You Mean Toads in England Really Don't Drive Cars?

For a large portion of my weird little childhood, my mother would take my sister and me on an annual trip to Florida. The first year we went was 1989, just weeks after hurricane Hugo had swamped the place. I can still picture the Days Inn Hotel with the doors to all their rooms open to be aired out. We went through three rooms or so before they put us in one where the damp carpet wouldn’t likely cause mold to grow in our lungs.

Other than that though, I can barely remember the hotel or the rooms or anything else about these trips to Florida. As with most families taking small children to this southern state of oranges and old people, there is really only one reason to travel. Disneyworld.

I love Disneyworld. Even as an adult, I still love it, like a dirty, ice cream-faced, five-year-old. You can imagine then, how my curiosity was piqued when my former co-worker presented me with a most interesting memoir, titled “Cast Member Confidential.” The author, a sports photographer named Chris Mitchell, was no one I’d ever heard of, and if you know me at all, you know that the word ‘sports’ might as well be synonymous with ‘painful childhood memories.’ “I’ve heard this is good,” my coworker told me. “It’s about people who play the characters at Disneyworld.” Say no more, bookstore employee friend! You’ve made a sale!

Anyone who has been a member of a school or community theater group can imagine the sort of individuals they hire to play the numerous Disney characters prancing about their parks. Even aside from that though, the subculture that exists behind the ‘Cast Members Only’ doors is both bizarre and fascinating. That’s what they call them after all, ‘cast members,’ and not just the ladies dressed up as Cinderella, but every single employee out amongst the guests. The photographers. The greeters. The janitors. That woman ladling jambalaya into your bread bowl outside the Haunted Mansion is not a lunch lady. She is a cast member, and she has to keep smiling at you no matter what.

Young Chris Mitchell was having a bit of a life crisis when he fled Los Angeles to find gainful employment within the artificially beautiful walls of the Walt Disneyworld Resort. Instantly, his skills as a photographer set him apart from the crowd. Unfortunately, so did his rebellious and sarcastic attitude. The memoir follows Mitchell both in his quest to face the issues that sent him to Florida, but also in his desire to fit in amongst the Disney magic and those that worship at its shrine. Mitchell gives you a short rundown to his previous job, photographing seemingly heathenish skateboarders who think nothing of graffiti and using cemeteries as skate parks. While his Disney coworkers were certainly not all saints, they all possess a curious sense of purpose and ability to find joy in everything. Or so it seems at first.

Add on to that, the endless rules that accompany the job of cast member, and you’ll never look at the guy snapping your photo with Winnie the Pooh the same way again. Heck, you’ll never look at Winnie the Pooh the same way again. “Cast Member Confidential” is the sort of trivia laden book that will have you stopping every five minutes to shout at the nearest person, “Did you know they don’t sell gum at Disneyworld?” and various other useless but fascinating bits of knowledge. I got a kick out of how Mitchell fell into the habit of describing everyone he met in terms of what character they could play according to their height. Every character performer has to be a specific height, within the range of two inches. Otherwise, some observant tot might notice if the Mickey who left for a cheese break is slightly taller or shorter than the one who returned. If there is anything you learn from this book, it’s the lengths Disneyworld goes to maintain the magic, for better or worse.

In the end, the book is more about a man struggling with his own sense of self than a Disney tell-all, which is exactly the way it should be in my opinion. Honestly, as much as I like to stick it to the Man, Disney is one Man I’d rather leave alone. Who wants to rip apart their own childhood dreams and fantasies? Not me. And if you don’t believe me, come with me next Christmas to Disneyland, and watch me cry at the fake snow.

If You Had Magic Powers, You Know You'd Do It Too

Today, my merry little blogflowers, we are going to discuss that most irritating literary occurrence: the crappy ending. You know the feeling, when you’ve spent two hours watching a movie, and then you find out it was allllll a dream. Or a split personality. Or an identical twin. In other words, some lame concept, because by that point the screenwriter was either an idiot, lazy, or dying from malnourishment, and couldn’t come up with anything better.

In a book, it’s even worse, because you haven’t just spent an hour or two, but sometimes days or weeks, depending on the speed in which you consume the written word. I’m not talking about the sort of rubbish that you can tell from page one how painful it will be to mentally consume. No, no. At least those books are honest about what they are. This particular brand of Steinho ire is reserved for the book that pulls you in, offers up a slew of diverse and developed characters, then at the peak of excitement, the main character will suddenly get knocked unconscious, or fall down a well, or turn out to be crazy, and every bit of excitement was alllllll in his head. I will never forgive you, “Shutter Island.” Never.

A horrible ending is always worse when the other 95% of the book is pure gold. One example is Lev Grossman’s “The Magicians.” That’s Lev Grossman, not to be confused with the obnoxious Tom Cruise character, Les Grossman, from the movie “Tropic Thunder.”

“The Magicians” started out so promising. To describe it as simply as possible, it‘s, “Harry Potter and The Drunken College Years.” And if it wasn’t enough to draw upon one lovable kids fantasy series, it also pays homage to C. S. Lewis’s “The Chronicles of Narnia.” What really happens when after years of sneaking off to a magical land of talking animals, called Fillory in this book, one simply grows up to be boring and old? How would that twist one’s mind? Team Narnia, mature as they are, willingly accept their fate. In “The Magicians,” one of the wee tots, (instead of the Pevensies, we have the Chatwins) grows so miserable at being ejected from his fancy through-the-portal lifestyle, that he goes insane, turns evil, and magically eats a few people along the way.

So the novel had a great villain, lots of dark magic and danger. It also had it’s share of salacious college party life. For example, while turned into a goose, our broody and charming main character, Quentin, is instinctively inspired to get busy with one of his similarly transformed classmates. It sort of put me in mind to T.H White’s “The Once and Future King.” If you don’t get the reference, think back to Disney’s version of “The Sword in the Stone,” where to teach young Arthur about life, Merlin turns him into a fish, a squirrel and a bird. Teach him about life indeed!

Sprawling, vine-covered university of weirdo professors. Check. Danger at the hands of an enraged, supernatural, wannabe Edmund Pevensie. Check. Some hot goose-on-goose action. Double check. What could be bad about this book?

Well, nothing, until the ending. Pardon the spoiler alert, but when the young Quentin and his team of wizard over-achievers finally make it to Fillory, nothing happens. They walk around. They learn how the land of Fillory has been on the decline ever since those darling Chatwins left. Then, after a few minor skirmishes, they end up in a cave. Blah blah blah, the villain flat out explains his evil schemes, blah blah blah, some of Quentin’s friends get dismembered, bladdy blah blah, Quentin gets knocked out, and wakes up in a centaur hospital, without knowing exactly what happened, what became of his friends, or what to do next. Eventually he returns home, and gets an office job at a magical corporation. An office job.

Perhaps Grossman was trying to make a statement on how when we are young, we dream of whimsical adventures, flying on dragons, sailing with pirates. When you grow up, you realize that like everything else, even magic would be mundane, tedious, and probably involve a lot of bureaucracy. You’d probably have to get a license for your dragon, and think of the amount of money you’d spend to feed it.

Or maybe, Grossman was just tired. Fortunately, he got his act together for the last two paragraphs, where he literally had the remains of Quentin’s posse smash in, Batman style, through the window of his office building, and insult our hero into giving up his day job, and getting back into the magic game. Hopefully for the sequel, Grossman will listen to his own advice.

Less paperwork. More goose sex.

Gooble Gobble! Gooble Gobble! Read This Book! Read This Book!

Ahh, the holidays! The time each year when we are subjected to the various horrifying whims of our extended family. Smelly babies. Old people asking us hypothetical questions about why teenagers today listen to that ‘rap music’ and act like whores. I don’t know, Great Aunt Mildred. I’m twenty-seven, and have poor social skills. Even as a young person myself, I had no idea what was going on.

Well, it could be worse. Instead of having a family full of freaks, you could be a family of actual freaks, like with extra or missing limbs, maybe some animal parts, extraneous hair, possibly a penchant for shoving flaming or pointy objects down your gullet.

That is exactly the sort of family imagined in Katherine Dunn’s novel “Geek Love.” I really wonder how many people in the past couple years have picked up her book and thought, “Yippee! Nerd romance!” Not quite, termite. Here’s a little etymology lesson for you. The original meaning of the word geek, according to Merriam Webster, is a carnival performer, usually billed as a wild man, whose act was to bite the head off of a live chicken or snake. Perhaps Katherine Dunn was worried readers would get the wrong idea if they saw a book titled “Freak Love” and therefore dredged up this antiquated term to fill in the blank. Because freaks, after all, are what this book is about. Freaks in love with other freaks, living normal freaky lives, despite looking positively freakish.

Dunn need not have worried. This was one of those books where someone simply tells me the premise and I buy it. What’s that you say? A book about circus freaks? I’m there! I think every reader has that list of certain words, that when they see it on a book dust jacket, their interest is instantly piqued. Well, circus is one of my words. Pair that with ‘haunted’ or ‘evil’ or ‘necromancer’ and not only have I bought the book, but I’ve read half of it in line already on the way to the cashier. I admit, it’s not a fool proof plan, a point never made more clearly than with Jonathan L. Howard’s “Johannes Cabal: Necromancer.” Never have I read a book with necromancer in the title so utterly devoid of necromancy. For shame, Mr. Howard. For shame.

As I mentioned before, “Geek Love” is a simple story about a family, with the same boring hopes and dreams as everybody else. The story starts with a loving couple; he the inheritor of a rundown traveling show, she the resident geek girl. Yup, the chicken head biting kind. They fall in love, and like every young couple in love, they purposely expose her pregnant belly to toxic chemicals in the hopes of producing better acts for their circus. And it works! A couple years later, they’ve got a megalomaniac flipper boy, a sassy and musically gifted pair of conjoined twins, and Olympia, a moody, angst-filled bald girl with a hunchback. Oh, and a perfectly lovely blond boy with telekinetic powers. He has an inferiority complex because he’s the most adorable and flawless looking child ever birthed.

I’m worried this sounds like a bad review. It’s a bizarre read, to be sure, but I really, really loved it. I consumed it in its entirety on a four hour plane ride, so that has to count for something. Those folks who recall the short-lived HBO show “Carnival” will likely enjoy its diverse and intriguing cast of characters. It might also put you in mind of the 1932 film “Freaks,” only not quite as visually horrifying.

