Guinness World Records 2015 - Shuck and Awe

Now looking more like "Ripley's Believe it Or Not," the new Guinness Worlds Record 2015 edition is loaded with eye-catching color photos and a lot of dubious achievements. In dozens of categories, you can find yourself entertained, amused, and asking yourself, "Why would I care?"

For instance, in the baseball section you'll find "Youngest player to hit 30 home runs and steal 30 bases in a season." In basketball: "Most consecutive games scoring a three-pointer." And in cycling, "Oldest Olympic road cycling gold medalist." In case you really wanted to know.

More disturbing is the competitive food section, where a variety of utter idiots engage in trivial pursuits. Gee, Michael Jenkins drink a litre of lemon juice in under 60 seconds. Ozgur Tuna (the name is more amusing than his achievement) "held 110 eggs in a basket" on a roller coaster. Another clown ate 16 cream-filled sponge cakes in one minute. In the latter case, we're not told how big these cakes were, if they were regulation Twinkies, or who decided the number should be 16, and why one minute should be the limit when, just below it, a record for hamburgers eaten (no size indicated) had to be within three minutes.

I know, this is supposed to be a browsable book of fun and amazement, and to some degree it still is. It's just that the older editions concentrated on things most of us actually cared about or were curious about, including various categories for the biggest, the smallest, or the most expensive. At one time, (the 1999 edition) a caveat for the competitive eating section declared, "The following gluttony records are historical and should not be attempted today." It almost seemed they were going to discontinue "records" that involved stupidity.

Instead, we get to see Mr. Michael Jenkins bugging his eyes and sucking a straw and holding up lemons. He's proud to be in a book that doesn't distinguish between true achievements and the pointless abuse of food resources and the encouragement of potential physical illness and death.

It's also a bit ridiculous that "world records" can be bought. For example, Davide Andreani of Italy owns "10,558 unique single brand cans" of soft drinks, and two full pages are devoted to showing all of them lining the walls of his...what, mental ward?

Seeing photos of pop-eyed lemon juice drinkers, and grubby soda can collectors just isn't my idea of a good time.

Do we need to encourage idiots to break the record for the longest black pudding (576 feet)? Or, unable to get the ingredients, try for the world's longest matzoh or breadstick? Now that we have eBooks, will Guinness have no limits on the number of individual foodstuffs they'll "recognize?"

Anyone want to break the record for "Most mentions of a brand name on Twitter in 24 hours"? That honor currently belongs to something called Pocky, which was mentioned 3,710,044 times on November 11, 2013.

Naturally the book section was an area to browse, but here, many listings weren't necessarily "world records" as much as facts. "Self-published author John Locke has sold more than 2 million Kindle-formatted eBooks...by 6 Jul 2010, james Patterson had exceeded sales of one million eBooks...the term "graphic novel" first appeared in 1976 on the dust jacket of "Bloodstar"...a total of 325 pen names were listed for humorist Konstantin Arsenievich Mikhailov in the 1960 Dictionary Of Pseudonyms."

Precision is not necessary for a World Record. "Even without exact sales numbers," we're told, "there is little doubt that the Bible is the world's best-selling and most widely distributed book..." Perhaps some irate Muslims would insist it's the Koran? At least it's not, God help us, the Guinness World Records book.

Measure of a Man: Auschwitz to the White House by Martin Greenfield

There can never be too many books about the holocaust.

Each one is a document and a testament, and another (to use anti-semite Roger Waters' term) "brick in the wall" to block out the deniers.

Documenting atrocities isn't the point of these books. It's the survival. It's the morality.

This is very well illustrated in one story Martin Greenfield tells. Martin who?

Greenfield's enough of a celebrity to get a book deal, that's who. Born in Pavlovo (once part of Czechoslovakia, now part of the Ukraine), he was 19 when he came to Brooklyn, having survived Auschwitz and Buchenwald (unlike the rest of his family). A master tailor, he would not only dress up President Eisenhower (whom he'd originally met during the liberation), but other politicians and celebrities including Bill Clinton, Gerald Ford, Patrick Ewing, Mayor Michael Bloomberg and others. His vintage designs were also used in the HBO series "Boardwalk Empire."

Naturally the most gripping part of the book involves his teen years imprisoned by the Nazis. He was not exactly wearing the heigh of couture when he was 16 and a prisoner in Buchenwald. Assigned to a work detail outside Weimar, the brutal hard work was sometimes rewarded when he could find a potato or some other edible in a field, or some discarded item he might bring back to the camp and trade for food. Repairing a building, he wandered into the cellar where he found a cage that contained some pet rabbits:

"Inside the cage were the remains of the rabbits’ dinner. I unlatched the cage and pulled out a wilted leaf and carrot nub. The lettuce was browning and slimy, the carrot still moist from the rabbits’ gnawing. Excited, I wolfed down the lettuce and tried to crack the chunk of carrot in half with my teeth. My luck was short-lived. “What are you doing?” a voice yelled."

An irate blonde, who turned out to be the mayor's wife, quickly summoned an SS soldier to punish the prisoner:

"'Down on the ground, you dog! Fast!' yelled the German. He gripped his baton and bludgeoned my back. I do not know whether the mayor’s wife watched the beating. Given her cruelty, why would she want to miss it? On the hike back to Buchenwald, I replayed the scene over and over in my mind. How could a woman carrying her own child find a walking skeleton...and have him beaten for nibbling on rotten animal food? I thought...Then and there I made a vow to myself: If I survived Buchenwald, I would return and kill the mayor’s wife."

When Buchenwald was liberated, Greenfield made his way back to the home of the mayor.

"“Remember me?!” I yelled. “Do you?!” Her blond tresses shook violently. She hid her face behind her upraised hand as if shielding herself from the sun. “You had me beaten because of the rabbits. I’m here to shoot you!” I said, sounding like an SS. “No! Please!” she quavered. “The baby, please!” I aimed the machine gun at her chest. The baby wailed. My finger hovered above the trigger."

I think the reader knows the end of this anecdote. These days, it says a lot about the Jewish concepts of mercy, compared to, say, the beheadings and beatings that are such a part of "radical" Islam.

"Never again" is a slogan that must be affirmed, and anecdotes such as Greenfield's tell us why...because we can't forget that basic goodness is foremost in our hearts. One must never forget that it takes two words, combined, to create "mankind."

The Lives of CHANG and ENG : Siam's Twins (Siamese Twins)

Looking for a freak show? This isn't it. As you might tell from the publisher (University of North Carolina) and the corrected subtitle ("Siam's Twins" not "Siamese twins"), Joseph Andrew Orser's book is a serious undertaking.

It has to be; there's usually no intimate revelations from hidden diaries or outrageously erotic love-letters when it comes to famous figures of the 18th or 19th century. A letter to the wife of Chang or Eng asking for "how is it done...does the brother close his eyes...") would not likely get a detailed reply.

Instead, author Orser fills his 280 pages with rich detail on the obvious (the origins of Chang and Eng and the sideshow career that gave them the money to settle down and raise families) and the uproar (just how do freaks from Siam fit into white rural North Carolina?)

Most books on sideshows, freaks, or "very special people" simply devote a few pages to a photo of the twins and the amusing details of births (between them, they had 21 children) and death ("Then I am going," Eng logically said, after his brother's heart stopped beating).

Orser's book studies the sociology of the times. When Adelaide and Sarah Yates married Chang and Eng in 1843, the girls' neighbors "threatened to burn down [their father's] crops if he did not promise to control his daughters." Cries of bestiality went up, and the town was labeled "a community sunk below the very Sodomites in lasciviousness." It was well enough for people to gawk at the twins up on a stage as freaks of nature...but the idea that they could marry...raise families...come and live among ordinary people? They were, after all, "monsters!"

Much of what went on inside the households remains private, although we do know some of the logistics, for example, that Chang and Eng alternated and stayed with one wife and family for half the week, and then the other wife and family. There are also some details on the nature of their physical connection (and how if Chang was tickled, Eng would also react). The fascination here is how the strangest couple of all time, from the other side of the world, came to adjust to North Carolina living. Freaks? Well, they considered themselves higher up the social ladder than that, and even owned slaves.

In handling the story of the twins, Orser strikes a necessary balance between the curiosity factor of their physical existence and the reality of their daily lives in North Carolina.

New BOB HOPE bio: Thanks for the Re-Hash of the Memories

"Hope: Entertainer of the Century" has arrived...but the question is this: does anyone still care about the memories?

Apparently on a slow news day, the N.Y. Post does. It's almost quaint that in this era of Miley Cyrus and Kim Kardashian, viral leaks of dirty movie star photos and the sordid world of reality shows...there's this headline:

"Bob Hope, sex machine, 'often cheated' during his 69-year marriage."

This is news? We're 14 years into the 21st Century, most people barely know the man who died in 2003, and his better films are from the 30's and 40's, which are in black and white and therefore unwatched by anyone under 50.

The Post breathlessly offers a quote in the book from Sherwood Schwartz (yes, the "Gilligan's Island" producer) saying of Hope, "We'd go to a hotel, I swear to you, outside his room were three, four, five young, beautiful girls waiting to be picked by him to come in...He was a star enjoying his stardom."

Let me now quote from page 170 of "The Secret Life of Bob Hope," written by Arthur Marx and published in 1993:

"'I remember,' says Sherwood Schwartz, 'there were always five or six pretty young girls hanging around in the corridors outside Hope's room - sort of like today's groupies. Since I was a virgin, I was pretty envious of all the action he seemed to be getting.'"

