Graham Johnson has his fingers on a lot of throbbing pulses and his quill nib stuck into a lot of undoubtedly rich veins. From footballer’s whose wiveGraham Johnson has his fingers on a lot of throbbing pulses and his quill nib stuck into a lot of undoubtedly rich veins. From footballer’s whose wives sleep with gangsters to powder puff pussies, drugs, cartels (hold on, don’t cartels deal with drugs?) and even that great sun-worshipper old El Diablo himself; enter Rupert “hit me with your rhythm stick” Murdoch and his big red-headed sidekick, she of the kickback and call-back fame. Yes, the News of the World, remember that, kids? Gutter journalism at its finest, a constantly-running river of cheap sleaze and make-believe stories concocted over bar tabs and Sky News feeds. It’s all here in Johnson’s “revealing” tome. The inside gossip, manufactured footage, beat-up beauties, hoaxes, pranks and skank factor ten. Reading this extended English Sunday newspaper article, one doesn’t really learn anything knew about down-on-all-fours reporting. It’s about cash, who you know, who knows you, the loudest voice, the wackiest scenario, what mug has to get the next round in. Johnson, the “fresh-faced” cadet, didn’t get to work for Lou on the Globe after all, he got to rummage through celebrity garbage cans and pop tart starlet’s underwear drawers, and all for a princely sum and the espresso elevator ride to the Jacuzzi on the roof of Wapping Towers. What this book is actually about, apart from a potted homage to Cockney slang and safari parks, I have no idea whatsoever. Johnson must do, he wrote it, or maybe someone wrote it for him, maybe it’s just another beat-up? The synopsis is that the author, with a nose for a story and an offshore bank account, eventually tired of holding vast sums of cash and smoking guns and became a best-selling author instead. The tabloid jungle indeed, more like the tabloid tea party. Hack is precisely per the Fleet Street definition.
Emilio, having always used the ‘family’ name, has just finished editing the movie of the same name, starring his old man. He has this great idea, why Emilio, having always used the ‘family’ name, has just finished editing the movie of the same name, starring his old man. He has this great idea, why not write a book with pop about their father son journey. Pop, is up for it. Enter a leading literary agent and his entourage, wined and dined at Emilio’s very own winery. That is how good literary business is conducted. The result of that meeting, overlooking the twinkling stars of some place tinselly, is this subsequent tome. A fleshy two person account of the trials and tribulations of being Martin Sheen and Emilio Estevez, and before you ask, Charlie still don’t surf, apparently. Intrinsically, name-dropping and air miles aside, the Estevez/Sheen family tale is no different from the story of every family, of every father and son, of every house on every street corner, with the addition of a fistful of bucks. It’s the latter of course, and the big screen/small screen credits, that have emulsified this rather ordinary ode with star appeal. Yes, there’s alcoholism, Catholicism, realisation and communal living featuring a raging Sean Penn and a smouldering Demi Moore. There’s abandoned kids, reformed fathers, wayward brothers and, one supposes, a mother or two somewhere along the way. Taking aside the anecdotal account of Dennis Hopper’s antics offset during the making of Apocalypse Now, and Estevez’s substantial debt to Repo Man, all ends up well, with teetotaller Father Sheen dropping by elder son’s vineyard on a regular basis to bond with nature. Everyone is a fan in this book, a fan of their old man, a fan of the Pope, a fan of Ghandi, a fan of Robert de Niro . . . and Emilio wonders why he got born so lucky, could live on ranches and flick on a tap for crystal clear mountain water – money, kid, that’s how. It’s been a long walk from the Ambassador Hotel to Rodeo Drive, but, the Sheen’s are still smiling, and rightfully so. The old west winger and his young guns have done triple-good, maybe there’s a trilogy in this?