What I loved most about “Geek Love” was how the family of freaks, especially Olympia, who is considered too boring by her parents to be put in any act, deals with the same issues as any regular, traditional looking family. At times, they were so normal in their arguments, their emotional blow ups, their backstabbing and scheming,. Then they’d start in on the telekinetic powers and cult religions and journey off down some tangential road that would zap me back to fantasyland.

I can safely say, “Geek Love” is a book the likes of which you have probably not seen. Unless you’re also in the habit of finding the weirdest book in the store and reading it forthwith. In that case, we should hang out.

Because That Chocolate Factory Money Didn't Last Forever

As a teenager, Roald Dahl studied at Repton School in Derbyshire. When I was fourteen, I traveled to Repton with the Flint Youth Symphony. Later in life, I was nearly caught lying about pretending to be British, by a British person. I was saved by mentioning that I had studied at Repton. Apparently knowing the name of an obscure British prep school is acceptable proof of nationality. Thank you, youth symphony and thank you, Roald Dahl.

What do we normally know Roald Dahl for, other than saving me from humiliating myself in front of his compatriots? “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” is probably one of his most well known kids‘ books. Most of the wee lads and lasses I grew up with had read at least a few of his other works, too. “The Witches,” “Matilda,” and “The BFG,” come to mind. They’re often dark and strange children‘s book, full of imagination and often violence. Still, they’re children’s books, and most often, Dahl is thought of as a children‘s author.

But what about Roald Dahl, purveyor of sexy fiction?

I say to you what I said to my mother upon learning that Sherlock Holmes had a brother named Mycroft.

Whaaaaaaaaaat?

Yes, many do not know that Roald Dahl wrote adult books, let alone books that may or may not be considered of an erotic nature. His first published work was a short story detailing his life as a fighter pilot in the Royal Air Force. Another short story, “The Smoker,” was later adapted into the fourth section of the film “Four Rooms.” For those of you who’ve seen it, it’s the one with Quentin Tarantino, where a guy gets his finger whacked off in a bet.

Well, with Tarantino involved, it now may not seem so strange that Dahl wrote not just one, but several erotic novels, such as “Stitch Bitch.” His book, “Dirty Beasts,” however, is ironically meant for kids.

The title of his other titillating tome is “My Uncle Oswald,” and let me just say that it’s simply delightful. By today’s supersexed teenage pregnancy standards, it’s not even that dirty. I mean, we’re not talking about Lewis Carroll here, so get your mind out of that filthy 2010s gutter and wallow in this charming, old, 1930s romp! Dahl sets up “My Uncle Oswald” as a collection of passages from the narrator’s uncle’s diary, detailing his exploits and schemes, some of a financial nature, others with a more sensual motivation. Good old Uncle Oswald appeared multiple times in Dahl’s writing career, with these so called diary excerpts being published in magazines from The New Yorker to Playboy. That’s right! Playboy! I’ll give you a moment to fall out of your chair with shock. Hang on, it’s going to get even more outrageous!

In, “My Uncle Oswald,” a young Oswald learns of a Sudanese blister beetle, that when ground up and ingested, makes Viagra look like one of those comically large mallets that knock cartoon characters unconscious. The drug is cleverly marketed as a potency pill. That’s the brilliance of a book like this. We all know what he’s talking about, but there‘s just something about British people using a whole lot of ridiculous euphemisms for sexual encounters that makes me titter with joy. At first the crafty junior entrepreneur, Oswald, makes a small fortune selling this wonder pill to Britain’s oldest fornicators. Yet, like all ridiculous plots, Oswald is not content with his meager earnings. That’s where Yasmin Howcomely comes in.

That name alone is enough to send me into a fit of giggles. You thought Ian Fleming was clever with Pussy Galore? As if! Miss Howcomely has an important, um, position, to play in Oswald’s business proposal. With the aid of Oswald’s potency pill, and Yasmin’s charms, the pair set out to trick the world’s greatest thinkers, artists, politicians, plus a few royals, into unknowingly donating a, shall we say, specimen, to sell to wealthy women who would like to be the mothers of great thinkers, artists, etc. We’re all adults here. You can put pieces together exactly how Yasmin Howcomely helps in this process. Oddly, Dahl uses the same sort of silly, ridiculous humor in “My Uncle Oswald,” that he does in his children’s books. Only instead of describing how Charlie was chased by an evil vermicious knid, he discusses how Yasmin was chased around the room by a half naked Bernard Shaw! If that isn’t whimsical, I don’t know what is.

Stop Talking About Christmas and Pass Me the Opium

With a weird name like Wilkie Collins, he sounds like a young hooligan from a Dickens novel, perhaps as a grimy compatriot to the Artful Dodger or the scheming school chum to Pip Pirrup. Thank goodness, young Master Wilkie was born to wealthy parents, and was therefore spared a life of poverty and such traumatizing though serendipitous coincidences that plagued the lives of Oliver Twist and David Copperfield.

For the sake of my own amusement, I will break with standard grammar of referring to authors by their last name, and address this week’s writer in question by his delightful first name. Wilkie. If I feel so inclined, I might even throw in a ‘dear Wilkie,’ or ‘that silly Mr. Wilkie,’ because Wilkie Collins is no longer alive, and will never read my blog, and can’t yell at me for mocking his name.

Up until about a year ago, I had never heard the name Wilkie Collins, writer of “The Moonstone,” and “The Woman in White.” Oh, University of Michigan English professors, how I have failed you! My first introduction came while reading a non-fiction book, “The Suspicions of Mr. Whicher,” the history of Jonathan Whicher, a real life Scotland Yard detective from the late 1800s. It was Whicher’s famous skills of observation and deduction that inspired a certain knighted writer to create a character whose name rhymes with Shmerlock Sholmes. He also inspired an equally weirdly named author to write what is known as the earliest forms of detective or mystery novels. That weirdly named author was none other than our previous Wilkiekins.

Really though, I have only good things to say about our sweet little Wilkie. Every once in awhile, I like to read a classic to remind myself how much smarter I am than everyone else. On this occasion, the source of my literary superiority was one of Wilkie’s later works, titled “The Moonstone.” The book follows the scandal surrounding the theft of an allegedly cursed Indian diamond, which was originally stolen from a Hindu temple during the British conquest! Scandal indeed!

Sure enough, Wilkie’s writing made me remember why classics are considered classics. It’s not just because they’re old and our teachers make us read them. Most of them actually are light years better than the shlock clogging the shelves of Barnes and Noble these days.

On top of his immense writing prowess, his royal Wilkiness was also a gentleman of great intrigue and curiosity. I can just imagine the whispering behind fans that occurred whenever dear Wilkie entered a ballroom or tea parlor! Let me enlighten you to a few delectable morsels from our precious Wilkie’s life history. His first job was working for a bunch of tea merchants. Tea merchants! Just think of the sort of mischief he got into under their employment. Next he made friends with Charles Dickens (speaking of serendipitous coincidences!) and they took turns editing and publishing each other’s work while they’re younger siblings got married. Later, he grew a gigantic bushy beard, and from the years 1870 to his death in 1889, he was getting it on with two different women. He married neither.

If nothing else can be said of this grand wordsmith of yore, Wilkie Collins was a professional. The dear old chap included an introduction into “The Moonstone,” where he describes the unfortunate affliction of rheumatic gout that struck him just as his mother was dying of some other horrible British malady. Anyway, this came somewhere in the middle of writing “The Moonstone,” but instead of trying to get some rest, or taking time to mourn the passing of his mother dearest, Wilkie refused to stop working out of loyalty to his fans. He continued to write, dictating to an assistant as he laid suffering in his bed. Kinda makes me feel bad for slacking off on my blog just because I’m on vacation.

“The Moonstone” is the sort of novel that makes me wish I had been born in the Victorian era. I mean they really had every sort of spazzmoid and hilarious character back then. Like Betteredge, the wacky old butler obsessed with Robinson Crusoe, or the spinster cousin who tries to hide religious paraphernalia in her dying aunt’s bathroom, just in case she would like to read about saving her soul while on the toilet. There’s Rosanna Spearman, the hunchbacked, former thief turned second housemaid, who flings her crippled body into quicksand after falling in love with a man above her station. She actually drowns in quicksand! How tragic! How sensational! Add onto that a team of mad Colonels, villainous foreigners with weirdly speckled hair, engagements made and broken, not to mention the amount of opium consumed, and you’ve got more intrigue than a Jason Bourne movie. No, they did not need the antics of teen celebridiots to entertain them in the 1800s. They had dear Wilkie to amuse them.

Aron Ralston: Hero? Saint? Chuck Norris' Long Lost Son?

At any given moment, I could recite to you about ten things that are currently making me anxious. Paying the bills. Finding an awesome new job. Possibly dying of some disease I don‘t yet know I have. Though my doctor sister has assured me of the improbability of my having throat cancer, I remain terrified.

It is far too easy to focus on the negative, on everything that can possibly go wrong. This is another one of those downsides to having an overactive imagination. As children, we create imaginary friends and monsters. As adults, I create imaginary tumors in my larynx and futures where I’m forced to live under a bridge and eat grilled cheese crusts I find in bins around Santa Monica. Needless to say, inspirational posters featuring fluffy, adorable baby animals are usually lost on me.

What does inspire me is when horrible things happen to people, and through the sheer power of their will and mind, they come out all right. Cue Aron Ralston, the famous mountain climber who had to amputate his own arm with a utility tool to free himself from a canyon in Utah. Has anyone ever asked you, if you had to be stranded on a deserted island with one person, who would you want to labor away under the blistering tropical sun with? Seeing as Jacques Cousteau is dead, I’ll take Aron Ralston. I apologize to his wife and newborn son for kidnapping their husband/father, but this is my hypothetical, and I want to live, damn it! I want to live!

A few years ago, I was putzing around the non-fiction section of Borders, and I came across Ralston’s book, “Between a Rock and a Hard Place.” Never has there been a more literal interpretation of that metaphor.

My God, what a book. What a story. You think you have problems? You think your life is hard? Well, you don’t and it’s not, because you are not currently pinned under a boulder in Utah, dying of starvation and possibly septic shock. If this were a game of who has been through more, and you are not a child in a war-torn, third-world country, or Aron Ralston, then you lose. Do you have both your arms? Lose. Haven’t drank your own urine yet? Lose. Tired after spending a whole day on your feet? What a good day to be a loser. Ralston was unable to lay down and rest his legs for almost a week.

