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From the author of the highly acclaimed heavy metal memoir, Fargo Rock City, comes another hilarious and discerning take on massively popular culture—set in Chuck Klosterman’s den and your own—covering everything from the effect of John Cusack flicks to the crucial role of breakfast cereal to the awesome power of the Dixie Chicks.

Countless writers and artists have spoken for a generation, but no one has done it quite like Chuck Klosterman. With an exhaustive knowledge of popular culture and an almost effortless ability to spin brilliant prose out of unlikely subject matter, Klosterman attacks the entire spectrum of postmodern America: reality TV, Internet porn, Pamela Anderson, literary Jesus freaks, and the real difference between apples and oranges (of which there is none). And don’t even get him started on his love life and the whole Harry-Met-Sally situation.

Whether deconstructing Saved by the Bell episodes or the artistic legacy of Billy Joel, the symbolic importance of The Empire Strikes Back or the Celtics/Lakers rivalry, Chuck will make you think, he’ll make you laugh, and he’ll drive you insane—usually all at once. Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs is ostensibly about art, entertainment, infotainment, sports, politics, and kittens, but—really—it’s about us. All of us. As Klosterman realizes late at night, in the moment before he falls asleep, “In and of itself, nothing really matters. What matters is that nothing is ever ‘in and of itself.’” Read to believe.

• Sales Rank: #34452 in Books
• Brand: Klosterman, Chuck
• Published on: 2004-07-02
• Released on: 2004-07-02
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 8.44" h x .80" w x 5.50" l, .55 pounds
• Binding: Paperback
• 272 pages

Amazon.com Review
There's quite a bit of intelligent analysis and thought-provoking insight packed into the pages of Chuck Klosterman's Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, which is a little surprising considering how darn stupid most of Klosterman's subject matter actually is. Klosterman, one of the few members of the so-called "Generation X" to proudly embrace that label and the stereotypical image of disaffected slackers that often accompanies it, takes the reader on a witty and highly entertaining tour through portions of pop culture not usually subjected to analysis and presents his thoughts on Saved by the Bell, Billy Joel, amateur porn, MTV's The Real World, and much more. It would be easy in dealing with such subject matter to simply pile on some undergraduate level deconstruction, make a few jokes, and have yourself a clever little book. But Klosterman goes deeper than that, often employing his own life spent as a member of the lowbrow target demographic to measure the cultural impact of his subjects. While the book never quite lives up to the use of the word "manifesto" in the title (it's really more of a survey mixed with elements of memoir), there is much here to entertain and illuminate, particularly passages on the psychoses and motivations of breakfast cereal mascots, the difference between Celtic fans and Laker fans, and The Empire Strikes Back. Sections on a Guns n' Roses tribute band, The Sims, and soccer feel more like magazine pieces included to fill space than part of a cohesive whole. But when you're talking about a book based on a section of cultural history so reliant on a lack of attention span, even the incongruities feel somehow appropriate. --John Moe

From Publishers Weekly
There's a lot more cold cereal than sex or drugs in Klosterman's nostalgic, patchy collection of pop cultural essays, which, despite sparks of brilliance, fails to cohere. Having graduated from the University of North Dakota in 1994, Klosterman (Fargo Rock City) seems never to have left that time or place behind. He is an ironically self-aware, trivia-theorizing, unreconstructed slacker: "I'm a `Gen Xer,' okay? And I buy shit marketed to `Gen Xers.' And I use air quotes when I talk.... Get over it." The essay topics speak for themselves: the Sims, The Real World, Say Anything, Pamela Anderson, Billy Joel, the Lakers/Celtics rivalry, etc. The closest Klosterman gets to the 21st century is Internet porn and the Dixie Chicks. This is a shame, because he's is a skilled prose stylist with a witty, twisted brain, a photo-perfect memory for entertainment trivia and has real chops as a memoirist. The book's best moments arrive when he eschews argumentation for personal history. In "George Will vs. Nick Hornby," a tired screed against soccer suddenly comes to life when Klosterman tells the story of how he was fired from his high school summer job as a Little League baseball coach. The mothers wanted their sons to have equal playing time; Klosterman wanted "a run-manufacturing offensive philosophy modeled after Whitey Herzog's St. Louis Cardinals." In a chapter on relationships, Klosterman semi-jokes that he only has "three and a half dates worth of material." Remove all the dated pop culture analyses, and Klosterman's book has enough material for about half a really great memoir.
Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information, Inc.

From Booklist
In Fargo Rock City (2001), Klosterman parsed the midwestern heavy-metal scene. Now he broadens his scope to include the cultural implications of subjects as diverse as the Dixie Chicks, Internet porn, and soccer ("'the sport of the future' since 1977"). Fargo Rock City fans may blanch at chapter headings invoking the likes of George Will and Lisa Loeb, but never fear. "George Will vs. Nick Hornby: Ralph Nader Interlude" isn't about Will's wordy conservative philosophy but about Klosterman's tenure coaching a kids' soccer team, among other things. And it's the other things that account for Klosterman's appeal as he makes unexpected connections. Inspired by an early '80s NBA rivalry, he opines that "everyone who truly cares about basketball subconsciously knows that Celtics vs. Lakers reflects every fabric of male existence, just as everyone who loves rock 'n' roll knows that the difference between the Beatles and the Stones is not so much a dispute over music as it is a way to describe your own self-identity." Well, of course. Mike Tribby
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

Most helpful customer reviews

0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Odd Flow but Individually Essays Are Good
By P. Barrett Coleman
I really enjoyed this book for one reason: looking at things that would otherwise be mundane and extrapolating philosophy from them until they become relevant. It's something me and my friends do quite often such as suggesting how different Pokémon reflect people we know in real life. Who knew that talks about MTV's Real World, Billy Joel, Saved by the Bell, or the Sims could help us figure out ourselves. I admit that this book is probably geared towards the college-aged crows, as many of the references are things that we either grew up with or know about.

Though this book comes across as a cynical, comedic work (and trust me, it does), it has an odd way of being very profound with its assessments on life. I really liked the social commentary that talks about the world that will live in today, with people being shown on the mass media as flat and static characters to be more easily understood.

The best parts of the book were actually when he wasn't talking about the topic on hand. Sometimes Klosterman would get off topic and start talking about esoteric revelations of how people come to label themselves; hilarity usually ensued.

The essays might not flow from one chapter to the next, but every one will have you thinking and laughing.

1 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
Sex, "Drums" & Rock N' Roll
By Brian Murphy
As a big fan of Chuck's first book "Fargo Rock City", I was a little let down by his newest essay book. Some of the reviewers seem to be amazed by Chuck's memory of obscure trivia but if you think about it everyone can remember a certain song and who sang it, an obscure sports player and his or her claim to fame, or what type of engine came stock in a 1972 Corvette. All Chuck did was think of something obscure, contemplate it for a few minutes, went on the internet to get the rest of the information and to make sure he was correct and then wrote a short essay. I'm not downing Chuck for this or his book but I'm not going to give him high praise either. There were some interesting essays and then there were a few "soggy" ones. More importantly, was some of the essays that I liked or found interesting were ones I actually disagreed with. But as with music or art, if something makes you think and have a discussion with your friends or family than it should be given its' kudos. Thus, I give 3.5 stars. There were also some topics in this book that were brought up in his first book.