Yes, over 20 years ago, a book was published detailing Hope's well-known wolfish behavior. In Marx's book, Hope was not only open about all this, but comical, too. That same page, 170, has an anecdote from Gene Lester, a photographer. Gene was covering a celebrity junket and "While we were playing Dallas, Hope had two girls flown in from Houston...these two good-looking young chicks arrived." Hope dead-panned: "These are my cousins from Houston."

In 1993, Bob Hope was not welcome as a TV talk show guest. Johnny Carson had already retired. The best Hope could do was get some tribute or other for his movie work, with Woody Allen telling the world how good those films were. It was the small, maverick Barricade book publisher (run by the legendary Lyle Stuart) that offered Marx's bio of Hope. One of the vague selling points, beside the usual list of Hope conquests, and a very strong helping of Bob's ad-libs and comedy, was that Arthur dug up the marriage license for Bob and his vaudeville partner Grace Troxell. In case anyone cared. Yeah, Bob married someone, briefly, before Dolores.

The application for the marriage license is printed, in full, in the photo section that begins after page 160. The NY Post in reviewing this new tome:

"...Hope's 1933-34 marriage to former vaudeville partner Grace Troxell, which Hope's publicists denied ever took place...was revealed in a 1993 biography." Yes, by Arthur Marx. Which you can buy on Ebay or Amazon for a fraction of what the Richard Zoglin book is selling for.

Another "blockbuster" bit of news in this new book? "No marriage license for Bob and Dolores Hope has ever turned up.The lack of any record of the Hopes' marriage (not even a wedding photo) led some Hope family members to speculate over the years that a wedding may never have taken place."

Oooh. How exciting. We're supposed to be shocked or excited by something that happened about 80 years ago? And that was already mentioned in the Arthur Marx biography:

"There no record of the Hopes getting married." Marx did add that "there's no denying that Hope and Dolores are actually married. And if they're not they've been getting away with murder on their joint tax returns for years."

I recall speaking with Marc Eliot, who knew Phil Ochs and was able gather enough of Phil's "small circle of friends" to write a very vivid bio of him. He then parlayed this into some kind of career as a celebrity biographer. I asked him why, after there had been so many bios already, he had just knocked off a new one on Cary Grant. The answer was pretty much...it was something to do. The older ones were out of print.

So it is, that there have been film buffs, fan boys and publish-or-perish college professors, who scan a list of celebrities and biographies and see if they can come up with a match. As in: oh, it's been a while since a W.C. Fields book came out, or Groucho, or...Bob Hope? Unfortunately in most cases, these new bios don't have exceptional new information to offer, and there are no "juicy" anecdotes because everybody who knew the dead star is either also dead or quite senile. Who, in Bob Hope's inner circle, is still alive and was hanging around the bedroom door when he had an affair with Barbara Payton? A paragraph about this is supposed to interest people who aren't even re-playing the Tommy Lee and Pam Anderson video?

Next up from Richard Zoglin? Maybe an expose of how nasty Arthur Godfrey was? No...a little too obscure. How about how nasty Bing Crosby was? Some people might've forgotten about Gary Crosby's book, or Zog can convince a publisher that old people go to bookstores beause they don't know how to buy a used copy of a better bio on Amazon. But I wanna tell ya...

AMY YEN - A Simple Feast - The Jewels of New York

It was nice meeting the amiable Amy Yen, the author of a tempting new cookbook, "A Simple Feast." Just how simple the recipes are, depends on you, of course. To make root vegetable chips, "using a mandolin set to 1/8 inch, slice the vegetables into thin rounds. Place the vegetables in a colander and gently rinse them of excess starch, then thoroughly pat dry. Pour peanut oil into a medium saucepan to about 3 inches deep. Heat the oil over medium-high heat..."

So right there, this assumes you know what a mandolin is (at least, one you use in a kitchen), and that you regularly use a colander. In this age of "15 minute meals" and "quick and easy" recipes, this might be asking too much of some folks. Likewise, you're not a gourmet, or you're just don't have a lot of time, if "Roasted Tomato and Garlic Soup" means...you just open a can of tomato soup and toss in a clove of roasted and diced garlic. As opposed to heating the oven and using a baking sheet to roast the tomatoes with olive oil until carmelized, and getting out fresh basil leaves, freshly ground black pepper, diced onions, vegetable stock and unsalted better.

Which led me to ask Amy a question I asked Craig Claiborne years ago, when I did a cover story on him. Is it ok to substitute ingredients? Or is it an insult to the chef? Amy, like Craig, felt it was ok: "Yeah, I think you can swap out whatever you have in your pantry. A lot of the recipes are very simple. You can cross things out and work with what you have."

Sometimes Amy offers substitutes in the recipes. In making "Turkish Style Eggs with Yogurt" she champions powdered drupes (fruit of the sumac tree) but if you can't find the esoteric item "finely grated lemon can be substituted').

The book has a loose theme to it...New York and its seasons. A few pages describe apple-picking in upstate New York. A chapter is devoted to "rooftop barbecue" suggestions, another features "brown bag lunch" items, and there's a chapter for picnics in "Central Park." The set-ups aren't much. For "Central Park," Amy's one page preamble to recipes lets us know that the park is fun for "people watching, nibbling and reading." Yes, so I've heard. She dubiously finds pleasure in watching "rollerblading...moms and nannies in Spandex...the faint rhythm of a trumpet player playing a melody of Frank Sinatra..." If it's a good day, maybe you can avoid obnoxious noises, rude people, dogs off leashes, or a drug dealer who wandered away from "Strawberry Fields" to avoid a passing patrol of cops. New Yorkers are a savvy bunch, so I don't think we needed the line about "sandwiches are another wonderful addition to the menu that requires only a few components and some good packaging."

Fortunately the recipes are original and intriguing, and the preparation will keep you busy but not too harried and nothing takes too long. The ideas include: Roasted Turkey, Manchego and Fig and Onion Jam Sandwiches, Mini Pea, Mint and Feta Quiches, Seared Scallops and Chanterelle Pasta, Pomegranate Poached Figs,Arugula, Lentil and Butternut Squash Salad, and Double Grilled Cheese and Ham Sandwiches. The latter isn't as simple as it might seem. Asks Amy, "why not put the cheese in a grilled cheese on the outside of the bread?"

There are some familiar items here, but done in new ways. "Mac and Cheese" becomes a casserole that includes panko (Japanese breadcrumbs) for a crust, and the textures and tangs of of grated nutmeg, grated Gruyere, and parmesan (no cheddar here!)

Thought cherry cola was a simple enough drink? Amy's version involves zest of lemon, oranges, limes, nutmeg, a cinnamon stick, anis pod, lavender leaves, and ginger...among other things.

The book is pretty hefty on desserts: Gingered Rhubarb and Mascarpone Parfait, Mini Strawberry Cakes, Raspberry Eton Mess (yes, that's not a typo), cocktail ice pops and pecan pie with salted maple ice cream. This brought up another question...how is it that some exotic desserts have fallen completely out of favor, and aren't even in recipe books? Like...Nesselrode pie. Amy gave me a perplexed look. "What??" "It's a creme pie...with marrons, bits of dried fruit and flecks of dark chocolate...named after Count Nesselrode...and..." Never even heard of it? Oh well.

There are definitely items here you either haven't heard of, or didn't think were worth your time. Hominy? Lowly hominy? It's back for a few pages, via "Fried Hominy with chile and lime." Yes, all you need is a can of hominy to start you off. Add paprika, cumin, lime zest...you'll see. You'll taste. You'll like. 269 pages, pleasantly low on meat/chicken entrees, and with a good amount of fish and veggies, the book is themed for New York (apples figure into a lot of Fall recipes, for example). It should be on the shelf of kitchens all over the country...and around the world. The hardcover is from Roost Books, a division of Shambhala.

Turley Richards - Blindsighted - The Hard Luck of The Greatest Singer You Never Heard

Throughout the years when he was on major labels...Kapp, Columbia, Atlantic, Warner Bros...the industry buzz was that West Virginia's good-looking 6'4" Turley Richards had the most amazing voice and was destined for superstardom.

His brightest hopes came in 1969 just when his fragile eyesight dimmed into permanent blindness. That was when a perfect storm of gospel, folk and rock fused with superb post-production (organ and strings) to create: "I Heard the Voice of Jesus."

Al Kooper was one of many rockers who praised it, and asked radio stations to play it. He says it's "the greatest vocal performance I have ever heard in my life." I'd have to agree. I had a radio show at the time, and I played it. I can't think of a track that's more breathtaking, amazing and inspiring than this one. Even if you're not Christian (and I'm not), it will bring the goosebumps and raise your spirit. It will stay with you and comfort you, too.

Why wasn't it a hit? Well...it was seven minutes. The album it was on arrived long after Turley's single, a cover of Dylan's "Love Minus Zero (No Limit)" drifted out of Billboard's Top 100. Turley recorded a second Warners album with no luck, latched onto another label...but it was just more ups and downs, hopes and frustration. Which song or style would vault him to fame...gospel, R&B, folk, rock? He tried. He tried. Depressing?

What makes this slim (162 page) book more inspiring and entertaining than depressing, is that it's loaded with stories and observations beyond what you'd expect. What you'd expect, of course, is a lot of grousing and bitterness, or Christian faith homilies infusing every page, or advice on how to deal with the adversity of blindness and finding a lot of positives about it all. No, there's very little of that in here. And if you're expecting a self-published book badly written, rest easy. Aside from an occasional name not quite right (It's Shelley Berman, not Burman) you won't be distracted by typos.