Yes, Ralston’s book is absolutely horrifying to read at times, especially if you’re squeamish. He doesn’t hold back with anything, not with the emotional turmoil, not concerning the terrifying transformation as his body began to wither, his damaged right hand actually starting to fester though still attached to his arm.

The most graphic part, of course, is the amputation itself. Reading it made me wince and cry and gasp. I repeat, just reading about it. Imagine actually performing the act yourself. I can’t. The description in the book lasts a couple pages. The actual ordeal took forty minutes. Forty minutes of pausing, cautiously cutting, prodding and examining the wound, and cutting more. Without anesthetics. It was cut your arm off or die, and Ralston chose not to die.

Some may criticize Ralston for having made stupid mistakes that got him into this situation. I myself posted a blog not too long ago, mocking that idiot kid from “Into the Wild” for getting his silly self killed back in Alaska. What was different about Ralston? He made a near fatal mistake of telling no one where he was planning to hike. He himself discusses in the book, the sort of hubris he suffered from that pushed him into these dangerous situations. So what makes him different from the other shmucks who froze to death, or starved to death or got eaten by bears or pygmies or rabid baboons? Is it that he lived to be humbled? Perhaps. All I can say is that after reading the book, I liked Aron Ralston. I admired him, and I felt that if he could have the courage and determination to saw through his own flesh and snap the bones in his own forearm, if it meant living a little longer, than surely I can accept life’s minute frustrations and trials. Perspective, dear friends. It’s all about perspective. More moving even than the detailed descriptions of his physical suffering, were his reflections on family, on friends, on mistakes and regrets, and in the end, what he had left to stay alive for. I also loved the little anecdotes at the end, where Ralston’s sense of humor helps him to adapt to life with only one hand. There’s a particularly hysterical bit concerning a high five gone awry.

These pathetic words cannot convey how Aron Ralston has affected me. I’ve never met him, though I’d like to, for no other reason than to thank him for giving the world something good to think about and reminding me that extraordinary things can happen out of the darkest moments.

Slap that on a motivational poster!

Now, if you happen to live in a big city, or possess a career that allows you to globe trot to international film festivals, you may have seen the film based off of Ralston’s horrific incident, “127 Hours.” Starring the every dreamy James Franco, this is easily the most intense film I have ever watched. Remember those few pages I mentioned? While director Danny Boyle manages to condense Ralston’s forty minutes of self-surgery down to a five minute scene, they were five minutes of movie viewing I will not soon forget.

Let me close with this. Whenever I’m whining about something, my father always asks me, “Are you dying?” To date, I have yet to answer yes. I hope to not answer yes for a long, long time. In other words, I have nothing to whine about. Aron Ralston was dying, and then he turned around, and punched dying in the face with his own amputated arm. Aron Ralston wins.

I Was Murdered By Bandits! P.S. Craig Likes Lisa

Mary Roach likes to write about dead people And sex. And also space. All interesting topics, though some more pleasant than others.

Mary Roach is a woman with an enviable writing career and very lovely reddish-blond hair. As she says on her website, she’s not a scientist, but she is smart enough to harass scientists into teaching her what she wants to know. Having dated several scientists, this is a definite skill.

Her first book, “Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers,” follows the various mischief your corpse can get into post-breathing, should you opt for something less than the traditional pine box or tiny urn on your loved one’s fireplace mantel. Such activities include testing everything from weapons to the safety of automobiles, aiding med students in honing their scalpel skills, or showing forensic specialists exactly what a body would look like if it were abandoned in a forest on a warm summer’s day for five to seven hours. Messy work for both the living and the dead, but valuable all the same.

Informative and disgusting, “Stiff” is not a book to bring up while at a dinner party, hosted by your future in-laws who you’ve just met. Unless your in-laws are weirdos. In that case, let the grossing-out commence. And did you really want to marry that stuck-up jerk/bimbo who questioned your reading taste anyway? I say, you’re better off.

Fantastic! Now that you’ve thrown away all hope of marital bliss, you’ll have plenty of time to read the rest of Madame Roach’s books. Despite having only four in publication so far, the topics discussed run a wide enough gamut that there is a Roach paperback for every curious mind. After “Stiff” came “Spook,” a scientific search for the human soul/spirit, followed by “Bonk,” a biological and physiological study on sex. If you’ve ever wondered, what does Viagra have to do with pandas, then “Bonk” is the book for you. This past October, Roach published her fourth piece, titled “Packing for Mars.” I haven’t read it yet, but it promises to teach me more about ejecting bodily fluids in zero gravity than I ever wanted to know. I can’t wait.

As October drew to a close, I thought I’d take one last crack at Halloween related reading material. With such chapter titles as ‘Soul in a Dunce Cap‘ and ‘Chaffin vs. The Dead Guy in the Overcoat,’ “Spook” seemed an appropriate and intriguing choice. Roach starts the book out with a vow to remain as open-minded as possible while questing for the human soul. A skeptic and non-believer by nature, she seems to want nothing more than to be proven wrong through real, hard evidence of life after death. Of course, even before I read the first page, I knew her search would be fruitless. Considering this book came out five years ago, and barring a world-wide government conspiracy, I think it likely we would have all seen the Barbara Walters special by now if Roach really had communicated with those in the great beyond.

Still, no one can deny, just as with all her other books, she flung herself mercilessly into this project. Mary Roach is the sort of researcher that college professors have sexy dreams about. She interviewed doctors testing cardiac patients for out of body experiences. She poured over 19th century journals on the various ridiculous attempts to measure the soul, including the infamous study of dying patients claiming we all lose 21 grams of body weight upon the moment of expiration. To better understand the subtle art of psychic mediums, she attended an actual class on it, subjecting herself to all sorts of scorn and hilarity at the hands of her fellow pupils. I honestly know the feeling. At childhood slumber parties, deranged though my imagination was, I simply could not believe that some spirit would take the time to painstakingly spell out the names of all the cute boys in our fourth grade class on a Ouija board. What I would always feel was not disbelief, but disappointment. My gut told me that spirits were real, but they likely had better things to do than hang around a pack of tweens.

Maybe it’s because I’d like to believe all those weirdos from the 1920s really were shooting ectoplasm out of their mouth during seances and not just soggy cheesecloth, but I admit to feeling that same disappointment while reading certain chapters of “Spook.” Mary Roach chose to focus on a lot of nutty characters in her attempt to find proof of life after death. Does that mean the idea itself is nutty? Perhaps. Or perhaps all the ghosts were too busy hanging around slumber parties to tell Madame Roach what she wanted to know. Therefore, if we never successfully prove the existence of an afterlife, we know who to blame.

Teenage girls.

I Repeat, Bieber Cannot Win

Today is Halloween, the one night each year we willingly force ourselves into terrifying situations, be that by spending a night in haunted house, or watching Linda Blair projectile vomit pea soup onto handsome Greek priests, or in my case, capering about West Hollywood in search of a drag queen that looks like Lady Gaga.

Yet, even H.P. Lovecraft, in the darkest, most grotesque ends of his imagination could not foresee the true Halloween horror I would face on this year’s holiday: Justin Bieber.

Oh, you rancid diabolical fiend with your moppet hair and your dimply cheeks! Van Helsing himself would have quaked in fear upon spying the teeming hordes of young female zombies beating down doors and trampling innocents peasants to follow his siren song.

The day began like any other; sleeping in too late after spending an evening dressed as Hester Prynne for a friend’s Halloween party. I dragged my exhausted corpse out of bed to grab some delicious though nutritionally questionable lunch, and then head on over to the local Barnes and Noble, my sweet refuge of fiction and chai tea, to get some writing done.

Not today, Steinho! Not today! The doors to sanctuary were barred, because some higher mind than yours truly thought it would be the most excellent of ideas to have Justin Bieber sign his new book at my Barnes and Noble on Halloween. Are you kidding me? A Bieber singing in a bookstore? Bieber has no place in a bookstore! Everyone knows that today’s teen girls can’t read, and if they can, they read Twilight, which in my one hundred percent honest opinion isn’t reading at all. It’s tossing your brain into a blender and then teleporting your feminist powers back to the 1950s, where women vacuumed in pearls and got sexually harassed by Sean Connery.

I don’t know what is more horrifying, being kicked out of my own local bookstore because of a teen pop star, or that the woman at the top of the escalator asked to see my Bieber wrist band. Do I look like someone who supports the Bieber cult, Madame? Young though I may appear, I would have hoped that the dark circles of dehydration under my eyes and my constant scowling at other young people would have developed a certain aura of bitterness about my personage.

You know, I never hated on Bieber before. I was a tween once, with posters of New Kids on the Block papering my walls. I get it. Bieber is adorable. Bieber lays golden eggs. Bieber will one day be adopted by Oprah and together they will bring a long awaited era of peace and tranquility to our violent world. But after having a security guard gesture wildly at me, shouting I must immediately vacate the science fiction and fantasy section lest dire action be taken, I’m feeling less than friendly towards the little scamp. There were helicopters circling The Grove. Helicopters. Are you telling me that those helicopters had nothing better to do than protect Bieber’s safety? Is Bieber’s safety really a national crisis? Maybe it’s because of that one concert where somebody threw a bottle at his head. The helicopter pilots must’ve been off that night.

Back to my initial question. What is this floppy haired Muppet-come-to-life even doing in a bookstore in the first place? The short answer is that Bieber has a book. Bieber’s book is most eloquently titled “Justin Bieber: First Step 2 Forever: My Story.” Is this a joke? Did one of my childhood enemies become a zillionaire mad scientist with the two goals of both destroying the English language and torturing me? Let me interject that this is further proof text messages are making us all illiterate. The book is meant to be a tell all, but considering the kid is only sixteen years old, how much is there to tell? And what does that title even mean? Maybe we should wait a couple more decades before we start throwing around words like forever. Or perhaps the title is a subtle hint to the Dorian Gray-esque painting Bieber keeps in his attic to suck up all the evil and horrors he commits on a daily basis. I know your secrets, Bieber. I’m on to you!

Stand strong, fellow academics. Even Bieber’s fame will pass someday. He will grow old and tired. His non-threatening youthful gyrations shall no longer tempt the masses. When that days comes, I’ll be ready.

Bieber cannot win. The fate of the universe depends upon it, and this time, it’s personal.

Steampunk! Now with 40% More Robot Monarchs!

On the off chance you one day find yourself trapped inside a steampunk novel, it is always best to be prepared for what lies ahead. It might help to know exactly what the deuce steampunk is.