Hot on the decaying heels of Grahame-Smith’s foray into Pride & Prejudice & Zombies, & the thrilling accounts of Abe Lincoln’s Van Helsing exploits, cHot on the decaying heels of Grahame-Smith’s foray into Pride & Prejudice & Zombies, & the thrilling accounts of Abe Lincoln’s Van Helsing exploits, comes another re-write, or is it re-make? I’m confused, somewhere between Python’s The Life of Brian and Moses’ trip through the wilderness looking for tablets something oddly disturbing has happened to the word. Now, it appears, we’re dogging Hollywood’s 21st Century mantra of ‘Everything that’s old is new again kid, and worth a few bucks.’ So, here we go with Unholy Night, that is, when all is said and done, a more enjoyable rendition of the nativity than the original. I prefer Herod with syphilis, the three wise men as escaped felons, and Pontius Pilot as a conniving little failure who comes up trumps, eventually. Corny, it is, in the extreme, but also, lightly readable. Maybe there’s a niche here for Grahame-Smith as the arbiter of biblical interpretation – who knows, maybe little Judean’s will be reading his complete version of the life and death of Jesus H from electronic terminals in about 2029 AD. Gore is good, not Al Gore, gore as in blood and guts and decapitation, all power to the Romans, and locusts, god, those locusts. In the end however, goodness prevails and a perished old king with tastes in teenage flesh falls from grace and Mary and good old Joe escape to the Promised Land. Whether we needed Grahame-Smith’s somewhat lame epilogue is debatable, when you’ve seen one crucifixion you’ve seen them all, as any Roman worth their salt would tell you over peeled grapes and bloody swords. Yes, welcome to the death knell, all hail Caesar, and Brutus, and Judas.
Brianna Karp is correct in her assumption that readers of a guide to homelessness might not associate with someone living in a 30ft trailer owning a lBrianna Karp is correct in her assumption that readers of a guide to homelessness might not associate with someone living in a 30ft trailer owning a laptop, mobile phone and dog (and the trailer itself). I didn’t, and what with the hot water courtesy of Wal-Mart’s change rooms and the all-day air-con of Starbucks to set up Twitter accounts and create a blog in, my attention waned further.
Yes there are the hard nights of being hassled by immigrant workers and the ‘move on’ notices and how to feed the dog when cash gets short, but all of these ‘issues’ somehow pale into insignificance alongside people sleeping in parks and in doorways. I’m not sure, but I don’t think those people sit out under the stars blogging about being homeless. Anyhow, so what, right now it’s a girl’s world in publishing and of course attempted rape, long-distance love affairs that go sour and New Year’s miscarriages far from home, add the ‘resilient person’ angle everyone admires.
I’m sure Briana Karp is resourceful, her memoir demonstrates as much, in the wash-up however I had little or no empathy for the situations described in this jump-started story. If Brianna’s goal was to conquer the ‘Norm’, homeless–activism in cyberspace and get a book deal, well, she’s achieved that and all kudos to her for perseverance. The Girls Guide to Homelessness - is a trailer ride through adversity with all mod cons and adulterous spouses to boot; a real, ‘home in the Wal-Mart parking lot’ escapade for sure.
Where to even begin unravelling, what is (when all of the giddy media propaganda is paint-strippered away), in reality, a simple tale of infamy and inWhere to even begin unravelling, what is (when all of the giddy media propaganda is paint-strippered away), in reality, a simple tale of infamy and incongruity. Julian Assange has become, perhaps by his own actions, perhaps not, a somewhat disassociated caricature of himself. The question here however is just what the truth is in age of government and media sponsored lies, fabrications, falsifications, hypocritical justifications and condemnations? Can anyone place any credence on a book that arrives with a publisher’s mitigation (plea) and a ghost writer’s slant based on hours of “taped” recordings? Is Julian Assange’s life fact or fiction or a careful blending of both? Is this book just another “scheme” dreamt up by Assange and his bug-eyed publishing cohorts to create sensationalism and boost sales – god knows he needs the cash. One thing is for certain, this shoddy tome bears no relevance whatsoever to literature. As a podium for yet more Assange diatribe and pro-conspiracy homilies it bleeds mercilessly into Assange’s own contention (upon his “withdrawal” from the publishing agreement) that all “memoir” is prostitution. If so, then this book has to be the biggest whore around and its publishers little more than a gang of avaricious pimps. To review it is to condone the charade, to comment on it is to partake in the craftily-scripted marketing angle that one “must” read it first (equals sales) and then decide (equals yet more press coverage). Clever wording again, after all, words are what brought us to this – words: clandestine coverts, pseudo- secret intelligence, techno spies, press-gang journalism and hearsay. Leaks aren’t anything new; the world was built upon them – from Judas Iscariot up. If you believe that Julian Assange is the latter day champion of truth and justice for all then no doubt you’ll revel in this book of almost maybes, if not, then it really doesn’t matter at all. Anonymous sources manipulate the world of misinformation we coexist in today – go leak that.