5 of 7 people found the following review helpful.
Frequently Hilarious Essays on Pop Culture
By A. Ross
In the footsteps of Klosterman's Midwestern memoir/history of hair metal (Fargo Rock City) comes this collection of eighteen essays bearing the asterixed subtitle "A Low Culture Manifesto". The subtitle itself speaks volumes about the author's general style:a hyper-ironically witty phrase that displays a certain level of erudition along with a wink-wink, nudge-nudge. Klosterman is almost exactly my age, which means that our broad exposure pop culture exposure has been nearly identical, and while I greatly enjoyed the majority of the essays, there's a tension in his writing between wanting to make fun of low culture, and wanting to treat it seriously. It's the same tension (and flaw) of Fargo Rock City-he's writing about his guilty pleasures, but can't quite commit to the guilt or the pleasure. All that aside, I've probably recommended this book to more friends of mine than any other in recent months.
If you browse it in the store be aware that the first essay (about how John Cusak, and emo songsmiths like Coldplay have made the concept of love very tricky for Gen Xers-or at least middle-class white ones), is far and away the best in the book. Which is not to say there isn't a lot of other great stuff. The second essay, about the computer game The Sims, is hugely funny (if only slightly insightful) and the fifth (which first ran in The New York Times Magazine) is an engaging account of a weekend spent on the road with a Guns N' Roses cover band. The sixth is also quite strong, being a comparison of Pamela Anderson with Marilyn Monroe that seeks to explain how the role of celebrity has changed over the half-century between them. His essay on internet porn is brief, funny, and moderately thoughtful. Essay ten, on children's breakfast cereals is almost entirely tongue in cheek, and is hilarious. His thirteenth essay wins the prize for best title ("The Awe-Inspired Beauty of Tom Cruise's Shattered, Troll-like Face"), and is a mostly enjoyable muddle of thoughts about contemporary film. After this is a rather wandering (but good) piece on the popularity of country music. Essays sixteen and seventeen are all about the media. The first is a sort of general purpose "here's the truth about the media from an insider" piece, and the second is a very keen report on music critic's conference. Closing things out is a critique of the wildly popular "Left Behind" series. I would recommend all of these to various of my friends.
However, a third of the book isn't so good.. The third essay is about MTV's The Real World series, and fails to make any original points about the reality genre. The fourth is a tortured attempt to explain why Billy Joel is cool, and fails on all levels. The seventh entry is a really weak anti-soccer piece that is a total failure except for a portion where he details his job as a youth baseball coach and subsequent firing. The next essay, about the Lakers/Celtics rivalry of the '80s is equally muddled, and incoherent (probably way more so to those who weren't paying attention to the NBA in the '80s). Essay eleven is about the seminal TV show Saved By the Bell, which I've never watched, so that one went right over my head. This is followed by a rather weak essay attempting to tie Gen X malaise to The Empire Strikes Back.
Klosterman's writing style is kind of love it or hate it (I love it). He's too clever and sarcastic by half, and doesn't mind showing it off, which can be kind of refreshing. He's also one of the best writers I've encountered when it comes to profanity-he uses it a lot and quite naturally, which helps to draw you into his bizarre little world. He's also a hilarious footnoter, for example, his essay on Internet porn starts: "When exactly did every housewife in America become a whore?" with the footnote reading "Except of course, my mom." He's also a very prolific digressor, which may infuriate those who want writers to adhere to their one main point, but I rather enjoy the little side trips. I found the 2/3 of the essays that I liked so engaging that I'm willing to let the other 1/3 slide-this time.

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~ Free Ebook Alec Guinness: The Authorised Biography, by Piers Paul Read

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Sir Alec Guinness was one the greatest actors of the twentieth century. With a talent recognised by discerning critics from his very first appearance on the stage he gained a world-wide reputation playing roles on the screen such Fagin in OLIVER TWIST and THE MAN IN THE WHITE SUIT. His performance as Colonel Nicholson in BRIDGE ON THE RIVER KWAI won him an Oscar and in his later years he captivated a new generation of admirers as George Smiley in TINKER, TAILOR, SOLDIER, SPY and Ben Kenobi in STAR WARS. Guinness was a man who vigorously guarded his privacy and, despite publishing an autobiography, BLESSINGS IN DISGUISE, and two volumes of his diaries, he remained an enigma to the general public and a mystery even to his family and closest friends. After his death in August, 2000, his widow Merula asked the author Piers Paul Read, who had been a friend of her husband, to write his biography. Given full co-operation by the Guinness family and free access to Sir Alec's papers, including his private and unpublished diaries, Read has written a penetrating and perceptive account of an intriguing and complex man.

• Sales Rank: #672471 in Books
• Brand: Brand: Simon n Schuster
• Published on: 2005-06-21
• Released on: 2005-06-21
• Format: Deckle Edge
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 9.25" h x 1.72" w x 6.25" l, 1.99 pounds
• Binding: Hardcover
• 640 pages

Features

• Used Book in Good Condition

From Publishers Weekly
When Guinness died in 2000, his widow designated Read (Alive!) as the actor's authorized biographer, and the results are mixed. Read doesn't allow his friendship with Guinness to interfere with an honest account of some unsavory aspects of the actor's personality (e.g., his frequent cruelty to his wife). But Read's treatment of his subject's professional career is spotty—while Guinness's early years in London theater are well represented, some of his best films from the 1950s are barely mentioned, and even his most famous role, as Obi-Wan Kenobi in Star Wars and its sequels, gets less than 10 pages. Instead, Read offers repeated, lengthy speculations about his subject's sexuality. Anecdotal evidence and cryptic diary entries do suggest Guinness may have wrestled with an attraction to men, and might even on occasion have acted upon it and felt guilty afterward, but the issue probably doesn't require quite so much attention. Read fares better in discussing other aspects of Guinness's emotional life, including his ambivalence toward the mother who conceived him out of wedlock, and an adult conversion to Roman Catholicism. Readers hoping for the usual celebrity biography filled with the star's encounters with other stars, however, will likely be disappointed. B&w photos.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Review
"A deeply intelligent work, full of humanity and passion."-- "The Independent on Sunday"

About the Author
Piers Paul Read is the author of thirteen acclaimed novels, most recently Alice in Exile, and four works of non-fiction, among them a history of the crusading order, The Templars, and the international bestseller Alive! Past novels have won the Hawthornden Prize and the Geoffrey Faber, Somerset Maugham and James Tait Black Awards. He lives in London.

Most helpful customer reviews

11 of 11 people found the following review helpful.
Alec Guinness: The Authorized Biography
By SusieQ
I found this to be an outstanding biography of Alec Guinness, the man and the actor. I have to say I don't really understand the objections that the Publisher's Weekly blurb (directly above) raises about this biography: "Read's treatment of his subject's professional career is spotty... some of his best films from the 1950's are barely mentioned." Huh? There's more than just adequate coverage of Guinness's 1950's films (and films from other decades). Read describes the directors and other personalities involved; he describes Guinness's performances and how they were received by critics both at the time, and later.

"Readers hoping for the usual celebrity biography filled with the star's encounters with other stars...will be disappointed." GOOD, I say! This biography offers us much, much more than that kind of shallowness. There are no mere "encounters" here, thankfully, but many warm friendships.

And I, for one, can live comfortably with less than 10 pages about Obi-Wan. Alec Guinness's life and career are worth much more than that one role.