Surely you know what steampunk is! Surely! These days you can’t throw a rock without hitting a nerd wearing goggles and yammering on about his pocket watch that turns into a laser gun, because he simply must get back to his airship before Queen Victoria‘s robot army comes after him.. I think it’s safe to say that steampunk has thoroughly infiltrated all aspects of life. Not just the world of books, and movies and entertainment, but life. People decorate their homes with steampunk interior design. Couples get married with steampunk wedding cakes. If you haven’t heard of steampunk, you better have just gotten out of a time machine from the year 1812, which would sort of make you steampunk yourself, and therefore I forgive you.

For all of you who may or may not come from a time when it was perfectly acceptable for women to wear giant birdcages under their skirts, let me catch you up to speed on the wondrous miracle that is the steampunk subgenre. Put in simplest terms, it is science fiction set in Victorian times where steam is the main source of machine power, hence the name.

Pardon me, while I geek out for a moment. Some cite the 1980s as the birth of steampunk, the red headed stepchild of science fiction. I’d argue, however, that its roots run far deeper. Likely they were unaware of it at the time, but such delightful gentleman such as H.G. Wells and every science fiction nerd’s best friend, Jules Verne, gave the world their first dose of Victorian sci-fi. To be fair, these men weren’t setting their stories in this time period out of nostalgia, but simply because that was the era in which they lived and wrote, which makes them extremely farsighted and original, and me extremely jealous. Credit must also be given to one K.W. Jeter, the author who first officially coined the term steampunk to describe his own work. Whether or not you’ve ever heard of him, it can’t be denied that Jeter gave name to a phenomenon that has since exploded all over pop culture like a zombie brain when jabbed with an old fashioned steampunk laser cane.

What also cannot be denied is how I would sell black market orphan organs if it meant a magical portal to a steampunk dimension would open up and suck me in. In case you’re with me when that happens, here are a few tips to recognizing the brave new world you’ve tumbled in to. Is there a man having amorous relations with a robot lady? Are there airships? Not planes, but honest to goodness dirigibles, usually piloted by sky pirates. Is the heroine wearing a bustle but also shooting some sort of futuristic weaponry, possibly powered by steam or robotics or both? Is Queen Victoria present, and has her life been extended even longer by some infernal contraption involving a plethora of cogs and gears and futuristic science? I swear to you, in every steampunk novel, Queen Victoria is now 100 years old and part cyborg. Nothing hit’s the genre home quite like the most proper British woman ever to live being turned into the Terminator.

To illustrate my point, let’s consider a few of my favorite steampunk novels.

“The Affinity Bridge” by George Mann. Think Mulder and Scully in the 1890s. On their first case together, they investigate an airship crash, full of zombie plague victims, driven by mechanical pilots with human brains.

“The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters” by Gordon Dahlquist. Celeste Temple, a plucky but well-mannered British lass chases after some mad scientists who brainwashed her fiancée into dumping her using a curious blue ore from Eastern Europe. She karate chops her way to the truth, ever striving to maintain a sense of respectability. More than once, Celeste escapes danger on an airship.

“The Edge Chronicles” by Paul Stewart and Chris Riddell. Mistakenly classified as young adult novels in my opinion, these books make Harry Potter’s adventures look about as dangerous as a Nancy Drew mystery. Set in a floating college, young academics study the weather while sky pirates hunt for a supernatural substance that keeps their city aloft. Airships, airships, airships.

There are a veritable surplus of fantasy and sci-fi subgenres. Cyberpunk. Alternative histories. Space operas. Why has steam punk stuck in a way others haven’t? I’d answer that it’s the perfect genre for the nerd who doesn’t like to make choices. Consider the popularity of “Star Wars,” which is itself a genre blend. Jedi 'knights' fight with swords, only instead of boring metal blades, they're made of lasers. There are queens and courtly politics, sage old wizards and diabolical sorcerers. What is Luke Skywalker but an Arthurian space man, come to face off in a battle of father versus son? Listen, I took a Comparative literature class in college. Trust me, it’s all in there. With subgenres, we get to have our “Lord of the Rings” set in a galaxy far, far away. With steampunk, you get to wear a top hat and monocle and live on the moon. Two words. Robot butlers.

Spoiler Alert! The Shark Eats People!

Dear Blogomatopoeia,

Now that the summer is over and there is no chance of me swimming in the ocean anytime soon, I decided to read the book, “Jaws” by Peter Benchley.

How many people actually know that “Jaws” is based off of a book? Well it is, movie goers! Your precious 1975, first ‘blockbuster’ movie ever, was based off a book! With paper and pages and nothing visual about it! Okay, that’s a lie. Within the first few pages, Benchley describes a woman getting attacked by the shark in such a graphically visual way, I almost threw up in the middle of Chipotle. I really, really need to stop reading horror novels at meal times.

In the great tapestry that is my writing education, I have heard over and over again that crusty adage of “hooking the reader” in the first few pages. Well, Mr. Benchley had me by page two, when he described the horror the first victim felt at reaching down to feel her wounded foot. Only, there was no foot left. The foot was gone. The shark, or “the fish” as Benchley refers to it throughout the entire text, had eaten it. There was something both creepy and ironic at this decision to demean the shark down to simply a fish, as if it was someone’s overfed pet, or something on a menu right between the chicken dishes and the pasta. You know, if all fish were like Jaws, I doubt we’d be worrying about people killing them for food. Let that be a lesson to you sharks! It’s you or us! Somebody’s eating somebody tonight and I don’t taste very good covered in lemon butter sauce!

No, no. I would never eat a shark. I think they’re misunderstood and misrepresented and I like animals and we should take care of our planet so please don’t get mad at me environmentalists!

Moving on. I’m not going to get into an analytical discussion comparing book and movie. That’s not what Steinho does. Steinho is all about gut reactions, and right now my gut is telling me to finish this blog post and get myself over to the Thai restaurant before my stomach’s volatile acids start devouring organs for nourishment. Just like Jaws did! See how I brought that back full circle?

There were so many elements that surprised me when reading the book. How about the fact that in the book, Hooper has an affair with Ellen Brody. Or how about how Brody himself is not an outsider. See, that’s why Ellen has the affair. She took a huge social plunge marrying dear, local man Martin Brody, and so when rich, sassy, shark-obsessed Matt Hooper comes along, she yearns for playing tennis and fancy dinner parties. Fortunately, Hooper dies in his little shark cage. Overall, it’s safe to say none of the characters are as lovable in the book. They’re all kind of jerks. Even our dear hero, Brody, comes off as a passive, whiney, fool who allows himself to get pushed around by the local government. Did I mention the mafia is also involved? Yes, that’s the real reason they can’t close the beaches. They mayor owes the mafia money. I can’t believe my drunken screenplay idea of Mafia vs. Shark was already stolen by Peter Benchley seven years before I was born. How dare he!?!

Going back to my gut, what I personally felt the book was lacking was a whole lot of shark eating people. The shark ate a total of five people in the book, and you only got to see three of them happen. In fact, there is a whole middle section of the book that the shark is not in at all. This is the part where Ellen throws a dinner party, has an affair, and various townspeople complain to Brody. Also, several newspaper people act obnoxious and Brody does a lot of lamenting. There’s a secret selectman meeting and some mysterious mafia dude breaks the neck of Brody’s cat. But no shark. Just a whole lot of talking about it.

Am I saying that in this one case, the adaptation is better than the original? The movie better than the book? Please! Everyone knows books are always better and anyone who disagrees is a ninny! However, I might be tempted to say that Spielberg, screenwriter Carl Gottlieb and Benchley made some excellent decisions in adapting the book into a film. In books, people can talk all they want. They can do nothing but talk and stare at each other, and if the writer is skilled enough, you’ll be on the edge of your seat. In the movies, you need a little something extra. Like Quint spitting up blood as he slides into the shark’s gullet. I love that part!

There is a reason “Jaws” was such a hit in 1975 and continues to be so thirty-five years later. That reason is crappy 1970s animatronics. If the shark hadn’t malfunctioned, Spielberg would have kept it in the film more, and it would have ended up looking a hot, cheesy mess. All those thrilling scenes where you know the shark is lurking nearby, but you can‘t tell where, would now have a giant robot fish in the middle of it. Have you ever been to the ride at Universal Studios? If you have, then you know how not frightening that thing looks. And if you haven’t been to Universal Studios, just picture the little kids from the “It’s a Small World” ride and try to pretend you’re afraid of them. Okay, that actually might be scarier.

Now that I think about it, Peter Benchley knew exactly what he was doing. It was excruciating reading through that middle section, not knowing when they were going to go out into the water again, not knowing when the next person was going to get killed. All while the characters were slowly gabbing on at each other and being miserable, you could never forget that in just a few pages, somebody was going to dive into the water and come out a limbless pulp.

Besides, only a man who knew about real horror would write a sex scene for a character played by Richard Dreyfuss.

Stop Apologizing, Take Your Copy of The Giving Tree and Go

Note to self: Having spent over a year and a half working at a large chain book store, NEVER EVER read another horror novel where the workers at a large chain book store are driven insane and then eaten by British swamp monsters.

I honestly can’t even tell you if this book sucked or not, because I was too busy suffering from post traumatic stress syndrome. At this point, I’m not even positive I read a book at all. Any moment, I might wake up to find the past year some sort of blissful dream, because I’ve merely passed out from exhaustion in the break room at the Barnes and Noble in Marina del Rey. If that’s true, I hope that the part about the mud monsters coming to kill the bookstore employee is also, because man, I really don’t want to get yelled at by customers ever again.

Let’s take a step out of Steinho’s Wacky World of Reading-Induced Nightmares for a moment, shall we? The novel that caused me such mental distress is called “The Overnight,” by British horror author, Ramsey Campbell. Now, this chap seems to have authored quite a few novels in his day, clearly a sign of substantial success. Therefore, either his books are well-written, or entertaining enough to somebody that his publisher kept throwing sacks of cash his way. “The Overnight” discusses that age old quandary: What happens when you build a huge, corporate retail establishment on top of a British fen steeped in evilness. If it were the dark ages, we’d all turn on our fellow villagers and brain them with whatever farming implement we had handy. In the modern world, as Campbell sets up in “The Overnight,” hoes and pitchforks are replaced with emotional barbs and psychological warfare. The cast of characters, who I personally felt were all obnoxious twits, begin simply by bickering with each other. Accusations fly about who messed up who’s section of books, and who isn’t really carrying their weight in terms of work load. By the end, personal vendettas bubble up and turn into physical confrontation. Imagine “Lord of the Flies” set in your local Borders.

