Konrath's Navel: warm, fuzzy

1½ oz. Peach Schnapps
3 oz. Orange Juice
Pour schnapps in a rocks or old fashioned glass filled with ice. Add orange juice.

J.A. Konrath's Fuzzy Navel, due July in stores, is his fifth novel featuring Chicago PD Lt. Jacqueline Daniels, Jack to her friends and would-be assassins. I'll confess to not reading Konrath before now, and thrillers like Navel aren't generally on my reading list, but this was a great read.

The novel opens with a case of mistaken identity of the worst kind. It unfolds from there like a good mixtape: a couple of heavy-duty opening chapters before the energy is reined. An investigation of three coordinated sniper attacks leads to a massacre, and Jack's day goes from bad to worse when she receives a phone call from her distressed mother, and worse still as revelations are made about Jack's family. Konrath admirably paces the story, which ends twenty-four hours after it began. Navel makes an even, relentless march through complication and climax to disentanglement, sprinkled with humorous one-liners.

The terminology and procedure in the book sound authentic without being intrusive. The characters each have chapters from their points-of-view, which Konrath uses to quickly characterize them without breaking into the action. It's a hard trick to pull off in normal circumstances, and impressive in a story as compressed as this one. The four antagonists play off of each other well; their characters range from tragic to psychotic.

Fuzzy Navel is a fast, high-tension book. It constantly feels like it's two pages from the end because everybody's about to die all the time. That should wear you out, but it doesn't. A few scenes smell of deus ex machina, but they're kept to a minimum. The worst use of the machine isn't even noticed until the payoff; that's about as good as it gets in this type of novel. Konrath keeps you awake and moving through the story. It ends with a cliffhanger picked up by next year's Cherry Bomb.

Order Fuzzy Navel at Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Visit J.A. Konrath's homepage (where you can read the first Jack Daniels novel Whiskey Sour free), or his blog A Newbie's Guide to Publishing. You could even be his friend.

Goddammit, Texas, what is wrong with you?

Naked mom argues with son, accidentally shoots finger

A 73-year-old Fort Worth woman shot her finger after arguing with her son because she had been walking around the house naked, police said.

The really fucked-up part is what the lady's daughter said after asserting that there was no argument and her mother was not naked:

My mom is a good Christian woman, an upstanding citizen and church member for many, many years.

Bear in mind that the wounded lady told police that there was an argument, that she was naked, and that she shot herself loading the gun in the bathroom. The police unloaded the gun and gave it to her son because they were in East Texas; in Lubbock, they wouldn't bother to unload it.

Sic transit Carmine

Yo Frank-AY!

"Who is this?" The fuck you think it is kaffa, look at my fuckin' avatar you'll know who it is.

Yeah it's Carmine, damn. I'm on the train back. Yo, it was crazy at the club. Vic's brother got jumped.

You know, Vic's brother. Johnny G's neighbor. Check Tommy's page, he's linked up.

Yeah, that guy. Yo, some fuckin' wannabes tried to start shit. They pushed him and took his Goose and we was like yo, dat's our kaffa, you can't do dat shit, you know who we are? We fucked those dudes up, yo.

There was like eight of them. And it was me, Vic's brother, Tommy's cousin, Pauly, Pauly's friend, and Sally's nephew and we fucked'em up.

I know, but my dad's linked Sally since way back so I gotta link his nephew. But he was throwing down on those bitches. He did more than Tommy's cousin, that kaffa was in the bathroom the whole time hanging his keys on some hottie.

Naw, it wasn't no ruffie shit. He got some 'tocin gloss so when the chick kissed him she got dosed. They soak it in and it's like, just trust me, and they do, right? They don't pass out or nothin like that.

Yo, I couldn't get nothin', the bouncers tossed us after the fight. Some fuckin' bullshit, one of them choked Pauly to the door. It was that same prick as last week at the door, too. We tipped him to get in but he wouldn't let us through later. It's like fifty dollars don't buy shit no more, everything's gotta be euros. But shit, that place was full of haters anyway, fuck that. They betta fall back, yo.