A fossil is like a compact disc, only, it’ll last one hell of a lot longer and the information stored within it, is a trillion times more fascinating.A fossil is like a compact disc, only, it’ll last one hell of a lot longer and the information stored within it, is a trillion times more fascinating. In his palaeontology travelogue through reproduction and deviancy, Dr John Long’s research pretty much puts the human inhabitants of planet Earth to shame – this is Survivor with sexual twists and mass evictions. From his roots in Melbourne, to fossilised ducks that copulated on the seabed 380 million years ago, Long’s account of sexual evolution is somewhat of a cautionary tale wherein the strongest do not necessarily survive but the prettiest (in reproductive organ terms) almost always do. Beauty attracts – then, now, a million years from now and animals (mammals specifically) had this chat up thing perfected before humans had even crawled from the swamp – they were at it sometime in the Ediacaran period. Likewise indulging in promiscuity and homosexuality (the latter of course being ubiquitous amongst many animal species), along with all manner of Tantric positioning and Karma Sutra bargaining (as a necessity).
Hung Like an Argentinian Duck is a wonderful journey through sexual intimacy; how it began and why, along with the strange mating habits and rituals of species battling timelines and the evolutionary cycle – in short it is the history of the penis and why it evolved at all. All in all we’ve come a long way baby and in the end it’s not the size that matters after all, it’s how you use it – as the dinosaurs found out to their detriment.
There is no “summer” in New Zealand, not as we understand it the season here in Australia. Then again, Garth Cartwright has been an expat Kiwi ensconcThere is no “summer” in New Zealand, not as we understand it the season here in Australia. Then again, Garth Cartwright has been an expat Kiwi ensconced in the ambient climes of Peckham South London for many a year now and thus his lack of serious exposure to UV is understandable. Yes, where to begin on yet another tramp down memory lane penned by a son or daughter long since having fled their birth land. I suppose once you have read Janet Frame’s sharp-as-a-tack look back in anger recollections, anything else on the subject of why New Zealand is this or that, pales in comparison. Cartwright’s attempt at recapturing his youth captures plenty of Kiwi euphemisms and outtakes, although many have been well-mined previously. In-between finding his mojo and studying the mokos on trackie-dacked psychopaths loitering on K-Road, Cartwright fails to turn up a new slant on a nation constantly buggered by these never ending offshore pot-shots.
“My friend reckons . . .” seems to plague these memoir cum travelogues to the point of madness, again, no exception here, and while on occasions it almost works, it is not a Theroux boilerplate ride through homespun antiquity and cloying modernisation. Too often Cartwright’s take on what has become a stereo-typified New Zealand odyssey falls listlessly into the same crab bake. Perhaps the truth is that what can be written about a trip around the land of the long white cloud, has already been written – from how expensive it is to how it became an adventure capital to how cold, desolate and Scottish the deep south is – to Christchurch’s Wizard and serial killer capital tag. Yes, not a lot has changed since I last perused one of these homely tomes – and like many, having lived in New Zealand, I can’t help but think that there is far more to this strange and eclectic nation than 4-Squares, Pavlova and the ubiquitous “Sweet As” clarion call.
It isn’t simply the atrocities of “war” that wreak havoc on women, but the aftermath of eggshell peace too. Leymah Gbowee’s “account” of the Liberian It isn’t simply the atrocities of “war” that wreak havoc on women, but the aftermath of eggshell peace too. Leymah Gbowee’s “account” of the Liberian (West African) conflicts of the nineties is a poignant rendition of what happens (to women) during extended periods of genocide-inspired madness, dictator brutality and wedding-gowned warlord’s with foreign arms (and backing) running around with machetes in the name of freedom. Man is spelled “D-O-G” Gbwoee’s mother tells her, and that lesson remains entrenched throughout this bloody tome. Separated and isolated from her family in the uprising without an end, Gbwoee does what all women do – she acquiesces to those who rule; whether that rule is endorsed by “ballot” or at the barrel of a gun. Interred, marched, and ignored, Gbwoee’s plight echoes that of all of her gender . . . through pregnancy, desperation and famine (never mind disease) Gbowee’s resilience somehow shines through the hail of spent cartridge shells. Finally, Gbwoee finds solace, and then mass-actioned union, in the power of women’s voices (and strength), culminating in her leading the women’s revolution for peace in West Africa which ultimately reached the United Nations and subsequently kick-started a snowball effect globally. Gbwoee’s courage illuminates this diary of degradation and insanity perpetrated, one must conclude, not in the name of power, but in the riches power bestows. The warlords walk away handsomely rewarded for their barbarity, the dictator’s get flown to luxury hideaways on God knows whose tab – and when the peacekeepers finally arrive with time and money to burn, prostitution and corruption escalates again. A woman’s work is more than likely never done, not just in West Africa, but everywhere. On the other side, books such as these (while enlightening and heart rending) may or may not be manipulated to mass-culture by their “ghost writing/companion/aides” supplied by corporations who incidentally propagate the very thing Gbowee refers to in her prologue – in too many ways the juxtapositions unsettle. That aside, this is still a work which (hopefully) will have some direct bearing on the insane battles human wage for little more than a fistful of western dollars.