The text had a poetic, darkly whimsical style, further exaggerated by Campbell’s decision to write the story in present tense. The result was a fifty-fifty cocktail, partly pretty description and partly pretty pretentious. For example, he describes one bookseller wandering the parking lot, searching for the security guard, saying “His shadow smears itself across the whitish door like another example of vandalism as he reaches for the metal handle.” Smearing a shadow sounds like a messy job. I feel like I should be citing these pages with a proper bibliography and start talking about how Campbell’s use of the vandalism metaphor suggests a belief that the true monsters in today’s society are the misguided, urban youth, and since a shadow is something we all possess, we must acknowledge that potential darkness within ourselves.

Or it could just be a creepy scene about a guy in an empty security guard booth.

Going back to my initial point. What freaked me out the most about “The Overnight” had nothing to do with Campbell’s endless blathering about creepy fog, though I will say, there were more than a few chill-inducing scenes. If I can come up with any criticism, it’s that there was too much of the people as monsters to each other vs. actual mud monsters suffocating terrified booksellers with their slimy, malleable bodies. Now I’m going to contradict myself by saying that the parts that affected me the most though, were those that specifically focused on the stress of regular, old retail life. For example, I cannot tell you how many times I wanted to seriously cry when I returned to the children’s section after break, only to find that a single, tiny unsupervised and evil toddler had managed to destroy my entire area in fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes. These children are like demigods of destruction and entropy. When Madeleine, the children’s lead in “The Overnight” returns to find her section trashed, only there’s no one in the store but the other employees, what is she to think, but that someone is trying to mess with her? Then to read her anguish, and desperation and sorrow, and for the other characters (all horrible human beings) to simply tell her, ‘Oh! You must not have done as good a job tidying as you thought. You’re just tired and missed a few disorganized shelves,’ well that made me want to cry a little, too.

Then there was the store manager in “The Overnight.” Dear managers who I worked under, thank you for not being as insane and obsessed as this character. Thank you for being human beings with souls! To start with, this fellow’s name is Woody, and while all the other characters are native Brits, Woody is American, which I suppose was Campbell‘s way of explaining his insane capitalist drive. Woody goes around telling everyone to smile and keep working after one of their crew has been run down by a phantom child in a stolen car. When he finds another girl, choked to death after being trapped in an elevator, he carries her body off, not because he cares about her, but because he needs to start cleaning up for when the customers arrive. Of course, it’s the running theme of the book that the evil swampland they work upon is what causes everyone’s darkest inner thoughts to spill over into reality. This makes most of the employees grow antagonistic towards each other, but it just turns Woody into even more of a sales-obsessed, villainous corporate zombie. His condescending tone and constant mocking of workers he feels are performing less than perfectly made me want to go inside the book and harpoon him in the face. The fact that he alone doesn’t get murdered by the mud people is the most disappointing twist ending since M. Night Shyamalan’s “The Village.” Now that, Ramsey Campbell, is just plain monstrous.

You can't solve mysteries with a name like Smith.

Guten Bloggen,

I never much cared for mystery novels. Or thrillers. There’s a thin line between horror and thriller, and usually that line involves some sort of demon child or clown or haunted filing cabinet that’s hiding in a dimly lit office, just waiting to bite the hero’s face off. Thriller and mystery novels are usually the boring kind of scary. They contain stories about government conspiracies, and lots of running done by guys in suits. In a horror novel, the suit would be stuck to a politician’s skin, slowly choking him every time he made another unjust judicial decision. Horror equals fun and exciting. Mystery equals boring things my mom would read.

Sorry, Mom.

But, as with any point of contention, I am prepared to stand corrected when contrary evidence is laid before me. In the past month I read two mystery novels, both on recommendations and both, oddly enough, having the word ‘tattoo’ in the title. I didn’t hate either of them. I didn’t hate either one of them at all.

The first, “Bangkok Tattoo,” was part of a spec-freaking-tacular series by John Burdett. It focuses around a Buddhist detective in Bangkok named Sonchai Jitpleecheep, who spends as much time covering up crime and helping his mother run a brothel as solving murders. The story lines are bizarre, sexy, and violent. They frequently comment on western culture in such a honest way that it‘s hard to do anything but laugh at yourself, while playfully shaking your fist at Mr. Burdett‘s photo on the dust jacket. An unexpected side-effect. Sonchai is forever describing the delicious Thai food he’s consuming, which left me in a constant state of craving for pad thai and curry.

On to the second mystery of September. Maybe you’ve heard of it? I even mentioned it in a previous blog post. It’s a little novel called “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo,” by Stieg Larsson. This dark story follows Mikael Blomkvist, a disgraced journalist hired to solve a forty year old murder, with the help of a genius, though asocial, punk girl named Lisbeth. Along the way, Mikael has lots of sex, discovers some clues, uncovers a few conspiracies, and almost gets kissed by a serial killer. He’s that sexy.

Now, I often use my sister as a good judge to tell if a book has truly made the rounds. My sister, for those of you who don’t know, is a doctor. She’s an anesthesiologist to be specific. In other words, she is infinitely smarter than me, which is why she gets to vacation in Peru and New Zealand, while I am living in an apartment in Los Angeles that costs less per month than certain pieces of her wardrobe. If my sister has heard of a book, then most likely it’s popular. I say this only because my sister is an incredibly busy woman, and doesn’t have the time I do to wander aimlessly for hours through the shelves of her nearest book selling establishment, or google the top steam punk novels 2010 to see which whimsical tale of airships and technomancers she should add to her library. I’m fairly certain my sister doesn’t know what a technomancer is. A couple months ago, my sister was about to go on a vacation, and asked what I’d heard about “this dragon tattoo book.” And thus, you could officially say, everyone and their sister was talking about Stieg Larsson.

However, unlike many mass appeal novels that have overtaken our literary sphere, this one does not make me want to vomit from my soul. It’s popular… and well written! No! How can that be?? Most likely because the author was Swedish and a journalist and not a lonely housewife with nothing better to do. It’s like Harry Potter, only for adults, and also there’s no magic, and Harry‘s a forty-year old journalist instead of a wizard. But he does hang out in a dark little room solving forgotten mysteries and many people do die and they all have very silly names. Hehe, Blomkvist! So yes, it’s exactly like Harry Potter.

All joking aside, I never would have picked this book on my own. It was just too well known, too talked about. But like with Bangkok tattoo, I was surprised by the open discussion of sex, the dark and graphic violence, not to mention all the contradictions to our own, tight-laced western culture. The book weaves together multiple stories of sexual violence against women, and what those women do in response, a topic usually reserved for overly dramatic, flowery, stories likely to be mentioned on the Oprah show. Not so much with Mr. Larsson or Mr. Burdett for that matter. These two novels are gritty, their heroes’ actions morally ambiguous, or at least questionable. I suppose this makes the stories more real. It certainly makes them more fascinating to read.

I lift my glass to these novelists, for redeeming the mystery genre in my eyes. I gave you old ladies holding magnifying glasses. You exchanged it for a hot blond dude and Thai hookers. Good sirs, I am eternally in your debt.

Another opportunity to talk crap about Faulkner.

Dear bloggy blogwater with blog bodies inside,

For most of my academic life, I thought Virginia Woolf was an idiot. She was just one of those modern authors that alleged intellectuals pretended to like so they can feel smarter than the rest of us. You see, I like old things. Antiques. History. Distinguished British actors. There’s a reason why I chose Medieval and Renaissance literature as my focus in undergrad. Well, a reason besides the bawdy morality plays. But, to my dismay, in my final year at the University of Michigan, I was subjected to a required class on what I thought would be the most heinous of literary subcategories: the modern novel.

In hindsight, all I can say is this. Inside every modern novel, is a little bit of nerd love. No, seriously. I anagrammed it out.

Speaking of nerd love, back to senior year. I’m not kidding when I say I loathed modern literature. I blindly despised anything written after, say, the first automobile was constructed. And don’t even get me started on this so called hippie beatnik poetry nonsense. Anyone can do drugs and then spew non-rhyming couplets onto their typewriter. Real writers are crazy enough on their own without drugs. I had no choice in the matter though. The class was “Required.” I dutifully gathered up my copies of “Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man,” and D.H. Lawrence’s “Women in Love,” from the campus bookstore, swallowing the bile in my throat, and headed over to Angell Hall for the first day of class.

Oh, literature, what a remarkable and clever minx you are! You see, the modern novel knew my secret weakness: Handsome men who know how to read. Perhaps it was my professor’s dashing good looks that began to turn my opinion. He was pretty much the John Hamm of the literary world. I am more inclined to believe, though, that it was because he was just so flipping excited about the modern era of writing, that you sort of felt like a jerk if you didn’t think so too. I can remember one class where he was reading us a passages from “Portrait of an Artist” and using this hilarious falsetto voice whenever he read the dialogue of a female character. Now that is passion for one’s job.

So I read Joyce, and Ford Maddox Ford and even a little T.S. Eliot, and choked down the cyclical, stream-of-conscious refuse that is Faulkner, and I actually began to appreciate the way they used their prose to reflect the chaotic, war-torn world they were living in. I loved T.S. Eliot, and grew to admire the unending complexity of Joyce’s work. What surprised me the most, however, was when I read Virginia Woolf’s essays. I rarely read books about writing, because I feel that writing is a craft you either possess or you don’t. It’s like having an opposable thumb. What I do like is when classic authors discuss the process or idea of writing, simply from a personal or observational perspective.

In one particular essay, titled “Mr. Bennett and Mrs. Brown,” Woolf talks about the novel as being in a state of crisis, citing the differences in writing styles of her generation (the modern movement) versus those who had come before. Needless to say, she was criticizing the generation that came before. Look at you, Virginia Woolf! Talking smack with the best of them! Turns out she’s a far more relatable lady than I ever thought. Now, the article delves into levels of discussion a little too heavy for a blog with Steinho in the title, so I’ll leave it up to you to decide to peruse or not to peruse. Regardless, I learned my lesson in the end. Don’t judge a whole period of writing based off of one jerk face named William Faulkner. Also, hot professors can get you to read just about anything.

If By Camping You Mean a Cabin with a Hot Tub, Then Yes, I Like Camping

Some of you may have heard of a little book called “Into the Wild” by Jon Krakauer, or as I like to think of it, “The Smelly Jerk’s Guide to Dying.”