I didn't find any "repeated, lengthy speculations about his subject's sexuality" here. Just a kind of caring, gently worded, non-blatant exploration of the question of bisexuality or homosexuality. It was apparently a lifelong conflict, so naturally the biographer would have to raise the issue more than once as the subject's life went on. I prefer the fact that this author presents Mr. Guinness's whole life in "shades of gray", as opposed to reducing it to a black or white, definitive - he was this/he was that. No man's life, especially sex life, can be summed up with that kind of ease.

Guinness was a conflicted man and a very unhappy man at times. He frequently made those closest to him unhappy too, but he was living with the hand he was dealt by his birth and the experiences of his childhood. His conversion to Catholicism, and the way he incorporated; actively tried, to live his Catholic faith (even in his doubtful periods) is described very thoroughly and affectingly. However, I can't help thinking (and regretting) that his times and his character didn't allow Guinness to seek out a therapist. Talking and working with a therapist might have alleviated at least some of the inner torments Catholicism couldn't reach.

This sometimes makes for sad reading, especially when one sees how 'un-faithfully', cruelly, he could treat his friends and family. Yet his religion apparently did provide him with comfort, and a guiding power. As the author mentions, and I paraphrase: Evelyn Waugh was noted to say that he recognized he was an unpleasant man, but without Catholicism he would have been much worse. Guinness agreed with that as regards himself.

Finally, I don't understand the Amazon reviewer who said that Merula Guinness must have commissioned Mr. Read to write this authorized biography to "get a bit of her own back" (i.e., revenge herself?). If that were so (and she was way above that, in any case) she would have chosen a hack writer. This biography is so much more than a hack job.

Mr. Read presents his subject's life articulately in a readable, engrossing, and revelatory (in the best sense) manner. Highly recommended.

18 of 20 people found the following review helpful.
A sad look at the personal life of a legendary actor
By Bookreporter
Alec Guinness's career spanned generations. Great-grandparents might recall his days on the British stage. Grandparents may have seen such classics as The Bridge on the River Kwai and Lawrence of Arabia. Younger cinemaphiles still picture him as Obi Wan Kenobi in Star Wars.

Like most actors, Guinness had more than his share of success with a few clinkers thrown in. Piers Paul Read reveals the enormity of his life's work, along with a massive account of Sir Alec's personal side, in ALEC GUINNESS: The Authorised Biography.

Read, author of more than a dozen books, has done a huge amount of research, culling letters and journals from Guinness and his extended Guinness family, as well as a large circle of friends and acquaintances, to produce an intimate portrait of one of the greatest actors --- along with fellow Englishmen Olivier and Gielgud --- of stage, screen and television.

Guinness came from humble roots. His mother was an alcoholic who never married his father and became an embarrassment to the celebrity as he grew older. It was a stigma that no doubt weighed heavily on him as a young man and beyond, and formed his persona. He was at the same time generous and tight with his money, easily offended but quick to make friends. These paradoxes form the main theme for ALEC GUINNESS.

He found a soul mate in his wife, Merula, to whom he would be married for more than forty years, but once their son, Matthew, was born, their conjugal relationship was non-existent. Nevertheless, she was the perfect partner, casting a blind eye to his moodiness and confusing behavior, especially when it came to Guinness's "infatuations" with pretty young men.

Read is very careful in his phraseology, employing language such as "While there is no evidence whatsoever of a sexual relationship between Alex and this, or indeed, any other man..." and "The exact nature of Alec's sexuality, however, is not at all clear." Such refusal on the part of the author to take a stand can be infuriating, since so much of this psycho-biography is devoted to Guinness's "leanings."

Perhaps as a method to fight his demons, the actor sought refuge in religion, converting to Catholicism and putting great stock in his friendships with priests and nuns. A significant portion of the book flips back and forth between the sacred and the profane, so to speak, with Read reporting dozens of instances of behavior that can only be viewed as questionable, despite the fact that Guinness does not seem to have ever acted on his confusing urges. "It would seem...that Alec felt disordered passions could be controlled, if not cured, by prayer, repentance and the Grace of God. Yet he was never able to detach himself altogether from his homosexual alter-ego."

As can be expected from books of this type, the author covers the major accomplishments in his subject's life, for which movie fans can be grateful. The details can get a bit much; the book no doubt could have been shorter than its 600-plus pages but no less interesting had Read omitted copious recounts of how much Guinness spent on hotel rooms or lunches.

Ultimately, ALEC GUINNESS is a sad book. One has the feeling that between the sexual situation, concerns over finances, and relationships with family and friends --- and despite all of the artistic accomplishments --- Sir Alec was rarely truly happy. Read makes us actually feel sorry for the legendary actor.

--- Reviewed by Ron Kaplan (...)

4 of 5 people found the following review helpful.
GUINNESS COMES TO LIFE
By kip
This may well be the best biography I have ever read. I loved it from cover to cover, because the author does such a wonderful job of bringing Guinness to life and bringing out all of his good points, foibles, and contradictions. It is an incredibly thorough biography, well-researched, and truly balanced. The author loves Guinness, but the book comes nowhere near being a hagiography. I especially love how the author weaves Guinness's spiritual journey throughout the narrative, and Guinness's struggle with his homosexual feelings as a Roman Catholic. It is a fascinating, fascinating read. I frequently get it off the shelf and re-read various parts of it. I cannot recommend it highly enough!!

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Here for the first time in a single volume are three of Richard Bach's most compelling works about flight.
From his edgy days as a USAF Alert pilot above Europe in an armed F84-F Thunderstreak during the Cold War to a meander across America in a 1929 biplane, Bach explores the extreme edges of the air, his airplane, and himself in glorious writing about how it feels to climb into a machine, leave the earth, and fly.
Only a handful of writers have translated their experiences in the cockpit into books that have mesmerized generations.

• Sales Rank: #874554 in Books
• Brand: Brand: Scribner
• Published on: 2003-10-29
• Released on: 2003-10-29
• Format: Deluxe Edition
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 9.25" h x 1.60" w x 6.12" l, 1.80 pounds
• Binding: Hardcover
• 464 pages

Features

• Used Book in Good Condition

Review
The New York Times A classic of men who sail the upper regions of the earth.

About the Author
Richard Bach, a former USAF pilot, gypsy barnstormer, and airplane mechanic, is the author of fifteen books. This, his fourth book, spent two years on the New York Times bestseller list and has continued to inspire millions for decades. His website is RichardBach.com.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One

The wind tonight is from the west, down runway two eight. It pushes gently at my polka-dot scarf and makes the steel buckles of my parachute harness tinkle in the darkness. It is a cold wind, and because of it my takeoff roll will be shorter than usual and my airplane will climb more quickly than it usually does when it lifts into the sky.

Two ground crewmen work together to lift a heavy padlocked canvas bag of Top Secret documents into the nose of the airplane. It sags awkwardly into space normally occupied by contoured ammunition cans, above four oiled black machine guns, and forward of the bomb release computers. Tonight I am not a fighter pilot. I am a courier for thirty-nine pounds of paper that is of sudden urgent interest to my wing commander, and though the weather this night over Europe is already freakish and violent, I have been asked to move these pounds of paper from England into the heart of France.

In the bright beam of my flashlight, the Form One, with its inked boxes and penciled initials, tells me that the airplane is ready, that it carries only minor shortcomings of which I already know: a dent in one drop tank, an inspection of the command radio antenna is due, the ATO system is disconnected. It is hard to turn the thin pages of the Form One with gloves on, but the cold wind helps me turn them.