Yo what the fuck you lookin' at? I'm not talkin' to you, I'm on my mobe, kaffa. You see me on my mobe, then quit fuckin' listening and move yo ass out before I hit you. I said fuckin' MOVE.

Some fuckin' guy listening over here. I got him, he won't fuck with me again. Hey yo Frankie, I heard you were spreading that requeson from Sammy's.

That dancer at Big Sammy's place, the one with the muslos de requeson.

Your guy told me.

Your guy, that trainer at Bobby's gym. You linked him at Bobby's after-party that time.

Shit, I must have your page cached. Lemme reload that shit.

Fuck no, I won't link him if you don't. I don't know him. Damn kaffa, you delinked all those dudes. You got to tell me when you do that so I can sync with you.

Cause your rank is huge and if bitches see me linked to people that you dropped, they'll drop me. I gotta keep my rank up, yo, I can't get the muslos with no rank. I'd need new keys and everything if that happened, yo.

So you didn't get her spreadsheet?

Damn kaffa, I'm just asking. Damn.

Yeah I might, there's good pussy under that requeson. I heard her shit's all signed organic. She got cream cheese, yo, I'd hang my keys on that shit. Might tweet her after my site maintenance's done.

All that shit, I gots to wax, tan, lift, get more I. I'll be dragonballin' when it's done, yo.

Naw, the Preparation I is some new shit, makes you look more pumped than the H does. I might skip the gym and lift at the shore, get some hottie's public
key. I can check their certificates before rolling to the club, see who to link.

Pauly and everybody's hittin' it again tomorrow. We're going to some oxy bar first. Pauly's friend works there and he said we could maybe get some oh-two at a full discount, the good stuff. Like their tanks might be leaking, right? Tommy's cousin's gonna roll in his new Beem, we'll roll from there to the club. Yo, you coming to the spot?

C'mon, don't be a fuckin' pussy. You weren't with us tonight, you gotta get some muslos on the floor tomorrow. You didn't get nothin' at the shore, you not saving it for that girl at Big Sammy's and there are no hotties that side of the river. You gotta roll with us, balla. We kaffas, right?

Fine, I'll get rid of Sally's nephew if he shows up, okay? You be there?

Aight. I'll get up.

Beast of Burden

Chris Burden combines two things that I conceptually hate: California and performance art. He was shot in the arm for his piece Shoot. He electrocuted himself for Doorway to Heaven. Through the Night Softly featured Burden in his underwear, hands behind his back, wriggling snake-like on a floor covered in broken glass. He was semi-crucified on a Volkswagen for Trans-fixed.

No comment. I just felt like sharing.

Par cours

Closing the week

... Toyota's distressed team of robots hopped a box car with a jug of wine and wound up leaning in and kicking out a clear harmonic cry to some corporate goons in Japan...While laudable, there's not enough ecstasy for us, not enough life, joy, kicks, darkness, music... not enough night.

via Engadget

True Confessions

I love My Super Sweet Sixteen. Have you seen this show? It's tremendous. This show plays to two of my favorite weaknesses; I get to watch bratty girls who think they deserve everything break down, and it makes me feel old. Not old in a I'm-an-adult way, old in a You-damn-kids get-off-my-lawn way. I saw it for the first time a few years ago when I was housesitting for some friends. Episodes start with some kid, usually a girl, from a rich family telling America that their parents give me them whatever they want, and that their coming-of-age party is going to be an outlandishly expensive affair done their way. It may be a quinceanera, a true sweet sixteen (some guys don't think they're girly,) a graduation party, or a debutante ball. Invitations are given to hand-selected classmates who make my high school days look as sophisticated as Tony Bennett.

We're shown some of the party planning, dress and location shopping and whatnot. It starts to get good her because the spoiled fifteen-year-olds often can't find a dress they want, even if they fly to Paris to go shopping. You get to hear things like, "Dior is closed... for August, like every other stupid store." When the girls finally find a dress they like, they come out of the dressing room looking like four-thousand-dollar-an-hour call girls and call their moms bitches because they won't buy it. Four thousand dollars an hour is premium pricing, but you're still a hooker.

