I Will Judge This Book By Its Cover, It's Beautiful

July 20, 1966

He clearly got some sort of space disease. He should be lucky his body didn't freeze, depressurize, and his heart explode from being in space and that suit clearly not being safe. I do hope this is more of a disease situation and not a chest-burster situation, because then both these men are dead.

Is Hurricane Hattie going to read the classic Caldecott Medal-winning children's tale about the passage the time and slight commentary on urban sprawl called "The Little House" by Virginia Lee Burton? That book may not be very long (about 40 pages) but you could write a dissertation on the themes and nuances in the illustrations.

Pretend You're Asleep and Maybe He'll Go Away

June 26, 1965

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was the last book I read in 2023. It was not at all what I thought it was going to be. Anyway, the neighbors are going to love their new resident. On the plus side, maybe he won't be around long.

There are numerous sleep apps out there. I don't know what all those different sleep apps do. I mainly use them as a white noise machine.

Has Uncle Ted been sitting on this bit long? He's even using props.

Christmas End

March 6, 1989

I wish someone would make me a cup of cocoa before bed. A lot of times I have a small glass of chocolate milk but a nice warm mug of hot cocoa would be nice. You don't need to put anything in it. I don't need to be dead to the world for 36 hours.

They can mention each other but neither the twain shall meet, or whatever.

Do you get the book of the year of 2023 to read in 2024 or does the subscription actually begin in December 2024?

The 3 Big Ones--Steinbeck, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy

March 23, 1986

Instead of eating hamburgers and egg sandwiches, we should be eating the rich.

I feel Veeblefester has already paid for the hamburger and we see no money exchange hands so hopefully this diner--or "greasy spoon"--has a least some of Veeblefester's money. I also hope Veeblefester is hit by a bus.

I am currently reading East of Eden. It's my favorite book and I'm reading it for inspiration on the book I'm writing. I like rereading my old favorites because I always find something new or interpret something a different way.

I find it cool--is cool the right word?--that I've read four of the five classic books they mention. I have not read Ivanhoe.

If you would like to support this website, you can buy me a cup of coffee over on Ko-fi.

What Do You Know Sunday?

Just let him read the damn book. I reread books all the time. I do it because I like them and I notice something new every time I reread.

Huh. I always pictured Uncle Ted living in a retirement community or senior living facility. Apparently, he still has his own house and is looking forward to watching his family have to sift and sort through his garbage from the afterlife.

Actually, looking at you, I would've guessed immediately that you played football in school.

I'm glad to see Hattie harassing Brutus. It's been awhile. We haven't seen her in a new strip since July 5, and she hasn't bullied Brutus since February.

"I know I said 'I love cheese' which to you probably means 'Give me a lot of cheese', but to me it means 'Give me all the cheese you have.'"

You just keep working that grater, cheese monkey. You'll probably want to grab another block as well. I just going to sit here and smile.

This is not a great way to handle potential sales calls. You should be having a secretary or receptionist transfer calls the sales staff, not have whoever gets to phone first gets the sale.

Has Uncle Ted seriously never heard about E-ZPass, TollTag, PIKE Pass, whatever your state calls it? Did he seriously think Brutus just zoomed through the toll and began thinking about turning in his nephew and if there would be a reward? Did he not see the massive signs along the toll road that explains how to stop paying at the toll booths?

I guess we're even. Uncle Ted doesn't know about cashless tolls and Brutus doesn't know what an MRI is. Maybe that's why Uncle Ted had an MRI done.

Can we get to eating and drinking now, or are those sandwiches and lemonade just for decoration?

Daily posts will return tomorrow since the start of the school year has settled down. If you would like to support my writing, research, or website, you can buy me a cup of coffee over on Ko-fi.

The Thornapple House Actually Has Books?

October 9, 1974

Just the same two notes over and over? I guess that's what I would do if I had a tuba.

Did Brutus buy or is he renting that tuba?

