Ten Little New Yorkers

by Kinky Friedman

Book Overview

In the wake of a series of Greenwich Village murders, Kinky Friedman finds himself targeted by police as the likely suspect and must identify the true killer from among the people who are closest to him.

• Format: Hardcover
• Language: English
• ISBN: 0743246039
• ISBN13: 9780743246033
• Release Date: March 2005
• Publisher: Simon & Schuster
• Length: 196 Pages
• Weight: 0.90 lbs.
• Dimensions: 0.8" x 6.4" x 9.7"

Customer Reviews

The Cat Is Gone

I first saw Kinky Friedman on the Box in connection with his political ambitions in Texas. Imagine my surprise when I accidentally find some novels by the said Kinkster, and not just one or two. Any novelist described as "politically incorrect" has to be worth a try, and "Ten Little New Yorkers" was the choice. The main character, (Kinky himself, no less), gets sucked into a bizarre case in which he is among the suspects for some brutal murders that have a sense of sickening creativity about them. Of course, like all things, the timing of it totally sucks. Kinky had left New York for a relax in Texas, only to get called back by the police, and his cat had also gone. Throw in some healthy doses of Kinky's wisdom and observations on just about every facet in life, (including taking a dump), and you have the makings of a quirky and entertaining read. Kinky's turn of phrase is something that stood out to me personally, adding a sense of charm to his style of writing. At times, it was a bit taxing on the brain, (neither being Texan nor having set foot inside the USA), but overall I found it manageable. In fact, I learned a few new words, which is always good thing. To sum up, I would have to say this was a good introduction to the world of Kinky Friedman. I like his style, and the story itself was good too. Not too cerebral, but enough meat to keep one lightly entertained. However, lightly entertained is about where it ends. For serious crime buffs, this will probably not hold its own against meatier authors. But it is fun, that is for sure.

Love the Kinkster!

You don't mind if I do something of a Kinky career retrospective, do you? I'll fit this book in there. TEN LITTLE NEW YORKERS by Kinky Friedman If you've read any of his novels, any at all, ask yourself how in the heck you describe the guy. It's a matter of sifting through superlatives, knowing they all apply, and hoping you chose the most accurate ones. Kinky Friedman was a county and western musician who was probably too original for the establishment. Do you remember when Willie Nelson was too innovative for Nashville? A mere wisp of ganja smoke away, Kinky was singing a pro-choice song, and a song called "Homo Erectus," and a big ole pile of songs equally unfriendly to radio airplay. Damn intelligent lyrics. The only hit to ever come out of Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys was "Lover Please" by Billy Swan, who was formerly a Jewboy. Don Imus listeners have quite probably heard Kinky's "They Ain't Makin' Jews Like Jesus Anymore." After that, Kinky tried his hand at writing murder mysteries. The main character is some guy named Kinky Friedman, a former country musician turned amateur detective. This is the nineteenth book in what may well be the most unique and unforgettable series in the history of literature. Keen insight. Brilliant word play. An honesty and utter disregard for political correctness that most authors only dream of, and that make me hope you Texans elect this guy as your next governor. An unforgettable cast of Village Irregulars and a tip of the ten-gallon hat to Sherlock Holmes. And cats! You'll always laugh and you'll always think. In April, I wrote: "Kinky Friedman is my favorite novelist. If you've never read him, I suggest ROADKILL, or a trilogy including it, at your local library. After Kinky almost died, his fiction evolved, and you can see that in THE PRISONER OF VANDAM STREET. I haven't had time to read TEN LITTLE NEW YORKERS, which he wrote next and which is in our flat. But now he's also written some essays. The collection, entitled SCUSE ME WHILE I WHIP THIS OUT, is so perceptive and well written that I alternate between (as a reader) genuine appreciation and (as an essayist who'd like to be one of the best) much wailing and gnashing of teeth." Well, I've read TEN LITTLE NEW YORKERS and will do so again later on. It might be his finest. It's damn sure a contender. Y'all get it. Then, if you live in Texas, vote for a man who inhaled and ain't afraid to tell ya straight.