Then the crying starts. It's beautiful. Complications set in and as the party begins to seem like it won't come together, the girls start throwing tantrums. They beg their parents for luxury cars and implode when they demur. The girls, all sugar and spice, threaten never to speak to their parents again. The musicians they want at the party can't be booked. Mom is drunk. The cake was knocked over. The go-go dancers are late; watch the guests when they finally show up. Their hair isn't right, their friends aren't right, the world isn't what they thought it would be. Their anguish is like ambrosia. Cry, spoiled whore, cry. Your tears sustain me. Ideally the show would stop there, with all of the kids at some other party scheduled for the same time and the girl sobbing in a corner wondering why no one loves her, but with five minutes to fill everything comes together, the girl gets a custom Mercedes and walks around looking like she just had the greatest orgasm ev-ar. It's a disappointing cap to an otherwise great show.


Ava cries at her dinner while her parents casually look over the menu. She had snuck off to Santa Barbara after her mother told her she couldn't go. When mama canceled the credit cards, Ava stopped talking to her and moved in with her dad. Katie makes her boyfriend compete with someone else to escort her and then picks the other guy. She asks her dad if the six-figure diamond watch he gave is waterproof - luckily, before she took it in the shower. She also wants bullet-proof windows on her six-door Hummer because she lives in Memphis. Of course a rich girl with a stretched street-legal tank is going to drive through gang neighborhoods frequently. Amanda, who gets happy "looking at herself," is praised for taking the break-down of her limo so well; she's in the back seat on the phone saying, "This is fucking bullshit, I have to show up at my party in an Acura." She also pocketed half the money she was supposed to give to her friend at her birthday party. Amanda wore a maid costume to the party to draw all the attention; again, her friend's party. Sophie slips into a hi-goddamn-larious valley girl accent when she fights with one of her friends. Stephanie exclaims that she's "going to France, motherfuckers" standing eight inches in front of her mom, an example of what passes for polite language to the show's featured youths.

And Yashika, the perfect closer for the season. She domineers her inner circle by judging their dresses; they must look good but not better than her. Naturally. She meets her younger sister's planned dress with "What the hell are you wearing?" because it looks too attractive; mainly it makes her breasts look better than Yashika's. The sister responds by flipping Yashika off. At the party her friends disappear into the crowd because it's more fun than being with her.

Having a half-million dollar birthday party at sixteen means you've peaked. That's going to be the highlight of your life and you'll be trading on that experience for the next sixteen years. When you're thirty-five and between husbands numbers three and four, you'll go to clubs giving blowjobs in the parking lot to any guy who puts up with your shit for ten minutes, or be in the bathroom searching the stalls to see if the working girls missed any coke on the toilet seat because those are your only skills. You're basically a vacuum cleaner with tits, your looks failing; charm nonexistant; desperate to find a man to support you who doesn't mind that you taste like Pall Malls, Jagermeister, and some other dude's junk. When you can't manage to find Prince Charming, you'll move into your parents' pool house and take a job at Hooters to pay the bills, or your dealer. You won't be one of the girls they put on the calendars, no, that glamour will have long since left you. You'll serve wings for a stare and a tip from some truck driver that hasn't seen a dentist in ten years who's killing time until the strip clubs open. On your frequent cigarette breaks, as you mix vodka into your water bottle, you'll watch teenagers complain that their cars aren't expensive enough, that their clothes aren't scandalous, that the world would be their oyster if you would just give them whatever they want.

Tsk, kids these days.

Jenny

Saturday afternoon gives way to night and Jake wonders who she is. It's a small table; He didn't catch the introductions. Maybe it's not that kind of party. Jake says, "She lived across the street. I never met her."

"What was her name?" she asks.

"I never met her. She was almost a year older than me and had dark hair and a sister. I suppose she had parents; most do."

The sun turns down. "Did she ever see you?"

"I can't remember. I think she hugged me. I might have hugged her."

"What happened?"