For Whom the Bell Tolls is better, in my opinion. The Great Gatsby is meh. I'd recommend something else. I would also choose the rambling magnum opus that is East of Eden than The Grapes of Wrath. But Dr. Seuss is good, too. A book is a book and don't let anyone tell you what you're reading is garbage or "doesn't count".

Comic Comics #3: You Can't Lose

Happy birthday to Harry Anderson who would've been 67 today. As you all know, Anderson was the star of NBC's Night Court as Judge Harold T. Stone and CBS' Dave's World as real-life newspaper columnist Dave Barry. Few people probably know that Anderson was also an author. In 1989, Anderson wrote two books with a friend of his, Turk Pipkin. In 2001, the books were reprinted into one book, Games You Can't Lose. Here are a couple of anecdotes from the book and some pictures of Anderson that were included.

A fool and his money were lucky

to get together in the first place.

-Anonymous

The books talk about how to play tricks on people and how not to get tricked. The first part talks about how to play tricks. He starts out describing a trick on how to drink a shot of whisky that's placed under a hat without touching the hat. It's a trick that he played on the show Cheers to Cliff Clavin. The second part talks about how not to get tricked by casinos and carnivals.

photo by John Tenney

The Dollar Bill $windle

"Say Turk, I got another little bet I been workin' on, but I ain't too sure about the odds. Wanna give it a try in the name of scientific research?" 

Turk inquires about the cost of said experiment and I respond: "Oh, a trifling wager--say...twenty bucks?" His coughing fit prompts me to adjust the opening line. "Okay. That's too high for an afternoon bet. We'll make it a dollar." 

At a buck, he's at least willing to hear what the game is. "It's simple. I take out a one-dollar bill. Like all U.S. currency, this one's got eight digits in the serial number, letters excluded. You try to guess three numbers without missing. Miss one and you lose. But guess just three correctly and you win even money!" 

Turk's eyes glaze over as he calculates the variables. There are ten possible digits (0 through 9) and eight digits on the bill. He only has to guess three. It sounds like a breeze! Eagerly accepting the wager, he calls out his guesses: three, seven, and eight. 

"Darn! You're right!" I say. "They'll all here. You win yourself a buck, Turk. I must've miscalculated the odds." Taking out another one-dollar bill, I offer to try it again. 

Turk selects zero, one, and five and I wad up the bill and toss it in his direction. 

"You win again," I say. "I guess the bet should've been four digits. Ah well, let's try one more. Shoot! I don't have another one-dollar bill. All I got is that twenty I was gonna bet the first time, but you didn't want...What's that? You want to go to the twenty now? Same bet? Well, I guess so. Call 'em out!" 

He ventures. "Six." 

"Nope. No six. You lose. Tough break. What the hey. I shouldn't, but I'll give you a second try, double or nothing on the twenty. Seven? Uh...no. No seven and no six." The guy is wired in now and he keeps betting and he keeps guessing and he keeps losing. "Sorry, Turk. There isn't a six, seven, four, three, or a two." 

Turk doesn't think this is possible and insists on seeing the bill before paying up. I consider this an insult to my integrity, but display it anyway. What a lucky fluke for me that the serial number on my twenty is: 15511515. 

It seems that in all the excitement he neglects to consider the possibility of repeat digits. He protests that with only two digits on the bill he couldn't possibly guess three. This is an excellent observation Turk has made. On his advice, I may even keep this bill in my wallet in case the bet comes up again sometime. This compliment cheers him up a bit, even as he pays me the hundred bucks.

photos by John Tenney

Those Three Little Milk Bottles

A few years back, I was in this little town about twenty miles west of San Diego and this burg was s-l-o-w, slow. So I decided to check out the visiting entertainment, the Mole Brothers Carnival, which was set up in a little field on the edge of town. 

