Well, it’s over, at last—the long, dreary, wearying hype that began weeks before the Super Bowl was played. Local TV stations sent their news corrpespondents to Indianapolis to report on—what? The gazillions of people who showed up there to party? Most of them didn’t have tickets to the game, but they probably thbought getting drunk, getting laid, and stuffing their faces with calorie-laden food must be a whole lot nicer in Indianapolis than where they came from.

Okay, good for them. I never watched any of the pre-game shows, and even as an animal lover, I didn’t bother watching the Puppy Bowl, whatever that is. I didn’t watch the game itself, and didn’t even hear the final score until 8 a.m. the following morning. I was more-or-less glad the Giants won, but my eager anticipation of the Super Bowl will return when the Cleveland Browns are involved in it. I hope that will happen during my lifetime.

The main reason, however, that I ignored all the football gala-palooza, is that I’ve been writing like MAD to finish my next Milan Jacovich novel, “Whiskey Island.” For those of you who don’t live in Cleveland, Whiskey Island is not an island at all, but a bump of a peninsula into Lake Erie just west of downtown. I wrote much about its history in the book, past and present, and am now at the point when one more action-packed chapter and a wrap-up will END the novel. Interestingly, my daily passion for my work, which never abates, somehow intensifies the closer I get to finishing a particular project—and this time it just had to happen during Super Bowl week. Look for it later this year

Not planning to loaf around after it’s done. I’ll probably take two weeks to veg out and then begin laboring on my NEXT Milan Jacovich adventure. I don’t have a title for it—yet—but it will be set in and around the sport of harness racing.

Hi, everyone. I am VERY close to finishing up this year’s Milan Jacovich adventure, “Whiskey Island.” I’m at that point in writing a book—heading down the home stretch, as they say—when I want to write ALL the time. Day, night, middle of the night, whenever. That’s why I know I’ll be finished soon. Of course, my PERSONAL editor, Holly Albin, goes through the manuscript. Then it heads to the publisher, the editor, and eventually to the printer and/or to an ebook. IF all goes well, it’ll be available to everyone by late summer.

However, right now, with perhaps seventy pages left to write, I want to share with you the very first sentence of “Whiskey Island,” maybe to whet your taste until next summer—or at least I HOPE it’ll be the first sentence. I always trust my editors.

The book, to be brief and somewhat mysterious (there is NATURALLY a murder), is all about the illegal doings of local Cleveland politicians. Therefore, Milan’s introductory sentence seems to make sense. It is:

“I think I’ve lived long enough to figure it out; everybody is, in one way or another, corrupt.”

Of course, dear friends and readrs, he doesn’t mean YOU!

The one-word title of this post might surprise you, or the reason for it, anyway. “OH” No, it’s not an exclamation of surprise as, say, when some stranger accidentally walks into the bathroom while you’re taking a shower. It’s not one of those words one says when told of something they hadn’t known before, i.e. “What is idential about Stevie Wonder and the Cleveland Browns? Neither of them has ever seen a Super Bowl.” Oh.

And no, it is not the first word in a Christmas carol, nor that of the opening song of the musical “Oklahoma” which boasts about beautiful mornings, nor of the Star Spangled Banner.

What it is, at least to me, is annoying as hell. It all has to do with where I live. Ohio—or the official, government-approved abbreviation for Ohio. “OH”

I’ve made it my hom there for more than two decades. I was born in IL, lived in NY, GA, and CA. My daughter and granddaughter are in CO, my son resides in NC. Those shortened identifiers annoy me, too. But not nearly as much as OH.

Here’s why: I buy things online sometimes. Or I sign petitions. Or I put my email addy on lists so I can be notified of things important. When I do, I type in my name. It’s not as hard to pronounce as, say, the director of this year’s best film, “The Artist,” nor is it difficult to type, as I’ve been doing it all my life. I also type my address with relative ease, especially the name of the town in which I reside; that’s a slam-dunk, only four letters. And then it gets truly aggravating.

Because where it says STATE, rather than typing OH, I have to click on a list that stretches out to fifty states—and of course Ohio, being closer to the end of the list, requires me to scroll down and THEN click. Three keyboard movements instead of one, and they take up several seconds longer. Why do they ask us to type everything else but then have to CLICK ON the abbreviation of our state? Are most of us too stupid to KNOW the abbreviation? I mean KNOW it, without having to stop and think about it? Are we too lazy to type two lousy letters? They make us type everything else; why don’t they just LEAVE US ALONE when they want to know in which state we reside?

