The Big Short, by Michael Lewis

Laughing out loud while reading a book about the disastrous financial events of 2008, is a good way to get fitted for an extremely tight white jacket, with lots of straps and buckles. My wife, however, is a patient woman and will wait for me to do something really nuts, before calling in the burly attendants to cart me away.

The fact is, there are places in this book where you’re left with no choice except to laugh. The absurdity of the decisions and actions that led to the mess, is just that stupefying. You have to laugh, because tearing your hair out in disbelief is not really an option. A disbelief that you’ll find shared by the small handful of people who profited from it all by recognizing the mounting absurdity, and betting against the market.

Sure, there’s the film version too. But it was disconcerting being the only two people in the theater at AMC SouthPoint, while Batman was saying important things about credit default swaps on-screen.

The Gun Seller, by Hugh Laurie

Yes, it’s the same guy. The guy from House. Veep. Black Adder. The guy who played Bertie Wooster, to Stephen Fry’s Jeeves in days of yore.

The very same horrible, terrible Hugh Laurie. I say horrible and terrible because I think it’s criminal that he can be so very good at everything he tries. I never did bother to work out whether this was meant to be a funny thriller or a thrilling funner (?) because I was too busy enjoying myself to give a crap about silly labels.

How Mumbo-Jumbo Conquered The World, by Francis Wheen

Mr. Wheen (read his book, and you’ll see why he rates a “Mr.” in mine) is smart, sharp, skeptical and a dab hand with words. Making this the sort of book you can almost shave with.

It certainly wakes you up, but not with the soul-jarring crudity of a wet dog’s nose nuzzling your foot on a winter morning. No. This is much more insidious. Like the slow, sphincter-clenching wake-up call associated with a mother-in-law visiting for the weekend.

Preacher, by Garth Ennis

You know that little voice inside of you? The one that nags you about not being more disturbed by things polite society considers disturbing?

Strangle it before you start reading Preacher.

Funny. Violent. Sexy. And mostly, all three at the same time. Good enough to re-read multiple times. Unfortunately I have a strong bias against cinematic adaptations of books I like, so it took me about 5 seconds of watching the newly minted AMC version, before shutting off the TV.

Drown, by Junot Diaz

He writes the way Mondays feel.

The dissociation borne of too many cigarettes, and not enough sleep the night before. The feeling that all this ass-kicking is happening to someone else, when deep down you know it’s happening to you.

I assume most of the tales Diaz tells in Drown, are inspired by actual events. (If not, the man’s more of a master than I thought.) So, I’m sure he’s often lauded – perhaps even patronized a little – for having survived it all to become a Pulitzer Prize-winning author and professor of creative writing at MIT.

What I really admire him for, however, is not making me so awfully conscious of his accomplishing that survival. He lets context do that. Unlike the Angela’s Ashes of the world, where the pathos of the author’s situation is constantly reinforced by the author himself.

Holidays In Hell, by P. J. O’Rourke

O’Rourke writes about war in a manner that would make Hemingway hang up his guns and run home screaming to Mommy.

He gets sarcastic about it.

The book is a bit dated, having been published back in the late ’80s. However, many of the death-filled shit holes he describes so very well, are still… well, death-filled shit holes. In some cases, we have a new cast of death dealers. In other cases, they’ve been overshadowed by newer, gorier death-filled shit holes.

Either way, this is the kind of guy whose bags you’d like to carry in the event of, say, an unscheduled stopover in North Korea, in today’s context.

McCarthy’s Bar, by Pete McCarthy

This travelog by a half-Irish guy starts off with the basic premise that he’s bound to have a good time in an Irish bar with his name on it.

If that doesn’t grab you enough to get you to go out and buy the book – well, your loss.

There’s alcohol. Drugs. Other people having sex. Some nice insights into Catholicism. And a jaundiced view of tourists and tourist traps, that’s surpassed only by Terry Pratchett and his characters Twoflower and Rincewind.

From Hell, by Alan Moore

Alan Moore’s take on Jack the Ripper, based loosely on Stephen Knight’s proposed solution.  Meticulously researched in terms of both art and the patois of the times. Rich with detail. Topped off by Mr. Moore’s signature touch that leaves you wondering just a little bit about reality.

Now, before you say, wait-a-minute-wasn’t-there-a-film-starring-Johnny-Depp-that-sucked-sideways, I’d like to point something out – that film bears as little resemblance to this graphic novel, as Tom Cruise bears to the Jack Reacher of the books.