Amazon.com Thom Jones may be one of the few authors whose acknowledgments thank not only his dog， wife， and agent， but also Wyeth/Ayerst Laboratories and Stuart Pharmaceuticals， manufacturers of Effexor and Elavil--"drugs so good they feel illegal." Likewise， Cold Snap， Jones's second volume of short fiction， is so good these stories feel (but thankfully are not) illegal. In typically manic style they draw tragicomic portraits of boxers， Marines， and other assorted tough-guy types--even， in "Rocketfire Red，" a part-Aborigine surfer girl turned drag racer and international model. Pitchman extraordinaire Ad Magic from The Pugilist at Rest returns， writing fraudulent but devastatingly effective direct-mail appeals for Global Aid even as he loses his mind on the combined effects of Dexedrine， paregoric， malaria， and a thumb smashed by Rwandan soldiers. In "Way Down Deep in the Jungle，" another Africa story， cynical Dr. Koestler's baboon absconds with an entire bottle of whiskey， then entertains the natives with shockingly accurate imitations of the American smoking， masturbating， and moving his bowels. A plastic surgeon boxes his way through a fatal heart attack in "Ooh Baby Baby"; a diabetic with an amputated foot feeds a black widow spider in "Pickpocket"; the young Marine of "Pot Shack" compounds his foolishness in joining up ("Why did you join? Why did you join? Etc. Why did you fucking join?") by volunteering for recon， "where they take awful to a new level." It's the kind of fictional universe in which a manic doctor plays Russian roulette to cheer himself up， and the result is somehow， improbably， funny. But these stories go well beyond whistling in the dark. They are in fact a way to hold our 20th-century demons at bay， as the epigraph from 1 Samuel suggests: "Seek out a man who is skillful in playing the lyre: and when the evil spirit from God is upon you， he will play it， and you will be well." May we all be well， and may Thom Jones play on. --Mary Park From Publishers Weekly Offering 10 stories reprinted from magazines like the New Yorker and Playboy， Jones's second collection of short fiction displays the gritty， fatalistic vision and narrative adrenaline that distinguished his NBA-nominated The Pugilist at Rest. Set in Africa， the West Coast and other locales， these tales are teeming slices of life， full of unexpected pathos and black humor amid imagery of warfare， starvation， disease and decay. Jones's most vivid heroes?star-crossed doctors and loners， battling manic episodes and self-destructive behavior?decamp to Africa to escape dismal lives at home or return home from Africa in antisocial states. In the title story， a manic depressive doctor， stripped of his license， just back from a stint in Nairobi with Global Aid， spends two days with his lobotomized younger sister?visiting the zoo， watching TV and chatting with Jehovah's Witnesses. In "Superman， My Son，" a supermarket magnate， beleaguered by debt， pays a visit to his son?a larger-than-life， born-again manic depressive with a superman complex. "Quicksand" chronicles the unlikely dalliance between a gonzo copywriter for Global Aid， who suffers from malaria and a broken thumb， and a gorgeous Danish doctor travelling from Rwanda to Zaire. The hardwon epiphanies of these embattled individuals make horrifyingly clear the legacy of warfare in the developing world and the everyday tragedies of contemporary America. Copyright 1995 Reed Business Information， Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. See all Editorial Reviews