"She moved away. I almost saw her later, twice. On the phone. They thought it was love and tried to match us. I wouldn't call her. We weren't more than seven, probably not even that old. She died, or will die; most do."

She isn't interested. "You never forget your first."

"First what? I don't remember my first step, first word, first day of school, first book I read. I'd have to think very hard to remember what I had for lunch." Jake raises his glass. "To memories."

"To memories." Clink. "What are those?"

"Burning my hand. Twisting my shoulder. Cracking my rib. Pissing my pants, twice. What's your name again?"

"Did you say something?"

"Nothing yet."

Promotions

Moving on the floor now, babe, you're a bird of paradise
Cherry ice cream smile, I suppose it's very nice

The mailroom shares a space with the literature department at work. One of the people is retiring soon and M, the guy who runs the mailroom now, may be tapped to take her place. From the conference call he had with the executives today that no one is supposed to know about, I would then be tapped to take his place, which would be freakin' sweet.

M used to work at a fireworks warehouse. They filmed a movie on the site while he was there. It was produced by Fisher Stevens, who was also in Hackers, a movie M likes. During the filming, the crew would come into the warehouse for various reasons. Stevens came in and approached M because he wasn't already helping someone else. M told him how much he liked Hackers; Stevens replied that he wasn't too happy with how that movie had turned out, but was glad M and his friends had enjoyed it. End of story? Oh hell no.

Later Jessica Alba and her bodyguard come in. The bodyguard points at M and says, "That's him." She thought it would be cool to take some fireworks home but couldn't fly with them, and wanted to know if they could be mailed; Stevens told her to ask M. They couldn't be mailed but ever-considerate M said he wouldn't mind gassing up his car and driving them out for her. She declined, giving M a kiss on the cheek, which is closer to Alba than any of us will ever get. For that reason he's telling everyone to see Bill (warning: "date movie") when it comes out next month. This is the same man who watched this today and asked, "Didn't they know they were being televised?" Completely fooled by The Onion and kissed by Jessica Alba. The bastard.

On the muzak today: Billy Idol, Duran Duran, Boston, and ten minutes before quitting time, The motherfucking Ramones. You know it's Friday.

Rush hour

Are you ready to be liberated
On this sad side city street
Well the birds have been freed from their cages
I got freedom and my youth

The traffic report for this afternoon is looking fuck you. Coming out of the city at four o'clock is probably the stupidest goddamn thing you can do if you're behind the wheel of a car. You are not driving so much as pleading for merciful death somewhere near the back of a half-mile line of cars on Clayton Road. Seconds after passing Lindbergh you crest the hill and can see the snakedance of steel winding around the distant corner, no head in sight. Do yourself a favor and turn off at Spoede. Do yourself a favor and die. Do me a favor and die, just pull your car onto the shoulder first.

The first thing to notice on Spoede is the doubled fine for breaking the 30 mph speed limit. Why are the fines doubled? Because a bunch of old, wealthy white people don't want you to have any fun, or hope. That's why the jumped-up driveways that lead off Spoede to dead-ends warrant four-way stops. I think that's also why Clayton Road is a single lane in each direction. Fuckin' whitey always keeping me down.

Drive Spoede to Ladue and congratulate yourself on not taking Conway, which looked as bad as Clayton. Joy is short-lived, though; the cars are packed from 270 halfway to Ballas. Try to Take I-270 South - I dare you. I double-dutch-dog-ear dare you. You won't even have to merge into traffic, the on-ramp lane runs into the off-ramp to 40. That's good, because the traffic in your lane is stopped, 0 mph. No accident, no construction, just a bunch of cars that are fucking stationary on a major interstate.

Basically you're exactly where you would have been if you'd stayed on Clayton, except you're actually able to use fourth gear once you're past 270, even shifting into the fabled fifth. Suck it, Clayton Road.

Adorable

You shouldn't give Ohio a hard time. I mean, it may not be big now, but it's drinking milk. 'Cause in these years it's growing faster than it ever will again and it needs milk's calcium for bones, and protein for muscles - more now than when it was a kid.

Milk: it does a body good. And if you pour it on a member of your staff, it looks like porn.