Posts
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.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
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.
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.
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