What you'll find in "Blindsighted," is a definitive depiction of what so many artists have gone through on their way to the bargain bin. Turley's book offers a primer on how difficult the entertainment world is, how capricious managers and "friends" can be, and all the complexities behind the simplicity of recording and touring. Check your record collection. Does it include albums you love and others never heard of? Then read this book by someone you never heard of.

Another reason to read it, is that it's funny and often startling. Sex and violence? It manages to get in here. This fellow was always a wiseguy, always headstrong. He had a part-time job where a guy pulled a knife on him. Another time, shots were fired at him from the stage. He could use his fists when he needed to, and also his wits...not everybody could share the stage with Richard Pryor and get off a comeback that would have the comedian shaking and laughing.

Born Richard Turley, the mischief-loving kid was literally pierced with fate's arrow before he was five. He was playing a bow-and-arrow game with his friends, including a 12-year-old, when an accident cost him sight in one eye. Fate wasn't done. Without a competent specialist to take the right action (which would've been removal of the eye...as was done with Peter Falk who lost an eye to disease) the eye remained, became infected, and ultimately spread the damage to his remaining eye. While he withstood many gruesome procedures, and managed enough sight to play sports and know a hot-looking babe when he saw one, eventually his luck ran out and he was told that blindness would be inevitable.

He made a rush to stardom while he could...signing with a local label (Fraternity) and getting up to the majors with a few singles (notably on Kapp). There were times when he gave up and went home, only to fight again thanks to his mother's encouragement. There were times when he had unlikely help thanks to his good looks. Making the "Midnight Cowboy" fantasy real, Turley found himself "kept" by many a New York City socialite (or two), and was able to gig and hang with the hot new stars of the day (including Jimi Hendrix and Richard Pryor) while living rent-free. Possessing a stubborn streak (he turned down or walked out of almost as many good deals as his managers screwed up), Turley still was prone to find himself broke. At one point he was sleeping in Central Park. At another, he rather hilariously and ingeniously was fitted with a Lone Ranger mask (and costume) so that he could make some fast cash in porn. The costume came off, but not the mask. The idea was that when he made it big, he'd never have to worry about the old loops coming back to haunt him.

As you know by now, he never did make it big. He was asked to be a regular on "The Merv Griffin Show," and his manager turned it down. As previously mentioned, Turley's Top 100 single for Warners didn't get an instant follow-up or the simultaneous release of an album. (The 45 is pictured above left...the photo is taken from his sighted side...before that eye would have to be replaced by glass).

He recorded an album for Epic but they didn't like the finished product. He had another deal, but refused because he was loyal to a producer he thought could do a better job than the one the label was providing. Mick Fleetwood was going to be helpful...but was a no-show. And on it went. It's only within the last 20 pages of the book that we get around to what, exactly, he's been doing for a living over the past few decades...a time when older artists, sighted or not, can't get record deals or put together big tours.

"I've often said that I am not a "good" blind person," Richards says. "As an artist, I had always made enough money to pay other people to do things for me, such as driving, housekeeping and grocery shopping. I never learned braille, and I didn't want to use a guide dog. Even today, I only use a cane if it is absolutely neessary...in early 1986 I reluctantly signedup at the Kentucky Department for the Blind Rehabilitation Center. The center taught me...daily living skills, and basic kitchen abilities...and how to use the computer...."

Turley's a successful teacher...offering lessons in songwriting and singing. Always able to attract the ladies, he's been through some divorces, amicable however, and has someone new in his life who helped him with the book project and supervises his Facebook page. It was from that page and his website that I learned of his book and...unusual for most reviewers...bought a copy. Listen...literally...the book comes with a bonus CD featuring several of his favorite recordings over the years. The closer is "I heard the Voice of Jesus," recorded 35 years ago. It was originally recorded with just Turley and his guitar. But, as Phil Ochs, Leonard Cohen and others have found, sometimes the right production can make for a masterpiece, and the arrangement here is perfect...the added instrumentation inspiring, not jarring.

Turley always felt his gift was in R&B. Often in his early work, he was mistaken for a black artist. Once, a single of his disappeared off the R&B charts because in reverse-racism, a photo of his white face appeared in a trade magazine, turning off black disc jockeys. "I Heard the Voice of Jesus" is the perfect meld of R&B, gospel, folk, soul and rock...as is fitting for a guy with a five octave range.

Want to hear the song? You'll find it on Google's YouTube, where copyright infringement is a way of life. But for a perfect version on CD, plus more songs, plus the fascinating story of his life...the book/music package is $20 including shipping and available at turleyrichards.com.

Billy Joel - From Autobiography to Biography

When I interviewed Billy Joel, back during his tour with "The Stranger" album, I found him honest and interesting. He told me he was just an "ordinary schlump from Long Island. I wake up with crud on my teeth like everybody else." When I mentioned some of the poetic lines in his lyrics, he quickly shook his head: "I wouldn't call myself a poet." He was as down to Earth as a rock star could be.

What followed after "The Stranger" was a leap into superstardom (his marriage to Christie Brinkley) and then the seemingly inevitable star-fall: the fascinating, frustrating years when he retired and seemed to do nothing but drink and get into car accidents. 9/11 saw him return to live audiences at charity events with songs uplifting his beloved New York. The climb back continued thanks to hit tours with Elton John and a public that still wanted to hear his enduring songs...now filling up Madison Square Garden once a month for the privilege.

Six years ago, HarperCollins was willing to toss a million dollars at him for an autobiography. "The Book of Joel" was heading toward completion when he backed out. Several things were going wrong in his life: another divorce, the death of his father, and a bunch of physical aggravations and health issues. One thing about writing an autobiography...it's a "jinx" that indicates there's nothing left of your career. Another, is that you're responsible for every word...first person singular. The manuscript was shelved, with ghostwriter Fred Schruers ready to move on to other things. But two years ago, he met with Joel, and they decided to re-tool the book from autobiography to biography. The result is satisfying to them...and it will be more than satisfying to all of Billy's fans.

Billy's fans tend to believe that his music is closer to his idol and influence Paul McCartney, and not the kitsch and cringe of, oh, Jimmy Buffett, Neil Diamond, or others that critics have disliked for filling arenas with feel-good ballads and easy rock. While it might've been unseemly and even egotistic for Billy to discuss his songs in the first person, here, they are analyzed in the course of biography...and their worth, lyrical and musical skill given proper due.

Billy's fans may be familiar with some infamous anecdotes of his high times and low moments, but the official versions here separate fact from legend, even if they sometimes take a jokey tone. Yes, he did try to kill himself in 1970, wracked by misery and a failed relationship: "The bleach didn't look too palatable, so I drank the Old English Scratch Cover. I ended up sitting there, polishing my mother's furniture by farting a lot."

Those looking for more information on the music will find plenty of interesting trivia bits. One of his songs, "We Didn't Start the Fire," was inspired by...Sean Lennon. The kid wasn't too big on history: "You grew up in the fifties when nothing happened." Billy's response was "Are you kidding me?" Followed by jotting down all the awesome events and people that helped shape and mis-shape the world.

Being the ordinary kid from Long Island...some of his stories take on a "wow, I can't believe this" tone. This is especially true of his ability to score with superstar models. He didn't consider himself particularly good looking (neither do most of his sober fans) but his soulful eyes and pugnacious (he was a boxer for a while) rough looks did get him into rarified company. Elle Macpherson and Christie Brinkley both wanted to get their hands on him, exclusively. When they almost squared off (Brinkley escorted by Joel to his apartment...Macpherson already there), Billy was delighted: "Part of me thought, 'Oh god.' Another part of me was going, 'Holy crap, kif my friends could see me now!'"

You can see him now...not Billy Joel the autobiographer, but via this authorized biography. If you agree with me, that Billy Joel is comfortably on the platform with Dylan and McCartney...you'll be glad to get a copy of this one, which lives up to the title. It's as "definitive" as it gets.

NRA Fans Roast Gov. Cuomo Book Through Negative Reviews

Politics makes for strange book-selling. The NY Times and other newspapers gleefully reported that Gov. Andrew Cuomo's memoir failed to attract a big crowd to Barnes & Noble for a signing.

Photos showed Cuomo sitting behind a desk, embarrassed at the paltry lines. Other photos showed the empty seats...which are usually packed for even minor celebrities and pop stars.

The N.Y. Daily News reported that Strand, conveniently located within walking distance of the flashy Barnes & Noble where Cuomo signed, was trying to unload copies under the heading: "BEST GIFT FOR THE PERSON YOU LOVE TO HATE." The Daily News neglected to mention that Strand traffics in review copies and most likely paid a few dollars for their stack of Cuomo books. Odds are they were motivated by, well, getting The Daily News to give them a plug, not by any real angst over unloading books. After all, real bookstores have the option of returning unsold copies.

Cuomo, who will easily cruise to re-election, is a fairly dull guy. His speaking voice has the nag of Al Pacino in "Dog Day Afternoon" but none of the charisma. Most think he's doing a good job. So why the hatred?

Mr. Cuomo supports gun laws.

This seems to explain the rather astonishing ratio of one-star reviews on Amazon to five star. Celeste Katz of The Daily News offered a photo of a protest that included photos of Cuomo doctored to look like Hitler. "Cuomo is a Tyrant," the protests claimed...because he doesn't want every idiot in New York blasting away with a rifle. Perhaps Cuomo's Albany office was too close to the nutjob who began firing at all his neighbors? You could look it up...but there are so many examples of "nutjob who began firing at all his neighbors" you might not find the one closest to Albany.

