Pigs Have Wings by P.G. Wodehouse

As the back-cover copy leads off by sublimely noting, it is pig-stealing time in Shropshire.

This is not the longest or the most complex of P.G. Wodehouse's novels set in and around Blandings Castle, and there's only one impostor, who is revealed fairly quickly. But it is the Blandings novel that sees two massive pigs stolen by the major competitors of that Fat Pigs competition at the Shropshire Agricultural Show, in either 1952 (the year the book was published) or the eternal, unspecified, Wodehouse year, where it is one part 1890s, one part 1920s, one minor part the decade it was written, and about five parts pure whimsy and invention.

Pigs Have Wings has some of Wodehouse's most inventive, fun writing - he several times pauses to talk about the details of writing the book, apologizing for not mentioning a particular character for a long time and noting at one point:

Stress was laid earlier in this narrative on the fact that the conscientious historian, when recording any given series of events, is not at liberty to wander off down byways, however attractive, but is compelled to keep plodding steadily along the dusty high road of his story, and this must now be emphasized again to explain why the chronicler does not at this point diverge from his tale to give a word for word transcript of Lord Emsworth's speech.

Every mature Wodehouse book is frivolous; the best of them turn that frivolousness into something  magnificent. This is one of those - it's also the book that features the line about the "unmistakable sound of a butler falling off a bicycle." [1] The plot is fun, but the language is even better.

You see, the Empress of Blandings has won that Fat Pig contest two years running. Lord Emsworth's great rival, Sir Gregory Parsloe, has imported a possibly even-fatter pig - in a shocking breach of ancient custom, though not actually against the rules - from Kent and named it the Queen of Matchingham. The contest is coming up swiftly, and the two pigs, each in her sty at the two stately houses a few miles apart, are snuffling up their recommended fifty-seven thousand and eight hundred calories a day, in a race to see who can get the fattest.

But everyone assumes Parsloe will cheat. And the current keeper of the Empress, a slightly wobbly pig-girl named Monica Simmons, is his niece, installed by the domineering Lady Constance, Lord Emsworth's sister, who is more interested in keeping good relations with the neighbors than with winning Fat Pig contests.

Of course, there's also a few young-love plots - as well as a not-quite-so-young-anymore love plot - to complicate things. And one impostor, in the person of one of those not-quite-so-young love interests, a former barmaid and current owner of a detective agency, hired to keep her presumably-beady eye on the Empress.

Eventually, both the Empress and the Queen are stolen, by forces from the other camp. And a pig is hidden in the kitchen of a villa, where a keen-eared pig-keeper - and a slightly less keen-eared local policeman - may hear its distinctive grunting.

This is a good first Wodehouse novel - it shows what he does well, isn't too long or too convoluted, and the series element is minor. (There's a fat pig, a dithering lord, and a couple of other bits of standard business - that's it.) The fact that it's a glittering, lovely delight makes it only that much better.

[1] As opposed to the unmistakable sound of a barmaid falling down stairs, which is from the Drones story "Tried in the Furnace."

Nocturnos by Laura Pérez

I like to read comics - or graphic works, however you label them - that work largely visually, that imply more than they say, that aren't looking to tell a single, straightforward genre story. Those kinds of books are rich and fascinating when done well, and I find them more impressive than any hugger-mugger plot.

Laura Pérez is a Spanish creator - most famous on my side of the Atlantic for creating the title sequence for the TV show Only Murders in the Building - whose comics are very much in that vein: moody, thoughtful, allusive, full of fleeting moments and emotional states among characters that we don't get to know very well at all. Because how well do we know anyone? (Even ourselves?)

Two of her books were previously published in English translation for the US market - Totem and Ocultos. This past fall, her 2019 book Nocturnos was also published in English, translated by award-winning translator Andrea Rosenberg.

Pérez's books are difficult to write about, difficult to classify. They're meditations or explorations more than storytelling exercises, books that wander through a visual space and a set of ideas rather than laying out a linear story for the reader to follow. Nocturnos is a book about night - mostly about dreams, but also all of the other things that go on under the cloak of darkness, creatures and feelings and connections.

Pérez works here largely with emotional states, with feelings - her night is not a place of danger, specifically, though she does start with showing a prehistoric woman (or a modern woman acting like one) and references to fears of what might be in the dark. Nocturnos follows a sequence of people - I think we see some of the same people repeatedly, at different ages in their lives, but we also see a lot of people, once or twice in passing, as the night rumbles on past them - and shows us their dreams, as well as what they see and what they do in the depths of the night.

