet.

Here’s the setup. Daun’s boss, Pan, wants to make Daun his second-in-command — Prince of Lust to Pan’s King. To make his bones, Daun must first seduce a good woman, Virginia. No easy task, since Virginia is numb from the brain down (she has her reasons) and Daun is used to seducing people who are already 9/10 of their way to Hell. He’s a deal-closer, in other words. Damning someone destined for Heaven is not in his job description.

To make matters more interesting, one infernal hit-demon after another appears, each trying to transform Daun into a sulfurous smudge pot. Who is behind these attacks? It may be an enemy from Daun’s past, or it may be further evidence of the political shakeups Kessler first introduced us to in Hell’s Bells (see my interview with the author here).

Jezebel, heroine of the series’ first two books, makes an appearance, and her presence afflicts Daun constantly, but Daun is the true star here. Think of him as evil with annoying “good” tendencies. The cleverness of Kessler’s universe lies in the fact that Daun damns only those who have damned themselves. Thus, the reader can enjoy Daun’s nasty ways and not feel guilty about it. Case in point: the opening, wherein Daun’s would-be fellatrix is a Black Widow-esque serial killer. If you had concerns whether you’d be able to feel sympathy for one of the Infernal, you needn’t worry.

It’s Virginia’s story which elevates this novel, however. Frankly, I was surprised by the direction of Virginia’s story arc. I don’t usually think of paranormal romance as a risk-taking genre*, but Kessler definitely took the plunge on this one. The result was far more poignant and memorable than the formulaic ending I thought I saw coming after the first hundred pages. And to say much more than that would be spoiling.

So, yes, this one’s every bit as tasty a mind candy as Kessler’s last two books, but there’s some meat here, too. Quibbles? I miss Lucifer, who has been (IMO) Kessler’s most intriguing character. I’m glad she gave Daun his own feature, so to speak, but I’m still burning a candle for the Prince of Darkness.

Hmm. That last clause, taken out of context, would probably exclude me from winning a higher political office in this country. Oh, well.

Jackie Kessler on the Web

D.

*Flirting with bestiality using the gimmick of shapeshifting? *YAWN*

I’ve been acknowledged!

. . . in Paul Meloy’s Islington Crocodiles, to be exact.

For the last few years, I’ve written reviews, first for Tangent, and now for The Fix. There have been ups and downs. For a brief stint, I was an object of derision over at an Asimov’s discussion group. One guy took objection to the fact that I gave him consistently bad reviews; I took objection to his assumption, “Because my story is published in a first rank magazine, it must be good.” Another guy tried to rape me on his livejournal. No one has shown up on my doorstep with a loaded gun, probably because the pennies-per-word most zines pay would barely cover taxi fare to the airport.

And then there are all those wonderful folks who email me, telling me how delighted they were that I understood their story — that at least one person understood their story. Since I write “mixed reviews,” dishing out the good and the bad of every story, many of these folks could have taken umbrage. To a man (and woman), they didn’t get offended, but were really very appreciative. Paul Meloy was one such author.

Here’s my review of “Dying in the Arms of Jean Harlow,” and here’s my review of the titular “Islington Crocodiles.” Eugie Foster has assigned me the review of Meloy’s collection, and I was just getting started on that when I read the acknowledgments. Woot! By the way, I love the way Meloy wraps up his acknowledgments . . .

And a word of thanks to Marina Voikhanskaya, psychiatrist, psychotherapist
and facilitator, who once told me to ‘shit, or get off the pot.’
Well, you hold the result of that counsel in your hands. Oh, yes.

Will I still be able to give an impartial review? You betcha. If there are any stinkers in this collection, readers of The Fix will hear about it. I like Meloy’s style but I’m not a blind fanboy. I’ve renounced authors before (Clive Barker, do you hear me? No? Oh, well.) Nothing harsher than a disappointed fan.

D.

No excuuuuuses

There’s an odd sensation when someone you know, but don’t know well, reveals something about his past that makes you realize, Damn, small world. Like when my boss back at University of Texas figured out that he and my wife had gone to the same elementary school. For that matter, he was the residency classmate of my competitor down in Eureka. Small, small world.

I had that sensation many times while reading Steve Martin’s memoir, Born Standing Up. He’s driving a yellow ‘66 Mustang up to San Francisco and I’m thinking That’s my car! And there’s the dysfunctional family, and his drive to perform, and the places he did stand up that I had visited as a teenager (The Ice House, The Troubador). Martin’s about twenty years older than me, but his story felt oh, so familiar.

This is a great memoir. I haven’t touched a memoir since whatsisname the Irish bloke with the drunk father pissed me off with his whining, and his complete failure to accept responsibility for his own alcoholism and his crash-and-burn marriage. I tried reading Robert Graves’s memoir after that, but there, too, the guy couldn’t manage a little honesty when he wrote about his adolescent crushes — all the guys formed these romances with underclassmen; they were innocent flirtations, I tell you, innocent! (I much prefer T. E. Lawrence’s brand of homosexuality. Paraphrase of the opening of Seven Pillars of Wisdom: Life was rough out there in the desert. We took what pleasure we could of one another. Deal with it.)

Martin’s memoir, as the title suggests, focuses largely (but not entirely) on his development as a standup comic, his rise to superstardom, and his departure from that narrow slice of show biz. Nothing struck me as dishonest. True, there were odd moments, such as his inclusion of early romances and his complete neglect of his later and presumably more serious relationships, but give the man his privacy. That’s one of the take-homes from this book, by the way: the living contradiction of an exhibitionistic, intensely private man.

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