Has there ever been such a middle name? Will add another half-star just for that. T.C. Boyle has never been on my radar, surprisingly, until recently; a National Book Award finalist for "Drop City" which will follow, but whose forte is, without question, the more-challenging short story. And, even moreso, his mercurial talent for crafting prose in various inflected styles to assimilate contrasting regional styles and periods in time. In the second story, "Swept Away" the Scottish narrative is distinctly voiced in the omnipresent--a story about the wind "the puff and blow of it" near those birdwatching precipices of the Muckle Flugga stacks off the northernmost tip of the Isle of Unst. Near the end, another takes place in New England "The Doubtfulness of Water" Madame Knight's Journey to New York, 1702. It is as if this good and proper lady's (a venturesome widow's) journal were written a month ago perfectly recasting a time when witches were burned at the stake and wayward travelers' were set upon by highwaymen and catamounts. Amazing. On the inside back jacket "Men's Journal" said it best; "a writer who can take any topic and spin a yarn too good to put down." Had a climate-change-induced "dome" of 110+ degrees parked for six straight days and this had me fully-engaged. Every story, just a welcome reprieve from having to get out from under the ceiling fan over the couch. His counter-cultural roots are well-represented in the details of the 70s revealing an age close to my own. A bonus for us Woodstock generation-types. So addicted have I become that I returned to that bookstore's shelves and bought all of his books that remained. One particulary of interest for eco-activist centrics is in the ilk of "The Monkey Wrench Gang" which "fantasizes" about sabotaging heavy equipment used to clear the unspoiled wildnerness; blowing bridges; targeting development infrastructure--it's a veritable anarchist cookbook. A worthy read. That is, if you don't mind the FBI tracking your booklist at the library. Boyle's book is not so radicalized being called "A Friend of the Earth." And just before writing this have just read a press release by Seven Circles who blocked the entrance to Burning Man at Black Rock City for the hijacking of what were previously Earth-friendly, anti-materialistic values by the conspicuously hyper-fadist rich, and "influencers" ensconced in their vain-glorified cliques/camps/krewes--their fully-appointed luxury RVs and supposedly drug-enlightened pursuit of the celebration of creativity. Their chartered private jets to fly in to the Playa with their own personal chefs--these VIPs and their "radical self-reliance" who don't give a good goddam about their carbon footprint. Or their lives of excess. God save us. These Earth-Last-Me-First-Burners sure as Hell won't. And Hell is what I wish for them and the organizers' hypocrisy---and my wish just came true. Just shortly after this submission, ironically, Nature unleashed her wrath in yesterday's torrential downpour, and it's not letting up, and 70,000 are told to shelter-in-place. And the desert (?) the glamping destination for the elite who are there to see, and be seen, has flooded. Miasmic muck up to the ankles. Sparkle ponies wearing garbage bags. Bags taped over bare feet as shoes are sucked into the unrelenting mud. Port-o-potties reeking full to the brim and cannot even be emptied. And...NEWSFLASH: "Chris Rock hiked five miles out of BRC today (his post removed but viral) and has escaped in a fan's pickup truck." The event is officially closed. And a certain word comes to mind: "Schadenfreude."