I’m a fan of the television series, Castle. I like the twists and turns of a fast-paced cop show. The writing and acting are good, and I would be perfectly happy to watch the female lead, Detective Kate Beckett, make out a grocery list or recite the alphabet. Yeah, she’s gorgeous.

As good as the series is, I would not be a regular viewer were it not for my favorite character, world famous thriller author Rick Castle. This is a man of immense wealth and little backstory, a man who plays poker with James Patterson, knows everyone, is known by everyone, and has a string of female admirers and conquests. Day or night Castle can be found at the police precinct helping Beckett and her team solve murders. He’s smooth, sophisticated, incredibly handsome, and every bit as smart as Monk or Jessica Fletcher. In his spare time he cranks out best-selling novels. Castle doesn’t sleep. I doubt if he even owns a pair of pajamas.

Rick Castle is not a character, he’s a caricature bringing unintentional comic relief to a dramatic role in the great tradition of William Shatner, among others. I have never known or even heard of an author remotely like the tireless, wildly extroverted Mr. Castle, a man who writes with ease, collects enormous royalties, and likes to cook, although he will never be found in a grocery store unless it’s the scene of a murder.

I’ll keep watching. Rick Castle may be ridiculous, but it’s a good series and Beckett is easy on the eyes.

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