Insensitive? Probably. I just know, somewhere out there, amongst my teeming hordes of faithful Steinho fans, there is likely to be one of you who hasn’t taken the message of my blog to heart, that message being that I know what is best for you, at least in terms of your opinion concerning all things in word form. Right now, that singular dissenter is reading this blog with a steadily clenching jaw, a furrowed brow, a small twitching of anxiety in the very pit of their stomach because deep down, they think I’m wrong and maybe even a little mean. Christopher McCandless was not a fool, they’re thinking. He was not flaunting his ignorance, blatantly disregarding the wishes of his family and friends that he keep himself safe and well. He was communing with nature! He was young and spirited, lovable, clever and various other vague, yet positive, adjectives!

No, dear fans. He was not. He was an idiot, who caused a lot of people who loved him a lot of pain. The Steinho cannot abide such insanely reckless behavior. I can only support moderately reckless behavior. Like sky diving, and eating questionable meat. I mean, is it really necessary to go try to survive in Alaska for a couple months? It’s gotta be really cold up there. I can barely stand in the freezer aisle at Ralphs without a long sleeve shirt.

I just don’t get it, but maybe it‘s a guy thing. Guys like testing their survival skills to prove that not only is their penis bigger, but it can also withstand colder temperatures and go longer without nourishment. Or something like that.

I don’t even really like sleeping in a tent, if we’re going to be completely honest with each other. What is the appeal to this lifestyle? What sort of spiritual awakening am I promised if I simply refuse to sleep in a bed and use soap? All this kid did was make himself homeless and suddenly he’s Gandhi and Buddha rolled into one?

Krakauer argues that this is the sort of thing most young men go through in some form or another. Throughout history, there have been writers, explorers, philosophers who pondered and ventured into nature, all for the sake of some kind of higher understanding of life and beauty. He argues that what happened to McCandless could have happened to any number of young men, could have even happened to himself.

Well, then, you’re ALL idiots! As far as I know, women don’t do things like this. We maybe be crazy, hysterical balls of emotion, but we do not die alone in the icy tundra, devoured by bears.

Now, I really do applaud Krakauer’s abilities as a writer. This is the second of his books I’ve read. The first, “Into Thin Air” literally left me anxious as I was reading it. Through his simple and honest descriptions, he captured all the intensity, fear and panic one could experience on a mountain climb gone dreadfully wrong. I think it was hard to capture that same tension in this book, because all Christopher “Supertramp” McCandless did was wander around being a hobo and thinking about nature. But he did successfully weave the details of his story in such a way that even though you knew from the start that McCandless was dead, you still wondered exactly what steps led from happy hippie to decomposing carcass.

Krakauer almost managed to even make McCandless somewhat sympathetic towards the end of the book, pointing out that perhaps the young man had learned his lesson in terms of avoiding relationships. If we take meaning form the specific literary passages he highlighted in the days before his death, he was beginning to shift his focus from finding meaning in nature to the importance of human contact.

It’s a moot point at this stage. McCandless’ was found dead almost ten years ago. I suppose the thing that fascinated me most about the book was how so many people adored him, everywhere he went, when in my mind he came off as so pretentious, elitist, clueless and at times even delusional. And no matter how many of these people begged him to be more careful, to stay out of danger, McCandless willingly balked at every single one of them. I really do wonder if in those final moments of his starvation, McCandless thought back to any one of those offers for extra help or protection with regret. Or maybe he died as he had lived for the past two years, alone, but at peace, in nature.

Don't Judge, The Scientists Were Really Nice

Dear Blogavadgita,

In case you were wondering who would go see Piranha 3D, the answer is Steinho. That’s right. I drove halfway across LA, (okay not halfway, just from WeHo to Culver City, and only because the stupid Grove had lost its power) to see Christopher Lloyd play Doc Brown the Paleolithic fish expert. And the fat kid from “Stand By Me” pretend to be a porn director. It was one of those films where I left completely grossed out, and yet not surprised, nor disappointed. The film gave me exactly what it promised. Piranhas… in 3D. Plus a whole lot of topless chicks. Okay, if we’re going to be nitpicky, the film should have been titled, Piranhas and Boobs 3D.

Somewhere during the climactic final bloodbath, as I was peeking through my fingers at the screen, I wondered to myself, why did I want to see this film so badly? I could be home, drinking hot chocolate and staring at a picture of Jay Baruchel. Why the visual torment? Let me put in perspective. Remember that review I wrote of “The Fly?” Well, Piranha made “The Fly” seem like an episode of the Lawrence Welk show on healthy dose of benadryl. For those of you with parents born after the Vietnam War, this was a show in the 1950s that old people like. And if you don’t know when the Vietnam War was, go to the nearest library, find the encyclopedia starting with the letter V, and smack yourself in the face with it.

Now that I’ve proven how smart I am, let’s move on. My point is that I willingly paid fifteen dollars to see Jerry O’Connell scream out “The fish took my penis.” No, now I just proved how smart I am. Yikes.

I’m sure at this very moment, at the Ivy League university of your choice, some nerdy psychology PhD candidate is researching this very subject of why we seek out things that terrify us. The experiment probably involves subjecting lazy undergrads to heinous photos, and then performing odd, seemingly-unrelated tests on them, all for ten dollars an hour. As a former lazy undergrad/psychology lab rat, I have to say, there are worse ways to earn quick cash. Like getting a real job.

Whatever the reason that drove me to witness such a gore fest as Piranha 3D, it’s the same motivation that drives me to read (almost) every book Stephen King has written, as well as the works of numerous other horror authors over the years. Every so often, I find a horror novel that while reading late at night, alone in my room, I get so creeped out, I have to stop immediately and put the book down. There’s been one or two times where, despite being exhausted and longing for bed, I’ve forced myself to read something else, even just a few pages to get the freaky, gross, horrifying image out of my head before I give up my impressionable brain to dream land.

So, if you’re feeling well rested and just a little masochistic, here are three books to lose sleep over. But, in the words of Lt. Geordi LaForge, you don’t have to take my word for it.

“It” by Stephen King.

I’ll start with a classic. What isn’t scary about a being of pure evil, personified in the form of a demented clown. It’s been a long time since I read this, but I’m pretty sure within the first ten to fifteen pages, a kid gets his arm ripped off by said clown in the sewer. Forget the movie if you’ve seen it. This book will take you into recesses of your imagination you thought television killed years ago.

“The Ruins” by Scott Smith

Such a simple concept. A group of college students go hiking on Aztec ruins, only to be caught between a group of murderous natives and a jungle full of flesh eating cognizant plants. Think this is just a bad “Little Shop of Horrors” rip off? Let’s just say, after reading about how a vine burrowed its way underneath a man’s skin through an open wound, I felt a little less motivated to water my aloe plant the next day.

Anything by H.P. Lovecraft

Now, if you’re not familiar with Lovecraft, his work is kind of hard to explain. I’ll put it the only way I know how. If there was a meter that measured the ability to create or imagine on a scale of 1-10, and the average ho hum pedestrian was around a 2 or 3, men like Stephen King would probably be at an 8 or 9. Lovecraft would be at a 67. I’m pretty sure he was either visited by demons or aliens or demonic aliens in his youth. Regardless, he was a genius and from my research, it seems a little bit of a madman as well. I suppose you’d have to be to write some of the things he did.

Finally, if you like BAD horror, here are a few to laugh over.

Steve Alten “The Loch”

A sexy but traumatized marine biologist is in an accident involving some kind of aquatic monster, has to go back home to Loch Ness to visit his imprisoned father, only to find he was framed. By Nessie.

Clive Barker “Coldheart Canyon”

After an action star’s plastic surgery goes awry, he holes up in an old haunted mansion in the Hollywood hills, where dead stars have nightly orgies. With animals. And have humanimal babies. Like a Greta Garbo ghost ostrich baby hybrid. Now that’s Hollywood for you.

Sweet dreams, my little bloggieflowers.

A Steinho PSA: Your E-Reader wants you dead.

It wouldn’t take a child prodigy to figure out that I like books. And by books, I mean stacks of bound paper with some type of cardboard cover and glue and various little bits of string. A book is something I can pick up, turn the pages, and drop in the bathtub. It is physical, tangible, real.

It is not a (expletive) computer code. It is not a (expletive) series of pixels, of ones and zeroes, and most definitely not a (expletive) glowing screen shooting laser beams into my eyes as I try to read the latest Stephen King novel. (Blockade Billy - great short story. Check it out.)

A book is a book. A real, honest to God chunk of paper that you can heave at a friend’s head the next time they’re bragging about their (expletive) Kindle.

You know what? From here on out, let’s imagine that every time I say the e in ebook, I am really saying an expletive, because to be frank, that’s what I think of most electronics and technology. Two nice words to use to describe them are ‘unnecessary rubbish.’ Two not so nice words are ‘bleepity bleep bleep.” Okay, maybe that was three words.

I hate ebooks. I think of all the latest technological inventions, e-readers are the worst. The Kindle, the Sony e-reader, even Apple’s latest wunderkind, the iPad. And don’t forget, the one closest to my heart, Barnes and Noble’s nook!

Did you hear about how Barnes and Noble isn’t doing so well right now? Do you know why that is? I would guess a huge part of it is because of websites like Amazon.com. In my mind, Amazon is a giant, magical warehouse, the size of Connecticut, that houses everything from DVDs to designer clothes to dog food. It’s like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag. Plus, everything is sold at pretty much the lowest price you can find, and if you don’t want to pay that low, low price, you can usually buy it used for even cheaper! Huzzah! It’s a Christmas, capitalist miracle!

Yes, as always, we have the internets to blame, but you know what? I also blame Barnes and Noble themselves, and everyone else that keeps supporting and perpetuating this idea that books can simply be ‘downloaded’ and read on our robot Star Trek tricorders. Back when I was still a purveyor of paper wares, everything was about the nook. Sell the nook. Talk about the nook. Take the nook for a walk. Give the nook your kidney, because it’s more important than you are, and even though it’s made of gears and wires and doesn’t need your kidney, do it anyway because we own your soul.

And the nook did well. We were constantly sold out. I mean the whole country was sold out. They couldn’t make them fast enough. And people kept buying them! It’s like Wonka’s golden tickets all over again, without the freaky trip to the chocolate factory. So then everyone had their delightful little e-reader, and flew into a fury of online book buying. What is the obvious conclusion to this story? You make a product that doesn’t require people coming into a store to buy real, paper books, what do you think is going to happen?????