While it's fairly easy to get a gun in New York State, the NRA crowd don't think so, and are paranoid that it might become harder in the future. So, Ms. Katz reports, Cuomo's book has gotten 550 one-star reviews "to just 24 five-star salutes. The rage reviews appear spurred by commenters enthusiastically heeding encouragement on social media and Second Amendment sites to trash it and its author."

Gov. Cuomo's case is extreme, but it highlights a fact at Amazon...which is that "reviews" can be manipulated. A bunch of jerks who normally use the site to buy sex toys and underwear, can torpedo a book with lopsided reviews without actually buying it on Amazon, or buying it at all.

Unless people have a favorite book reviewer, or a favorite newspaper that actually runs reviews, they are more likely to instantly check Amazon for the price and the reviews. In the case of Cuomo's book, it would lead to NO SALE.

The sad truth is most books by politicians are dull and self-serving. They are written as policy statements, or "official" tomes that can be pointed to in lieu of debate or interview: "It's in my book...go read my book." That Cuomo's autograph on a book didn't excite anyone, indicates that he has a long way to go before seeming to be a viable Presidential candidate in 2016. If he does get taken seriously by then, and runs, and actually wins...well...the few autographed copies of Cuomo's book will be worth a lot of money.

The Mother Court by James D. Zirin

"The Mother Court" is where some of the nation's greatest trials took place. Linda Fairstein's glib praise-blurb on the back of this book ends with: "It would be criminal not to read this book." In a way, she's right, because aside from dusty (anyone want to pay for Alger Hiss information when it's on Wikipedia) cases, and the lack of juicy murder stories, there's some very interesting chapters on the mechanics of the criminal justice system. This includes how a lawyer chooses a jury, and "the lost art of cross-examintion"

The book probably will be best appreciated by those interested in becoming a lawyer, or those who already work in the legal system...people who can appreciate the technical jargon that is sometimes part of this raconteur's stories. Most involve famous cases, but also some lesser known lawyers and judges who hopped up and down the building steps at the US District Court for the Southern District of New York.

I confess (not words you normally here in a courtroom) to have not hopped those steps very often. I think I was there as a photographer during the Woody Allen v Mia Farrow matter. My own encounter with the well-remembered Judge Sweet, was when I was called to jury duty and facing the prospect of a several months of Mafia testimony. Usually writers don't get picked...lawyers figure it's easier to sway a housewife or a plumber. But somehow we reached the end of the process and I was one of the 12 facing an interminable sentence. A few days...ok. But months? And months? A very heavy toll for a freelancer to bear. Blind Justice herself didn't seem to care about how much money I'd be losing during the projected months of delays, or snore-inducing testimony about tax receipts. Judge Sweet routinely declared that if anybody had anything further to say, better say it now.

And so I raised my hand and said, "I believe that most lawyers are just as guilty as the criminals."

This got me excused.

My story is not in this book of course, but for fans of high-profile and important cases held before Judge Sweet, Judge Friendly, and other less-amusingly named judges, James D. Zirin offers his interpretations, and very often first-hand recollections. While Fairstein calls his writing style "informative, riveting, accessible and uplifting," the fact remains, he's a lawyer first, and the point is to be fair and balanced and not lurid. This might not appeal to the casual reader or "Perry Mason" fan, who might expect, at the very least, some juicy put-downs of Roy Cohn complete with vengeful snark about the man's hypocrisy. This includes his open hatred and put-downs of gays, despite (as someone else put it in some other publication) his sexual interest in being "...the biggest catcher since Yogi Berra."

Zirin's more tasteful remark: "Roy Cohn died of complications from AIDS a month after his disbarment, lying to the end about the nature of his ailment and the high-risk behavior that had brought it about." In a footnote, he mentions that those who want to know more about his "deeply closeted homosexuality" should read Tony Kushner's play "Angels in America."

Zirin's take on the professional Cohn:

"Roy could get away with anything — at least for a while, until things caught up with him. His glibness was amazing. I once saw him argue an appeal in a New York appellate court. The presiding justice opened the proceeding in a way that seemed quite ominous for Cohn. "Mr. Cohn, in your brief at page 31, you cite the case of Jones v Smith. My law clerks and I have searched the authorities for Jones v. Smith, and we can find no report of the case wehre you cite it — indeed no report of it anywhere. Are you sure that this case exists?"

Without blinking an eye, Cohn responded, "I'll have a letter on your Honor's desk at 10 tomorrow morning."

Zirin blithely wanders through the Linda Lovelace "Deep Throat" case and Mayor Giuliani's spirited attack on the "obscenity" of an oil and elephant dung painting at a local museum, without once cracking a joke or pun. He ends that chapter by noting:

"Outside of child pornography, which is properly viewed as criminal, there is now little legal activity in the field of art censorship....Contemporary community standards of what is obscene have become porous, perhaps because of the Internet. Indeed, the Internet, where pornography is freely available with epithetic descriptions and explicitly graphic videos, has made censorship virtually impossible.Only its dull repetitiveness and superfluous specificity differentiates pornography from the irrelevant sex scene of the modern cinema. What once was X has become R; Rhas become PG-13; the really dirty films have become NR- not even rated at all. We now have a new normal."

Aside from chapters on sex, and on Roy Cohn (but not on both at the same time), there's "U.S. v Official Corruption," organized crime, libel cases, "Some of My Favorite Judges," "The Red Scare" (including Alger Hiss) and of course his mentor Bob Morgenthau, who wrote the book's foreword. Most of this is handled as a law professor might; with enthusiasm for the subject at hand, and less interest in being entertaining about it. After all, it's history. Zirin is more amusing when it comes to choosing some of the cases he was personally involved in, and most certainly in getting the last laugh on some of the judges he found frustrating, if not weird.

"One of the weirdest judges I knew was Irving Ben Cooper. Like the fictional Captain Queeg in Wouke='s "The Cain Mutiny, he was a Freudian delight..."

"...In one robing room conference I attended during a trial, he whirled on a junior lawyer: "Ive noticed you out there smirking at me. You don't understand. I'm here for life. The trouble with you...is that you think the judge is a schmuck."

It's those little moments of anecdotal chicken fat that lubricate this tome and keep it from being totally dry.

VALOR - MARK LEE GREENBLATT - true stories of bravery and courage

The bland title "VALOR" could be overlooked by the casual bookstore browser, but pick up the book and it'll be hard to put down.

File it in the category of "Profiles in Courage," where you go for an hour or two of breathtaking adventure and the even more satisfying feeling of inspiration.

Back when President Kennedy's "Profiles in Courage" came out, war was still glorified, and "two-fisted action" magazines with titles ranging from "True" to "Saga" enjoyed prime space on a newsstand. In a way, the writing style here harks back to that era. Here's a bit of Chris Choay's battlefield drama:

"Choay continued to creep up on the enemy. He finally got within sixty-five feet of the insurgents — he was an easy target for shooters of their ability. Choay stop;ped and prepared for the assault.

And that's when he realized he was all alone.

"I told my men to follow me, but it was so loud with all the explosions, shooting, and people yelling that no one heard me. I had no one there with me. They were all still back where I left them...(it was) the loneliest moment of my life. I was dead center in the middle of the objective, all alone. I was scared, and I was ready to die."

Is this why his story is one of the ones Greenblatt chose? No, it had to be even more horrific. Determined to go out in a blaze of glory...

"Choay took a deep breath and prepared to shoot. He pulled the trigger. The weapon jammed."

Now, under the most frightening conditions and the greatest pressure, the soldier had to keep his head (already a miracle it was still on) and figure out how to get his weapon to work...and how to somehow pick off three of the enemy without any of them instantly pin-pointing his location and blasting him to bits.

It's not all blood and guts in these stories, or brains or willpower. Some of the stories are memorable for their heart...including the story of Michael Waltz's terrifying experiences in battle. His Afghan guide was by his side: "Waltz could hear Sumar gasping in his arms. The man's blood covered Waltz's hands and drenched his uniform...." The guide did not make it, but the story doesn't end there...it continues with the soldier desperately communicating to other Afghans how vital it was to return the body home...no matter the danger. For Waltz, the memory of the event haunted him even when he made it safely back to the States. It extended to a different form of quiet heroism, as he vowed to help the guide's family...against all odds.

Again, "VALOR" is not a catchy title, and the praise on the back might be a turn-off for some. All the quotes come from military men, including Sergeant Fist Class Sammy L. Davis, who enthuses, "It's obvious from these incredible stories that we certainly do still have the spirit of Audie Murphy in our military." But what makes this book worth anyone's time and attention is that while much of the narrative echoes scenes in the war movies that Audie Murphy (or John Wayne) made, the stories aren't just glorifications of combat triumph. The author here doesn't present boastful soldiers happy to tell their stories...many here are modest, glad to have made it out alive, and traumatized by the fate of those who didn't.

AUTHOR: Is YOUR eBOOK being BOOTLEGGED on EBAY?

There's an epidemic of book thieves on EBAY.

What you see above is BRIGHTDREAMS11, a seller who has made $150 for doing nothing but stealing a John Green title.

Multiply that by ten more authors raped and humiliated, and this seller is pulling down $1500 a week. Or more?

CEO John Donahoe doesn't seem to know about it? Doesn't care?

