I give you Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, people. A future president, presuming the U.S. survives Trump. |
Friday, May 31, 2019
Thursday, May 30, 2019
Freedom? That's Only for the Gun Nuts
"Laws?" Laws Are Only for the Little People
Wednesday, May 29, 2019
The Rich and Their Slaves
Monday, May 27, 2019
The Legacy of Tony Stark
Sunday, May 26, 2019
They're About as Bright as a Speed Bump
Tuesday, May 21, 2019
Atticus Finch Explains It All for You
Thursday, May 16, 2019
Tuesday, May 14, 2019
Waking Up Is Hard to Do
Thursday, May 9, 2019
The Mug Shots Blur After While...
You glimpse some dead-faced,
vacant-eyed guy in a mug shot and you think, “Now, which is that? The mad
gunman? The mad bomber? Is he the one who shot those people in the supermarket
today or in the cinema yesterday? Or is he the one who crushed that protester
with a car, or the one who slaughtered all those schoolchildren in that place,
where was it again? In America somewhere. Yes, certainly in America. Only in America.”
A Day Without Fox Is Like a Day Without Arsenic
Hasburgh’s “Pirata:” Surfing Waves of Suspense
By Dan Hagen
When we meet Nick Lutz, he has
stumbled on a black root that’s “harder than marriage” — and, more generally,
in life.
He’s the protagonist of Patrick Hasburgh’s
second suspense novel Pirata, a
former car salesman living in Mexico on disability payments because a carjacker
shot him in the face.
A cascade of events, none of them really
his fault, cost Nick his job, his wife and his son, and left him suffering from
seizures which he self-medicates with drugs.
He even lost an eye and wears a
patch, hence “Pirata.” The nickname, pronounced “Pee-rah-tah,” also suggests criminality
— not inappropriately, as things turn out. Even Nick’s good deeds won’t go
unpunished.
Hasburgh’s first-person literary
voice is again assured, and has the cheeky West Coast vibe of a latter-day
Raymond Chandler or Ross Macdonald. It’s a voice the reader can easily settle
in with.
For example, Nick’s dinged-up,
waterlogged surfboard “…still paddles straight and true, even if it rides a
little lower in the water than I’d like it to — like we all do.”
The realistic thriller soaked in
local color is territory that was mapped by Eric Ambler, and Hasburgh is now a
sure-footed traveler there. His descriptions of Mexico and surfing carry a kind
of easy, indisputable verisimilitude.
“I paddled hard to make the set
wave and then pivoted just under its peak — my board began to rise and I
charged down the face to make my get-up — and then, like it was nothing, I
carved a lazy bottom turn and claimed the wave with a nod.”
Nick lives in a thousand-square-foot
two-bedroom casita where he can watch the waves from his porch. “It was the
kind of place that surfers dream about when they’re working nine-to-five el norte. I’d bought it six years ago
for 58,000 U.S. dollars — furnished. I hadn’t changed a thing except for adding
internet and replacing the fridge.”
Nick’s ironic observations are
sharp and sure, and make the pages turn themselves.
“The drug wars and cartel violence
are pretty overrated if the only information you get is from the U.S. press. A
lot of those stories are all about trying to make Mexicans look like
bloodthirsty lunatics so Americans don’t feel guilty about paying immigrants
shit wages to cut their lawns and make their beds. But still. Nobody’s head
looks good on a stake…”
“Despite her claims to fame, there
was still a sad mystery to her, and I could relate. Very few foreigners move to
Mexico to escape success.”
Nick bobs along, buoyed by good
intentions amid waves of violence, stumbling into a murder and finally finding
himself caught between the FBI and the sadistic policia secret. You’re kept in suspense never knowing where or how
or in what condition he’s going to wash ashore.
But Nick’s never short of a wry
observation and a fresh eye patch (he has a white one with a sequined peace sign,
a red one with a hammer and sickle and a few blacks and grays for more formal
occasions).
Amid the dark confusion of crime,
Nick has a chance to find a family like the one he lost. Much of the novel’s
tension hangs on that long shot. And his journey eventually involves a brief
return to America, permitting the novel to veer into social satire and skewer a
few 21st century pretensions.
The title is ironic, finally,
because Nick Lutz is no thief, but rather one from whom much has been stolen. He’s
a regular American guy in highly irregular circumstances south of the border.
It’s Nick’s engaging character — breeziness as a brave front for pain — that
really sustains the story.
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