Block’s second novel concerns the true story of his grandparent’s Frederick and Katherine. The bright young man with a future (Frederick) returns fromBlock’s second novel concerns the true story of his grandparent’s Frederick and Katherine. The bright young man with a future (Frederick) returns from war duty with a blank stare and strange behaviour – culminating in him being arrested after flashing oncoming vehicles. To avoid scandal, and Frederick receiving a conviction for gross indecency – Katherine agrees to commit her husband to the Mayflower Home – a haven for the psychotic, criminally insane – poets and even the great John Nash. What follows thereafter, is several decades of interment for Frederick . . . and a life sentence for Katherine.
Block’s masterful recounting of his family’s murky past, told as it is through the blending of historical fact with asinine fiction, draws the unwary reader into a world where the insane have the good oil on everything while the sane flounder in the asylum that is the outside world. Occasionally however, Block’s prose takes on the semblance of a thesaurus as the big adjectives tumble down the pages – tending to smear what is an otherwise fluent and engaging read. Grandparent tales – or Grand Pappy Fiction as it’s become known, is currently en vogue – Block’s recollections of his ancestry however, takes Kesey’s cuckoo and shoves it back in its clock. The characters in this nut house certainly defy literary comparison . . . ...more
Welcome to Zuckerberg – Pop: 350 Million. Everyone who’s anyone these days is on Facebook. From President Obama (the social networking utility was creWelcome to Zuckerberg – Pop: 350 Million. Everyone who’s anyone these days is on Facebook. From President Obama (the social networking utility was credited with his election success) all the way on down the line. Mainly of course, Facebook is used by millions of nobodies desperately wanting to be somebodies – therein lies its global success. Its popularity, even its publicity – given its all too regular name-checking in everything from court cases to worldwide turns of events, is a virtual virus. Created by a group of “geeks” at Harvard University, initially to connect college friends, its gargantuan leap into popular culture has, naturally, made founder Mark Zuckerberg and his cohorts mega wealthy.
But wait, there’s more – there’s the blood, sweat and tears, the heartaches, the ball-busting hours hunched over flickering screens, the idealism, the altruism, and the guts it took to get Facebook where it is today. The Facebook Effect, one can’t but help think, is not so much a tap-by-tap account of the rise of the machine but more a homage to it. Of course this isn’t the first Facebook inspired tome and undoubtedly it won’t be the last, but when the author writes for Fortune magazine it’s not so hard to see why figures (and big ones at that) dominate the text. But yes, Facebook did play a part in the recent uprisings in the Middle East, and yes many good and bad things have been brought to wider prominence by it, to a point where even the mainstream media monitor its news feeds – but that is not the point. The point, if there even is one, is that Facebook has become synonymous with communication, and when one device becomes that kind of omnipotent tool the world is in trouble. Kirkpatrick’s book plays to the phoenix that is technology, to its seemingly limitless potential, while largely over-looking the fact that simultaneously it’s become a social disease that wrecks as many lives as it no doubt improves. We live in interesting times, and if you don’t believe me, go logon to Facebook and type in the word Zuckerberg. ...more
Imagine a tin of paint left out in the sun without its lid . . . how it tightens up first and cracks, before it ultimately vanishes. A mind, one spinnImagine a tin of paint left out in the sun without its lid . . . how it tightens up first and cracks, before it ultimately vanishes. A mind, one spinning away from her protagonist, a woman who may have murdered her best friend . . . may have – left out in the sun, cracking –is how LaPlante decides to treat this all-consuming illness, and she does it well. Literally spilling that mind’s illogical and random thought patterns onto the page as prose, and leaving there to weather.
