ROAD KILL

Asking whether a Kinky Friedman story is too self-indulgent is like asking whether the Sahara Desert is a mite too dry. But you have to wonder about the Sage of Vandam Street's tenth case, which wobbles from a spectral conversation with the Gypsy in Kinky's bathroom mirror to a Greenwich surprise party to a stint as ``America's guest'' about Honeysuckle Rose, the funky tour-bus home of country singer Willie Nelson—that Willie Nelson, at least in the same way The Love Song of J. Edgar Hoover (1996) was about that Al Capone and J. Edgar—before declaring its intentions. To make a long story short (something the Kinkster would sooner excuse himself for profanity than do), ever since Honeysuckle Rose ran down a drunken medicine man somewhere in Arizona, Willie's been plagued by presentiments of his own death. Somebody calling himself The Green Arrow is taunting him with threatening notes; he's received an evil medicine bundle courtesy of Native Americans who aren't even native to Arizona; and the bundle has vanished only to reappear in the Niagara Suite of the Buffalo Holiday Inn, where somebody has shot Ben Dorsey, the valet/caretaker who looks a lot like his boss. Can Kinky and his Village Irregulars change the oil in Willie's karma before the pan runs as dry as the aforementioned Sahara? The mystery (what there is of it) fizzles, as usual, but that doesn't keep Kinky from being as funny, sad, and blasphemous as ever while laying down another peerlessly cosmic paranoid fantasy without ever getting worked up about it.