I'm standing around, just minding other people's business, when an attractive shape happens by and I just cannot turn my gaze away. Now, I am always one to need glasses for matters such as settling wagers on the number of hairs on a hirsute mole, but I am blind and stupid too if I do not fall for this doll. However, hanging on to her arm is a big clown sporting a well-worn letter jacket and I take it by the patches on the sleeve that he is some kind of baseball star. 

My suspicion is confirmed when the pair stops at a milk bottle booth--one of those joints where, for fifty cents, you get to throw three baseballs at three phony milk bottles. Knock 'em all down and you win a fairly fine prize, in this case a big cuddly teddy bear that the light of my life has set her heart on. 

In no time, the local sports fans have gathered to cheer their hero as his state championship arm hurls about five bucks' worth of baseballs at those bottles. Sometimes he tips over one, sometimes he knocks down two, but he never busts out all three. About the fiftieth throw, he makes an awful noise and grabs his arm in pain. 

"Oh, joy!" I think. "Failure is his!" 

The pitchman jumps right in and starts trying to convince somebody else to try to win that teddy bear for the little lady, but the injured Bubba-Romeo is growling them off like a pawn-shop dog. More stunned beauty than scared by beast, I step up and toss a half buck at the operator. I never played any school ball but somehow I know I can't fail. 

"This is for you," I say to the girl. She smiles--which helps me summon my strength to fire the first ball. Boom! go the bottles. The top one flies ten feet through the air. The other two don't do much as flutter. Her dark eyes shining, I rifle the second ball at the bottles. The right one pops up in the air and lands smack on the left bottle, which teeters--but doesn't fall. The crowd starts to cheer me on. I turn in the direction of a squeeze on my arm. It's her! 

Nothing can stop me now. I grip the third ball and bite my lip. The ball makes a whoooosh as it tears through the air, smashing dead center into the last bottle, which tips back to about a forty-five-degree angle, hangs there for an eternity, then stands back up straight. I can't believe my eyes. I stand there frozen in surprise for a moment and when I turn, the light of my life is already walking away with the letter jacket. She gives me a little look over her shoulder that seems to say "Too bad, it might have been." 

My sleep that night is pretty poor and it isn't helped any when, about five in the morning, I am tossed out of my flea circus/mattress by an awful shaking. It's not the fleas doing the rumba, but one of those terrifying California earthquakes--knocking cheap velvet pictures off the wall, water pitchers off the nightstands, and every can of groceries in town off the shelves and onto the floor. 

Well, I ain't gonna hang around trying to make money from people who really are down and out so the daylight finds me pointed toward greener pastures. Heading out, I pass the Mole Bros. Carny and if town is bad, this is worse. The ten-in-one tent is lying flatter than a pancake. Strings of electric light are strewn across the ground. The Ferris wheel is on its side and most of the trailers are piled on top of each other at the bottom of a hole in the ground that wasn't there the day before. All the roustabouts are trying to get an old elephant up off his side and back on his feet. 

And in the whole place the only thing left standing are those three milk bottles.

Turk Pipkin, left, and Harry Anderson. Photo by John Tenney.

"Choose your co-author carefully."

And There's a Picture of This Dictionary Next To It

Blonde Jokes Are Still a Thing?

For those of you like the idea of physical media for your webcomics, there is a new Kickstarter that you should look into. Brian Russell of Underfold Comics has chosen over 135 of his favorite comics over the past two years and is putting them into a collection called Hi Book, I'm Dad. But you don't have to listen to me. Head over Kickstarter and read about it for yourself. You can also read more of his comics on his website or become a patron and get exclusive material there.

If you would like to support my writing and my research, you can buy me a cup of coffee on Ko-Fi.

Look, if I wanted to read about a married couple embarrassing themselves at a party and then getting all angry at each other for it, I'd read The Lockhorns. I'm a little amazed that Brutus told a dumb blonde joke in today's social climate. Hashtag: Watch Yourself, Brutus.

