Rating System

If you've been following the blog you'll know that I've been posting reviews of books that I'm reading.  What I plan on doing is beginning to give a rating for these books, but anyone who knows me, knows I don't do anything normal, so here's how it'll go;

1) Inside Flap = This book is so bad you should stop reading after the inside flap, and save your money and time.

2) Chapter 2 = One and done.  The book's premise showed potential, but the writing killed any upside before getting to the second chapter.

3) Page 75 = This is typically reserved for books opposite than Chapter 2's.  The writing is at least good enough to keep you going longer than you should, but the plot ruins any hopes, and you just need to stop reading before you get sucked in past the point of no return.

4) Cover to cover = Book was well written with an engaging story, and will leave you satisfied once you close it for good.

5) Multiple Reads = The only thing better than reading and liking a book, is finding a book you enjoy reading more than once.  This doesn't happen often and isn't a rating I expect to use often.

What I'm Reading Now 3/13/13 UPDATE

Although I haven't written about it, I assure you I've read several books since my last (and first) installment of this.  I've been negligent about posting on the blog the past few months, but I've renewed my vigor and plan on posting here more often.  And in that vein, here's what I'm reading now...

Heat Wave

by Richard Castle

"Heat Wave" is the first novel by Richard Castle from the TV show 'Castle'.  Basically the premise of the show is that a mystery author follows a homicide detective as a muse to his new character Nikki Heat.  I really enjoy the show, and I always felt it'd be beneficial to have a relationship with an officer to answer questions that arise while writing.  

So "Heat Wave" is proposed to be the character Richard Castle's, played by Nathan Fillion, first book about the detective he follows, Kate Beckett.  ABC published the book through a sister company as a joint effort.  It's a great marketing strategy that promotes each other, and convinced me to pick up this book.  

Real word murder mysteries aren't my typical foray, and with that said I don't think I'd have kept reading it, however I most enjoy trying to piece together what parts of the books are inspired by the show.  

While the writing is better than I was expecting, I feel it's relying too much on the gimmick of the premise rather than the writing.  Initially I wasn't very happy with it at all thinking the characters didn't seem too analogical to the characters in the show.  Primarily the main character seemed out of place being over-sexualized.  It wasn't until a friend explained that the characters were written as Richard Castle would have liked to see them in the first season of the show, and that in the subsequent books better portrayed the characters.  

It may seem trivial reading it here if you haven't watched the show, so let's focus on the actual story within the book.  Jameson Rook is a celebrity journalist following homicide detective Nikki Heat during a murder investigation.  I won't give away details of the plot but it seems run-of-the-mill to me, and as I said earlier the actual talent of the writing is fair.  As you'd expect there's the inevitable false leads, twists and incorrect accusations. I will say the best element of the writing is the humor the characters find in the random situations they find themselves in (much like in the show).  There's enough to the book and the writing to keep me reading it, however I'm not too sure I'll be picking up the next book in the series.  We'll see once I've finished this one.

Update:

I've since finished the book, and while it was good for what it is, it is not my type of story.  Obviously, I knew this was a real world mystery from watching the show it's based on, I kept waiting for a supernatural element.  This is of course no fault of the book or the author, who did a good job of translating the characters from the show into inspirations for a book series.

For me there's some disconnect between current mysteries and the hardboiled noir from the 40's and 50's that originates in the difference in eras.  Being a part of this internet age, reading a detective hit the bars and clubs with a cigarette in mouth wherever he goes, beating up goons without abandon in a manner a modern detective could never do is like reading a time travel story.  Modern mysteries are more like watching the news tied too much in the legality of their actions.  That probably says more about my own damaged psyche than the current state of literature, but to get back on point, that's a major factor in my feelings for this book.

At this point, I'm going to pass on picking up the next novel, however if you're a fan of the show Castle, or of crime mysteries, I recommend picking this up.  

Intro 4: "Remember Me"

The following is the beginning of my most controversial published story (to date).  I'm going to save the description until after the intro, so read on;

Remember Me

Alex Azar

Monday January 3^rd 2011, 3:03 AM

Martin Jackson Jr., the star wide receiver for the Philadelphia Bald Eagles, is used to running these streets of his hometown, but when he was a youth and not so late at night.  Now he’s running for his life as he’s chased by a bald madman wearing glasses, who is steering a horse drawn stagecoach.  The chase started after Martin’s car was forced off the B.F. Turnpike by the wagon.  Something apparently no other drivers seemed to notice.

