Bob Hunter strikes again. The Greenpeace co-founder, newspaper columnist, television reporter, author, and self-appointed media guru has decided to share his experiences as a media consultant for aboriginal groups and as a general shit disturber during high-seas shenanigans aboard ex-Greenpeacer Paul Watson’s Sea Shepherd. Add to that some pseudo-mystical meanderings outlining Hunter’s belief that society is beyond redemption because no one is perfect enough to deserve it (redemption, that is) and the result is a memoir that’s long on caustic observation and short on life-affirming lessons. But in today’s post-pomo world, maybe that’s the point.

There is some wickedly funny stuff here, such as the 1992 episode in which Hunter and aboriginal activist Ron George arrive on-board the Sea Shepherd during a squabble between the ship’s meat eaters and vegans. Hunter describes a “hail of little corpses” as he and George deliver “butchered sentient beings” to the aboriginals, who are battling the “emaciated vegans” for control of the ship’s galley. But then there’s the other, not-so-funny stuff: Hunter’s daughter declares aboriginal men “sexist pigs” when she discovers that women do not always take part in sweats, after which the author doesn’t bother to explain the cultural context; Hunter’s gee-whiz New Age weirdo delight at “hanging out with actual Indians” (oh, brother); and his glib overall tone.

It’s that glibness that turns Red Blood into just another white-guy-pointing-to-distant-aboriginal-ancestry-in-order-to-claim-the-right-to-ramble-on-incoherently type of book. It’s too bad, because Hunter has an eye for the self-righteous fanatics of the social justice movement, and he’s at his best when he discusses the power struggles and ego clashes and bizarre bedmates engendered by the need for action on the frontlines. Hunter says “the whole Greenpeace thing is another story.” Let’s hope he tells that one better.