Hattie Shave Club

Since about 2002, I have been wanting to write a book about the family that included their history but also the history of that part of Douglas County which, to me, is vastly overshadowed by the history to the north in Lawrence and Lecompton but is nonetheless important. I've been in touch with other people who have been able to piece together more of the Miller family history and I feel that I am now in a position to start on the book and close the rest of the gaps that I have. Keep your eyes open for updates here and on Patreon.

A special thanks to all who read and support my writing and research. If you would like to contribute, consider becoming a patron on Patreon or buying me a cup of coffee on Ko-Fi.

Patreon ----> https://www.patreon.com/tauycreek

Ko-Fi -------> http://ko-fi.com/tauycreek

I find it hard to believe that Hurricane Hattie hasn't seen Brutus with beard stubble before. I mean, she's over at their house 7, 8 times a week and usually talking with Brutus. At least Brutus can tell Hattie as he is throwing her out of his house that because he's a guy "cursed with a five o'clock shadow" that explains why he has no hair on top of his head.

Yes, He's the Son of That Taft

The official portraits of former President Barack Obama and First Lady Michelle Obama were revealed earlier this week. Their uniqueness is what makes me really appreciate them more. The other official portraits are all roughly the same--the difference being President John F. Kennedy's which shows him with arms crossed and head looking down. These are difference mainly because they were painted by African American painters. Kehinde Wiley painted President Obama while Amy Sherald painted Mrs. Obama.

It will be fun to scroll through the other presidential portraits and come to this one and not seeing the man standing or sitting at a desk in an office or in front of a book case or even in front of American or military flags but in a lush green garden that almost makes the man a secondary object in his own portrait. As for Mrs. Obama's portrait, I can't find the words to describe the grace, dignity, and beauty of Mrs. Obama or that dress.

Thank you all the readers and supporters. Became a Patron here or you can buy me a cup of coffee.

The Taft-Hartley Act, actually the Labor Management Relations Act of 1947, was a bill written by Senator Robert Taft and Rep. Fred Hartley, Jr. It became a law despite President Truman's veto. The law, which is still in effect, was essentially written to strangle the power that unions had. It discouraged strikes, which surged after World War II ended, and prohibited radical leaders from controlling unions. The bill was heavily supported by business lobbyists and was a bipartisan bill which was how Congress was able to override Truman's veto. Efforts to make changes to the law during the Carter and Clinton administrations failed due to Republican opposition and lack of Democratic support.

I'm trying to make the effort of reading more this year. So far I think I'm doing pretty good. Don't think I'll read a book on the Taft-Hartley Act though, not because it sounds boring but because I don't think there's really a book about it. Although the damage it did to worker's right still resonates today.

Tauy Creek Digest #43: BTV

“Thank you for coming in Mrs. Griffin,” the principal said. Connie Griffin and Bobbo sat down in the chairs in front of Principal Lundgrens’ desk. “This isn’t an easy conversation to have and I hate having to do it but your son, Robert, isn’t going to pass his eighth grade year of middle school. You probably know this, Mrs. Griffin, but we have to go over the options with you on what steps you want to take with Robert.”

“This comes as a surprise to me,” Connie began. “I knew he wasn’t doing great this year but I didn’t know it was this bad.”

Bobbo was listening but looking out the window behind Principal Lundgren. He could see most of the parking lot but in his head was going through a scene from his imaginary television show he had been running for the last year. It was a daily soap opera-like show featuring little figurines of random pop culture characters he had accumulated through the years. He called it Globe and he kept track of the episodes in a daily planner after he had acted out the episode with the figures.

“Bobbo,” Connie exclaimed, snapping Bobbo out of his trance.

“Yeah?”

“Why did you do so badly this year?” she asked. He had always been so good in school. Sure, he had trouble with math but being good at everything else usually canceled that out. “And it’s not just math like it usually was but science, social studies, and English, three subjects you absolutely love. What happened?”

Bobbo shrugged. “I don’t know. I just…I was also doing other things.”

