Every so often I'll be at a bookstore, and I'll see something by Kinky Friedman. (In this case, I was at an airport with only about ten pages left to read in the only book I had with me.) And I'll take it home, and read it, and then I'll remember why I only read Kinky Friedman every so often.
Supposedly, these are mysteries--and, yes, I suppose they can be categorized in that way. But although Kinky's supposed to be a private eye pursuing an investigation, that's not really the way it works. Really what happens is Kinky wanders about, talking to various old chums, and himself, more or less interchangeably, and eventually, amid piles of bad jokes and peculiar circumlocutions and weird slang, the case gets solved. And it's kind of fun, in an outrageous, profane, sophomoric kind of way.
But it's not for every day.Posted by Will Duquette at August 14, 2003 04:44 PM