It bugs me every day. I swear, I’d write a letter to someone and complain about it. But if I did—-I’d have to scroll down and click OH again. And I’m damned if I’ll do THAT!

I’ve been busy at work finishing my new Milan Jacovich novel, “Whiskey Island” (#16 in the series) due out this year. As I’ve shared with you before, the new book is all about local political corruption in Cleveland. No matter what eventually happens to Dimora and Russo, I KNOW what’s going to happen in my book!

In the new novel, not one but TWO romances will take place, with the obvious addition of another new regular character. Will these love affairs stay alive and vital as long as this writer does? I don’t know. I’m pretty sure they will last through to the next book after this one (which I’m itching to start writing). Stay tuned for more updates.

If you haven’t already done so, I encourage you to sign up for Goodreads, a great social media site for sharing reviews about the books you’re reading– including mine I hope!

Once you join Goodreads, you can sign up for one of their mystery forums by clicking on “Groups” at the top of the page, then clicking on mysteries under the “Browse by Tag” menu on the right.

There’s an active group called “The Mystery Crime and Thriller” group. To join, click on the group title, then click on the “join” button at the top/left side of the page.

Through this forum you’ll learn what other mystery-lovers are reading and get some great book suggestions. If you like my books, maybe you’ll recommend them to others too.

If you join Goodreads, let me know what you think. I never cease being amazed at all the new ways to connect via the Internet. Wonder what’s coming next.

Hi – I don’t usually post reviews on my blog, but I’m so very pleased with this one—from a small literary mystery magazine called The Gumshoe, that I’m hoping all of you read it. Here it is:

The Strange Death of Father Candy: A Suspense Novel by Les Roberts
Cover Artist: Design: David Baldeosigh Rotstein
Review by Joseph B. Hoyos
Minotaur Books Hardcover ISBN/ITEM#: 9780312566333
Date: 25 October 2011 List Price $24.99 Amazon US / Amazon UK
Links: Author’s Website / Show Official Info / ShareThis

In 1985, everyone in Youngstown, Ohio is shocked when Father Richard Candiotti, fondly known as Father Candy, commits suicide by shooting himself in the mouth. Young, attractive, healthy priests don’t commit suicide. However, the townspeople, including the police department, are afraid of the mob and are willing to bury Father Candy and pretend as though it never happened. Everyone that is except his baby brother, Dominick Candiotti, a Vietnam veteran who was trained by Delta Force to torture and kill with impunity. Soon, Dominick wages a one-man war against the Italian mobsters responsible for Father Candy’s strange death.

Les Roberts’ standalone mystery, The Strange Death of Father Candy, is a volatile piece of bloody noir that is extremely fast paced and highly engaging. Because of foul language, graphic sex scenes and acts of torture involving mutilation, it is definitely an adult mystery intended for mature audiences and those who are not faint of heart. The reader will be introduced to the “Youngstown Tune-up”, which isn’t normal maintenance you have done at Firestone. The mob’s intended victim turns the key in his vehicle’s ignition, which causes the dynamite beneath his seat to explode. The vehicle then becomes a funeral pyre.

The setting is a most interesting one. The year is 1985 and Youngstown, Ohio is under mob rule. Not one mob family, but two mob families, the Severinos and the Mangiones, and they despise and kill each other. Everyone lives in fear of them. Everyone, including the children, works for them performing illegal services. I felt as though I was watching an old Western film where all the townspeople live in terror of the one evil land baron who owns everything. police officers, lawyers, and politicians are all very corrupt in Youngstown. They not only turn a blind eye to the illegal gambling casinos but also play there. If the time is 1985, I wonder what it is like in present day Youngstown. Do mobsters still rule there?

The novel’s protagonist, Dominick “Nicky” Candiotti, is also as interesting as the setting. Dominick grew up in Brier Hill, a violent neighborhood; he was forced to fight the bullies. No longer able to take the corruption, he eventually said goodbye to Youngstown and joined the Army. Delta Force Special Ops turned him into a ruthless killing machine. Ironically, he never could escape the violence of Youngstown. It was bred in him. After the Army, he moved to Chicago where he owns a construction company that builds houses. Unfortunately, he could never build a happy home for himself. His high school sweetheart, Diane Burnham, remained in Youngstown; he has a passionate affair with her but discovers she’s not the same sweet girl he once knew.