This is no surprise. Thanks to something called the "Digital Millennium Act," which goes wayyy back to 1988, copyright owners have been shoved under the bus. The excuse back then was "affirmative action." As in: let these poor little Internet companies, like cute-named Google and adorable-named Ebay flourish. They're just little kiddies who don't know right from wrong. They should be able to say "we're just a venue." Maybe some day, when they're big and strong, they'll know better.

Know what?

They became big and strong. Power corrupts. Ebay, Google and Amazon have become Hitler, Hirohito and Mussolini. If you really need proof, see how easy it was for Jeff Bezos of Amazon to drop nearly a BILLION DOLLARS today to buy something called "Twitch." That's a "streaming" site for "gamers." As if he couldn't just build one himself. Bezos is the guy who is fighting book publishers over how much they should be able to charge for an eBook...and openly refusing to stock books just to play hardball.

Meanwhile Ebay, now trying to get out of being the Internet garage sale for back date magazines and "Granny's postcard collection," is looking the other way when it comes to literally stealing eBook sales away from Amazon.

How outrageous is the abuse? Just type in a key term: EBOOK. Then add an author. Or a title like "Wimpy Kid" or "Heavenly Fire" or "Vampire."

You'll discover blatant frauds and liars with eBay names such as:

damommastreasure, sarsar412, mojosstuffgalore, brightreams11, houseofaddarav, collegestudentmom — among others — happily bootlegging in violation of both copyright and EBAY rules.

How? EBAY looks the other way if a seller merely writes: "I will send this item by postal mail. Sending this item by email or by any other digital delivery method is not allowed and violates eBay policy."

In fact, a seller doesn't even have to write anything at all. Just don't charge a shipping fee and (nudge nudge wink wink) the bidder knows that an e-mail will arrive with the password to a cloud or the link to a Rapidshare file.

As to THE BIG LIE:

"Attention eBay Staff: I am an Authorized Reseller of this product and also the copyright holder and I have resale rights to this eBook or item. Full Resell Rights are Granted by the copyright owners to sell these eBooks with Resell Rights or Master Resell Rights Granted! This ad complies with all eBay rules and regulations."

And what happens if an author of book company stops that auction on "Shades of Grey Trilogy?" The seller continues to offer the other dozen or two dozen bootlegs, and if EBAY asks (and they never do) say "Gee, I made a mistake on that last one. But honest...I AM the copyright holder on Wimpy Kid..."

Farce? More than a farce. It's a bloody crime.

BRIGHTDREAMS11 is still on EBAY despite many negatives for blatantly selling fake items and bootlegs:

EBAY? No numbers to call. Letters go right into the garbage. Business as usual.

What happens if you ask Kari Rameriz, the publicist for EBAY at press@ebay.com? Find out for yourself. The answer is usually NO REPLY. Or the robot: "If you are a copyright owner, jump through some hoops, fill out some forms, and send them to vero@ebay.com. PS, if you complain that the seller is bootlegging everybody's books on our site, we will ignore you. We won't ask the seller to fax us "under penalty of perjury" any license agreements at all. We are THAT desperate for sales on our site. That's why we don't even let sellers leave negatives on deadbeat bidders, or allow them to block bidders who extort and cheat sellers or return DVDs after copying them, or books after reading them."

AUTHORS...PUBLISHERS...the best thing you can do, aside from perhaps joining to create the Mother of All Class Action Lawsuits...is to join EBAY's "VeRo" (verified rights owner) program and file against the bootleggers. This IS a war. Copyright holders are losing ground every minute while Internet giants like Google and Amazon bellow about how everything should be "Free" and copyright should bow to "Freedom of Speech." Ebay has the nerve to allow sellers to pretend they own the copyright to every best seller! How do they get away with this? "Because they can." They are being enabled...by copyright owners who don't take action.

Myths of Love by Dr. Ruth Westheimer and Jerome Singerman

Yes, "Dr. Ruth," the ebullient little sex therapist who had best sellers and was a talk show favorite years ago...is back. At 86, and with no Johnny Carson or Merv Griffin to amuse, she's not been booked on high profile talk shows, and her new tome isn't from a major book company. The benefit is she can do as she pleases, which might explain this very silly excuse for a book.

It was sold to an indie company, and they are attempting to sell it to you, as something that "analyzes ancient myth and its relevance to 21st century relationships." Maybe. Maybe not. The main problem is that the book doesn't seem co-written by Westheimer. The tone is very academic, reflecting the lecture style of Harvard's Jerome E. Singerman. Having met them both, I can't quite understand the problem except that Dr. Ruth, who is as peppy as ever in person, apparently didn't have many juicy case histories to balance what reads like lecture transcripts.

The chapter on Narcissus is typically dry: "The dictionary defines a narcissist as someone exhibiting excessive vanity or self-admiration..." This could've led to some recollection of a comically pathological egomaniac, but instead, the chapter ends with a cut-and-paste joke: "Woody Allen once said that the nice thing about masturbation is that it's sex with someone you love. This is apparently not a thought that would ever occur to a character in Greek or Roman mythology..."

This is supposed to be a book, not a collection of easy-going lectures on mythology, but the formula for each chapter is the same. There's a reminder of who Iphis and Ianthe were, or Pasiphae, or Pygmalion...and nothing from Dr. Ruth to explain how these dimly colorful figures relate to people today, or the problems related to sex on the Internet, STD's, rampant porn, lifelike rubber sex dolls or anything else that might get in the way of, or enhance, sexual gratification in the 21st Century.

Leda and the Swan? Well, one doesn't expect that Dr. Ruth ever had a patient who had sex in an aviary. So why bother?

That would be a question for co-author Singerman, perhaps, as the un-Ruthian prose strays from the myth itself to a rumination on how this myth was depicted in art:

"The artists of the Italian Renaissance seem to have loved the story of Leda nad the swan. Correggio places the couple at the middle of a jolly forest scene. Here, Leda is sitting in the shade of a tree by the edge of a pool or a stream, facing forward. The swan stands between her open legs, his neck curving upward between her naked breasts, his bill reaching just far enough to chuck her under the chin. She looks down rather sweetly at him..." A photo of the painting would've sufficed instead of all the padding. Perhaps Dr. Ruth did add the final paragraph, recalling "...some very curious medical illustrations of the following centgury that depict the elongated but obviously non-erect human penis oddly but gracefully curving — like the neck of a swan perhaps? In one example I have in mind, the artist has even omitted any representation of the testicles, but has drawn a setion of the legs flanking the organ so that they look very much like the outspread wings of the bird. I don't want to put too fine a point on it, but if all this is not quite as anatomically impossible as a woman who lays eggs, I nevertheless suspect that the two are very closely related."

I don't want "to put too fine a point on it" either, but the reason Dr. Ruth was so popular on TV and in her early books, was that she didn't sound like some guy from Harvard recalling old paintings and what he remembers from Mythology 101. Why even include this Leda business, and with no photos? Rather than ask Singerman, the question is put to Westheimer. It turns out the "Leda" legend is one of her favorite myths because... "I love swans. Every year when I go to Zurich, I say hi to the swans on Lake Zurich. It reminds me of the years I was a child in an orphanage in Switzerland...and now I am coming back to visit as Dr. Ruth." Oh. Ok.

The Westheimer name will probably help dispose of copies to libraries, and should be one of the more successful titles from the indie press involved. It's also nice to see that she hasn't been soured on publishing after offering what she remembers as one of her better manuscripts to the infamous S.P.I. book company circa 1988. They slipped into bankruptcy, intentionally leaving printers, authors and even its defense lawyers stiffed, and were, far more than Westheimer, experts in the art of screwing.

America's Got Talent Winner: Landau Eugene Murphy Jr.

As "America's Got Talent" plods towards another forgettable finale, with the usual back-story sobs, inane hoopla for every magician and dance act, and votes being cast for every reason except actual entertainment value, some ask...

...who won last year? The year before? The dog act never even got a Letterman booking? The mediocre country singer got dropped after one album?

One of the more memorable winners is Landau Eugene Murphy Jr., who certainly benefitted from the novelty factor...a black guy in dreadlocks singing Sinatra-type lounge tunes. He's written a slim (128 pages, plus photo section) book that had me asking him the most basic question: "Why now?"

"I got an offer to write the book right after I won," he admitted, "but I got super-busy. I've been on tour for the past three and a half years!"

While it's doubtful most winners have done much in the years after their big splash (ventriloquist Terry Fator would be an exception, doing well in Las Vegas), Murphy has the advantage of a universal appeal (swingin' lounge music didn't die with "Old Blue Eyes") and great charm. Although the tax man took half of the million dollars, he quickly earned it back through touring and his initial album deal. "After being on the road I got back up to a million dollars again. That's not what reallly matters…it's the smiles on peoples' faces. I work a lot for charity..." That includes everything from the Heart-to-Heart Foundation to the homeless of West Virginia, where he still proudly lives. His book talks a great deal about the little town of Logan, and most of the chapters simply give the reader a vicarious thrill...imagine the excitement of appearing on the show...reaching the finals...having a parade in your honor...doing your first professional recording session...

Titled "From Washing Cars to Hollywood Star," the book does indeed mention some of the bad breaks and poverty of his early years, but it's not a sad tune heavy with strings bringing everything down. The tone is upbeat, the message more along the lines of any traditional "inspirational" volume. Landau also side-steps any vivid pictures of crime in the Detroit area (where he lived for a while) and there's even a kind of sweet take in recalling his poverty: "I learned how to make a syrup sandwich when we didn't have nuch else to eat." He doesn't swell on the problems of failed relationships that involved kids. The important thing, in the latter case, is that he was able to provide for them, and the enduring message is about the importance of family (he has a successful marriage now) friends...and even getting along with strangers. The book is, after all, dedicated not to wife, kids or parents or pales but "To the people from the great state of West Virginia (and especially the citizens of Logan).