It's mostly quiet; it's mostly low-key. These are realistic dreams - the kind where you just know things, and you can't describe exactly what happened or what it meant, but know it meant something important. There's a fine sequence a little more than halfway through where one character describes a dream in those terms, over Pérez's evocative art, and we don't really understand what he means, as the man he talks to also doesn't understand. And the things Pérez's characters get up to during this night - because I think this book is meant to depict a night, a particular time in a particular place - are mostly everyday as well. They read, they look out windows, they ride public transit, they sit in bars talking to the bartender, they drive trucks, they arrive at a vacation cabin. They live their lives, quiet moments in their lives, as the night envelops them.

Pérez's art here has a surprising brightness for a book about night; she has an almost glowing blue-green sky, flecked with stars, visible a lot of the time, and her people have faces that almost look illuminated. Black does envelop her pages much of the time, though, as if the night is surrounding each of these moments, making each of them distinct and separate, like beads on a string.

I can't tell you what Nocturnos means; it doesn't "mean" one thing. It's a sequence of ideas and thoughts about what night is, what night means, what goes on in our brains when the world gets dark and quiet and still. I found it fascinating and deep; I hope you will do the same.

Bridge Planet Nine by Jared Throne

I came into this book with almost no expectations, and was happily surprised - it's a taut, smartly-paced crime thriller in a lived-in SF universe. I'll try not to spoil what turns into a twisty plot with a lot of revelations, but keep that in mind.

Bridge Planet Nine is Jared Throne's second full-length graphic novel, and I think the first to be published by an established company - Top Shelf put it out in October. It's the kind of book that takes unabashedly genre materials, uses them well, and mixes them to make its own story.

It's the medium future. Humanity has expanded to some unknown number of other planets, and seems to be living under a mildly dystopian corporatocracy - well, about as dystopian and corporate-ruled as today, frankly. One of those corporations, Partna, has a string of "Bridge Planets" - uninhabited worlds used as refueling stations for automated transport ships. It sounds like the point is either to extract all of the mineral wealth from those planets or to degrade them enough that Partna can take full ownership for some other activity later - or maybe both.

Four people are planning a heist on one of those planets. Garrett was a VP at Partna before a scandal - which he claims he had nothing to do with - took him down, tossed him in prison, and ruined his life. He has the knowledge and the desire to hurt Partna. The other three are specialists: Hudson is a long-time criminal with a lot of expertise; Wes is the one who'll get them through digital security, with his reprogrammed drone Etta; and Pearl, Wes's sister, is the pilot. They have contacts so they can "borrow" a ship to get there and back - not in a lot of comfort, but good enough.

Garrett knows of a high-value ship, with extra security, coming into Bridge Planet Nine soon. The ship, and the planet, are completely automated - no staff at all. So the four heisters just have to get there, quietly take what they want, and get back out - a big payout for all four of them, minimal risk.

Of course it's not that simple.

Before we meet the heisters, there's what I might call a cold open. A group of people, on a planet somewhere, execute or sacrifice one member of their group by chaining him outside at night and removing the mask they all wear. Something in the environment kills him, unpleasantly, almost immediately. We don't know exactly where they are. But we can guess.

Garrett and crew do get to Bridge Planet Nine without trouble, and park their ship away from the transfer station they plan to hit. They take a ground truck over, marvel at the ruined buildings from when this was an inhabited planet, and get to work on the security at the transfer station. They know their jobs, are smart and organized, and have planned carefully. (This is roughly a third of the way into the book.)

Things go badly in unexpected ways, as they always will in a heist thriller. The mission shifts, there are revelations of what Partna did and is doing on Bridge Planet Nine, and, of course, there is sudden violence and death. There are other characters, too, of course. You need to have a larger cast than just four people to have enough deaths to make a thriller.

The borrowed ship does lift off from the planet at the end of the story; I'll say that much. It does return to Earth, with a crew and a pilot. The people on that ship are not unrewarded by their efforts on Bridge Planet Nine. It's a good ending, a satisfying ending - one that fits for both a heist thriller and a gritty anti-corporate SF story.

Throne draws this in an indy-friendly style, with sharp spotted blacks, crisply distinct faces, and a good eye for design - both of his pages and for elements in his world. Suitably for both the heist and grungy-SF genres, most of the background elements look worn, lived-in, half-broken - he draws a universe that's already seen a lot of activity, where the street has been making its own uses for things for a long time now. Bridge Planet Nine is impressive: it tells its cross-genre story well, with distinctive characters, a strong sense of place, and serious tension throughout.

