Bordersnakes.

Apparently, my subconscious felt the screaming need to write a book review.

I've been waking up at 4:00 and 5:00 in the morning over the last few weeks, which is a new insomnia. Usually I get back to sleep, eventually.

Anyway, I had this review pretty much written when I woke up and who am I to deny it?


BORDERSNAKES, James Crumley.

I've enjoyed Crumley books in the past. He's like a cross of Raymond Chandler, Hunter S. Thompson, and On The Road -- with a bit of Cormac McCarthy's Texas in the mix.

He writes in first person, with an engaging, authentically quirky voice.

But this book's plot seems to be all over the place. It's as though it's been weeks since I read the last chapter, instead of just days. I'm losing characters and plot lines. That could be on me, I suppose.

Meanwhile, the protagonists imbibe enough alcohol, drugs, sex, and dirty language to sink a battleship. Thing is, it feels uncomfortably like an alcoholic trying to justify his binge.

The sex part seems contrived -- beautiful women who keep coming on to these two 50ish aged guys.

It seems more like an alcoholic dream, like a couple of depraved oompa loompas.

Yet, like I said, his first person "voice" is still really engaging, so I'll be finishing the book.

I would still recommend his earlier books.

(O.K. That's weird. I looked him up on Wiki, and they too use the Raymond Chandler and Hunter S. Thompson as comparable authors -- Hey, I thought of it on my own!)