“What other things? Your main job is going to school and nothing should be more important than that.”

“Then when am I going to get any writing done?” Bobbo had started on a science novel back in fifth grade and he was still working on it. He figured that he was about halfway through it but he wasn’t sure. And that was aside from the fake television show and detailing “episodes” from he and his friends’ life into a kind of episode guide.

“I love that you want to be a writer and are really throwing yourself into that kind of work but you are fourteen. You are only in middle school. There will be plenty of time to write when you are older.”

“When? When I’m in college? When I’m working a job I don’t like to make money? When I’m taking care of a wife and three kids? When I retire? How about when I’m dead?” Bobbo argued.

“Bobbo,” Connie sighed and placed her hand on Bobbo’s knee. “We will talk about this when we get home. What are our options?” Connie turned to Principal Lundgren.

“Well, there are two options. One, Bobbo retakes eighth grade year. Two, we do a social promotion. He still graduates,” Principal Lundgren explained “he still crossed the stage and shakes hands but there won’t be anything in the envelope. Also, as long as he is in this district and, really, in this state, he has to pass the rest of his grades or he will be held back and forced to repeat them.”

The last four words bored into Bobbo’s heart and brain. The incidental music playing in his head stopped. He started thinking about what being held back—whether it’s his eighth grade year or his sophomore year—would mean to him. He’d become even more bored in class, probably lose what few friends he had. None of these options were ones he wanted but these were the ones presented to him.

“He should probably be held back. Better to do it now than when he’s in high school and the grades and effort actually matter,” Connie said.

“What? No, I don’t want to be held back,” Bobbo exclaimed. “It’s not fair.”

“How is it not fair? You didn’t do the work. You didn’t pass. You shouldn’t be rewarded for failing like this.”

“I’m not being rewarded. You know I’m smart. You know I can do this. You both know this. I’m having a bit of a struggle and the solution is to paint a big red A on my chest? Whether I’m held back or receive an empty envelope, it’s a huge punch in the gut,” he nervously laughed and tried to keep tears from falling from his eyes. “And…and what if I struggle in high school at some point and fail?”

“Bobbo…” Connie sighed again. “These are the rules, or the laws, or whatever. We have no control over them. It may not seem fair, it may not seem right but they are the only options.”

“Then I choose the empty envelope,” Bobbo said, crossing his arms.

Connie turned her body in the chair to face her son. “Bobbo, you have to do better next year.”

“I can. I will. I can handle work, school, and writing,” Bobbo said. He had applied to work at Greenbush College in the food service department. Several other teenagers were going to work there including his friends Brooke and Max. The job was supposed to start the Tuesday after Labor Day and Bobbo was excited to finally have his own money since his mom had never given him an allowance.

“I don’t think there will be any work in the near future,” Connie shook her head. “And writing should also be put on the back burner because school needs to be your only focus for the next year.

“But I want to keep this job. I’ve been excited for this job since I was in sixth grade,” Bobbo said. “I can do it. Give me a chance. I can do it,” he seemed to be almost hyperventilating.

Connie sighed again. Bobbo had never heard her sigh this much. “To keep the job you have to stay above a C, got it?” she said.

Bobbo nodded. “Yeah,” he gulped.

Brutus Has a Whole Shelf of Them But He's Still a Loser

Oh, we're still on this. And Veeblefester is trying to make Brutus do something that isn't in his job description. Two of my favorite things.

The Nerve of That Woman

It's like Lividea doesn't know her husband at all.

Or maybe she does and this is more of a Melania situation. "I hate this man so much and to tell him, I will get him this passive-aggressive gift instead of just leaving him like I should."

Tauy Creek Digest #2: Scavenger Hunt

"We just need three more things," Cam said as we drove through the city. We were doing a scavenger hunt sponsored by our public library. The hunt was based on a book so we had to find things from a list that was made from things mentioned in the book. There were only two teams competing, a boys team and a girls team, and we didn't know how well the girls' team was doing. We had driven all around the city finding obscure items, hidden names, and collecting pamphlets, pictures of random things, and checking off things we saw as we drove around.