All of This and Nothing: Such Great Heights

"All of This and Nothing" is a series of weekly posts, each about one song I really love, by an artist I haven't featured in the previous This Year, Portions For Foxes, or Better Things series. It alternates between Obscure and Famous songs; feel free to argue either way if you're so inclined. See the introduction for more.

This week we're back to Famous, with a song everyone heard two decades ago in the movie The Garden State. (Yes, I saw it: I've lived in New Jersey since 1977, so I was legally obligated.)

It's a cover, though I'm not sure if I ever heard the original, by The Postal Service. Sometimes covers take over for the original - Hendrix did that with All Along the Watchtower.

And Sam Beam, aka Iron & Wine, did it with Such Great Heights.

I don't think I've written about quiet songs much on these Mondays - oh, sure, I talk about songs starting quietly, but I usually go on to talk about the loud parts. This one is all quiet, like a still pond, all focused on one man's voice and guitar.

It's a love song, a mostly happy love song.

Mostly. No true love song can be entirely happy, just like no person is ever entirely happy.

But everything looks perfect from far away

That's the core line of the song for me - this is a good relationship, a happy one, a fulfilling one. But it's not perfect, because nothing is perfect...but it, and the whole world, can look perfect from the right viewpoint.

This is also explicitly a "missing you" song - that's another thing that looks perfect from far away. I don't think that's meant as irony; I believe this is a heartfelt song, both as written and as performed by Beam. But any good song has tensions like that in it - ideas that could undercut themselves, phrases that could be taken different ways.

I'll leave it there: this is a quiet, meditative song, and I don't want to over-egg it. It's something to listen to, quietly, and think about how it reflects, or doesn't, your own life.

Reviewing the Mail: Week of February 21, 2026

I got three books from the library this week - along with the movie Caddyshack, for the weekly watch-with-my-kids Wednesday [1] - and all of them were larger than I expected. This complicates my life, for a silly and quirky reason you certainly don't care about.

You see, over the last few years, my reading time shifted. I used to read mostly while commuting, but now I work from home. And I also wanted to be more active once I was working from home - to get up regularly and spend time walking around. (I now aim to get 25k steps a day, and hit it except for very rare calamities.) So the question was: how do I both spend time reading and spend time walking? [2]

Yes, I do now read books while pacing in the house. Yes, my family thinks I am very weird. Yes, I have bumped into doors and walls more than once. But it does seem to work for me, though I would hesitate to recommend it to anyone else.

It does mean that larger or heavier books can be an issue, because I'm holding them up and walking about with them. Again, this is not a problem that I think anyone else in the world has ever had, and I don't expect anyone to commiserate with me - I'm just mentioning it.

Because E Is For Edward is particularly large, and I spent much of yesterday (Saturday, February 20th; I'm writing this the "today" of publication) walking about with it, and expect to finish it off today. I did whack it into doorframes at least twice. Anyway, this is a coffee-table book - the kind that normal sane people read on their laps in a comfy chair, or perhaps flip through as it sits on a table - about Edward Gorey, by Gregory Hischak, the current director of the museum made out of Gorey's Cape Cod house. It's full of Gorey art, and divided into a number of thematic chapters - designed to be a celebration of all his work on the event of the hundredth anniversary of his birth (last year).

Then there's Tongues, a large graphic novel by Anders Nilsen, whose similarly-large Big Questions I loved a decade ago. I did have access to a digital review copy of this almost a year ago, but it was watermarked in an annoying way, so I just didn't want to read that version. So, instead, I got the book itself, and will be maneuvering that through space in the near future and trying not to whack it into things in its turn. I have no idea what the story of Tongues is about and am deliberately not checking.

Last is the most recent book by Ian Frazier, Paradise Bronx. Frazier is a longtime New Yorker writer, adept at both serious reportage (like On the Rez and Family) and humor (like Cranial Fracking and the great Coyote V. Acme). This is Frazier in serious mode, and, as the title implies, it's a history of Da Bronx. It's also over five hundred pages, which is more than I thought I needed to know about NYC's most blue-collar borough, but I trust Frazier and will read, I expect, all of it.

[1] This time around, it was clearly from a different era. Even more so, I was struck by how it's really just a random collection of scenes - usually pretty funny, at least for audiences in 1980 - thrown together based on the same vague premise and with occasional attempts at an ongoing plotline.

