Oh, all right, I’ll tell you.

Oh, all right. I apologize for getting shirty with you the other day. I shouldn’t have teased you by telling you how much I’d enjoyed a book and then withheld the title from you. I regret my churlishness.

I’ll tell you about it now. The novel, Shark Island, is yet another in the “Doc Ford” series of, well, I guess you’d call them mysteries, by Randy W. White. No, wait, it’s called Shark River. This one, like the others, stars an ex-top-secret-killerman, Doc Ford, who lives in a funky communty of societal dropouts and houseboat-dwellers on an island near Fort Meyers, Florida. The killerman has a PhD in biology, hence the “Doc.” His house is a tin roofed pair of ramshackle shacks at the end of a rickety 90 foot pier where he makes his living collecting marine specimens for labs and schools. Ford’s exacting work suffers continual interruptions by murders, kidnappings, thefts, Colombian drug cartels, secrets from the past and so on. Doc Ford’s best friend is a genius madman hippie intuitive guru named Tomlinson who says funny things like “With some people, their only attempt at art is the way they live their lives.”

Now I happen to get a bang out the the Doc Ford novels. They evoke Florida and I like it plenty when Florida gets evoked. Pink clouds, smell of iodine and so on. Plus, Rastafarians get thrown into shark tanks. But when it came time to do my book report, I paced back and forth all in a sweat, fretting that you, a reader of web logs, would find it tough sledding. You’d have to scroll. You’d have to remain in one place for maybe a minute.

You see, I was trying to protect you from what I feared would be a frustrating experience. Someone like you who is used to skipping around web sites, sampling this and that, reading blurbs, comments, tweets, will surely lack the patience required to concentrate on a full-length book. Not that it’s difficult reading — far from it — but it takes more than 45 seconds. I couldn’t live with myself if a recommendation I’d made caused you to feel restless.

Then I realized my worries were groundless. The actual purchasing of a book, never mind the reading, is beyond the capability of your average web devotee. You, gentle surfer, are unlikely to perform any real world action requiring an expenditure of energy. Also, you are fearsome ugly. And you stink bad, man. Real bad. I can reveal all these terrible truths about you with the calm assurance that your feelings will remain unhurt because, never mind reading an entire book, you never even read to the bottom of a post as long as this one. You’re probably off playing that Google-logo Pac Man game right this very moment. Jerk.

Of course, the two or three of you who did read this far are a better sort and are neither ugly nor foul-smelling. You happy few are gorgeous and sweetly aromatic.

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