Form signed, gun bay door locked over the mysterious canvas bag, I climb the narrow yellow ladder to my dark cockpit, like a high-booted mountain climber pulling himself to a peak from whose snows he can stand and look down upon the world. My peak is the small cockpit of a Republic F-84F Thunderstreak.

The safety belt of the yellow-handled ejection seat is wide nylon web, heavy and olive-drab; into its explosive buckle fits the nylon harness from over my shoulders and the amber steel link that automatically opens my parachute if I should have to bail out tonight. I surround myself with the universal quiet metallic noises of a pilot joining himself to his airplane. The two straps to the seat cushion survival kit, after their usual struggle, are captured and clink softly to my parachute harness. The green oxygen mask fits into its regulator hose with a muffled rubbery snap. The steel D-ring lanyard clanks as it fastens to the curved bar of the parachute rip-cord handle. The red-streamered ejection seat safety pin scrapes out of its hole drilled in the trigger of the right armrest and rustles in the darkness into the small pocket on the leg of my tight-laced G suit. The elastic leg strap of my scratched aluminum kneeboard cinches around my left thigh, latching itself with a hollow clank. My hard white fiberglass crash helmet, dark-visored, gold-lettered 1/lt. bach, fits stiffly down to cover my head, its soft sponge-rubber earphones waiting a long cold moment before they begin to warm against my ears. The chamois chinstrap snaps at the left side, microphone cable connects with its own frosty click into the aircraft radio cord, and at last the wind-chilled green rubber oxygen mask snugs over my nose and mouth, fitting with a tight click-click of the smooth chromed fastener at the right side of the helmet. When the little family of noises is still, by tubes and wires and snaps and buckles, my body is attached to the larger, sleeping body of my airplane.

Outside, in the dark moving blanket of cold, a ghostly yellow auxiliary power unit roars into life, controlled by a man in a heavy issue parka who is hoping that I will be quick to start my engine and taxi away. Despite the parka, he is cold. The clatter and roar of the big gasoline engine under his hands settles a bit, and on its voltage dials, white needles spring into their green arcs.

From the engine of the power unit, through the spinning generator, through the black rubber snake into the cold silver wing of my airplane, through the marked wires of the DC electrical system, the power explodes in my dark cockpit as six brilliant red and yellow warning lights, and as quick tremblings of a few instrument pointers.

My leather gloves, stamped with the white wings and star of Air Force property, go through a familiar little act for the interested audience that watches from behind my eyes. From left to right around the cockpit they travel; checking left console circuit breakers in, gun heater switch off, engine screen switch extend, drop tank pressure switches off, speed break switch extend, throttle off, altimeter, drag chute handle, sight caging lever, radio compass, TACAN, oxygen, generator, IFF, inverter selector. The gloves dance, the eyes watch. The right glove flourishes into the air at the end of its act and spins a little circle of information to the man waiting in the wind below: checks are finished, engine is starting in two seconds. Now it is throttle on, down with the glove, and starter switch to start.

There is no time to take a breath or blink the eye. There is one tiny tenth-second hiss before concussion shatters icy air. Suddenly, instantly, air and sparks and Jet Propellant Four. My airplane is designed to start its engine with an explosion. It can be started in no other way. But the sound is a keg of black powder under the match, a cannon firing, the burst of a hand grenade. The man outside blinks, painfully.

With the blast, as though with suddenly opened eyes, my airplane is alive. Instantly awake. The thunderclap is gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a quiet rising whine that peaks quickly, very high, and slides back down the scale into nothingness. But before the whine is gone, deep inside the engine, combustion chambers have earned their name. The luminous white pointer of the gage marked exhaust gas temperature pivots upward, lifting as thermocouples taste a swirling flood of yellow fire that twists from fourteen stainless steel chambers. The fire spins a turbine. The turbine spins a compressor. The compressor crushes fuel and air for the fire. Weak yellow flames change to businesslike blue torches held in their separate round offices, and the ghostly power unit is needed no more.

Flourish with the right glove, finger pointing away; away the power, I'm on my own.

Tailpipe temperature is settled and at home with 450 degrees of centigrade, tachometer steadies to note that the engine is turning at 45 percent of its possible rpm. The rush of air to the insatiable steel engine is a constant rasping scream at the oval intake, a chained banshee shrieking in the icy black air and the searing blue fire.

Hydraulic pressure shows on a dial, under a pointer. Speed brake switch to retract, and the pressure pulls two great slabs of steel to disappear into the smooth sides of my airplane. Rainbow lights go dark as pressure rises in systems for fuel and oil. I have just been born, with the press of wind at my scarf. With the wind keening along the tall swept silver of my rudder. With the rush of wind to the torches of my engine.

There is one light left on, stubbornly glowing over a placard marked canopy unlocked. My left glove moves a steel handle aft. With the right I reach high overhead to grasp the frame of the counterbalanced section of double-walled Plexiglas. A gentle pull downward, and the smooth-hinged canopy settles over my little world. I move the handle forward in my left glove, I hear a muffled sound of latches engaging, I see the light wink out. The wind at my scarf is gone.

I am held by my straps and my buckles and my wires in a deep pool of dim red light. In the pool is all that I must know about my airplane and my position and my altitude until I pull the throttle back to off, one hour and twenty-nine minutes and 579 airway miles from Wethersfield Air Base, England.

This base means nothing to me. When I landed it was a long runway in the sunset, a tower operator giving taxi directions, a stranger waiting for me in Operations with a heavy padlocked canvas bag. I was in a hurry when I arrived, I am in a hurry to leave. Wethersfield, with its hedges and its oak trees that I assume are part of all English towns, with its stone houses and mossed roofs and its people who watched the Battle of Britain cross the sky with black smoke, is to me Half Way. The sooner I leave Wethersfield a smudge in the darkness behind, the sooner I can finish the letter to my wife and my daughter, the sooner I can settle into a lonely bed and mark another day gone from the calendar. The sooner I can take myself beyond the unknown that is the weather high over Europe.

On the heavy black throttle under my left glove there is a microphone button, and I press it with my thumb. "Wethersfield Tower," I say to the microphone buried in the snug green rubber of my oxygen mask. I hear my own voice in the earphones of my helmet, and know that in the high glass cube of the control tower the same voice and the same words are this moment speaking. "Air Force Jet Two Niner Four Zero Five; taxi information and standing by for ATC clearance."

It still sounds strange. Air Force Jet. Six months ago it was Air Guard Jet. It was one weekend a month, and fly when you have the spare time. It was the game of flying better than Air Force pilots and shooting straighter than Air Force pilots, with old airplanes and with a full-time civilian job. It was watching the clouds of tension mushroom over the world, and knowing for certain that if the country needed more firepower, my squadron would be a part of it. It was thirty-one pilots in the squadron knowing that fact, knowing that they could leave the squadron before the recall came; and it was the same thirty-one pilots, two months later, flying their worn airplanes without inflight refueling, across the Atlantic into France. Air Force Jet.

"Roger, Zero Five," comes a new voice in the earphones. "Taxi runway two eight; wind is two seven zero degrees at one five knots, altimeter is two niner niner five, tower time is two one two five, clearance is on request. Type aircraft, please."

I twist the small knurled knob near the altimeter to set 29.95 in a red-lit window. The hands of the altimeter move slightly. My gloved thumb is down again on the microphone button. "Roger, tower, Zero Five is a Fox Eight Four, courier: returning to Chaumont Air Base, France."

