Tag Archives: randy wayne white

My Book Report: These Thousand Islands

Mixed up fellow.I read another book and this is my book report. I forget the name of the book. It was something like O, These Thousand Islands or Thousand Island Dressing or something, I don’t remember. I’m certain it had the word “islands” in it and the word “thousand.”

It was a mystery by Randy White Wayne and I found it very very very engrossing but I can’t remember any details. I do remember a character named Tomlinson who is sort of a mystical doper hippie on a boat. Oh, boy, did he make me laugh. I remember a funny line he says, but I won’t quote it because of the harsh language, but it was funny. It all takes place on the Gulf coast of Florida in the late 1990s. There is an attempted kidnapping, that I remember. Doc Ford is in it! Doc Ford does NOT live on a boat, but pretty near: he lives on the end of a 90 foot pier with octopuses, tarpon and sharks!

You really really should read the book. Just look for something with “thousand islands” in the title. By Randy Wayne White. I’d tell you more, but I always throw away books when I’m done with them and this one (My Thousand Island Home?) was already hauled away by the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power (LADWP). And even if the LADWP hadn’t snatched it away, I still wouldn’t delve through the weeks’ waste to find a pulp novel so I could tell you its name. I mean, c’mon!

UPDATE: Ten Thousand Islands! That’s it!

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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.

Book Review: Burn, Tampa, Burn!

When I finished reading this adventuretainment novel, this Tampa Burn by Randy “Wayne” White, I was at once filled with a crazy, crackling energy. But it was an undirected energy. Useless to me; dangerous to others.

To channel that raw power — zapping like a Tesla coil — I tore the cover off the paperback and, snipping away with snub-nosed scissors, fashioned it into a Faraday Cage Cat Mask.

See it? That’s it up there, recorded photographically: a Faraday Cage Cat Mask. From behind this mask one can observe the world without being observed by the world. Peering blandly through its eye-holes even the most frenetic soul begins to simmer down. Of course, it helps to have the proper headgear.

If you want to feel what I felt on the day I turned the last page of Tampa Burn, why not float out and obtain your very own copy? Here’s the ISBN: 0-425-20228-3.

Twelve Mile Limit

I read this thriller action adventure motorboat spysneak book called Twelve Mile Limit. It’s another in a series of books by some Florida guy name Randy and Wayne and White. The series is narrated by a marine biologist with a secret past: HE’S A NINJA ASSASSIN. His name is Doc Ford. Doc Ford doesn’t like to kill. He’s really quite ashamed of all the killing (of people) he’s had to do. Still, when duty calls he kills some more people. He even helps a headhunter cannibal girl perform an abortion. He is multicultural.

The little paperback costs $7.99 USD, $8.99 Canadian.

If You Have Nothing Better to Do, Do Nothing Better

If you want to read Everglades, a thriller/mystery/whatever by Randy Wayne White, there is nothing I can do to stop you. Nor is there anything I would want to do, either to stop you from reading the book, or to encourage you to do so. What you do with your free time is your business.

When I picked up the paperback at some big box bookstore or other, I certainly didn’t ask your permission. You don’t need mine.

The book is part of a series, but every book is part of series now, it seems. If Charles Dickens were publishing today, he’d feature the same cast of characters in every one of his novels, except for the occasional “stand-alone” that nobody bought.