After slipping on some fresh snow, the chase has ended for Martin and his pursuer.  The metal rimmed wheel of the stagecoach runs over Martin’s lower back, cutting all synaptic communication to his legs.  After running the football player over the horse circles around only to trample his neck, sending agonizing pain throughout his body before all feeling leaves his body. 

Standing over Martin’s limp body the bald man raises his walking stick and shouts, “Remember me!” before beating in Martin’s head; the hit smashes his nose, and sends bone shards into his brain.  The second blow ruptures his right eye socket, bursting his eye with it.  The third, and ultimately final, strike caves in Martin’s skull, ending the pain he was unable to emote.

The bald man rides away on his stagecoach after placing a bouquet of small purple flowers.  The wagon disappears into the night leaving behind no tracks.

“It’s a damn shame.” Detective Colyn Whyte proclaims as he watches the football star bagged and loaded in the coroner’s van. 

Shocked at his partner’s uncharacteristic emotional display, no matter how minor, Detective Kevin Shepps agrees, “Yea, the kid was young, he had a great career in front of him.  When I was still a beat cop he was a kid growing up in these parts.  He kept his nose clean, but always hung with some regular juvies; he could have gone down a bad path.”

“Huh? Yea that and I had five hundred on Sunday’s game.  They’re sure to lose without him, and that’s if they even play.”

Disgruntled at Whyte’s amoral response, “You always have a knack for making things about you.”

“Blow me cupcake.  Round up all traffic surveillance footage in a mile radius from here and also where his car was located.  God night, and give Jeff a kiss for me.”

“Fuck you.”

***

That Friday Detectives Whyte and Shepps are on the defensive from the verbal attack of their lieutenant.  “I’m telling you this murder makes no sense.  It was a cold case before the snow covered up his blood.  We’ve got no footage from the area Jackson’s body was found, and street surveillance by his car shows him erratically driving off the shoulder, and then him inexplicably running away.”

“Listen Whyte, we need to wrap this yesterday.  We’ve got a star athlete who grew up on these streets, went to college here and played pro-ball here, perceived as a role model the whole while.  Philly doesn’t get these kinds of legacy celebrities, and now the media is up my ass to get this in the books.”

Detective Shepps decides to chime in, not so much to support his partner, but so the lieutenant would remember he’s in the room also, “But lieutenant Colyn’s right.  Even the tox report came back clean.”

Shepps’ plan back fires as the lieutenant does turn his attention to him, and scolds “Shut up Shepps.  I don’t know why you’re still with this guy, but don’t drown in his shit.”

Most of the weekend passes with little communication between the partners.  Kevin spent the majority of it with his life partner trying to figure out his next move professionally.  What the lieutenant said made him reevaluate his career and current rank of gay stereotype underappreciated sidekick to Colyn, the precinct wash up.

“Honey, if you’re career is at a standstill, you need to request a transfer.  From what the lieutenant said, it seems like he’d understand and grant it.”

Resting his head in Jeff’s lap Kevin looks up and with concern replies, “But if I can’t close this Jackson murder, I’ll never get assigned a real case again.”  The half hour conversation continues cyclically for another fifteen minutes before the two go to bed.  Unfortunately, sleep doesn’t easily come to Kevin’s worried mind.

The same can’t be said for Colyn, who was aided to a dreamless slumber by a fifth of Jack, a routine of his that’s repeated most nights of the week.

***

 Monday January 10^th 2011, 4:12 PM

John Luther Briggs Jr., the youngest African American senator ever has taken the day to spend with his daughters, who are currently flying kites in Franklin Park on this record breaking warm day.  A day made more special following so soon after the recent snow storm.  “Girls careful your lines are going to get tangled.”  Sure enough moments later the kites form a single entwined braid.  The wind picks up tugging the strings out of Sue and Linda’s hands.  Quickly grabbing hold, John Luther prevents the kites from flying away.  Trying to untangle the airborne toys he doesn’t realize the twin twine lines have begun to wrap around him.

...




If you want to read about what happens to John Luther Briggs Jr., and what caused Martin Jackson Jr's untimely demise, or why one story has three Juniors in it (yes there's a third) buy the anthology Obsession from Static Movement Press pick it up at Amazon.com.