Dr. Jennifer White lives in a cavern of forgetfulness, tinged intermittently with vivid recollections that at times make no sense. An intellectual, competent and career-focused, pushed into retirement by the onset of dementia. Cared for by her children (hardly honest souls), LaPlante’s tome commences with White being cared for by Magdalena, a paid companion. When White’s close friend Amanda is found murdered - four fingers from one of her hands amputated, White herself becomes the main suspect, subsequently forced to dig deeper and deeper into her ever-fragmenting mind to unlock the memories – and search for the truth of whether or not her mind could have led her to murder.
LaPlante, using the page as symbolism for thought – sometimes stream-of-conscience, sometimes italic narrative, reaches into both psychiatry and speculation with a seamless ease – though while not always easy to follow given the fracturing of the text – Turn of Mind is still an engaging read, and one that deals ultimately with the loss of mental faculties.
If you ever wondered what it’s like to have dementia, well, here’s your answer. ...more
Garry Disher’s umpteenth crime book (the sixth in the Peninsula series), takes a femme fatale house breaker named Grace (not her real name) who, whileGarry Disher’s umpteenth crime book (the sixth in the Peninsula series), takes a femme fatale house breaker named Grace (not her real name) who, while deftly breaking and entering, also has to stay one step ahead of a bent NSW copper with a grudge. Throw in a rapist, a girlfriend overseas, a classic car and a classic aeroplane and you have Hal Challis’s lot in life as an outspoken DI. Under-resourced or not, Challis oozes laid-back cop appeal as he manages with a coffee-shop smile his lover’s daughter, pot-growing Hell’s Angels, a numbskull detective and a pop-top female colleague with head zaps and bisexuality causing her all sorts of problems. After she buys tampons things get better . . . after she has a one-nighter with the cold-hearted bitch from the sex-crimes unit, things get better.
In the end of course the light-footed burglar loses her stash (but not her snatch) after finding herself in a plumber’s hoist gone wrong, Challis gets a BMW and forced leave, Murphy discovers pollen, the rapist coughs it up and a few people get despatched to heaven without warning. Whispering Death starts off at an interesting pace and plot, who doesn’t like a cute girly burglar? Somewhere in mid-flow however things start to unravel, the plot escalates faster than a breathless rapist as the chapters shorten and the winded reader is cudgelled with ‘meantimes’. There is always a character loitering however, ready to assume control and bend Whispering Death every which way but loose. By the time the rogue art dealers with sniper rifles and spy cameras took centre stage, attention to detail was on the run too . . . butterfly tattoo over pubes flapping in the warm breeze. ...more
You’d kind of like to sit out on the stoop with Tim Richards discussing culture over a few beers. Not all culture of course, more the glutinous and faYou’d kind of like to sit out on the stoop with Tim Richards discussing culture over a few beers. Not all culture of course, more the glutinous and farinaceous culture that lurks beneath. Richards’ obviously has a keen eye for the finer details of life, specifically (one is drawn to conclude after slipstreaming through Thought Crimes), for the not-so-submerged life of Aussies. There is a lot to ponder between the lines of Richards’ sortie through the nightmares and dreamscapes of the twist. Not the dance, the satirical and often wicked twist at the end of each of his masterfully-penned short stories. Perfect babies, lessons in Ockerism, the imperfect family, parables and education all get a run for their money, though none quite disturb as much as the opener ‘The Enemies Of Happiness’ wherein Richards’ surgically dissects the base instincts of those with special learning needs and the faculty staff that shepherd them toward their goals. Thought Crimes is a tilt toward the darker side of Stoker and the ironic side of Dahl, though the reader is never left in any doubt that it’s Richards’ who is the puppet-master of all he surveys. If, as so many wise monkeys claim, the short story is dead, Richards’ has undoubtedly given it CPR. Black humour is an art in itself, and Richards’, never afraid to stretch the canvas, might just find himself ending up as synonymous with the re-incarnation of this studiously maligned and overlooked genre, and all credit to him. Now there’s a twist. ...more
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