People stop coming into bookstores to buy real paper books!!! Book stores go out of business!!!! What kind of a business strategy is this?

I know what you’re saying to me. Get with the times, Steinho. What about your precious tiny pink laptop that you love, Steinho? Why don’t you just go find a donkey and a wagon to drive around town since you’re so stuck in the past, Steinho! I’ll concede, the internet has changed our lives. We are so dependent on computers, on cell phones, on our vehicles, on our handful of other devices that make life better, faster, easier. No, I am not going to give up my computer, my cell phone or my car.

Tell me though, how does my life get improved by having a nook instead of an actual book? A lighter suitcase when traveling? Less boxes if I move? If you ask me, the logical technological advancement would have been a levitation device. Think of how much more practical that would have been!

Before anyone comes at me with this little gem of a counter argument, I’m going to jump right out and say screw the environment. While trees give me oxygen and keep my planet from turning into a flaming ball of magma, I think we can spare a few to keep printing books. Heck, we could print books on recycled paper, or banana leaves or whatever we had. There is a middle ground, I’m certain, between razing the rainforests and turning into techno zombies.

Perhaps this is a little more serious and fanatical than the Steinho posts you’re used to, but I won’t apologize for it. This is important, people. Books are important. You’re elementary school teaching was not lying to you when she came at you with all that “Reading is Fundamental” garbage. The whole experience of reading is important, with a proper book in your hands. Give me an iPod. Give me a HiDef TV. Put me in your robo car and fly me to the freaking moon, it’s all the same to me. But don’t give me a Kindle.

Think about it, did Watson and Sherlock Holmes sit around a Mac store, solving crimes? No, they did it in a library. A library full of books.

And I swear, if one of you makes a joke about having already bought me a nook for my birthday, I will reach through my computer and pop you in the eye.

Eat, Pray, Stop reading books to figure out what to do with your life...

My Dearest little blog flowers,

I’m afraid I’m far too tired to be witty. So I’ll just talk smack. It really takes very little effort or pre-planning to talk smack about things. Really, you should try it sometime. For example, without ever reading any of my blog posts, and thereby forming an actual valid opinion, you could say, “That Steinho is a spazz to the third degree! What an ignoramus! She should be taken off the air waves, post haste!” To which I would reply, this is not the 1940s, Grandpa. It’s called the internets now, but nice effort all the same.

A few weeks ago, I came under scrutiny (I’m purposely making this sound far more dramatic than it really was, because that is my nature as a Steinho) for allegedly criticizing a book I had not read. Today, as part of the Ignorantly Talk Smack Movement 2010, I shall purposely do exactly that, sans apology or explanation. I am not going to read this book, because I don’t want to read this book. I fully intend to go through the rest of my life believing it to be nothing more valuable than a glorified paperweight or projectile with which to brain burglars. There’ll be no convincing or talking sense to me, so don’t try. Or maybe you should try, because that might be funny.

Enough chatter. The reason I’m even thinking of this book at all is because of the recently released film they’ve made of it, starring the most hideous, horse-faced imbecile ever to grace the screen, Julia Roberts. That’s right. “Eat, Pray, Love.” Have you read it? Is it any good? Obviously, somebody’s read it because I had to keep throwing copies on our ‘bestseller’ wall back in the ol’ book store days. Then again, it could be the type of book where lots of idiots buy it after a friend claims it CHANGED THEIR LIFE so much and they are so much HAPPIER/SMARTER/MORE ENLIGHTENED having read this spiritual masterpiece. You want my opinion? It’s the sort of crap women read because they’re miserable, and they think reading a book about a stupid boring miserable woman ‘finding herself’ will help them ‘find themselves’ and thereby not feel such undeniable loathing for their husband, child, job, life, etc. Let’s be honest with ourselves here. People with real problems do not have time to ‘find themselves.’ They are too busy ‘finding money’ to pay the bills and survive, or ‘finding time’ to both earn a living and take care of their families. Fly to Italy to learn how to eat? Really? How ‘bout you stay home, head over to Olive Garden, save yourself some time and money and not abandon your responsibilities. Oh wait, you’re a wealthy white woman with too much time and no responsibilities! Travel away, fatty!

Who wrote this book anyway? When talking smack, it’s best to know as little as possible about the topic you are discussing. If I gave a crap, I’d tell you “Eat Pray Love” was written by Elizabeth Gilbert, who may or may not be that one chick from “Little House on the Prairie.” She might have written this book after enduring a painful divorce, and losing her job and home and some other important stuff. Notice how I said ‘might’ instead of doing research to prove that it’s accurate. That way I can just talk smack, without having to reveal any possible flaws in my argument, such as that the author might actually have gone through something really awful, thereby validating her need for a spiritual quest. I certainly don’t want to point out, that while Ms. Gilbert was successful and probably wealthy, she was only able to take the trip as part of a job assignment. And least of all, should I mention any of the numerous testimonials of how numerous people have been inspired to take similar trips on their limited budgets, and thusly have become better people.

Because we’re talking smack here, and I hate this book. Who wants to read a book about some probably smelly woman who did crap and apparently had a good time? NOBODY! So don’t do it.

Wasn’t that fun AND easy? Now, the next time someone is going on and on to you about how simply brilliant a book/movie/TV show is, start talking smack about it. You can even throw in a few fancy terms like cinematography or writing style or character development to give your critical tirade credence. And if they don’t shut up and agree with you after all that, just tell them some crazy woman on the internet told you how awful it was. I’m sure that that will convince them.

Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid.

I am so mad at you, Jeff Goldblum.

This is a very special blog, very much like those very special episodes of your favorite half hour sitcom you watched as a child, where the teen actor in question faces current social issues like bulimia, child abuse, and driving under the influence. Only instead of such youth relevant themes, this post is to bring awareness to the horrorshow that is Jeff Goldblum’s 1986 film “The Fly.”

Yes, I know it’s meant to be a horror movie. I don’t care. It’s disgusting, so don’t watch it. For your own good.

There are those films where you’re sitting there, and you know a ghost or murderer is about to pop up out of a shrubbery at any second. You’re waiting and waiting and the suspense is killing you so you hide your eyes, but you want to know what’s happening so you kind of peek through your fingers. This is not one of those films. Keep the fingers closed. Turn the TV off. In fact, just throw the TV out the window, in case you decide to sleepwalk and turn it back on. Do not take the risk.

Would you like to me elaborate?

The following events occur in this film.

1. Jeff Goldblum vomits acid onto a guy’s hand and foot, melting them off.

2. Geena Davis rips Mr. G’s jaw off, because now he’s a giant fly-man and doesn’t need it anymore.

3. A monkey gets turned inside out, and then explodes. You see everything.

4. Geena Davis, in a nightmare scene, gives birth to a giant maggot.

Are you puking yet?

Let’s talk a little bit about the director/writer, one David Cronenberg. Sound familiar? He’s the brilliant mind behind such unforgettable movie moments as Viggo Mortensen’s naked knife fight in “Eastern Promises,” and a little movie called “M. Butterfly,” where a French diplomat falls in love with a Japanese opera singer, only to find out she’s really a dude. Hooray for the cinema!

The worst part of the film was not any of the previously mentioned gross bits, but when Geena Davis’ character, upon seeing her former boyfriend’s new look, did not run away in terror, but instead chose to give him a nice, heartfelt embrace, burrowing her pretty little face into his slimy neck. In the next scene, she explains to her old boyfriend (who despite some harmless stalking, turns out to be the real hero of the film) that she simply must go back to see SlimyJeffFly again. Yes, Geena. You must go back there. With a pistol.

What was she thinking anyway? Dating a scientist! Who dates a scientist, with their weird inventions, and dark creepy labs and delusions of grandeur. Please! You want a lot of money without a lot of fuss? Fall in love with a dermatologist, not a scientist. Things never end well for scientists in movies. Unless it’s a quirky romp where the scientists invents some sort of serum to make himself more desirable to ladies. Again, this is not one of those movies.

Do yourself a favor, dear bloggy kins. You want horror? Try something not so traumatizing, like Kubrick’s “The Shining,” or maybe a nice, old classic, like “Poltergeist.” That has only one face melting scene, and it happens to a very minor character! Eh? Eh? Sound like fun?

I really should just stick to books for my evening entertainment. I’ve only once ever felt like puking after reading something in a book, and that was Aron Ralston’s memoir “Between a Rock and a Hard Place.” It was the part where he had to saw off his own arm with a pocket knife in order to escape a slow, painful death by dehydration and starvation. As hard as that was to read, though, it was an exceptionally amazing story about the power of the human will to survive. As opposed to “The Fly,” which is about the power of human stupidity and how the lack of quality funding for today’s mad scientists leads to some very poor decision making.

And also, the carny smells like feces.

Maybe I just want an excuse to talk smack about the Twilight series and Stephanie Meyer, but I recently read the first book in a teen fantasy series called “Evermore” and I was once again reminded that with any creative media, one never knows what books, movies, TV shows, etc. will catch on, while other similar works, though better crafted, fail to find the same success.

I feel like one of those diet books titled, “Eat This, Not That!” My dear young ladies of the world! You want a fun book with a supernatural love story? Read this instead! You’ll be empowered and entertained, with a female character that actually HAS a personality.

So let’s do one of those old, elementary school compare and contrast lists to break down just how much “Twilight” sucks, and other books don’t.

SAME: Girl meets magical boy.

Both “Twilight” and “Evermore” deal with a young girl in love with a mysterious, perfect looking young man, who is not quite ‘normal.’ That’s about where the similarities end.

DIFFERENT: I AM Bella Swan!

What are Bella’s noticeable features or traits? She’s clumsy and she has brown hair and she’s obsessed with Edward. Methinks Mrs. Meyer purposely made Bella as bland and generic as possible so that any girl could easily fill herself into the blank. Good for teen girls, bad for anyone who likes character depth.

Same question to Ever. To start with, Ever has the ability to read minds and see auras of others as a result of surviving a car crash. That’s pretty cool, right? She cares about grades and school. More importantly, she misses her family, feeling guilty that they died and she didn’t. What’s that? Real human emotion besides an undying teen love?

DIFFERENT: Loner is one letter away from Loser.

That’s right. I’m calling Bella a loser. Bella finds normal, non-vampire friends lame and boring. Plus, she only hangs out with Jacob to boost her self-esteem, and engage in dangerous activities that might make her hallucinate Edward’s voice.

