James Hanna used to run the monthly open mics for the Peninsula Writers Club. He read/performed his Pomeroy stories, and I read stores about my superheroine. James was a good performer. In my opinion, I performed a little better. I am good at that.
But darn it, James is a better writer! In his latest novel, Call Me Pomeroy, his Pomeroy character needs no open mic actor to come to life. That crazy narcissist leaps off the page (or your Kindle), straps you into his skull, and tears around like a roller coaster. Like the smartest and the stupidest supervillains, “Ol’ Pomeroy” often refers to himself in third person and always refuses to see his own mistakes. But like Popeye’s pal J. Wellington Wimpy, Pomeroy is neither hero nor villain. He is a homeless anti-hero who lusts for fame, and who thinks that all women lust for him, and his rollicking internal dialog tells the reader in a variety of colorful ways exactly what part of him women lust for the most.
James has worked in the criminal justice system, so he had plenty of material to work with. As sexist, conceited, conspiracy-theorizing, and own-worst-enemy crazy as Pomeroy is, you will laugh with him as often as you laugh at him. Read Pomeroy. He is worth your time. Which in my case, was over way too soon. I ate up the book fast. So fast that I think I will eat it a second time! (COUGH! PAH-TOOEY! Oh boy, there it is again!)