Forward goes the thick black throttle and in the quickening roar of startled, very hot thunder, my Republic F-84F, slightly dented, slightly old-fashioned, governed by my left glove, begins to move. A touch of boot on left brake and the airplane turns. Back with the throttle to keep from blasting the man and his power unit with a 600-degree hurricane from the tailpipe. Tactical Air Navigation selector to transmit and receive.

The sleeping silver silhouettes of the F-100's of Wethersfield Air Base sweep by in the dark as I taxi, and I am engulfed in comfort. The endless crackle of light static in my earphones, the intimate weight of my helmet, the tremble of my airplane, rocking and slowly pitching as it rolls on hard tires and oil-filled struts over the bumps and ridges of the taxiway. Like an animal. Like a trusted and trusting eager heavy swift animal of prey, the airplane that I control from its birth to its sleep trundles toward the two-mile runway lulled by the murmur of the cold wind.

The filtered voice of the tower operator shatters the serene static in the earphones. "Air Force Jet Two Niner Four Zero Five, clearance received. Ready to copy?"

My pencil springs from flight jacket sleeve to poise itself over the folded flight plan trapped in the jaws of the clipboard on my left leg. "Ready to copy."

"ATC clears; Air Force Jet Two Niner Four Zero Five to the Chaumont Airport..." I mark the words in scrawled shorthand. I have been cleared to fly the route I have planned. "...via direct Abbeville, direct Laon, direct Spangdahlem, direct Wiesbaden, direct Phalsbourg, direct Chaumont." A route detoured before it begins; planned to avoid the mass of storms and severe weather that the forecaster has marked in red squares across the direct route to my home base. "Climb in radar control to flight level three three zero, contact Anglia control..." The clearance comes in through the earphones and out through the sharp point of the pencil; whom to contact and when and on which frequency, one hour and twenty-nine minutes of flying pressed onto a four-inch square of penciled paper bathed in dim red light. I read the shorthand back to the tower operator, and tap the brakes to stop short of the runway.

"Roger, Zero Five, readback is correct. Cleared for takeoff; no reported traffic in the local area."

Throttle forward again and the airplane swings into takeoff position on runway two eight. The concrete is wide and long. The painted white stripe along its center is held at one end by my nosewheel, at the invisible other end by the tough nylon webbing of the overrun barrier. A twin row of white edge lights converges in the black distance ahead, pointing the way. The throttle moves now, under my left glove, all the way forward; until the radium-caked tachometer needle covers the line marked 100 percent, until the tailpipe temperature is up by the short red arc on the dial that means 642 degrees centigrade, until each pointer on each dial of the red-soaked instrument panel agrees with what we are to do, until I say to myself, as I say every time, Here we go. I release the brakes.

There is no instant rush of speed, no head forced against the headrest. I feel only a gentle push at my back. The stripe of the runway unrolls, lazily at first, beneath the nosewheel. Crackling thunder twists and blasts and tumbles behind me, and, slowly, I see the runway lights begin to blur at the side of the concrete and the airspeed needle lifts to cover 50 knots, to cover 80 knots, to cover 120 knots (go/no-go speed checks OK) and between the two white rows of blur I see the barrier waiting in the darkness at the end of the runway and the control stick tilts easily back in my right glove and the airspeed needle is covering 160 knots and the nosewheel lifts from the concrete and the main wheels follow a half second later and there is nothing in the world but me and an airplane alive and together and the cool wind lifts us to its heart and we are one with the wind and one with the dark sky and the stars ahead and the barrier is a forgotten dwindling blur behind and the wheels swing up to tuck themselves away in my seamless aluminum skin and the airspeed is up to one nine zero and flap lever forward and airspeed two two zero and I am in my element and I am flying. I am flying.

The voice that I hear in the soft earphones is unlike my own. It is the voice of a man concerned only with business; a man speaking while he has yet many things to do. Still it is my thumb down on the microphone button and my words screened through the receiver in the tower. "Wethersfield Tower, Air Force Jet Two Niner Four Zero Five departing on course, leaving your station and frequency."

My airplane climbs easily through the strange clear air over southern England, and my gloves, not content to accept idleness, move across the cockpit and complete the little tasks that have been assigned to them. The needles of my altimeter swing quickly through the 5,000-foot mark, and while my gloves work at the task of retracting the engine screens, pressurizing the drop tanks, loosing the D-ring lanyard from the rip cord, setting the pneumatic compressor into life, I notice suddenly that there is no moon. I had hoped for a moon.

My eyes, at the command of the audience behind them, check once again that all the small-dialed engine instruments have pointers properly under their arcs of green paint on the glass. The right glove, conscientious, pushes the oxygen lever from 100 percent to normal, and sets the four white numbers of the departure control frequency in the four black windows of the command ultrahigh-frequency transmitter.

The strange voice that is mine speaks to the radar control center guiding my departure. The voice is capable of doing the necessary talking, the gloves are capable of moving throttle and control stick to guide the slanting climb of my airplane into the night. Ahead of me, through the heavy angled glass of the windscreen, through a shrinking wall of clear air, is the weather. I can see that it hugs the ground at first, low and thin, as if uncertain that it is over the land that it has been assigned to cover.

The three white hands of the altimeter swing through 10,000 feet, sending my right glove into another, shorter, series of menial tasks in the cockpit. It dials now the numbers 387 into the pie-slice of window on the radio compass control panel. In the soft earphones are the faint Morse letters A-B: the Abbeville radio beacon.

Abbeville. Twenty years ago the Abbeville Boys, flying Messerschmitt 109's with yellow-spiral spinners around their propeller-hub cannon, were the best fighter pilots in the German Luftwaffe. Abbeville was the place to go when you were looking for a fight, and a place to avoid when you carried canvas sacks instead of machine-gun bullets. Abbeville on one side of the Channel, Tangmere and Biggin Hill on the other. Messerschmitt on one side and Spitfire on the other. And a tangle of white contrails and lines of falling black smoke in the crystal air between.

The only distance that lies between me and a yellow-nosed ME-109 is a little bend of the river called time. The wash of waves on the sands of Calais. The hush of wind across chessboard Europe. The spinning of one hour hand. Same air, same sea, same hour hand, same river of time. But the Messerschmitts are gone. And the magnificent Spitfires. Could my airplane tonight carry me not along the river, but across the bend of it, the world would look exactly as it looks tonight. And in this same air before them, in another block of old air, the Breguets and the Latés and One Lonely Ryan, coming in from the west, into the glare of searchlights over Le Bourget. And back across the confluences of the river, a host of Nieuports and Pfalzes and Fokkers and Sopwiths, of Farmans and Bleriots, of Wright Flyers, of Santos-Dumont dirigibles, of Montgolfiers, of hawks circling, circling. As men looked up from the ground. Into the sky just as it is tonight.

The eternal sky, the dreaming man.

The river flows.

The eternal sky, the striving man.

The river flows.

The eternal sky, the conquering man.

Tonight Tangmere and Biggin Hill are quiet lighted rectangles of concrete under the cloud that slips beneath my airplane, and the airport near Abbeville is dark. But there is still the crystal air and it whispers over my canopy and blasts into the gaping oval intake a gun's length ahead of my boots.

It is sad, to be suddenly a living part of what should belong to old memory and faded gun-camera films. My reason for being on the far shore of the Atlantic is to be always ready to mold new memories of the victory of Us against Them, and to squeeze the trigger that adds another few feet to history's reel of gun-camera film. I am here to become a part of a War That Could Be, and this is the only place I belong if it changes into a War That Is.

