"The Green Ripper" by
John D. MacDonald
When
I do these I just Google for the cover that’s best visually and then show that,
because the covers of the printings I’m reading are the real generic ugly ones
without the 70’s illustrations. But now I’m rounding into the early 80’s with
the McGee books, and as a result of the more lackluster illustrations for this
one, we all get a peek at the above red-hot mama from I think an Australian
printing. Total Bozo management passed down a “sex it up” mandate, because Read
a Book, Listen To A Record, Etcetera are the worst, most boring posts on here.
Your eyeballs are the beneficiaries.
I’m
about halfway through this one right now, and there’s no indication in the plot
that a sexy SCUBA lady with her tots out is forthcoming. WHO CARES. SCUBA
BOOBA. God bless the Australians. They don't let a little thing like "this is blatantly wrong" get in the way of their T or their A.
For
at least the last four of these novels, McGee’s friend Meyer has been chiding
him for being in a rut, telling him he needs to get emotionally involved in
something to help shake the cobwebs loose. I love it when a writer apologizes
for the boring book you’re reading while you’re reading it. This one is the “this
time it’s personal,” MacDonald has been hinting at for a while, so I have high hopes for it.
Plus,
bonus, it involves a cult. Apparently cults were a thing one needed to talk
about in the aftermath of Jonestown. I can’t get enough of the subject matter,
even if it’s giving MacDonald all the platform he needs to pontificate at
length on the ills of society. I don’t mind. Pontificating on the ills of
society from a late 70’s perspective is quaint. He’s, like, kind of dimly worried
about fundamentalism in an “it’s generally upsetting that people want to live
like that” way rather than a “we are all going to die from this soon because
Pakistan has nukes” way.
CAN Soundtracks
Is
there a band in the history of the world luckier than Can? Sure, they’re all
great musicians. Sure, in spite of their musicianship they managed to be tasteful
enough not to get too unbearably proggy. Most of the time. Those are two very VERY important
aspects of their being a kickass band, and they have nothing to do with luck.
But being fronted by Malcom Mooney AND Damo Suzuki? That is a run of front man luck that would get you kicked out of any self-respecting casino.
We
found this guy on the street, his name is Malcolm Mooney, and ooops looks like
he’s one of the baddest motherfuckers ever to hold a microphone. Whoopie! What?
Oh no. He’s too bad of a motherfucker to even be able to HANDLE himself, and he’s got
to go back to America to get his mental health together? Shit. What are we
gonna do? I don’t know, how about we get this gibberish-slinging Japanese guy
who’s 99% as bad of a motherfucker as Malcolm. Maybe we could do that, you
guys. No biggie.
We’ll
just lay some jams on tape. See if it works out. Might as well. We’ve got a
couple of soundtracks we agreed to do for weird films that nobody made or saw.
Let’s just goof around and see what happens and maybe lay down some of the best
shit ever recorded by humans for those. No sweat, you guys.
Of
course later they had their Icarus moment where they were like “hey, let’s get
rid of this fucking Japanese badass and forget about the whole try not to be
too embarrassing thing" and see if THAT works. With the way things had been, you can’t really blame them for pushing everything on snake eyes, actually believing it was going to work, and then crapping out.
Soundtracks catches them at that insane nexus of luck that had them jumping
from Mooney to Suzuki without batting an eye. It’s a moment so rare, the music is
even more impressive for it. Like “we are UNSTOPPABLE.”
Golden State Warriors
vs. San Antonio Spurs, Western Conference Semifinals, Game 1
The
Spurs are like the Can of NBA teams. More specifically, they’re like the Holger
Czukay of NBA teams. There they are, playing bass and engineering whatever new
recording techniques are necessary to move forward. Who’s our front man? David
Robinson? Tim Duncan? Tony Parker? Whatever, I’m here and I’m ready to jam.
Steph
Curry, who I discussed
already but can’t get enough of, was the Malcolm Mooney of this specific game.
Unbelievable in the third quarter, then disappearing. I guess that makes Manu
Ginobli the Damo Suzuki, and that game-winner was his "Halleluwah."
I
like the Spurs, but they have an air of grim professionalism that makes them
hard to give your heart to, even as they’re clawing back from a 16 point 4th
quarter deficit in a playoff game. The sloppier, less steady Warriors are much
more compelling. They’re like the hare losing to the tortoise by a hair while
also having gotten a nap in. From a narrative perspective, the Warriors in the
playoffs so far have been the bad guy team from the end of every sports movie,
except in real life you want them to win.
What
is it with the Spurs? Tim Duncan is the Travis McGee of the NBA. He needs an
emotional entanglement to make him go “this time it’s personal.” I guess that
makes Gregg Popovich the Meyer of the NBA. This could not more clearly be the
case.
Just for fun:
