Tropic of Stupid
Tropic of Stupid: A Novel (Serge Storms, 24)
This January, the world is in a giant disarray, and that also means? A new book from Tim Dorsey. Got to wonder if he times it with his birthday? So it’s back to the manic, clinically insane (maybe), race through Florida history and trivia, as only the cereal killer can do it: Serge rides?
I’m not sure. The last Carl Hiaasen novel was a stunning rebuke of the recent administration, just now out of office — unsure what Serge and Coleman are up to, but then, Tim Dorsey claimed he never wanted to wander into other Florida authors’ territories.
I would wonder how the books hold up, over time, and I wonder how to maintain that manic, bipolar pacing, how to sustain the effort, but what I have taken the luxury of doing?
I reread last year’s book, and in the last years, I’ve reread several of the books. What I do is wait for 99-cent digital copy, and that way? I can reread at leisure, with an assurance that my precious hardbound, first-editions are safe. Rereading in some order?
They do hold up.
Style, pacing, plotting, sheer insanity? All hold up well, even under the scrutiny of time. Periodically, current events figure into the narration, but that’s merely historical background noise like a bass line, and four-four drum, pounding out a proper beat, that pacing sets an anchor for when the stories are, and keeps them from running ashore. No, keeps them from running adrift.
In the last few years, Bubba has provided me with his collectible “advance reading” copy, the beta copy available for review purposes. Due to the pandemic, though, I had to wait until a library copy was ready, and take that long hike to the big box bookstore to secure my first edition.
What would we do without the fine, authorial hand, or, as Serge says, “Google kite manja decapitation.” Page 42.
Signs of twisted genius, for sure.
The author, Tim Dorsey, has an astonishing command of facts, randomly verified via internet and sundry sources, but he was mistaken in garbled bit of character dialogue, the Arctic Circle isn’t north of Vermont — it is Vermont’s northern border. Just about anyone from Texas knows that.
The book rips right along, at a predictable pace, frenetic and breathless, like chugging convenience store/gas station coffee, a frequent occurrence. I think this is the character who invented the hydration bladder filled with energy drink and high-octane coffee.
Tropic of Stupid
There was a further affections, as I was reading, I would pause long enough to look up old muscle cars. That was cute.
One of the many elements, the bit about the priest? Amusing, as as that aligns with experiences I’ve had, even in the last decade. Weird.
Tropic of Stupid
Another great book.
