Jones also has a tin ear for convincing dialogue — his pugs somehow are able to have moments that only Woody Allen dilettantes should have, no idea when a story has hit its apex — he consistently violates the wise dictum of not having the climax less than ninety percent of the way into a tale, for his tales drag terribly with events that do not serve the narrative, then often just wheeze to an end that is not really an end.

Only in this age, where there are far too many writers, and far too few editors, could this garbage have gotten published. Yet, he’s merely a symptom of the problem. It is those who foist the Thom Joneses of the world upon us that are the real problem. They have abdicated even the barest of their duties — as I said, this book is rife with typographical, grammatical, and plain old spelling errors. As well as containing the mentally ill, unemployed, drug abusers, drinkers, psychotics, veterans, and sciolists — often with one character toting three or more of these traits. Yet, not a drop of insight.

The old saying is that ‘everyone has a story’, and Jones believes this. And it is true. But, not everyone has an interesting story, and, for those without, a good writer is needed to tell their tales. Jones lacks characters with real stories and is simply not the man to tell their tales. He wants his tales to be macho and scary, but instead, they come off as the rantings of a big, dumb loser that the young kids tease as he impotently rages at them that he was once, ala Terry Malloy’s lament, ‘a contenduh’. No. He was always just a big dumb palooka. The upside is that better writers have written of that type far better than Jones. Find them, and let Jones return to his mop and bucket. Wring hard, now!