"What's next?" Matt asked, driving.

"Uh," I looked at the list. "The character went to enlist in the Army. What are the hours of the recruitment center?"

"Where's the Army recruitment center?" Matt asked, slowing down.

"Down on Columbus Street, I think," Justin said.

"17th and Columbus," I said and Matt sped up, now knowing where he was supposed to go. "The next clue is what plant is featured at the Mary Bell bridge in Indigo Park?"

"Indigo Park. Now I know where that is," Matt said.

We swing into the parking lot where the Army recruitment center was located. Cam, who was in charge of taking pictures, got out of the car, quickly snapped a photo of the hours it was open and hopped back in. We then took off for Indigo Park. It was a huge park so we picked a parking lot and Cam and I jumped out and began running down a trail trying to find the Mary Bell bridge. We walked for just over half a mile when we found the bridge. It was surrounded by small violet flowers and a small plaque nearly hidden by them said that they were some variety of posy. We took a picture to remember the name and then ran back to the car.

We began pulling out of the parking lot, "What's the last thing?" Matt asked.

"The character knew the whereabouts of her father when they found his hand on the shore of a lake," I read.

"There's only one lake in the city," Matt said, and began heading in that direction. It didn't take long to get there and the girls' team arrived shortly after we did.

I hopped out of the car and began running toward to the lake. A girl from their car ran out and we both arrived at the lake at the same time. We stood at the shore and looked around. "What are we looking for?" I asked her.

"It said 'a hand' but I don't see anything," she answered.

"Is there anyone around from the library?"

"Maybe this is the item that determines the winner," she suggested.

"So you're saying that there may only be one hand and it just goes to whoever finds it first?"

"Yeah," she said.

"That doesn't seem right. Then what's the point of all the other stuff?"

"Maybe the hand is the most points or the tie-breaker. I don't know."

"There's got to be a pile of fake severed hands around here somewhere," I said and walked closer to the shore of the lake. "The hand in the book was found in the water. Maybe it's around the shore in the water."

I began looking around the water without actually stepping in it. Suddenly, the girl attacked me, knocking me into the water. Half my body was in the water, on my stomach. She sat on my back and took out a pocket knife from her jeans pocket. I tried to thrash and throw her off but she put all her weight on me and I was starting to take in water. She took my arm, pressed it down to the ground just out of the water nearly dislocating my shoulder.

She started carving at my wrist with her pocket knife, slicing open the skin, blood pouring out into the lake. I thrashed and kicked more, tried to scream but only loudly gurgled under the water. Finally, I passed out as she began trying to break the bones with a decent size rock nearby.

She ran back to the girls' team car with my wrist and happily got in.

"What the hell?" Cam asked. "She found a hand. Where's Mike?" Cam got out of the car and began walking toward the lake.

"Are you with the scavenger hunt?" someone called, walking up to him.

"Yeah," Cam said.

"Here you go," he handed Cam a fake severed hand. "I couldn't figure out where to set up. Was that the other team that just left?"

"Yeah," Cam said. "She was holding a hand though. Is there someone else handing out hands?"

"No, just me."

Cam took the hand and ran down to the lake. "Oh my God, Mike!" he screamed when he saw me laying lifeless halfway submerged in the lake, blood trailing from my body up to the hill before disappearing.

1239: I Always Thought Gladys Was the Reader In the Family

My wife and I are part of a book club. We joined it in an effort to make more friends. Mission accomplished but they aren't really friends we hang out with. My wife has her teacher friends to hang out with. I have...no. But I...not that one either. It seems that I have no friends. I'm sad now.

1218: A Four-Panel Daily Strip?!