Several years ago there was a call for submissions, from a now defunct publisher, asking for gory horror stories related to a holiday, the more obscure the holiday the better.  I looked at a calender of all the holidays and found that two holidays were on the same day that year, 2011, so I decided to write a story about both. Telling you which two holidays they are will give away certain details about the story and the mystery surrounding the deaths.  So pick up the book and find out what the holidays have to do with a dead white guy, dying black guys, a talent-less detective, and a transvestite that has a bigger secret than one might think.

sexy freaks hot chicks wallpapper hd

I wish I could explain the history of this blog, more specifically the viewing history of the stats I've seen.  I've posted one entry a month since October yet in the past month the blog has had views from some pretty random countries, such as; Germany, Poland, China, Libya, Sweden, Latvia, and Russia. These are all countries I've never been to, nor even know anyone there, but still some how my blog is getting views from them. Below is a map with all the countries that viewed the blog in the past month highlighted.

And just for shits and giggles since it's about the end of the year, here's a map with the top ten countries that viewed the blog for the entire existence of the blog, dating back to May 2008.  It'll be interesting to see if there's any difference in this map at the end of 2013.


One of the stats I'm most proud of is that nearly a dozen people (or one person 12 times) were directed to the blog from the UK's "#1 Adult Social Network".

But the real reason for this post is the searched keywords that brought someone to the blog this month. "sexy freaks hot chicks wallpapper hd".  You read that correct spelling mistake and all.  Out of curiosity I searched that 'phrase' I guess you can call it and the first page of results from Google was for a site called 'bikesbabesandrides.com'  Now the interesting thing is, I went through 10 pages of results and still didn't find anything linking to azarrising.blogspot.com, which I wouldn't have expected to.  But it begs the question, how  that search resulted in a blog view for me.  In any case, I hope whoever the searcher was, wasn't too disappointed when they stumbled across my literary world.

And I know now that I posted this, with those keywords written in a post along with that biker website, I'll be getting a lot more of these random views.  Anything to help spread the words of Azar (that's me).

Intro 3: "The Last Noel"

I'm jumping ahead of my publication history a little to bestow upon you the joy that is Christmas, but in my world happy elves, and flying reindeer mean something a little different.  "The Last Noel" takes a look at why Santa Claus has so many different names and origins, and the truth may be more sinister than expected.

The Last Noel

Alex Azar

     Why have you never wondered where Santa’s elves came from? They’re introduced to us as children and we grow up already comfortable with the notion that this jolly fat man has a race of pygmy slaves in his isolated snow kingdom.  Well I’m here to answer all the questions you didn’t think to ask; like why an ever young hottie like Mrs. Claus with that portly home invader?

     I went through all the typical stages of Christmas myths every other American does, other than the Jews of course.  Sure I believed in Santa religiously as a kid, waiting wide eyed in bed for my gift list to be fulfilled.  That faith slowly gave way to doubt over the years, only to be shattered in an awkward moment of revelation.  We all had that moment, even though the details the differ; some of us see our dads sneaking back away from the tree in a cheap facsimile of the iconic red suit, or have a classmate ruin it for us by opening their big mouths marking the beginning of what will be months of ridicule for still believing the obvious lie.

     Or is it?

     After filling my son’s head with the same absurdity she was taken from me at the age of four, before he could even discover the truth, some disease that I still can’t pronounce correctly.  But the pain of his death was too much for my marriage, so my wife left me for a world tour of foreign cocks.  Feeling like I was utterly destroyed already I got sloppy and was fired, or “let go”, from my job as a blog journalist.

At this point you might be asking what my sob story has to do with Santa, well on particular Christmas Eve the shit that life threw at me drove me to the edge and I decided to jump off.  Miraculously I was stopped long before hitting the bottom.  Disorientated it took me a bit to realize where I was.  Santa had caught me in his sleigh.

     “You have no idea how hard it is to time a catch like that, let’s not try it again, okay?” The actual real life non-mythical Santa Claus saved my life mid-air and quipped about it.  Aside from his cavalier attitude his voice is exactly like you imagined as a child.  “You’ve been a good boy Sammy…” Oh my god, I can’t believe he actually says that, “…you don’t deserve what’s happened to you, but unfortunately I can’t give you what’s on your list.  Darryl is dead, I can’t bring him back.”

     He sees the obvious disappointment in my face, and places a giant mitted hand on my shoulders.  Despite its size, his hand feels almost weightless.  I think he smiles but it’s hard to tell through his beard, you can barely see his mouth open when he talks.  “I am sorry about your son, and while I can’t make it up to you, how about a different gift?  Here.”