[2] I also now have a sit-stand desk for work and a walking pad I pull out some of the time, so I do quite a bit of editing of work whitepapers and similar activities while trudging forward at that desk.

Quote of the Week: Other Lives

The other part of me wanted to get out and stay out, but this was the part I never listened to. Because if I ever had I would have stayed in the town where I was born and worked in the hardware store and married the boss's daughter and had five kids and read them the funny paper on Sunday morning and smacked their heads when they got out of line and squabbled with the wife about how much spending money they were to get and what programs they could have on the radio or TV set. I might even have got rich - small-town rich, an eight-room house, two cars in the garage, chicken every Sunday and the Reader's Digest on the living room table, the wife with a cast iron permanent and me with a brain like a sack of Portland cement. You take it, friend. I'll take the big sordid dirty crooked city.

 - Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye, p.625 in Later Novels & Other Writings

The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler

This is the big one; if you read only one Raymond Chandler novel, it should be The Long Goodbye. It's almost twice the length of his earlier books and not structured like a traditional mystery - a loose, looping, allusive novel that can make the case, all by itself, that private-eye stories can be fine literature.

I don't know if the world needed to be told that in 1953. On the other hand, I don't know if "the world" has entirely learned it since then - the world is full of blindered people of all kinds. Some refuse to believe mysteries can be as good as any other novels; some read only private-eye novels.

I'm not going to describe the plot in any great detail - it's deliberately slow, and recursive, and is best experienced by reading it. I did flag a whole lot of quotes, and I might drop a couple of them in below, with some linking material, to give you a sense of the book.

But I can tell you it starts with Terry Lennox - a drunk, a man badly damaged by his WWII service, the once and future kept husband of a widely-ranging heiress, a man with his own notions of propriety and honor. Series hero and narrator Philip Marlowe rescues him one day - more or less from his wife - and comes to be his friend, in the way of men who don't get close to each other or ask each other many questions.

One night Lennox calls Marlowe and needs a big favor, no questions asked - to be driven to the airport in Tijuana. This is a mystery novel; Marlowe assumes and we the reader assumes that means someone is dead - and we're both right. It won't be the last death.

Somewhat later, Marlowe is hired - sort-of - to find the alcoholic writer Roger Wade, who has disappeared on what both his wife and his New York editor are afraid is yet another bender. The Wades live in the same rich town and mix in the same circles as Lennox's wife; Lennox's sister-in-law is prominent there.

Maybe this is a good point to throw in a quote - here's Marlowe talking to the novelist's wife, on p.502 of the Later Novels & Other Writings omnibus:

"Look, Mrs. Wade," I said finally. "My opinion means nothing. It happens every day. The most unlikely people commit the most unlikely crimes. Nice old ladies poison whole families. Clean-cut kids commit multiple holdups and shootings. Bank managers with spotless records going back twenty years are found out to be long-term embezzlers. And successful and popular and supposedly happy novelists get drunk and put their wives in the hospital. We know damn little about what makes even our best friends tick."

That's the core point of any mystery novel - the why of a specific shocking violent act. And the best mystery writers, Chandler at their fore, make it clear that we can say some things about any particular act, especially in retrospect, but that people are strange and contingent and unexpected. Long Goodbye is a novel about people, the things they do and the ways they bounce off each other - often violently.

This is also the book where Chandler has the "main story" cool down repeatedly, almost as if his plot is dying out, as Marlowe goes on to other cases, other parts of his life, before looping back to that cluster of Lennox and Wade and the rest:

So passed a day in the life of a P.I. Not exactly a typical day but not totally untypical either. What makes a man stay with it nobody knows. You don't get rich, you don't often have much fun. Sometimes you get beaten up or shot at or tossed into the jailhouse. Once in a long while you get dead. Every other month you decide to give it up and find some sensible occupation while you can still walk without shaking your head. Then the door buzzer rings and you open the inner door to the waiting room and there stands a new face with a new problem, a new load of grief, and a small piece of money.

"Come in, Mr. Thingummy. What can I do for you?"

There must be a reason.

(p.549)

As I said, this is a long novel - especially for a mystery, especially for 1953. Marlowe isn't really investigating any of the deaths, and, for a long time, he's half-heartedly trying to get away from the bits of this puzzle he's entangled with. But this is what he does: he worries loose bits of string until he gets to the knot and untangles it.

In the end, we do learn what happened - to Lennox and Wade and all of the others, to the cops and crooks and millionaires and their daughters. This is a magnificent American novel, on the short list that everyone should read at least once. I'll leave it at that.