But rather than learning to hate, or even to be more uncaring about the enemy who threatens on the other side of the mythical iron curtain, I have learned in spite of myself that he might actually be a man, a human being. During my short months in Europe, I have lived with German pilots, with French pilots, Norwegian pilots, with pilots from Canada and from England. I have discovered, almost to my surprise, that Americans are not the only people in the world who fly airplanes for the sheer love of flying them. I have learned that airplane pilots speak the same language and understand the same unspoken words, whatever their country. They face the same headwinds and the same storms. And as the days pass without war, I find myself asking if a pilot, because of the political situation under which he lives, can possibly be a totally different man from all the pilots living in all the political systems across the earth.

This man of mystery, this Russian pilot about whose life and thoughts I know so little, becomes in my mind a man not unlike myself, who is flying an airplane fitted with rockets and bombs and machine guns not because he loves destruction but because he loves his airplane, and the job of flying a capable, spirited airplane in any air force cannot be divorced from the job of killing when there is a war to be fought.

I am growing to like this probable pilot of the enemy, the more so because he is an unknown and forbidden man, with no one to bear witness of the good in him, and so many at hand to condemn his evils.

If war is declared here in Europe, I will never know the truth of the man who mounts the cockpit of a red-starred airplane. If war is declared, we are unleashed against each other, like starved wolves, to fight. A friend of mine, a true proven friend, neither imagined nor conjured out of possibilities, will fall to the guns of a Russian pilot. Somewhere an American will die under his bombs. In that instant I will be swallowed up in one of the thousand evils of war; I will have lost the host of unmet friends who are the Russian pilots. I will rejoice in their death, take pride in the destruction of their beautiful airplanes under my own rockets and my own guns. If I succumb to hate, I will myself become certainly and unavoidably a lesser man. In my pride I will be less worthy of pride. I will kill the enemy, and in so doing will bring my own death upon me. And I am sad.

But this night no war has been declared. It seems, in the quiet days, almost as if our nations might learn to live with each other, and this night the eastern pilot of my imagining, more real than the specter he would become in wartime, is flying his own solitary airplane into his own capricious weather.

My gloves are at work again, leveling the airplane at 33,000 feet. Throttle comes back under the left glove until the engine tachometer shows 94 percent rpm. The thumb of the right glove touches the trim button on the control stick once and again, quickly, forward. The eyes flick from instrument to instrument, and all is in order. Fuel flow is 2,500 pounds per hour. Mach needle is resting over .8, which means that my true airspeed is settling at 465 knots. The thin luminous needle of the radio compass, over its many-numbered dial, pivots suddenly as the Abbeville radio beacon passes beneath my airplane, under the black cloud. Eyes make a quick check of transmitter frequency, voice is ready with a position report to air traffic control, left thumb is down on the microphone button at 2200 hours, and the audience behind the eyes sees the first faint flash of lightning in the high opaque darkness ahead.

First Scribner Classics Edition 2003

Most helpful customer reviews

20 of 20 people found the following review helpful.
If you love flying. . .or love someone who loves flying. . .this is the book to get
By William R. Forstchen
This work is an "omnibus" edition of Richard Bach's three great classics on flying. Readers familiar with Bach tend to think of "Jonathan Livingston Seagull" (any of us in college in the 70s remember that one!) but long before Jonathan took wing, Bach had his own flying adventures, first as a military pilot during the early years of the cold war, and then, remarkably as a "barnstormer" flying an antique plane around the country. These three books recount those adventures of his earlier years.

I first discovered them when learning to fly in my early twenties. Time, circumstances, life in general took me away from my passion of flying until recently, when I again took to the air in a light weight aircraft and am just about finished with restoring a light weight replica of a P-51 Mustang. I fell back into Bach's works and discovered, yet again, all the wonderful memories, and yes, telling me as well about why, after a bit of a gut tightening moment when something doesn't feel right with the plane, I take a deep breath and behold, there is the splendor of the world below me at dawn, the beauty of circling a cloud that no one, before or ever after, will see as I now see it, and that sweet sense of being one with my plane as I slide into final approach and touch the earth again.

If you love flying, this is your book. If you love someone who loves flying (and can't figure out exactly why they do such crazy things!) buy this book, read it, get the insights, then hand it over to the pilot who will be thrilled that you now "understand."

I am delighted that Bach's three great works are back out there again in this single edition.

Bill in North Carolina

co-owner of a Loehle P-51 Mustang "Gloria Ann III"

4 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
hear it from Huck
By Paul M. Huckelberry
I am a pilot who up until this year hadn't flown in over twenty years. Reading this book opened my eyes again to my love of flying and the spiritual freedom I have enjoyed by my time in the air. Because of this book I have once again started flying. But the book is more than just flying. It is about finding out what is important to you -REALLY important and finding the courage to look beyond all of the excuses for not following your dream. Trust the universe and do what you were meant to do!!

4 of 5 people found the following review helpful.
As a gift it's a hit!
By Mary A. Earhart
I bought this book as a gift for my son who is taking flying lessons and working at a small airport. I had read Bach's stories separately and liked them all. My son loved it! It makes a lovely gift.

See all 10 customer reviews...

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Preston the Project Mishap
Ernest the Undercover Sugarbooty
Marvin the Married Man-Boy
Forrest the Foul Fiancé
What single woman hasn't been desperate enough to risk it all in an attempt to find True Love? Vulnerable enough to believe in the whole girl-meets-boy, girl-and-boy-fall-in-love, the-two-live-happily-ever-after, blah, blah, blah? News flash: It never happens that way. Eventually, a girl learns that the road to Mr. Right is littered with more than a few Mr. No Ways.
I Wish I Never Met You is the hilarious, uncensored confession of one woman, reeling from a lifetime of dating disasters -- the blind dates, the nightclub crawlers, the ballers, the liars, and the ugly but earnest suitors. As she tries to sort out what she's learned from the heartache and the embarrassments, she'll have you laughing out loud, thanking God it's not your life while recognizing that you've made all the same mistakes.

• Sales Rank: #3843810 in Books
• Published on: 2004-08-10
• Released on: 2004-08-10
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 8.00" h x .49" w x 5.25" l, .42 pounds
• Binding: Paperback
• 224 pages

Most helpful customer reviews

3 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
amusing chick lit slice and dice men short story collection
By A Customer
She makes no apologies for her treatment of men, insisting she was not always right or wrong as all she wanted was to find her soulmate. Instead the sister insists that the highlights of her manly encounters were the dregs; some of the cretins she "dated" had genetic issues and those were higher up the food chain than several of these losers. In other words there are an overwhelmingly larger number of Mr. Wrongs than Mr. Rights.

I WISH I NEVER MET YOU is often an amusing chick lit short story collection starring a sassy (too cocky perhaps for some) in your face African-American woman. The narrator circumcises the males she encounters for containing physical, mental, emotional, or marital status failures. Some readers will be turned off by the profanity and vividly graphic descriptions of her "golden" dates with the "shiftless, stupid, and the ugly". Still well written, the audience will laugh at the antics and comments of the narrator, but also feel somewhat guilty for doing so since the protagonist is dislikable for her arrogant disregard of the feelings of others she considers her inferiors as throughout this anthology slices and dices men.