     He gives me the reigns in his hands and for the first time I notice the reindeer just floating in air before the sleigh, “Holy shit… sorry to curse sir but this is all a lot to take in.  How is all this possible?”

“It’s all just a reality, different from and yet very much like your own.  Now give the line a good whip and tell these fellas where you want to go. Anywhere in the world.”

     Excitedly I ask with half breaths, “Even to…”

     The big man cuts me off in as polite of a manner as possible, “Yes, they can take us to the moon and beyond, but you wouldn’t survive the trip.”

     “Ah makes sense, OK…uh…on Prancer?”

     “No, no those aren’t really they’re names.  Just say the destination and they’ll do the rest.”

     A little more disappointed than I should have been, I dropped my shoulders, “OK” It takes me a moment to think of where I want to go, but of all the bucket-list locations that came to mind like Paris, Japan, or Italy they all feel too romantic to go with Santa and that’s when it hits me.  What better place to go with Santa by his reindeer.  “Take me to the North Pole.”

     Santa laughs with a “Ho Ho Ho,” that makes the hair on my neck stand giddy, “That’s where they all pick.”

     I go from giddy to jealous faster than I would have thought possible, “What do you mean ‘they’?”

    Once again placing a weightless hand on my shoulder he explains, “I choose you Sammy for a reason.  I’m sure you know that this time of year the rate of suicides sky rocket and while I’d love to, I can’t save everyone.  But I saved you because I have a favor to ask.” 

     I ask “Of me?” but to my ears they sounded more like nonsensical grunts.

    “You’re situation and your former profession makes you the perfect person to ask.  Every few generations one person is chosen to reintroduce the legend of Santa Claus to the world.  My image has become a shill for corporate sponsorship, but you’re going to use your journalistic abilities to invigorate the ‘myth’.”  He finishes his sentence with air quotes, which I typically hate, but seeing Santa do it is warming, possibly because of the mitts he’s wearing.

    I’m about to ask him what exactly I’m supposed to do when I notice how cold it’s gotten.  Seeing me try to warm my arms Santa suggests, “Look in the bag of gifts behind you, I have something with your name on it.”

    Reaching into his velour bag that’s deeper than it looks, I find a heavy winter coat is revealed, and sure enough on a tag hanging from the zipper is my name.  I put it on, and the chill just melts away, “Wow, this is the warmest jacket ever, thank you sir.”

    “Please call me Santa, or Chris, or Papa… the different people I’ve gotten over the years tend to choose a name they think will be more relatable to their countrymen.”

    “Hmm, well if it were up to me…”

    “It is up to you, as of now, my entire lore is up to you. No pressure, Ho Ho Ho.” He jokes, but it is a lot of pressure.

    “Ok then, as an American, I’m partial to the classic, good ole Santa Claus… it’s…” the rest of my thought trails off as does the air in my lungs and surrounding space.

    Santa takes the reign and cracks the whip with what looks like anger in his eyes, “Hey you shits, I told you when I’ve got someone in here with me you can’t fly so damn high!”

    The sled drops altitude and air returns to me, “Thank you, Santa.” The display of anger still throwing me off.  While it’s a natural reaction for anyone, I imagined him, freaking Santa Claus to be above such things.

“These shitheads almost killed Josefina a few weeks back.  They think because they’re immortal I won’t punish them.”

    Choosing to focus on the only thing in those statements that wasn’t negative, I ask. “Is Josefina Mrs. Claus?”

    “Ho Ho Ho, no she’s this fine piece of Brazilian tail that’s got that Memento thing going on.  Poor chick can’t remember she bangs the real Santa every few months, so she can’t tell people about me.  Ho Ho Ho.”  The bass of his laugh vibrates in my lungs, but I don’t find the joy in it I did mere minutes ago. “I like you Sammy, feels life I could be myself in front of you.”

Want to read more about that "fine piece of Brazilian tail" that Santa gets on the side?  Want to know the truth behind the adorable sounding Santa's Little Helpers? (I can tell you they aren't as adorable as Hollywood would have you think)
If your curiosity is sufficiently peaked you can purchase "The Last Noel" in the anthology Yuletide Tales of Horror at my Amazon Author's Page, Barnes & Noble, or for a limited time you can pick it up for a discounted price in the AzarRising Mobile Bookstore (yes that's professional author lingo for 'the trunk of my car'). The perfect stocking stuffer can now be yours (and for my non-Christmas celebrating followers, you can remind yourselves why you've chosen a different path) so don't delay Christmas is right around the corner.