Richard was the only sibling with which Dominick maintained a close relationship. His other siblings are Alfonso, the crooked, brownnosing detective, and Teresa, the bored, vulgar housewife. In fact, most of the women in Dominick’s life are vulgar, providing much of the novel’s comic relief. I would love to provide examples but none of them are printable. The best word to describe these women begins with ‘b’ and rhymes with witch. One may ask if there is any romance in this novel? No, mostly lust. There is, however, the love of family. Dominick loves Richard so much that he is willing to risk his life to avenge his death. He also loves Alfonso and Teresa, but to a lesser degree because they’re not worth the powder to blow out their brains. My words, not Dominick’s.

If you enjoy vigilante justice films and novels, then I highly recommend Les Roberts’ The Strange Death of Father Candy. As I stated before, it is a bloody, violent shoot ‘em up noir. Don’t expect a shocking ending with a lot of surprises. The mystery is straightforward. Dominick simply tortures his victims until his questions are answered. Nevertheless, The Strange Death of Father Candy is a good standalone mystery that will appeal to fans of noir. The biggest shock or surprise will come if readers learn that there is a sequel.

At the novel’s conclusion, all loose ends were nicely tied up. A Federal Agent tries to convince Dominick to move from Chicago to Youngstown but he refuses. I don’t blame him; I wouldn’t want to live in a mob-infested hellhole.

Looking back on it—ALL of it—for me, 2011 was a pretty good year. That of course doesn’t count the ineptness of Congress, the ineptness of governors in Ohio and Wisconsin and elsewhere, the sad performance of the Cleveland Browns, the ultra-annoying Kardashian family, movies like “The Sitter” and pathetic TV shows like “The Bachelor” and “Dancing with the Stars who Aren’t Stars,” the clownish GOP prez-wannabe “debates” that have been going on for four months, an unexpected eye surgery in April, and saying goodbye to retiring Regis and to the late and wonderful Harry Morgan (Colonel Potter on “M.A.S.H.”).

But 2011 was great for me, personally. TWO books published instead of just one, and both getting excellent reviews. Another one approximately one month from completion—and solid ideas in my head for the next THREE after that. My health is terrific; except for a stiff knee I can’t do much about, I feel like a thirty year-old again; weight steady, glucose readings OK, and I haven’t had a real headache since 1978!!! Superb, wonderful friends—and a few new ones, too. My love for ALL animals, which continues to grow with every passing day. And my adoration for the kindest, most loving, most beautiful woman in the whole world, which is returned in kind. Lucky me!

And I’m really, truly HAPPY! Happy with where I am, what I do, WHO I am, and how good the rest of the world treats me.

Now we look forward to a new year. There’ll be problems, naturally. In November, no matter who wins the presidency, approximately half the people in America will be angry and disappointed—but we can live with it, as we have before. (That last statement exempts three of the wanna-bes who will make me move to Costa Rica for good if they inhabit the White House—but not to worry, none of them have a prayer of getting nominated anyway.) There’ll be weather disasters, mechanical disasters, money disasters, and emotional disasters, just as there have been in every year of our memory. But DON’T WORRY ABOUT THOSE PROBLEMS, because 2012 is going to be great. Inhale it, eat it, wallow in it, and love every single moment. PLAY THE HAND YOU’RE DEALT: as they say at the card table, there are no lousy poker hands, only lousy poker players. Make lemonade out of lemons, and make that lemonade SWEET. Don’t EVER quit until they close the lid on you. We live in an amazing world in which we can communicate with most people with a simple click. Enjoy that world.

I wish for you a 2012 that’s even more happy than 2011 was for me. I wish you Joy. Success. Attainment. Health. Contentment. Love. Laughter. A few tears, but tears of joy as well. And big-time smiles, too—from your family, friends, the supermarket cashier and the dry cleaner and the person who delivers your mail—and the ones you love the most. Make 2012 a year you’ll always remember—MAKE it that way— whenever you dream about it.

And oh yeah—either find a designated driver tonight—or BE one.

Blessings.