As a parent, I've been subject to some pretty terrible children's books. They aren't terrible in the typical sense but just weird or have strange messages. Not having much money and relatives who seem to have a radar for finding odd things, the book "Good Night, Gear Bear" came into my, or should I say, my son's possession.

I know very little about Gear Bear and searching online for him only yields his books you can buy on Amazon. Gear Bear was created by Susan Baum and I'm not certain if the name is |Geer| Bear or |Gair| Bear. I'm assuming |Geer| because that's the standard pronunciation and it's a kid's book but maybe Susan Baum used the name to weed out true fans. "Ms. Baum, I love Gear Bear!" "It's |Gair| Bear you little dumbass. You don't deserve these books!"

Puppy Love? It's one of those books, is it? This would be a good time to teach
the children about proper ZzzQuil usage.

It's kind of cool that Gear Bear is able to bend the dimensions
of time and space. I can see every angle of that bed.

Gear Bear only reads books that are about him, I guess. That means Gear Bear
only has four books in his house.

Is Gear Bear a kid with mysteriously absent parents or an
adult similar to Steve or Joe in Blue's Clues? It doesn't matter, both
options are creepy.

Gear Bear has three bottles of chocolate milk in his fridge? At least it
looks like he buys farm fresh chocolate milk and juice.

Ugh, finally he's asleep. Maybe he should've tried getting a drink and
rocking in his chair before trying to sleep upside down...

So that's Gear Bear. It's not terrible but it's not exactly good either. I like the pictures and the text is quick and easy to read. It's actually the best children's book about a South Park Canadian bear that I have ever read.

I have no idea what is going on today. I guess Veeblefester is looking to Brutus for suggestions on who can run the place while Brutus believe Veeblefester will offer him the task. There is also the possibility that Veeblefester just suffered a mild stroke. Quick, Brutus, see if he can lift his arms or stick out his tongue.

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Losers Are Made, Not Born will return on Sunday with Sunday Comics. There will be updates to this site including two new Story Series: Incredible Comics on Wednesday and Randy on Saturday, a tryout for a new section called #ElevenSeasonsAndAMovie about the television show The Simpsons and a new 16th & Massachusetts on Friday.

Gone Girl

The last time a book really pulled me into its world and had me wanting to turn each and every page as quickly as possible was "Looking For Alaska" by John Green which I read in 2012. Before that, "Drood" by Dan Simmons which I read in 2009. It's not very often that a book does that. I can be entertained by reading without having to be completely immersed in the world the author has created and in love with every character. In fact, the most recent book that did this, doesn't even have likable characters, let alone lovable ones.

"Gone Girl" by Gillian Flynn is the story of Nick and Amy Dunne, a married couple who have hit a rough patch in not only their marriage but life as well. Nick and Amy are about to celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary when Amy goes missing. As per usual, Nick is considered the prime suspect even though he didn't do anything but the fact that he's a less than perfect husband begins catching up with him.

It's honestly really hard to talk about this book without giving any of it away but after Amy vanishes, the reader quickly learns what actually happened. What really bothered me about the book is with the exception of a couple people, all the blame is placed on Nick which makes sense up to a point but one would think that after awhile the police would realize that Nick isn't really acting like someone who just disposed of his wife and they would start looking for new leads. But the lead investigators are from the small town of fictional North Carthage, Missouri along the Mississippi (not to be confused with the real Carthage, Missouri near Joplin) so their investigative skills are more than likely very lacking.

The best part is that Amy is treated just as badly as Nick sooner or later but there's no happy ending for this story. If anything, the story of these two people just wind up getting sadder. It's a wonderful, perverse look into the lives of two psychopaths. As much as you want to hate it, you can't help but getting sucked in.

I also recommend reading "Gone Girl" before the movie comes out. The movie, starring Ben Affleck, Rosamund Pike and Neil Patrick Harris, will be out October 2014 and was recently showcased in a creepily-cool Entertainment Weekly cover.

Until next time, I remain...

~Brian