Harriet Klausner

2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
I never knew breaking up could be such fun!!!!
By Charalynn
I stumbled across this book while looking for interesting reads to entertain myself after a pretty bad break up. I have never laughed so hard before in my life...I know I woke my neighbors! I loved it so much that I passed this on to friends who felt the same. The all-too-real scenarios mixed with the over-the-top outcomes provide a very workable yet unparalled blend of down-home (almost street-corner) wit, intentionally shocking humor, precise imagery and slightly sadistic introspection (i.e., the "affirmations" at the end of each chapter). Not for the faint of heart or those looking for fairytale endings...dark humor at its best!!!

5 of 9 people found the following review helpful.
The Bottom Line
By The RAWSISTAZ Reviewers
Look for it, and you'll find it. The bottom line, the lesson to be learned, the moral of the story is visible for all who dare to look. No matter what we go through in life, the bottom line is there for us to recognize it and the simple way it keeps us grounded (if we pay attention). In I WISH I NEVER MET YOU, author Denise N. Wheatley shares with us quite a few bottom lines from one woman's crazy dating life. Through all the drama, the burning down of apartments, the fights, the loving, and the laughter, the narrator identifies the hardcore reality of every one of her stories and unabashedly shares that with her audience.

Aside from good morals, the narrator also shares with us some of the most hilarious, shocking, shameless, and disappointing dating stories that I have ever read or heard. While I must admit that a few of the tales hit home for me, I'm very glad that my dating life isn't as bad as this woman's. Whew! Sure, most of us have dated liars, cheaters, and/or abusers, but the men in this book take the cake. So does our fearless narrator. The main character from whose perspective author Wheatley writes is a force to be reckoned with. She dropkicked one man on the dance floor, burned down another's apartment, and peppered sprayed another one in the club - all for very valid reasons, of course. She's had to deal with married men, men who couldn't decide what team they were batting for, men with money, men who acted like they had money, and men who didn't care that they were broke as hell. Although she has been through a lot, she survived and lived to share her horror stories with us.

It is because of Denise N. Wheatley that I survived a three-hour train ride. Her novel, I WISH I NEVER MET YOU, had me laughing so hard and gasping so much that people kept staring at me wondering what was wrong with me. I didn't care and read on, getting more and more engrossed into her comical writing style and the appallingly amusing dating stories she told. There are thirteen stories divided into four sections, and the novel is full of colorful, well-portrayed characters.

The narrator is a trip! Her voice is strong and flows well throughout all the stories. While some crazy things happen, nothing is over the top. True, all the drama is believable, but I would never have imagined people would actually do some of the things done in this book. I enjoyed Wheatley's writing style. She often uses witty repetitions to hammer in a point, assist the reader in making connections, or for comic relief. The section intros and quotes are well written and appropriately placed. I enjoyed all the stories, but my favorites are the ones in The Big Payback section.

I also like how each story ends with an often amusing, but very true, bottom line. My only problem with the book is the amount of foul language, but there is a good, forewarning disclaimer at the beginning. I WISH I NEVER MET YOU is a great debut novel by Wheatley. (RAWSISTAZ Rating: 4.5)

Reviewed by Natasha T.

of The RAWSISTAZ Reviewers

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"This is a result book....It is the story of the thrilling things that happened to people when they applied the principles of dynamic change to their lives." -- Norman Vincent Peale

This accessible, all-encompassing guide will help you to achieve success and confidence, a sense of well-being, and an inner strength that you never dreamed possible. How? Through positive thinking -- a form of thought that involves looking for the best results from the worst conditions. Dr. Peale's time-honored methods include:
• step-by-step advice for developing personal strength
• confidence-building words to live by
• sound, sensible ways to overcome self-doubt
• effective strategies for achieving good health
• a program to release the vast energies within you
• accepting ourselves and our individual needs
• embracing the spiritual forces that surround you

• Sales Rank: #474743 in Books
• Published on: 2003-03-12
• Released on: 2003-03-12
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 8.44" h x .70" w x 5.50" l, .51 pounds
• Binding: Paperback
• 288 pages

From the Inside Flap
"This is a result book....It is the story of the thrilling things that happened to people when they applied the principles of dynamic change to their lives."

-- Norman Vincent Peale

This practical and proven guide shows you how to precondition yourself for success and achieve confidence, a sense of well-being, and an inner strength that you never dreamed possible. Dr. Peale's amazing methods include
-- A unique program for eliminating your particular area of weakness
-- Confidence-building words
-- Sound, sensible ways to overcome insecurity
-- Effective guides for thinking and believing your way to health
-- Step-by-step ways to release the vast energies latent within you

The power to live with joy and victory is available to you. This power can lead you to a solution to your problems, help you meet your difficulties successfully, and fill your heart with peace and contentment.

About the Author
Norman Vincent Peale, one of the most influential clergymen of his time, is the author of forty-six books, including the international bestseller The Power of Positive Thinking. Dr. Peale's legacy continues today through the Peale Center for Christian Living, the Outreach Division of Guideposts, www.dailyguide posts.com/positivethinking.

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3 of 3 people found the following review helpful.
amazing results of positive thinking
By Khaliqa
I would buy anything written by Dr Peale. His books are upbeat and pretty amazing considering they were written so long ago. They are still true today. I'm sending one to my Mom and brothers. Everyone should buy this book whether they believe in God or need some upbeat help for their own lives.

6 of 6 people found the following review helpful.
The Amazing Results of Positive Thinking
By James E. Breedlove
I purchased this book for my daughter who is 21 years old and having some problems in her young life. She tells me that it is great and has helped her a lot in trying to sort things out. I find it very up lifting and believe it would be of great value to some one that has a problem with depression.

5 of 5 people found the following review helpful.
Incredible Book
By Richard A. Singer Jr.
Peale is the master at comprehensively and clearly describing the process of achieving results through spirituality and positive thinking. Read everyone of his books and the information will be embedded into your soul and will literally push you toward success. The power of the human being is incredible and his books are vthe guide to apping into this immense force. Go and discover genuine and lasting success and peace in your precious life.

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~~ Download Ebook Bud, Sweat, & Tees: Rich Beem's Walk on the Wild Side of the PGA Tour, by Alan Shipnuck

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Rich Beem became an overnight folk hero with his victory at the 2002 PGA Championship, where he dazzled fans with fearless shotmaking and glib one-liners. By the time Beem had stared down Tiger Woods in an epic back nine and then danced a goofy jig on the final green, the sports world was clamoring to know, “Who is this guy, anyway?”

That question is answered in Bud, Sweat, & Tees, Alan Shipnuck's no-holds-barred look at modern professional golf. Shipnuck began tracking Beem during his rookie year in 1999, when he was a logo-free rube only a couple of years removed from a seven-dollar-an-hour job hawking cell phones. Beem and his hard-living caddie, Steve Duplantis, would find sudden fame and fortune, and Shipnuck enjoyed unparalleled access in chronicling their wild ride—sharing endless drives across the desert and eventful nights at strip clubs, cutthroat golf matches and late-night confessionals at assorted watering holes.

The result is an intimate portrait of two exceedingly colorful characters. Beem and Duplantis invite us deep into the world of the PGA Tour, exposing the rowdy, randy reality of the most interesting subculture in sports, which has always been a well-protected secret—until now. Sometimes bawdy, often hilarious, and always unpredictable, Bud, Sweat, & Tees stands as the finest insider sports book since Ball Four.