Usasgi Yojimbo, Book 9: Daisho by Stan Sakai

As I've warned before, my posts about series tend to get shorter and more perfunctory as I have less and less to say. I may end up rambling below, but I doubt I'll have anything particularly profound this time.

I'm still reading my way through Stan Sakai's Usagi Yojimbo series, a mildly fantasy-tinged adventure series set in a dramatically heightened version of Edo-period Japan, pitched at a level appropriate for middle-grade readers...oh, and all of the characters are anthropomorphic animals, because Sakai started this series in the '80s for the Critters anthology. Anthropomorphic characters also suit his art style quite well, though there are all the usual questions of how multi-animal worlds work - are all these races interfertile? If a rabbit and a fox have children, are they hybrids, or are the boys rabbits and the girls foxes, or what? Do the races code specific positions in society, or geographic origins, or something like that?

In this series, they're mostly just animals because Sakai wanted them to be animals. Individual characters are kinds of animals that make sense for them specifically; I haven't made a study to see how families connect. Usagi himself clearly gets the hots for babes who are not themselves rabbits, for one data-point.

The ninth collection of that series is Daisho, collecting some stories from issues 7 and 8 of the 2nd series that weren't in vol. 8 (Shades of Death) and the full issues 9-14; it reaches almost to the end of the Mirage series (Usagi started with Fantagraphics, had a short run with Mirage, and then settled in at Dark Horse for twenty years and 160-ish issues); the current edition came out in 2010 but seems to be an only very slightly updated version of the original book 9 from about 1995.

The stories here mostly flow into a continuous narrative, though those two lead-off stories are both closing off loose plot threads from earlier volumes. Most of the book sees Usagi caught up in helping out a town taken over by slavers, and then chasing their leader after "General Fujii" steals Usagi's swords. After that, we get a flashback to another great lost love of Usagi's life - we're only up to Lost Love #2 at this point, but we're also only twenty-some issues in, with a hundred and sixty to go, so Usagi could have a hot anthropomorphic babe in every town by the end of the series if I'm counting correctly.

This particular Lost Love is the We Could Never Be Together type - she's the daughter of a major lord, he's the bodyguard delivering her to the arranged marriage, and they're on the run from the forces trying to murder her before that can happen. You've read that story before, but Sakai does a solid version of it here.

That's generally my take on Usagi, this volume and this previous ones - Sakai is professional and solid, telling stories well in a clean style, with solid dialogue and engaging plotting. There's nothing groundbreaking or surprising here, and it is all pitched so you could hand it to a ten-year-old. Is that enough? Every reader has to decide that - so far, I'm enjoying the stories, while finding them inherently limited.

Wandering Island, Vol.2 by Kenji Tsurata

Everything I said about the first volume of Wandering Island is still true for the second: it's a laconic, quiet story with a lot of Miyazaki influence, driven by images, with a thin plot and only one real character, the floatplane pilot Mikura Amelia. (Who, as you can see from the cover, spends a lot of her time in borderline fan-service-y poses either in that tiny bikini or, for a sequence here, entirely naked.)

Well, one thing is different, I suppose. I said I thought this would be a two-book series, that the plot was thin enough that I didn't see how it could run more than another couple of hundred pages. I was mistaken; a visually-driven series can keep going, I'm coming to see, as long as the creator has more images to put on the page.

Wandering Island, Vol. 2 is not the end. It needs at least one more volume, maybe more. According to an afterword by editor Carl Gustav Horn, the fifteen chapters here appeared in the Japanese  monthly Afternoon magazine between October 2012 and December 2017, with the Japanese tankōbon also copyright 2017, so probably appearing the same month as the last chapter it collected. This English translation, by Dana Lewis, arrived in January 2019.

On the other hand, I can't find any indication that creator Kenji Tsurata has published any further chapters of Wandering Island in the past eight years, so this may be entirely abandoned. Caveat lector.

The first volume ended with Mikura flying off to find the mysterious, moving Electric Island - she'd tracked its movements, and was sure she could catch it on this go-round through the North Pacific. The first chapter here is mostly "where is that wandering island?" but she does get there, landing right next to it despite the locals firing cannon at her.

She has a package to deliver, after all. She needs to give it to "Miss Amelia."

Most of this book is Mikura wandering, mostly silently, around the semi-ruined town that takes up most or all of the island, trying to map it so that she can figure it out. It's made up of buildings jammed together, with narrow, winding streets rising and falling up and down the hills - very Mediterranean, very Miyazaki. She sees some locals: mostly semi-hostile old men (the ones who fired that cannon, we think), one old lady is who slightly more helpful, one kid near the end.