Ever values the group of misfit friends she has, often putting their needs before her own. When it looks like her beautiful boy toy Damen is hurting her weirdo Goth friend Haven, Ever goes as far to kick said gentleman friend in the nuts to fight him off. She also continues to have a close relationship with the spirit of her dead sister, knowing her sister should move on, but loving her too much to let go.

DIFFERENT: Girl Power!

When Bella finds out that Edward is a vampire, she only loves him more, and begs him to kill her so she can live with him forever.

When Ever finds out that Damen is immortal, she freaks out and runs away from him. She is frightened by her feelings towards him, and concerned if Damen could put her friends and family in danger. She calls him out on being different, questions him, and even avoids him when he doesn’t give her what she wants. In other words, despite her attraction, she actually uses her pretty little brain instead of blindly following a man.

While I’m sure there are plenty who would say, “But young ladies should be reading REAL CLASSICS! None of this teen drivel they hawk in modern day book markets! To that I say, teen girls will be teen girls. No matter how many copies of “The Great Gatsby” you give them, they’re not gonna read it. Still, that doesn’t mean they should pour rancid cotton candy into their brains.

Because that’s what “Twilight” is. Rotten sugar a toothless carny just served you on a paper cone.

Read this. Not that.

No one steal my book idea

The plague of remakes and adaptations has spread from the TV/film industry into the world of fiction, and it’s all this guy’s fault.

Jason Rekulak, editor of Quirk Books. You can’t see this right now, but I’m looking at his website online and shaking my fist at it.

No, I don’t want to be a hater, especially considering I was drinking the kool-aid along with everyone else when the fad began.

It all started when the previously mentioned editor, Mr. Rekulak, was struck by a moment of pure genius. That idea was “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies,” written by Seth Grahame-Smith, and of course, Jane Austen. When I first heard of it, my reaction was likely akin to that initial moment of nerdy joy experienced by Rekulak. What a concept! How bizarre and hilarious! Furthermore, I really was quite impressed how Grahame-Smith managed to weave the zombie/ninja storyline in with such ease. In other words, the additional subplots made a kind of deranged sense along with the original source material. I even thought, “Hey, if this gets young people to be interested in classics, than who am I to criticize.”

Then came, “Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters,” by Ben Winters. Next think you know, Col. Brandon had a squid face, and Edward Ferrars is about to be eaten by Lucy, a sea witch. There were underwater domes and islands turning into giant sea beasts, and so much rubbish that I normally might find intriguing in a book of its own. The thing is, unlike his predecessor, Mr. Grahame-Smith, Winters’s mashup felt not so much like a joining of classic book and comedic writer, but like a semi running down a poor, defenseless family of Victorian squirrels. It all felt extremely tacked on, which made it boring and poorly written!

The more I got to think about it, the more irritated I became. All these guys did was take an established masterpiece, and then just add the word zombie or Kraken in every two pages and suddenly they’ve got a writing career?

Needless to say, my interest had waned. How I prayed this fad would go away! All the nights I spent kneeling before my shrine to Charles Dickens, burning incense and chanting passages from my 1910 edition of “Martin Chuzzlewit,” hoping that the great Victorian author might strike down this unholy epidemic of crappy literary adaptations.

No dice, Steinho. The phenomenon was here to stay. In the last few months, I’ve been subjected to such silliness as “Android Karenina,” and “Jane Slayre.” Louisa May Alcott has been doubly treated with both “Little Women and Werewolves,” and “Little Vampire Women.” I guess they’re trying to appeal to both sets of Twilight fans. Then, for the historically minded, have a crack at “Queen Victoria: Demon Hunter,” or “Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter.” Who doesn’t love reading about their favorite political figure stabbing something to death! Apparently a lot of people, considering the reviews.

Maybe some of these other books actually are funny or well done. I’ve only read the first two released by Quirk Books, and I would not dream of submitting them to the full Steinho wrath without having actually read them first. But like the movie industry with their endless string of terrible 1970s TV show remakes, or delightful children’s books adaptations that have left me weeping for my childhood, these literary concoctions make me feel that the true intent of such projects isn’t to tell a mesmerizing story, but just to make money. Trust me, as an aspiring writer myself, I have no delusions that the creative world is a business like everything else. Yet, shouldn’t we at least be trying to come up with something new? Isn’t that the point of having an imagination, to create new heroes, scarier villains, more exotic adventures? Story structures are old as time, but the details, can’t we at least come up with them on our own? Do we really need to dig poor Miss Austen back out of her grave just to slather her up with zombies, or mummies, or pterodactyls?

Or maybe I should just get back to working on my latest manuscript, “The Canterbury Tails: A Dinosaur’s Pilgrimage.”

Sadly, it’s probably already been done.

I would never kiss another dude again.

On the whole, I have never been a fan of the 1970s. What’s to like? The ugly hair? The hideous pants? The horrendous cheesy music? Not to mention that crappy TV show they made about the seventies. You know, the one so cleverly named, that crappy TV show they made about the seventies. You know, the one so cleverly named, “That 70’s Show,” which unfortunately launched the careers of both Ashton Kutcher and Topher Grace. Sorry, Demi Moore, but your man boy husband makes my soul want to hurl.

Then along came Charles Burns with his comic series “Black Hole.”

Let me give you a bit of a taste of this so called graphic novel. It takes place in the 1970s. It’s about teenagers in high school. The kids smoke a lot of pot, and talk about sex. Good God, could this just be another boring, stupid druggie 1970s movie/TV-show that makes me want to gouge out my eyes???

What was that Charles Burns? Half the teens have contracted a STD that makes them mutants, and not the pretty Hugh Jackman kind, but hideous mangled mongoloids with pustules and antennae and extra limbs!!!

Okay, NOW I’m interested.

The story was intense, both bizarre and strangely relatable. I think what I loved the most about “Black Hole” is how these kids are all going about their normal lives. They worry about dates, drugs, parents, being popular, parties, and on top of all that, whether or not they might wake up with a third arm after making out with that kid in their science class. Not once does the text give you a flat out discussion of what this STD is, what causes it, etc. It’s just there, another problem the kids have to deal with.

You have to wonder, if all STDs had such obvious symptoms, would today’s teens still be such major tramps? Probably, yes. If dying, getting crippling diseases, or having a tiny human parasite grow in your stomach aren’t enough of a deterrent, then I doubt sprouting a tail would do the trick.

Did I mention there’s a forest society of diseased teens who live in tents? Again, it just blows my mind. What if all the kids who had herpes or gonorrhea were cast out of society, forget whether or not they are still minors or had any feasible ability to take care of themselves.

This is the sort of crap I could have written an English paper about in undergrad. Fascinating!

I’m no artist, so when it comes to comics or graphic novels, I can really only speak in terms of whether or not it looked cool, and the answer to that question is yes. And there were multiple racy parts.

And there’s nothing sexier than watching a girl who molts her skin like a snake get it on with a dude who has a mouth in the middle of his chest.

Because we all know, that's exactly what people did in the 1970s.

Look "Scathing" up in your thesaurus.

Dearest Bloggerkins,

Today, I’m going to direct this post to certain writers. Lazy, uncreative hacks who pepper the pages of their novels with cocaine, so I have to keep reading them, even as I choke down their repetitive, poorly executed drivel.

Ooo, was that too harsh?

Stephen King wrote a really kick-ass book about writing, called unsurprisingly enough “On Writing.” The best book on writing, ever written! I mention this because I don’t intend for this blog post to be a rambling lecture on the proper way to write a novel. If you want that, see Mr. King, and while you’re there, get him to sign something for me.

The first reader to get a book signed by Stephen King and give it to me as a present, will be my number one fan!

Moving on. This is not a blog about good writing. It’s a post about bad writing, and more specifically, things that crappy writers do to piss me off.

First off, there are several words that when I come across them in a novel, I seriously want to 1. Stop reading, and 2. Lock that book in a treasure chest, time travel to the 1910s, buy a ticket for the Titanic, leave my luggage on board, watch the ship sink from a safe distance, travel back to the future, and then secretly sabotage any further diving expeditions to examine the wreckage.

For example, the word ‘padded,’ as in, ‘Theresa padded down with a machete in hand, hoping the crappy writer wouldn’t hear her coming.’

If you look it up in the dictionary, it means ‘to walk’ or ‘to walk as if with padded feet.’ Really? Just to walk? Walking isn’t good enough? You have to pad? At least use an interesting word, like ‘slink’ or ‘crept’ or ‘shuffle.’ All words that give more depth to the description, and don’t make you sound like a pretentious grad student, fresh off the GRE bandwagon.

Then there’s the overuse of pointing out people’s eye color, and giving said eyes worlds of emotion. Yes, they are the windows to our souls, but you know what? In real life, I don’t go around getting inappropriately close to others just so I can gaze deeply into their retinas, with the hopes of gauging some kind of emotional status. If I cared that much about how they’re doing, I’d check their facebook page.

Let’s get some real life examples in here to truly illustrate my point. If you’ve ever wandered through the young adult fiction section, you may have encountered a series starting with a book called “The Alchemyst” by Michael Scott. Ah, another pretentious trait! Adding y’s into the names of fantasy titles and characters to make them sound more ‘medieval’ or ‘magical.’ Sorry writers. Just makes you sound like an ydyot.

Here’s a few snippets from Scott’s latest book in the series, “The Necromancer.”
P. 76 “He watched what he recognized as fear flicker in the Alchemyst’s eyes.”

P. 77 “The slender, gray-eyed woman asked breathlessly,”

P. 78 “Enormous slit-pupiled golden eyes fixed on Scatach.”

Maybe I’m making something out of nothing, or being needlessly picky, but this is my blog, and I call that plain, old-fashioned lazy writing. This doesn’t mean you have to buy a thesaurus and find twenty million different ways to say the color blue. No. Just learn to describe a person other than by saying ‘the gray-eyed woman.’ This woman also happens to be a warrior, a vampire, a twin, an immortal and one sassy kung-fu master. All descriptions he could have used to keep my ire at bay.

Oh, and the fact that he used the word breathlessly twice within the same page also makes me want to shove a copy of ‘Anna Karenina’ down his throat. Seriously, dude. Did you even read your own novel? Did you at least spell check it before sending it off to the editor?

The ironic part in all of this is that I’ve actually read every book in this series so far. I think I keep at it for the same reason I watched the show ‘Lost’ for so long. I need to know what happens.

Let that be a lesson to you, aspiring writers. If you’re going to write a crappy book, at least let it end on a cliffhanger. Otherwise, you’re toast.