The excitement and preparation for "America's Got Talent" had an unexpected effect on Landau Murphy. It just plain wore him out. Before his final performance, he "went to the Green Room, curled up on the couch, and went to sleep. I heard later a couple of the acts complained I was sleeping in the Green Room. Sorry guys, but I was tired." That kind of simplicity and humanity keep this admittedly slim volume moving along. It's not strong on touching moments of pathos, or vivid pictures of tragedy or triumph, as much as it's a steady account of keeping to the dream and taking some chances, as we all do, even though usually for a much lesser payday and much fewer people noticing.

It's probably not a surprise to know that most "America's Got Talent" winners simply have good memories and a decent bank account to show for their victory. It might come as a mild surprise to discover that Landau Eugene Murphy Jr. is one of the few (Michael Grimm, a "Billy Joel" to Landau's "Frank Sinatra" would be another) who can use the title "Winner" to get gigs in America and even around the world, and continue to do what they love to do. A lot of times, a book reviewer has to skim through a book due to deadline obligations, but if you do that with a 128 pager, there's something wrong...especially when the book is a pleasant, upbeat journey. You'll go from Logan to Detroit to New York to California to...well, back to Logan...and you'll enjoy the trip.

Serial Killer JOHN CHRISTIE of RILLINGTON PLACE

"Christie was the murderer, and the judge and jury too!"

The song, sung by Judy Collins and most recently Irish folk singer Karan Casey, was written by Ewan MacColl. The powerful anti-capital punishment song was written in response to the execution of Tim Evans for a crime most believe was actually committed by his neighbor at 10 Rillington Place, John Christie. Curiously, there's no mention of it ("The Ballad of Tim Evans," aka "Go Down Ye Murderers") in what is the most recent but not completely definitive or satisfying book in the Christie case. Jonathan Oates is not an interesting writer at all, but his selling point is being factual, and uncovering details that he insists were either missing or slanted by previous authors.

So what do all these facts produce? Not much. The main controversy (was it one murderer or two) continues. Oates in his "Conclusion" chapter even points out the various writers who believe a) Evans killed his wife and child, b) Evans only killed one of them, c) Evans conspired with Christie, d) Christie killed two women before Evans and his wife and child arrived at the fateful house, killed them, and killed four more women before he was captured.

There's some interest in Christie because physically, he's an unlikely-looking mass murderer. Hardly a Manson, with wild-eyes and a psychotic credo, Christie, 5'8" and 150 pounds, was soft-spoken, balding, and seemingly nothing more than an office drone and petty martinet,

The book, only 186 pages (if you don't include the notes and index) thinks so little of Tim Evans that there's no picture of him...while there are shots of such lesser players as Derek Curtis-Bennett and Beresford Brown. Is this due to some "rights" issue? The same reason not a single line of the famous song (which would be "fair use") is quoted?

Or wasn't there room for such thought, when the author was so seriously involved in such less-than-pithy summations as this one: "Although long dead, Christie has not been forgotten."

No, Christie isn't forgotten, because his balding, bland "just like anyone else" wax figure stands in a Madame Tussaud's, the song about Tim Evans is still played, and the film "Ten Rillington Place" based on the Ludovic Kennedy book is on DVD (with John Hurt as Tim Evans).

The main interest in the case is not really the crimes (Christie was no gruesome "Jack the Ripper" in a top hat) but the nagging question among conspiracy buffs, as to Evans' involvement. While Ludovic Kennedy's book (like MacColl's song, mainly aimed at proving Evans innocent and that capital punishment is not reversible) remains Exhibit A for "Christie did it all," others, especially Jonathan Oates, aren't comfortable with the amount of times both Evans and Christie outright lied, or offered impossibly confusing recollections. Evans, an acknowledged dimwit, who was also a loudmouth stuck in an increasingly hapless marriage, confessed several times in detail but ultimately recanted. Christie's "the more the merrier" confession to killing Evans' wife may have been part of a campaign to get off on an insanity plea...while his denial of killing the Evans baby could've been to save himself from vigilante justice within prison.

This volume, concerned as it is with Christie, his childhood (50 pages of bland detail) and his periodic petty crimes and the last series of murders (which included his own wife), tries to be sympathetic. "Christie was not evil, though he was capable of evil deeds," writes Oates, "nor was he a sadist, as were Brady and Hindley and the Wests (the author seems baffled but persistent in dragging in other serial killers and comparing them and their motives). "He was, in many ways, the ordinary man, on the surface, similar to our neighbors and colleagues, who was nevertheless a mass murderer." From a convoluted, comma-stricken line like that, you can see how this author tends to be a cartoon of Sherlock Holmes, his magnifying lens on the floor, walking around and around in circles. "To label him as a monster is simplistic and emotive," we are assured, "for Christie was just a sexual inadequate who murdered to sate his lusts." There is, it should be noted, conflicting testimony on that last statement, as semen stains were found on the murderer's clothes, and his own confessions included necrophilia...having sex with the women after they were strangled.

In the end, this book has some merits; the author's dug up some fresh quotes, pulled some facts out of dusty files, and offered some photos of some of the victims and bystanders. There's even some disturbing sociology not mentioned by others; that Christie's pathetic dwellings were also home to Jamaican musicians and other blacks who he detested for their noise and their lack of civility. The author doesn't use Christie's hatred of his neighbors and his poverty as an excuse for violence or vengeance...he's careful to let motivation remain the province for amateur psychologists. Oates might even be commended for resisting an author's temptation to color in some details, if only to make the book a more vivid read. But after 182 pages, his alternating smugness and confusion lead to this confession:

"Most readers will, by now have added to their knowledge of John Christie, the mild-mannered man who made a mortuary of the house in which he lived. There is, however, much that we will never know for certain."

The most eye-opening factor here, is his belief that Evans was guilty, so for "fans" of Christie, it's a must-read to try and figure how he came to such a conclusion, when it's so opposite several other respectable opinions.

There's no paper shortage, to my knowledge, in Great Britain. The book could have been extended another 20 or so pages, to examine in detail Ludovic Kennedy's contentions about the timeline involving Evans and construction done at the house, discuss the testimony of Evans' half-sister Mary Westlake in leading the government to overturn the Evans conviction in the slaying of his wife Beryl, and to examine more closely theories of why a man with no background of violence and murder (Evans) should be considered guilty while living in the house of someone who had killed twice. Tim's sister, Eileen Ashby, is also not given a chance to voice the arguments on behalf of her brother. Many readers will remain hopelessly lost in trying to determine where Evans, Christie and his wife were at the time of Beryl's death, what motive is strongest, what kind of coincidence it would be for two men in the same house to choose strangulation as the means of crime, and what facts (or fallacies) led to Evans' death being found a "wrongful execution." It would not have taxed "fair use" to summarize some of Ludovic Kennedy's arguments on behalf of Evans and debunk them.

One thing untouched here, which was so important to Ewan MacColl and Ludovic Kennedy, is the question of capital punishment. Should it be abandoned, or at least restricted in cases as confusing as this one? Perhaps one can form a conclusion based on how Christie, most definitely the killer of six women, met his death. As described here by the executioner, he did not beg for mercy or call his approaching death a murder: "Faltering pitifully, his moevements were not so much a walk, as a dfrifting forward, his legs stumbling. I thought he was going to faint."

"Mixed Messages" left by The Late Arlene Martel

"T'pring" might seem like an odd ringtone to most, but to "Star Trek" fans, this was the beautiful "Bride of Spock" in a classic episode. The role was played by Arlene Martel, who had a cult following for this. She'd autograph T'pring memorabilia at many a "signing convention" in Hollywood and Las Vegas. As she sat at her table, autographing photos, fans would see she had stills from her appearances on other iconic 60's shows: "The Monkees" "Hogan's Heroes" "Wild Wild West" and "Outer Limits" among them. "Twilight Zone" fans came by to get her autograph, revelling in her iconic five words as a morgue nurse: "Room for one more, honey."

Sadly, Arlene died of a heart attack on August 12th. Until a few months ago, she'd been a Facebook regular, posting photos of herself, and offering a variety of links to health websites that involved recipes for organic foods and holistic treatments for illness. A cancer survivor for many years, she was very interested in any new vitamins or health regimens, and ways to improve both the mind and body.

Her book...self-published by one of the many "print on demand" vanity outfits now flourishing, is not about health. Despite the tag of written "with" someone else, it's not an autobiography. Just what is it? It's a peculiarly self-indulgent reprint of e-mails between the 74 year-old actress and a fan-admirer some 25 years younger (who worries his erectile dysfunction might hurt the potential of a meeting following their mutual admiration correspondence).

Yes, there could've been voyeuristic potential in a "fan gets to bed his dream idol" book, but not when there's no erotic writing and very little wit. Sadly, this 182 pager (with liberal spaces between e-mails to pad it to any kind of book length) is often boring and even embarrassing. Much of the e-mails concern mutual health concerns. Entire pages are loaded with technical details on medications: "...an Italian study done at a reputable Milan tertiary hospital showed that melatonin supplementation enhanced the effect of Arimeidex considerately...if this 9 mg dose is well tolerated, we can titrate up the 20 mg." Any typos in there...well, who at Author House would've been awake to proofread them?