We don't learn any of their names. None of them get more than a few words of dialogue. None of them explain anything, talk about this island, or advance the plot at all. They mostly all just tell Mikura to get the hell out of there, that she's not wanted.

Oh, and "Miss Amelia" is dead. The place she lived is entirely a ruin; she may have died a century ago.

At the very end, as Mikura is running out of the food saved in her plane, and wondering what she can possibly do next, that kid just happens to mention that there's "a store" on the island, of course in what seems to be the highest point. Mikura goes there, sees the shopkeeper...and this volume ends.

We don't see the shopkeeper clearly - we see his body, but not his face. He seems to be familiar to Mikura. I'm going to guess that it's her dead father, since it's that kind of story, and because there are so few characters that's an plausible guess. If there are ever any further chapters, maybe I can find out if I'm right.

This is a lovely book, with great images. I can recommend it on that level. Anyone coming to it hoping for answers to the questions raised in the first volume, though, will be deeply disappointed, and need to be ready to continue waiting - perhaps forever - for those answers. Anyone deeply interested in plot will also want to stay far away.

Lone Wolf & Cub, Vol.8: Chains of Death by Kazuo Koike and Goseki Kojima

About a year and a half ago, I decided to re-read the Lone Wolf and Cub series, a masterpiece and towering achievement of gekiga manga, created by writer Kazuo Koike and artist Goseki Kojima in the 1970s. I figured I could get through the the twenty-eight volumes at least one a month, so it would take a couple of years.

Well, I'm now up to volume 8, so I think it will take a bit longer than that. And, as I keep saying for each book in turn, I doubt I'll have much to say: each book is very much like the one before; their strengths are their strengths; these are amazing works but what has to be said about them has been said, many times, over the past fifty years.

So I just read Chains of Death. It contains six stories. As throughout the series, they're all sequentially numbered - these are 39 through 44.

My sense is that this series went through phases or clusters - some groupings were more concerned with the central plot, some with one-off stories. They also take place in different parts of Japan, not that I'll be any good at explicating that. This book has a group of stories that take place during winter: snow and cold is important in several of them. It's also closer to the main plot; we see Yagyū Retsudō scheming in several stories, and get a flashback of his son's duel against our series hero, Ogami Ittō, for the position of the Shōgun's executioner.

The pleasures of this series, as always, is that odd mixture of the quiet moments of beauty - Kojima is masterful at depicting natural and everyday life - and the sudden interruptions of that life by extreme violence, which is what the audience, then as now, is here for. Otherwise, see what I - and many other commentators - have said about Lone Wolf and Cub earlier; it is what it is.

All of This and Nothing: Strugglin'

"All of This and Nothing" is a series of weekly posts, each about one song I really love, by an artist I haven't featured in the previous This Year, Portions For Foxes, or Better Things series. It alternates between Obscure and Famous songs; feel free to argue either way if you're so inclined. See the introduction for more.

This week, we're back to Obscure, with the 2014 song Strugglin' from I Am the Albatross's self-titled record. They're obscure enough that they barely show up in a google search for their quirky, specific name, which saddens me - but the world is big and full of stuff, and most of it is hidden in one way or another.

I'm pretty sure this band is defunct - that their website is gone, that their Bandcamp page lists three releases ending a decade ago, and the aforementioned google search lead me to think that. But art can live forever, and I still listen to this song. (And I can't be the only one.)

There's a lot of people out there in the world tonight
A lot of people out there in the world tonight (x2)
That ain't gonna make it 'til the morning light...

This is another song that starts relatively quietly, and then goes on to burn the barn down. The lyrics are evocative, allusive, metaphoric. Something bad is happening - the singer's "baby" is "struggling," which is as specific as it gets - but the words are almost apocalyptic, all-encompassing.

When things can't get any worse, well that's when they do
Searching for a crack where the light shines through...

It has a shuffly, loud, borderline-lofi sound, and it blasts at top speed for almost five minutes - five great minutes. This is a song that shouldn't be forgotten, so I'll do my tiny bit to remind people it's out there.

Reviewing the Mail: Week of February 14, 2026

One book came in the mail this week: let me tell you about it.

