Dave's Fiction Warehouse

If there were ever a book I'd buy just because of the title, Cancel Your Own Goddam Subscription is surely one of them. Fortunately, I don't have to; my wife also appreciates the sentiment it implies and gave me the book for Christmas. A collection of the most outrageous letters received at The National Review since 1968, paired with the trenchant responses of editor William F. Buckley Jr., this may be a book only newspaper people can really appreciate. Who among us has not fielded a damning letter or phone call and choked out some simpering semblance of civility when sterner measures were in order? Buckley skewered the great and small with equal aplomb, and with such subtle elegance that those of us who today would be wordsmiths can only shake our heads. Was there really a time when the phrases "Get a life" or "Get over it" or "Fuck you" were not considered adequate ripostes? Evidently so. Think what you will of Buckley's politics; the ma

Perhaps because I've worked at newspapers most of my adult life, I always roll my eyes at the obligatory pope story on Christmas Day. There's rarely anything else going on, so news that the pope has once again come out solidly in favor of peace, love and understanding often as not ends up on Page One. It's like running a story that nights can be chilly at the South Pole. It's not news. It would be news if he advocated the use of tactical nuclear weapons to clean up certain of the world's trouble spots, or pointed out that brutal dictators do cut down on street crime, or wondered aloud why the oppressed of Darfur don't just move to Switzerland. But all this boilerplate about ending poverty, injustice and war ... yeah, OK. We'll get right on that, your Holiness. If the pope really wanted to make news -- and make a difference -- he'd set up a Dunk-the-Prelate booth in St. Peter's Square, three softballs for a dollar. See a bishop take a bath. Proceeds

We're thinking about getting a dog. Her name is Faith (pictured at left). Taking on a new pet is always a gamble, but I figure that even if she is a terrible dog, and craps on the carpet, barks all night, kills the cats and chews up my cowboy boots, I can at least write a bestselling book about it to defray some of the expense. Hey, everybody else does. Look at John Grogan. A few short years ago he was toiling in obscurity as a third-tier columnist for my old newspaper, the Philadelphia Inquirer. Now he has become the Thomas Kinkade of dog writers. The man is everywhere: Marley and Me ; Bad Dogs Have More Fun ; Marley: A Dog Like No Other ; Bad Dog, Marley ; The Marley Code ; Marley and the Deathly Hallows ; That Darn Marley! ; and, due out next spring, The Marley Secret: Spinning Dog Feces Into Gold. Strolling through Border's the other day, I noticed that Grogan's success has not been lost on other authors. Anna Quindlen has weighed in with Good Dog. Stay . Dean Koontz h