The fan-man doesn't ask Arlene for details about her film and TV roles, so aside from one page where he mentions re-watching "Star Trek" and she comments on her hair and make-up, there's nothing for Trekkers or anyone wondering "what was it like to work with Bob Crane?" The e-mails reflect health-obsessed and self-involved people: "As far as your headaches go, a colonic could make a huge difference..." "...I hate much too much food. Thought about you several ties during the Thanksgiving Day."

Each e-mail is padded on the page with the time and date and who is sending and receiving. Eventually, these begin with ever more nauseating terms of endearment. "Hi Sweetheart" turns into "Hi Kalecake..." and "Hi Honey Bear" and "Hello Sweet Potato."

Arlene and Jeff's very slow ripening from mere e-mail pals to potential lovers, is sometimes ripe with cringeworthy cliches. Arlene: "I'm more of a Dapple Grey Mare who prefers being courted by a sensitive powerful Stallion." There aren't many of these Shades of Groan gaffes...not enough for "so bad it's good" page-turning. After 76 pages, the reader is alerted: "First Face to Face Encounter. To Whom it May Concern...use your imagination." In other words, you, dear reader, mare or stallion, do NOT get any real bedside reading.

At best, Martel declares, "Life is bubbling with rainbows in each bubble and just when one bursts out of its own excitement another bubble is born...so there's no depletion...only abundance. New title for our book? "Jeffrey and the Juicy Old Crone."

More often, the e-mails are duller than ones you send to your granny: "Sweetheart Happy Valentine's Day. So glad that you're in my life. Sending my love to you today (and always) Jeff." An entire page is devoted to a Rabindranath Tagore poem Jeff decided to send to Arlene. As one might scroll through e-mails to delete them, one ends up quickly scanning pages for something actually worth reading. Toward book's end, these two aren't even writing very often to each other. Arlene: "Jeff, I haven't heard from you since June 8th. I'm concerned...you might recall our conversation about your visiting for a few days...to complete the book with me..."

The book ends with no assurance that Jeff and Arlene will keep e-mailing, much less having conjugal visits. When she died, there was no posting from Jeff on Facebook, nor had their been any mention of him (as opposed to her daughters and her pet dog). She never hawked her book on Facebook, either.

Way back on page 35, this guy burbled about how beautiful she looked as T'pring, and creepily added that after watching the re-run, "I wondered what you ate for lunch...I wondered if you were in love at that point in time. If so...whether you were well-loved. I wondered if you had kissed someone that day....I wondered. And I inhaled you. And for the briefest moment...I was inside you...please excuse those figurative references...They were not to infer anything sexual." To this typical Californian pseudo-poetic overly extroverted nut, Marlene replied: "I'm not to infer anything sexual? Boy, talk about sending mixed messages."

Here and there, fans of Martel, or perhaps friends and relatives, get some glimmers of the woman's personality, and she might "live again" in the passages where she obsesses on various drugs and treatments which seem to have been a big part of her daily routine. Once in a great while there's a brief mention of her parents, her granddaughter, or growing up in the Bronx, but these are few. Perhaps she was saving all that for the autobiography that probably will never be published, and might only exist in a few manuscript pages. Considering the high list price of print-on-demand books, it's hard to recommend this to any but the most devoted Martel fans, since 80% of it is as boring as everyone else's e-mails. It's a high price to pay just to have more of a keepsake, my dear "Kalecake."

Maybe We'll Have You Back : Kramer vs Stoller

Fred Stoller's memoir, "Maybe We'll Have You Back," is largely about his career getting small roles as a "nerdy, annoying" waiter, passerby or relative on various mostly mediocre sitcoms.

Fortunately, a judge didn't say "maybe we'll have you back," after dismissing a suit foisted on Fred by the litigation-happy Kenny Kramer. In other words, she wasn't interested in hearing an appeal from a man who frankly doesn't seem to appeal to anyone but gullible tourists. Kramer, who won't let anyone forget he was vaguely an inspiration for the "Kramer" character on "Seinfeld," sued over a very minor anecdote in Fred's book.

Fred wrote of Kramer: "An admitted opportunist, he was not as innocent and goofy as the TV character…For thirty-seven dollars, he and a sidekick would take sightseers on a two-hour "Seinfeld Reality" bus tour…" The tour included having to endure Bobby, a Kramer sidekick, who would "scream out all the catch phrases...I just shook my head, amazed that a show as brilliant as "Seinfeld" could be so lamed down. In the gay-dominated Greenwich Village, I had to hear Bobby make everyone scream out, "Not that there's anything wrong with that!" Once wasn't embarrassing enough, so he'd scream it out again like some sort of deranged cheerleader…"

Kramer, very fond of getting his unpleasant face on Page Six of the NY Post any way he can, insisted this anecdote made him seem homophobic. How this could possibly be ground for any kind of money...well, it wasn't. How was Kramer damaged? He bragged that his tour was always "sold out" without ever having to pay for advertising. An irony is that while Seinfeld and Larry David seemed to distance themselves from Kramer, it was Stoller who snuck him onto the "Seinfeld" set for his only cameo during the show's entire run. Kramer had a friend post various petty complaints on Fred's Facebook page, none of them very compelling. At worst, Fred may has mis-remembered whether the use of the gay catch-phrase was screamed when some stereotypical gay couple pranced down a street or whether it was in Greenwich Village itself, but either way, no gays ever heard it; it was yelled on a bus with closed windows. And the line was rightly deemed as inoffensive, even supportive.

Being the target of a "frivolous" lawsuit is not much fun...when the frivolity can include paying legal fees and worrying that a judge might be addled enough to make the wrong decision. Perhaps the positive here, is that while the case lubed the media whore known as Kenny Kramer, it also gave publicity to Stoller's book, an entertaining insider-look at the lame underbelly of "extra" work and bit-parts in films and on TV.

Larry David characterized Stoller's persona as "the proverbial schmuck," but in stand-up and in his better acting roles, Fred's more than that. He has some wit, and a funny, obstinate streak. Petulant in his whiny voice, piercing with his owlish eyes, he'll proudly admit, "I went to a deli and ate an apple right there without washing it first." As if this idiot bravado isn't enough, he'll add, "You can't stop me! I'll do it again."

Oddly, the latter half of the gag, which I remember fondly from his stand-up act, was not quoted in his book, but it's what separates him from previous masters of sad sack-ism (such as Marvin Kaplan or Jackie Vernon). He's not a complete patsy...he possesses an aggression that is usually clueless and comical.

The book confirms that he's mostly playing himself. The anecdotes about his childhood miseries, his mother's negativity, and other agonies have a lot of pathos. How sad that Fred was such a lonely child, he almost enjoyed being bullied. When the class fall guy was out, the bullies turned to Fred:

"...when he was absent, they chose me to pick on; they chased me and pulled my string tie through the fence and threw me down. It was actually kind of thrilling. For once, I wasn't invisible. The next day, when the other kid returned, I felt a little sad it was over."

Even getting lucky isn't so fortunate. Before Kramer's litigation, the big selling point for the book was his anecdote about quickly getting in bed with grotesque comedienne Kathy Griffin, who impatiently said, "I'm wet" almost before Fred was through the door for their first date. The nightmare ended with Griffin asking if she could punch him in the face for a sexual kick...and then hollering "Don't look at my ass."

The book does spend many many pages on mild "this is what it's like" anecdotes about the various sitcom sets and which actors are or aren't supportive, but the more memorable lines are sad and sweet reflections on his lonely and passive lifestyle. He's easily rankled by the rudeness of people having a good time with friends and family:

"I usually like a place that doesn't have waitress service. I like the freedom to be able to bolt an any moment, so that's why I like paying for my food before I eat. Just last week, I needed to flee desperately. An attractive, annoying couple was sitting in the booth next to me. They did that thing where they didn't sit across from each other, but sat side by side. I suppose they sat like that because they couldn't stand the idea of not having the sides of their hips touching for thirty minutes. Then they started kissing. The only thing more sickening would've been if they took out a wad of cash and started counting and kissing that too."

At another table some idiot strted talking very loudly on his ell pone while his baby cried; and he ignored the kid…All I wanted was my check, but of course the waiter was nowhere in sight. Eating alone is not the worst way to dine…" Flipping through this neurotic, compulsively readable book isn't the worst way to spend a few days. And if you want to re-read parts of it over again...I can't stop you.

Spiritual Places In and Around New York City - Len Belzer, Emily Squires

One of life's ironies...involved reading today's news about the suicide of Len Belzer. The headlines all said, "Brother of Richard Belzer..." because Len's own claims to fame are quite modest. He was the host, during stand-up's heyday in the late 80's especially, of a radio show devoted to comedy and comedians. He also co-wrote, with his wife Emily Squires (a director on "Seseme Street") the book "Spiritual Places In and Around New York City."

Unfortunately, Len's wife died in 2012 sending him into a spiral of downward depression, and his own health began to fail...and despite his interest in spirituality...he leaped from his apartment building on West 94th Street. He was 73.

During the stand-up boom years, I did see Len around from time to time, but I can't say I knew him. We had a mutual friend in "Brother" Theodore Gottlieb. Theodore found Len to be "very intelligent," and unlike me, a good chess companion. They would often sit in Theodore's apartment (20 blocks down from Len's) and talk for hours about philosophy and religion.