• Sales Rank: #475220 in Books
• Published on: 2003-06-02
• Released on: 2003-06-02
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 8.44" h x .70" w x 5.50" l, .65 pounds
• Binding: Paperback
• 320 pages

Amazon.com Review
Unless your name is Tiger Woods, there are no easy rides on the PGA Tour--particularly your first year--and no one's ever confused fun-loving Rich Beem's game with the Tiger's. Still, Sports Illustrated's Alan Shipnuck struck gold by picking Beem and his rookie season as subjects to chronicle in Bud, Sweat, & Tees: A Walk on the Wild Side of the PGA Tour. To begin with, he found a colorful player with a renegade personality who actually managed to confound the odds and post victory--at the 1999 Kemper Open. But there's more. As vivid a character as Beem turns out to be, his caddie Steve Duplantis, who'd previously toted for Jim Furyk, is a true rogue who makes Beem seem a choirboy by comparison.

Shipnuck provides all the necessary drama of life on the course, but the real fun of Bud, Sweat, & Tees is life beyond it, how Beem and Duplantis survive the highs and lows the game provides. At his best, Shipnuck manages to bring together their shared existence within the ropes and beyond, nowhere better than in Memphis the week after Beem's victory. He and Duplantis, who first caddied for him at the Kemper, have gone to Tennessee to try qualifying for the 1999 U.S. Open. That Beem misses is but a sidelight of the tour de force sequence that sees their relationship form against the backdrop of Duplantis cheating on his ex-fiancée Shannon--recalled by both Duplantis and Shannon, who's nannying Duplantis's daughter--as Beem is trying to focus on his game.

It begins in a bar, the three of them together, with Beem ogling Shannon as she walks to the ladies' room, and Duplantis calling him on it. "The player-caddie dynamic is always delicate," writes Shipnuck, "to the point that it is often discussed in the nomenclature of a courtship. For Beem and Duplantis, then, winning their first tournament together was like sleeping together on a first date--fun, to be sure, but complicated. If they were going to have a meaningful long-term relationship they would need a few more nights like this, getting to know each other." The nights--and days--that follow are as fun to read as the greens at Augusta. --Jeff Silverman

From Publishers Weekly
Despite its droll title, Sports Illustrated writer Shipnuck's first book affords an earnest and unsentimental portrayal of life on the PGA tour. It follows two of golf's lesser-known figures through the 1999 season: a rookie named Rich Beem, who won the Kemper Open that year, and his caddie Steve Duplantis. Both men open up to Shipnuck about their personal histories, as do their families, friends, colleagues, lovers and former employers. Tightly weaving the private with the professional, the author chronicles Beem's inconsistent, occasionally brilliant performances on the golf course, alongside his past jobs, romances and periodic problems with alcohol. Duplantis, who often falls short in his responsibilities as a caddy because of his inability to manage a turbulent personal life, gets a similarly nuanced treatment. Indeed, the depth to which Shipnuck delves into their difficulties with money, family and their own partnership gives his narrative an almost painful poignancy. As for the golf itself, the author clearly knows his subject, and his keen-eyed descriptions of Beem and Duplantis at work both entertain and enlighten. He gives an exciting play-by-play of their miraculous victory at the Kemper Open, wherein Beem executed one brilliant shot after another, mainly as a result of Duplantis's ego-boosting exhortations. By tempering such stories of his subjects' heroics with the mundane realities of their lives, Shipnuck portrays them as flawed, likeable people who struggle like the rest of us, with imperfect results. (Jan.)
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc.

From Booklist
Billed justifiably as a Ball Four for golf, the story of former cell phone salesman Rich Beem, the unlikely winner of the 1999 Kemper Open, will be music to the ears of anyone who carries a few beers in his golf bag. Sports Illustrated writer Shipnuck picks up the story just after Tour rookie Beem had won the Kemper, his first tournament with caddie Steve Duplantis; he then provides the fascinating backstory on both player and caddie, an incredible saga of bad judgment and lack of discipline coming together to produce momentary perfection. Not that Beem was a bad golfer or Duplantis a bad caddie; only that Beem had never really worked at his game before somehow qualifying for the tour, and Duplantis had thrown away a storybook job--caddy to top player Jim Furyk. Shipnuck recounts how the two met, tasted triumph, and then slowly let it all slip away in a flurry of late nights and missed cuts. An R-rated Cinderella story that will gladden the heart of every golfer who would rather play than practice. Bill Ott
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

Most helpful customer reviews

1 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
Excellent, but how did he write this?
By P. Meltzer
It's not every author who could look at a couple of guys like Beem and Duplantis and say to themselves: "Gee, I could write a book about these guys!" After all, they don't seem that fascinating on the surface. But Spipnuck saw the potential and made it work. Really a good read. The whole time reading the book however, I found myself wondering exactly how Shipnuck wrote the book. In other words, what was the nature of his involvement with these guys and when did it start? It certainly appears that he spent a ton of time in their actual presence and was relating the story as it happened. He certainly was in their presence sometimes--for example, right at the start of the book, 8 days after the Kemper--Beem met up with Shipnuck. However, given that Beem and Duplantis were often apart, it cannot be the case that he was always in their company. Was it instead based primarily on interviews with the two over the phone? Would they speak every night? (It certainly seemed like it given that he has almost daily quotes from the two about major matters and mundane matters alike). I also could not ascertain when the author picked up with his narrative. Was it at the start of 1999, meaning that he just happened to get incredibly lucky when his obscure guy won the Kemper. Or did the idea come to him only after Beem won the Kemper, and if so, how is it that he has such meticulous detail as to the lives of Beem and Duplantis up to that point? To take just one tiny example of that--in early 1999, Shipnuck is coveing Beem at the Pebble Beach Pro-Am. On the 7th hole, Beem hits a 6-iron and Shipnuck quotes him as saying "A good 6-iron." Well, obviously, Beem would not have said that to Shipnuck 5 or 6 months later, so we have to assume that it was more or less contemporaneous, as nearly all the quotes seem to be. If so, that would mean that the author was in full coverage mode throughout 1999 and, by incredible coincidence, happended to luck out when his man won the Kemper. Anyway, I was just wondering about all this. Lastly, I thought the title was stupid and not worthy of such a good book.

6 of 6 people found the following review helpful.
The Best...Simply, the Best
By John R. Linnell
If you follow the game of professional golf, this is the best book ever writtten about The PGA Tour. John Winestein wishes he had written this book. It chronicles what it is like as a bottom feeder in experience, as well as how that all gets changed around through "blood, sweat and tears." The two principals of the book, Rich Beem, aspiring PGA Pro and Steve Duplantis, his caddie are real people with real problems and real answers,... sometimes. Beem has burst even further onto the PGA scene since this was written by winning The International and the PGA Championship in back to back outings in 2002. That will no doubt be the subject of another book, but it cannot surpass the brutal honesty and interest of this first effort. You must not pass this by, if golf is a part of your life.

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
Two idiots on tour
By Seymour
The book is very well detailed when it come to talking about tournament golf and settiing up the hole to give you a clear understanding. But when it comes the behind the ropes stuff, it wasnt that great. Good but not great. All they really tell you is about the personal problems with women and getting drunk. If your a serious golfer. This book will make you shake your head on how these two are blowing it all away.

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~~ Download Ebook Bud, Sweat, & Tees: Rich Beem's Walk on the Wild Side of the PGA Tour, by Alan Shipnuck Doc

~~ Download Ebook Bud, Sweat, & Tees: Rich Beem's Walk on the Wild Side of the PGA Tour, by Alan Shipnuck Doc