There are almost as many shoppers crowding the malls and stores the day AFTER Christmas as there were shoving and punching and trampling fellow shoppers on Black Friday. Most are returning gifts or using their gift cards. It makes me glad I loved every present I got for Christmas.
I was in need of a new cutting board, and Holly surprised me with a particularly beautiful one, with a lovely painting of a wolf that will cheer me every time I go into the kitchen. I particularly like wolves, but then again I love all animals except, possibly, the rat—and I don’t even bother them if they don’t bother me.
The wolf painting in my kitchen makes me sad, though, as does a beautiful photograph of a white wolf in the snow I have framed on my office wall, right across from where I sit now—because the western states in which most wolves live have outlawed their existence. In Idaho, Montana, and Alaska-, it is not only legal to kill a wolf anywhere, anytime, and for any reason whatsoever, but it’s actually encouraged by the state governments. If you can’t shoot them, lob a poison gas grenade into their dens and make sure you wipe out the cubs, too. Pretty soon, all we’ll have by which to remember wolves is Taylor Lautner and his family tuning into werewolves in all the “Twilight” movies. And right here in Ohio, in Zanesville this past year, more than fifty IMPRISONED exotic, endangered-species animals were slaughtered wholesale, because an insane man who owned them in the first place simply opened their cages and allowed them to run wild through the city and surrounding countryside until, of course, they HAD to be killed. Even animal-lovers don’t want to go face-to-face with a hungry tiger in their back yard—but it was a tragic episode nonetheless.
In the meantime, I feed birds—including ducks and geese—every morning in my backyard. I wish I could feed wolves and tigers and bears, too.
So—almost all my charity next year, 2012, will be to help protect animals and birds, domestic and wild. It’s the least I can do, and I wish everyone would do so as well—and maybe those who dress up warm, slug down a few beers, and go out and kill off wolves for the fun of it would somehow realize what they are doing and STOP it!
Otherwise, my cutting board with a beautiful painting of a wolf will one day soon be as relevant as one showing a dinosaur—one that has been extinct for several million years.
Happy New Year

Happy holidays to all my readers, friends, and fans. As a special gift from me to you, I’m offering a free copy of “A Carol For Cleveland,” originally published as a limited edition in 1991, now available as an e-book.

In the early 1990′s the entire country, Cleveland included, suffered under a job-destroying recession, with many people either out of work or hanging on by their fingernails, so I made that the basis of the “Carol for Cleveland” manuscript.

Isn’t it shocking that now, holiday time in the year 2011—twenty years later—it sounds depressingly familiar?

Your free copy of “A Carol for Cleveland” can be downloaded for your Kindle, Nook, or other most other electronic readers. Click on “freebies” in the header of my blog or visit: http://lesroberts.com/free-ebooks/

May each of you enjoy a warm, jolly, joyful holiday season.

As a movie critic as well as an author, I learned years ago that there is a vast difference between a generally lousy film and a totally offensive film. This current weekend (December 9th through December 11th) reaffirmed my decision.

Let’s begin with “New Years Eve.” It’s a stultifyingly boring two hours. The filmmakers took a bunch of uninteresting stories, none of which would have made a halfway-decent film on its own, weaved them together very loosely, and set all the happenings on New Years Eve. Celebrities Hillary Swank and Robert deNiro won two Oscars each, and Halle Berry took home one—but you’d never know it from seeing them in this film. One of its other problems is that it makes some of the most beautiful women in the world—Michelle Pfeiffer, Jessica Biel, Sarah Jessica Parker and the aforementioned Berry—LOOK unattractive enough to be unrecognizable. It took me ten minutes before I realized that mousy brunette who never smiled was indeed Pfeiffer; she didn’t look like that when the world fell in love with her in “The Fabuloius Baker Boys.” And the best thing I could say about the entire film is that it’s deadly dull, a waste of two hours for me, sitting in the dark.

Then along came “The Sitter.” And that’s another story altogether. If you happen to be black, white, Hispanic, gay, straight, rich, poor, a parent, a drug addict, a sex addict, or were once a child (NO currently pre-adult should be allowed anywhere near seeing this film), you will be highly insulted and OFFENDED. “The Sitter,” starring one of my least-favorite actors, Jonah Hill, before he got skinny, is in desperately bad taste from its opening moments. He plays a reluctant babysitter stuck with three kids—a pre-adolescent boy with sexual misgivings and a gay hang-up, a Colombian adoptee who apparently spends his life blowing things up and breakikng what he can’t explode because nobody seems to love him, and a ten year-old girl who constantly applies bad-hooker make-up and swears like a drunken sailor. Unless you’ve actually heard a ten year-old child tossing off F-bombs like this one constantly does–well, you haven’t lived.

Okay, boring, dreary, bad taste, not funny—but I can live with that, I guess. However, when the babysitter refers to the ten-year old child wearing too much cosmetics as “Jon Benet Ramsey,” I hit the ceiling and actually swore aloud in the theater. (If you don’t know or have forgotten, the real Jon Benet Ramsey was a pageant,winning little girl of five or six who wore way too much make-up and was sexually abused and murdered about ten years ago—NOT someone to joke about, I don’t think.) It was only my JOB as movie critic that kept me in my seat until the dismal end more than an hour and a half later.

I hope you now see, as I do, the difference between a lousy movie and a criminally offensive one.