The book? Like Len, it's unassuming, unpretentious, and very modest (about 140 pages). The reader learns of some obvious places to visit (museums and cathedrals, for example) and less well known places: "Get ready for one of the hottest, most cutting-edge places to be in all of New York City. The Chapel of Sacred Mirrors [542 West 27th Street] calls itself a "sanctuary for contemplation and a center for events encouraging the creative spirit" - emphasis on the creative. Together, artists Alex and Allyson Grey not only display their work here, they have also created around them a huge and dynamic community of artists and seekers of the devine..."

As one might expect, Len and his wife were more interested in documenting their personal preferences...places they no doubt recommended to friends and relatives. Each place gets a page or two, including the Ayurveda Cafe, which was only a block or two from their apartment...706 Amsterdam Avenue:

"When we think of Ayurveda, we think of a mystical Indian tradition having to do with essential oils and herbs; of warm unguents drizzled on fretful foreheads by gentle women with red dots marking their third eye; of Deepak Chopra and his quantum store of knowledge that seems to embrace everything in the universe. Rarely do we think of cuisine in conjunction with this tradition, though food is at the very heart of it...the Ayurveda Cafe, a simple vegetarian spot on the Upper West Side..."

No surprise the book, updated in 2008 by Cosimo Books, was not well known. It's personal, with its mix of tourist attractions and favorite restaurants and whatnot. At this point, who knows how many of the places still exist, or have changed their hours. It's probably lodged in a shelf on New York City, travel, or "spirituality" at some local bookstore, ready for you to browse. Just don't dwell too much on how "spiritual places" can sometimes fail to heal those who are suffering from deep mental or physical pain.

Hillary Clinton Recommends Books: Easy Choices

At the moment, Hillary Clinton's "Hard Choices" commands about $100 on eBay for a signed copy...and most of these are signed with just one word: "Hillary."

Oh, it's making a "great gift idea" for a lot of people. It might be more of an investment for some who think she stands a good chance of becoming a Presidential candidate or The President.

Speaking of gifts...what would you get Hillary if you were shopping in a bookstore?

She has a pretty long list of favorite authors: "I will read anything by Laura Hillenbrand, Walter Isaacson, Barbara Kingsolver, John le Carre, John Grisham, Hilary Mantel, Toni Morrison, Anna Quindlen and Alice Walker...

Anybody else? Yes, Janet Evanovich "makes me laugh."

It turns out Hillary's a fan of best-selling authors who keep churning out new volumes in a continuing series:

"I automatically read the latest installments from Alex Berenson, Linda Fairstein, Sue Grafton, Donna Leon, Katherine Hall Page, Louise Penny, Daniel Silva, Alexander McCall Smith, Charles Todd and Jacqueline Winspear."

If you get to talking classics, Hillary will tell you that her favorites include "The Brothers Karamazov," "Pride and Prejudice," and "Schindler's List." You might talk about favorite short stories by Alice Munro, or her choices in classic poets: T.S. Eliot, Pablo Neruda and W.B. Yeats.

So there you are...Hillary is actually very easy to shop for. Your "Hard Choices" would just be finding a new novel by any of the above that she hasn't already snapped up. Well, she can always return the item for something else. That's economics...and probably something she's learned about in reading one of her favorite books on finance..."After the Music Stopped" by Alan Blinder.

Incredible (True) Fishing Stories - You May Not be Hooked

Can you recall ever seeing a funny film moment involving fishing? I can't. There have been some unpleasant slapstick scenes involving very dead fish stinking out the back of a truck (a 3 Stooges short comes to mind), as well as the "juggling an obviously wooden fish while pretending it's snapping at your fingers" gag or the "marionette fish with the hinged jaw spurting water while lying on a dinner plate."

Stand-up routines? No...sticking a worm on a hook and waiting till a fish punctures its lip on it...is not much of a joke. I can't think of any comedian who got much mileage out of fishing stories. At best, there was Tim Conway's "Dorf Goes Fishing" video. It wasn't one of his best, but apparently while the subject is a washout to the mainstream public, fishermen are desperate enough to buy something like that via mail-order.

And so, my guess is that "Incredible and True! Fishing Stories" is a niche market item at best...intended for die-hard fin-atics. Anyone with a dry sense of humor, or a profound disinterest in technical talk...will very likely be baffled by items that might be true, but don't seem incredible, or even interesting. Some tales go on for several pages for no real pay-off at all.

For a small square book that's supposed to be browsable, it's a bit of a snore to deal with the padding and the technical jargon.

But judge for yourself. Here's a page (119 out of the 212) that's apparently supposed to make your jaw drop...as if there was a hook in it. If this works for you, buy the book. Otherwise, if you get it as a gift, you'll want to throw it back.

A MARLIN'S LIFE JACKET

Owner of southern California's Balboa Bay Club, Bill Ray, and three of his friends were fishing off Cabo San Lucas, Mexico when all five fishing reels clacked like a flock of feeding birds. Suddenly the water erupted with five hooked marlin. All four anglers grabbed a fishing rod and silenced the reel's clicker. The air, whoever, still echoed with chatter. A fifth unattended marlin continued to take line. Ray stepped to the unmanned fishing rod and freed the drag. Then he tied a life jacket to the gear and flung it overboard. An hour later, all four manned marlin were landed and released. Ray, who had kept an eye on the bright orange life jacket, captained the boat as a friend retrieved the floating gear and landed the fifth marlin, releasing it for another day."

That's it.

True, yes. Incredible?

It would seem that these days, most people would be more prone to seeing incredible, true postings on YouTube where you can actually see the flailing fish and witness a dramatic moment. Or...just make up a story and tell it to a friend. "...and you should've seen the one that got away..."

THE PAT BOONE FAN CLUB - Sue William Silverman

"The Pat Boone Fan Club...My Life as a White Anglo-Saxon Jew" is more an Anglo-Saxon "confessional" than the typical humorous Jewish-neurotic rant you'd get in short stories or memoirs from Philip Roth or Woody Allen. It does have amusing moments, but most of it touch on serious, and heartfelt issues involving the search for identity and a place to call home (she's had a few husbands and lived in several cities).

Only a few chapters are about the man who sang "white bread" pop hits in the 50's and early 60's. Most of this collection of essays (some of them award winners and previously published in literary magazines) are about Jewish jitters if not outright angst. This includes the many times Sue has been a stranger in a strange part of America. However, only a Jew is going to write an entire essay pretty much about wanting a colonoscopy to find an answer to a condition that might be colitis, or might not. That it isn't gut-funny as a stand-up whiner like Richard Lewis might've made it, is just Silverman's conversational style and sensibility. She knows anecdotes about "the human comedy" aren't all laugh out loud hilarious. So why force it on every page? Instead, her book sometimes seems like a transcript you overheard from someone on a cell phone. It gets more and more fascinating even if you don't know the person.

No doubt, a lot of readers here already know Sue from her previous books so reading an old friend's diary, or a lament about a hospital stay, would be particularly engrossing. They know all about her painful childhood via "Because I Remember Terror, Father, I Remember You," and another memoir, "Love Sick," focusing on sexual addiction. The latter became a Lifetime made-for-TV movie.

The very serious recurring theme of this collection, is shaking off the agony of guilt and inferiority. It's difficult not to feel confusion, shame and insecurity when antisemitic remarks slip from the mouth of a trusted loved one. Sue hasn't forgotten the time her first husband complained about a project and said, "I won't let him Jew me down." She also won't forget her father, the guy who destroyed her innocence and drove her to wish Pat Boone would adopt her: "I ask you. Would you want to be Jewish if your Jewish father is a bad man? A bad, bad man?"

But just when you hope for a touch of Jewish ironic humor, or a gentle smile, she does toss in a one-liner: "I know I am Jewish…or as Jewish as a gefilte fish is Jewish."

Probably the most universal chapters of the book refer to her relationship with Pat Boone. At first these "fan notes" involve the restless yearning and anxious fears about actually meeting him. Most of us have had a stage door experience like that. Add to this, the literal counter-culture of being drawn to an exact opposite...an All-American Christian with no accent and perfect hair and a pretty darn perfect face and body, too. In alternating chapters, we get more of the main story...her subsequent encounters with Pat Boone.

Mr. Boone did not, however, supply an endorsement for the back cover, which may just be modesty on his part. He comes off well, and Silverman doesn't sugar coat any realities here, including how she rekindled her fan-appreciation at a time when the aging star was playing minor places in front of sometimes listless older crowds.

While Jewish bookstores are shrinking in number, and would be the likely place to promote a book like this, Sue told me she felt there was a wider audience for her book: "This is really in many ways an American story, about assimilation, a search for identity…it's not just for Jewish audiences. I have friends who grew up Catholic, who didn't want to be Catholic…" so some might easily read the Pat Boone segments and substitute most any star of any religion or color. (My brief talk with Sue was in interview mode. I don't know her; the "Ronald Smith" on page 121 is not me!)

In "Dixie Flyer," Randy Newman sang about what it was like to be part of a family of Jews trying to live in the South: "Christ, they wanted to be Gentiles, too. Who wouldn't down there, wouldn't you? An American Christian! God Damn!" The Jew who celebrates Christmas and finds comfort in the hymns, the Gentile who admires a smart Jewish friend and comes to a Seder...the little white kid who shyly wants the 7 foot black basketball player's autograph...the Middle Eastern girl with dreams of going to Paris and being like Gigi...Sue William Silverman writes for them all, as well as herself in this book. And maybe someday Pat Boone might cover Randy Newman's song. He just hasn't done it yet.