No, what really bothers me is, Hamilton can write.  I know she can.  Frustratingly, no one believes me--with good reason!  I'm told that there are two kinds of writers, those who write for other people, and those who write for themselves.  The former are successful; the latter are artists.  I suppose because I'm one of the former, I disagree!  As Thomas Hardy, Daphne Du Maurier and F. Scott Fitzgerald prove, it's possible to be both.  The point of writing is to share something, no?  These days, Hamilton writes for herself.  Her books are more cathartic than self indulgent; if I had to guess, then I'd venture this series is something of a personal exorcism.  Her demons, her insecurities, are evident in Anita, her problems in her various relationships are evident in Anita's various boyfriends.  I'm certain that, underneath their thinly applied little veneers, these are all real people in her real life.  The problem is, reading someone else's journal just isn't that interesting; the average journal lacks plot, cohesion or character development, and tends to be morbidly repetitive.

In Blood Noir--a completely pointless title--Anita accompanies Jason, Jean Claude's pomme de sang, home to say goodbye to his dying father.  Said father is, conveniently, an evil bastard who assumes that Jason, because of his effeminate good looks and success with the ladies, is gay.  Bizarrely, he refuses to admit the possibility that Jason is, in fact, straight; what dramatic tension there is, in this sad excuse for a book, revolves around Jason's attempts to convince his father that he's straight.  Aside from being boring, this "plot" is sort of offensive.  It suggests that there's something wrong with being gay.  Of course, Jason's old classmate, who happens to look like his identical twin, just happens to be in town for his wedding on the same weekend!  Wow, what a coincidence!  Sadly, poor Jason can't devote all his time to encouraging his father's homophobia; he has to field questions from reporters who think he's his old classmate.  Lots of comfort sex ensues.

Yes, that's it.  Of course, in the end, Jason's father gets better--Hamilton actually uses the phrase "Hallmark moment" without a trace of irony--and everyone goes home.  I'd like to say that Anita makes progress in her personal life, or at least with her own issues, but, of course, she doesn't.  I'd like to say that something else happens in this book, but, of course, it doesn't.

Oh, wait!  Richard shows up for some angry sex.  Jason reveals that he broke up with his girlfriend because she didn't want him to have sex with other women, and that was really heartbreaking for him.  Personally, I have a real issue with people who act like monogamy is somehow "passé", and women--it's always women, have you noticed?--who want it are nothing more than backward thinking, controlling bitches.  Again, I think this has more to do with Hamilton's inability to directly address the problems in her personal life--colorful as it apparently is--than with any genuine effort at storytelling.  Since no one dies, nothing bad--or good--happens and nothing is resolved, there's really no point to it.

Right at the end of the book, it turns out that Jason's old classmate, who is also his long lost cousin, has run off to Las Vegas to marry a vampire.  Do we learn why, or how?  Of course not.  This is the only event in the whole book that has even the slightest potential to develop into a real plot.  Oh, well.  I guess we wouldn't want to miss a single moment of meaningless sex.

Honestly, don't bother.  If you're a Hamilton fan at all, then this book will just depress you.  If you're new to her work, then by all means, avoid it.  Whatever momentary high you old time readers think they might get by revisiting old characters, almost friends by now, you're not going to experience.  Take it from someone who actually managed to enjoy her more recent books, and who reads a lot of stupid urban fantasy with absolutely no redeeming potential whatsoever, this book is about as thrilling as a hernia.  I've had a better time, and felt more intellectually engaged, reading catalogue copy, watching my cat lick himself, or removing splinters from my foot.