There is a chilly little corner of the detective fiction world that belongs to the Scandinavians. We bundle up and visit from time to time, currently using our ice ax to hack through The Devil’s Star, the latest Jo Nesbo. We sort of liked the first two Nesbos, but it takes us a while in each book to get used to the hero’s name, which is Harry Hole. That’s right. What was Nesbo thinking? Big time reader Portia said she bailed out early from this one, and we understand why. Harry’s in an alcoholic fog for half the book, and it makes for very heavy going, but we have persisted, and it’s picked up the pace as Harry has put down the Jim Beam, so we’re going to make it through to the end, even though it has taken five times as long to read as a typical Sandford or six times as long as a Child. Oslo, which is where Nesbo events occur, is oddly attractive.
It’s still bicycle month, and we’re still disgusted over Lesley Alderman’s weenie-brained piece about helmets in the 5/22 New York Times. It’s full of bad statistics and hysteria, the kind of piece the NYT editors who themselves live in fear of falling and hurting themselves love to run without fact checking. There’s a smug quote from a Vermonter too, wouldn’t you know. We’re not linking to the Alderman piece because we don’t want any connection with the idiot. Two days before that feebleminded rant we were taken to task in our own elevator for not wearing a helmet. (Not for not wearing a helmet in the elevator but for not wearing a helmet on our bicycle) The berater was, wouldn’t you know, a transplanted New Yorker, so sure of herself and her righteousness. And we can’t say anything, because the member is always right. Grrrrrr.