Spanking Watson: A Novel

Simon & Schuster, $23 hard

There is a difference between a rut and a groove, and with Spanking Watson, Kinky Friedman -- he of the arched eyebrow and Cuban stogie -- spends much time in the former before finding the latter. Through half of the book, Kinky (the character, not the writer) endlessly paces his New York loft -- espresso machine to bullhorn shotglass to "blower" (Kink-lish for telephone) and then back again. The character is desperately in need of a story. Claustrophobia abounds.

The doppelKinkster kvetches interminably about Winnie Katz, whose upstairs lesbian dance class (never just a dance class) has of late been shattering his ceiling plaster. Crackling fresh punditry (from several books ago, mind) is now shopworn with repetition. Perhaps Borscht Belt comics could recycle their routine for a different audience every night, but to a novelist's loyal readers, gags get stale when they pass the sell-by date.

Then, midway through and not a moment too soon, he drops the old tired shtick and throws open a window to blast out the stale air. Like night turned to day, the dialogue between Kinky and his sidekicks du jour regains old zing. The trademark irreverence and droll wit are back -- not in full force, but at least in markedly better health. He feeds Stephanie DuPont the best lines in the book -- all darts of derision, with the Kinkatoo as the bull's-eye. He betrays a marked affection for her character and, of his revolving cast, she is the freshest foil for his self-deprecating humor.

There's less plot than usual to prop up the gags and bon mots, but repeat offenders know that plot isn't the ruler by which Kinky Friedman books are measured. Like Marx Brothers movies, most of his books are a transparent excuse for a romp on the middling-wild side with a bit of pinch and tickle to liven things up. Kinky's "mysteries" are genial propaganda for his cult of personality -- and the occasional subpar effort will not slow the cult down.

Spanking Watson nearly earns a flogging for its lazy and repetitious first half. But given the remarkable recovery of the second half, perhaps it should just be sent to its room without supper.