Rick Geary has been doing Kickstarters for books for about the last decade - I think it started out as his weirder, quirkier projects, but there have also been a few historical-murder stories that looked a lot like the books he did for bigger publishers. So it might just be the way he initially self-publishes his work these days, which is just fine - I'm on the mailing list, so I get 'em.

The most recent book was A Billy the Kid Alphabet, which heads back a bit towards the quirky side. Geary did a more "normal" Billy the Kid book a few years ago with The True Death of Billy the Kid, which is a better bet for anyone who wants the story told in order with the facts lined up nicely. Alphabet, on the other hand, is in the style of a abecadary, with a big double-page entry (one full-page illustration, one page of text) for each letter of the alphabet, from Alias to Zero.

Billy the Kid is still a source of fascination for many - including Geary, I assume - which is why this book exists and has an audience. For, me, I'm mostly here for Geary telling me about historical murderers and showcasing his magnificently detailed pen-and-ink drawings.

Quote of the Week: The Law Is The Law, and We Can't Change It

Men, in their attitude to law, may, nowadays, be divided into those who believe that if an act is legal, it is irrelevant whether it is just and expedient, and those who believe that if it is just and expedient, it is irrelevant whether it is legal.

 - Evelyn Waugh, Robbery Under Law, p.777 in Waugh Abroad

(Source of title quote.)

Robbery Under Law by Evelyn Waugh

I've been reading a bunch of Evelyn Waugh's travel books over about the past year, in a big omnibus called Waugh Abroad. I've generally enjoyed them: Waugh was a right-wing nutbar, just this side of fascist and absolutely loony in the ways only an upper-class Englishman converted to Catholicism in adult life could be, but he was also a fine writer with a great eye and a world-class grump. So seeing him go to various Third World - I think the term didn't exist yet, but that's what it was - hells in the '30s and complain about them is a lot of fun.

The next book collected in Waugh Abroad was Robbery Under Law, subtitled "The Mexican Object-Lesson." Waugh did travel to Mexico for a few months in 1938 and wrote this book immediately thereafter, it is true. But this, sadly, is not a travel book. It's a tedious, tendentious screed that is probably only of interest as an example of what the kind of right-wing people who thought fascists were really good at building roads and keeping the lesser races down but still were going too far in the whole government-controlling-the-economy-thing considered important in 1938.

Mexico, at the time, had been through a century or more of turmoil since independence, and had had a sequence of corrupt and/or incompetent leaders, who each in turn stole what they could and either fled or the country, or, more often, were murdered by their successors. In 1938, they were officially Marxist and had suppressed the Catholic Church, two aspects of their society that Waugh, of course, hated with every fiber of his being. So, being a professional writer, he therefore spent over two hundred tightly-set pages writing against those things at great and deeply boring length. Let me be clear: it seems like Mexico was a horrible place, run by thieves and charlatans for their own benefit, and had been (with slightly different fools and charlatans, each in their turn) for decades at that point. But the things Waugh was most annoyed about are the nationalization of the oil business and the breaking up of the large estates of the rural aristocracy. And one is hard-pressed, a hundred years later, to care about either of those things if one has anything like a modern political sensibility - even a very right-wing modern political sensibility.

I was hoping for stories of Waugh traveling through another corrupt, odd country and telling the reader about it. There is a quick list of sketched moments in one chapter here: all of the rest is argumentation. And, again, unless you're the kind of interwar Anglo-Catholic Waugh was - not necessarily deeply racist, but satisfied with the hierarchies of the world, since he's near the top of them, and sure that democracy is good for the right kind of peoples, the ones with mostly pale skins - you are not going to agree with a lot of what he says.

In fact, when he tries to cover the expected objections to his position, he inadvertently implies that things were pretty horrible. Oh, sure, he says, some bishops probably abused their power, especially far from the capital - how could it be otherwise? - and, of course, the upper ranks of the priesthood was mostly made up of aristocratic younger sons, who are used to living in riches and splendor, so you can't be surprised that they continued to amass great wealth and spend it on themselves, even once they were  in religious orders. This goes on in several directions, throughout the book, and the astute reader gets a good sense of what Waugh would be happy with: the stable, organized world in which people like him are firmly on top and the Indians - he says, magnanimously, that they're not necessarily mentally inferior to "the white races," that Mexicans as a "race" have interbred between the Spanish and the "Indians" quite a lot (and he doesn't even more than very slightly hint that might be the source of their ongoing political problems), and some of those not-purely-Spanish chappies have even become quite good priests! - know their place down at the bottom of the heap.