The ultimate Kinky Friedman mystery

The Kinkster is having a really bad patch. Losing his cat has sent him into a sliding depression. He doesn't care about much of anything. Out of concern for his mental health, his friends convince him that maybe he needs a vacation. After all, he has no cases, no cat, not even the lesbian dance class upstairs that historically provided at least something to gripe about. To Kinky, his life feels empty and he needs rejuvenation before he makes good on his suicide threat. So off he flies to Texas, to visit the Friedmans, happily communing with the four-legged ones at the family ranch. Unfortunately, his respite doesn't last long. A few short mornings after his arrival, he answers the "blower" and discovers Sgt. Cooperman of the NYPD on the other end, demanding that he return to the Big Apple to explain a dead man's wallet in Kinky's apartment. The good news is that, after submitting to the cops' interviews, he is still allowed to walk out of the police station unshackled. But four --- or is it five now --- bodies have shown up in the Village, and they just keep mounting. Beginning his own investigation into the murders not only serves as a self-defense against the growing suspicions of the police, but also gives him a case to work on. This might just save his life --- if, that is, he can stay out of jail. Kinky's inquiries turn up some bizarre stuff, but no solid clues. "Now it truly was a ship of fools, I thought. Here were Ratso and I, playing at being Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, interviewing this Harry Felcher person, who was, to put it kindly, playing at being Judy Garland. Maybe none of us were playing at all. Maybe this was life and life only. Maybe the only thing that was real was the guy who had died in this building." His footwork, however, does set him off in the right direction and he soon formulates a theory, one that disturbs him a great deal. Even Kinky has trouble believing the conclusion to which his investigation leads him. Every Kinky Friedman book has a deliciously irreverent tone. Each novel involves a new --- and occasionally absurd --- adventure, with a cast of characters even Seinfeld's producers would envy: Ratso, Rambam, McGovern, the cat, the puppethead and, last but not least, the lesbian dance class. Kinky, the author, always packs loads of fun into the space between the covers. This time, though, he has a little surprise for his readers. Okay, a big surprise. Be ready: TEN LITTLE NEW YORKERS ends spectacularly. For Kinky newcomers, read every one of his books, quickly, then grab this one. For die-hard Kinky fans (is there any other kind?), this is not just a must-read --- it's an absolutely-no-kidding-you've-really-gotta-read-it read. --- Reviewed by Kate Ayers

shocker that explains why Kink can run for governor

Amateur private investigator Kinky Friedman is despondent because his cat is missing and he has no case to occupy his time. He also feels that his life is not going to get any better than it is, which makes him even more depressed. His friends convince him to go to his Echo Hill Ranch in Texas; which he does. When he arrives at the ranch, he feels much better until his neighbor Winnie Katz calls to let him know that she found a wallet belonging to a Robert Scalopini, someone Kinky never heard of. He finds out the man was the fourth male killed in the Village in a week and a half. When the police learn about the wallet they make Kinky return to Manhattan to question him. As evidence at a fifth homicide points to Kinky the police tail him. When he loses the tail, a sixth murder occurs and the Kinkster has no alibi. Someone is framing him for the murders; Kinky has a case to work on to exonerating himself and finding the real culprit. A Kinky Friedman novel is always a treat to read. His raunchy sense of humor, his quirky outlook on life and his love for his cat endears him to readers who hope he snaps out of his funk. It is exciting watching Kinky fall under police suspicion although he knows he is innocent but can't prove it; still he interestingly eliminates suspects. The climax of TEN LITTLE NEW YORKERS will come as a complete shock to fans of this series, making this one a must buy to find out who and why. Harriet Klausner

Please, Kinky, don't stop now!

In what our "master of destinies", and the true master of metaphors calls his last go at the murder mystery genre in favor of an opportunity to save the state of Texas from the traditional empty suits that call themselves "public servants", Kinky Friedman has crafted one of the most entertaining reads of his or anyone elses writing career. Ten Little New Yorkers has everything we have come to love and look forward to in a Kinky novel and much, much more. It is a page turner in the truest tradition. One is drawn in at once, and happily trapped in Kinkyland the entire literary trip. It is at once poignant with Kinky's own brand of life's lessons, and at the same time crazy enough to hold the interest of the most discerning reader. His genius is as always his wordcraft, and a use of the language that will never be duplicated. There is a warmth in Kinky's prose that grabs you, and makes you think about where you are in your own life, where you've been, and where you are going. Where I'm going now is back to re-read this wonderful, thoughtful, and fascinating book. Buy it. Treasure it. But don't share it with your friends. That would't exactly be a financial pleasure for the Kinkster! On with the campaign! Good luck, Kinky, the state of Texas is way overdue for someone of your insight, and a common sense approach to government that would blow a refreshing breath of fresh air into those stale back rooms replete with political doldrums...and thoughtless dolts. Thank you. Butch Huff