It's too bad, because clearly Mexico was a horrible place in 1938. Waugh, though, is not the one who can describe those horrors in a way that anyone to the left of Roderick Spode will agree with. I would only recommend reading this if you've already gotten through all of the good Waugh, and probably some of the other all-too-Catholic pieces as well. Or, of course, if you are a fanatically right-wing Anglo-Catholic with fascist tendencies: it'll be right up your street.

Lovers and Haters by Gilbert Hernandez

Look, Gilbert Hernandez is one of the giants of world comics, right? So anything I say here on a minor blog is probably pointless. He's also one of the most wild-hair creators I've ever seen, prone to run off in really bizarre directions - witness Blubber, witness the long series of "The Fritz B-Move Collection," witness Birdland and Garden of the Flesh and...just about everything he's done for the past two or three decades, frankly.

It can also take a while for a new Love & Rockets collection to percolate: first the stories appear in individual issues - which have changed format a lot over the years, and are now I guess roughly annual magazine-sized things - and then those stories are usually edited a bit for book publication, to include most of the material in L&R but tweak some pages and add more. So any one book is a record of a longer time than it might seem. This book, for example, was published in 2025, but the first piece in it is dated 2014.

So a lot of what I said about Gilbert's work when I wrote about the first six issues of the current L&R series back in 2018 (!) is still relevant here: this is some of the same material. Actually, I think this is the weakest of what I remember from that material, the stuff that was most tedious and repetitive.

Which finally brings me to Lovers and Haters, the 31st volume in The Complete Love and Rockets. (Note: that doesn't mean the "library editions;" there have been I think fifteen of those so far, each roughly twice the size of a "Complete" book. It also doesn't mean the really big hardcovers, like Palomar and Locas, which have even more material but don't reprint the smaller books directly. The counts of both series also also includes the work of Gilbert's brother Jaime; their material appears side-by-side in L&R but the two have never worked together. Oh, and there's also a few stories here and there over the past forty years by a third brother, Mario, who has worked occasionally with Gilbert, just to be more confusing.)

When I wrote about that current L&R series back in 2018, I said, optimistically, that "Gilbert wrote his way out of the swamp of Too Many Fritzes." But this book collects the plotline I thought of as Too Many Fritzes, and mostly includes material later than 2018, so I was not entirely correct at that time. (And I live in hope that the things I saw then that I considered stronger, and showing a movement towards more lightness and openness in his work, will be collected themselves, eventually.)

Fritz is the half-sister of Luba, who was Gilbert's big central character for the '80s and '90s. Originally, she was a psychologist, but that may have been completely retconned away by now. In these stories, she's in her late forties - just turning fifty near the end - and has been a bad actress her entire adult life. I say "bad," but I may mean "limited" - there's a sense that she appeared in almost entirely bad movies and may not have been worse than mediocre herself.

These stories, mostly a series called "Talent," circle around Fritz, her controlling but borderline incompetent boyfriend/manager, several skeevy porn producers, and a bewildering array of younger women who adopted versions of Fritz's name to cash in on her fame, mostly by working as strippers, in porn, and in fetish movies that might not be distinguishable from porn. There's a largish cast that mostly stands around saying the same things to each other, or announcing plot and background details, as they sarcastically cut each other down. You see, they mostly hate each other, even though a lot of them work on the same movies and have sex with each other regularly - in fact, working on the same movies often is having sex with each other.

This is weird and artificial and odd on a storytelling level - before I even get into the mostly-underlying plot idea of the mad scientists who invented some kind of human growth serum that gave all of the women breasts of various massiveness (the smallest are about the size of their heads) and some men similarly freakish muscles. Oh, and there's a guy with two dicks - that seems to have been natural, though.

Just the frenzy about Fritz is already silly, as if there was a massive global industry of Linnea Quigley imitators. With all of the other material piled on top of it, Lovers and Haters is incredibly difficult to take seriously. I'm not going to try to do that: it is deeply not-serious.

There's also a lot of moments or elements that seem out of place. Or maybe I mean that the timeline is really confused, and it's unclear when all of these events are happening. Fritz is married to a woman, Pipo, in a couple of stories late in this book, which doesn't seem to match at all with her relationship with her boyfriend/manager, and Gilbert's narrative voice doesn't comment at all.

I think this is mostly for Beto completists, who want to see what's going on with his main storyline. (Spoiler: very, very little; it's chasing its own tail through sex cults and breast-inflation fetishes.) In a few years, there will be another L&R collection by Gilbert, and I don't see any way that it can be worse than this. But I have been surprised before.