You Can Never Go Home Again... Because Your Home is Full of Crime

It may be hard for some of you to believe, but I was not always the media mogul I am today. No, no. Years ago, back before I lived in this undersea mansion off the coast of Malibu, California, I was just an awkward, anorexic-looking teenager who thought not owning a pair of jeans or tennis shoes somehow made me better than the common folk. What sort of upstanding citizen wears denim trousers anyhow? What, are we all a bunch of farmers and lumberjacks?

It’s been almost ten years since I graduated high school, which means its also been almost ten years since I last lived in a charming little city called Flint, Michigan. See, being from Flint allows me the privilege of talking crap about it. If you are not from Flint, however, and you choose to state your opinion on what it’s really like to grow up there, I would advise you to purchase some sort of face protecting shield, as my shoe will likely be flying across the room in your face’s direction at any moment.

Up and coming author Connor Coyne has lived in Flint, Michigan. He is also my friend. These are two very good reasons for me not to throw a shoe at his face. Connor has written a novel, set in Flint, and entitled “Hungry Rats.” It’s about a teenage girl named Meredith, trying to find a shred of sanity in some of the most difficult living situations. Also there is a serial killer called the Rat Man, named so for the dead rats he leaves around his victims bodies. Gross? Yes. Intriguing? Definitely. If you’d like to hear a pretentious sounding review I wrote for Hungry Rats, look it up on amazon.com. Feel free to also buy Connor’s book while you’re there. No pressure or anything, but he does have an adorable child and it’s not like we’re wizards who can just rob banks using our mind powers.

Connor’s book was so interesting to read, not only because he whipped up such a darn fine story, but also because it felt like going home in a way. A dilapidated, grimy, crime-filled home.

This is usually the part of the conversation where I turn to someone and say, “Seriously though. Flint’s not that bad. There are so many things that could be worse about Flint. Like a typhus outbreak or a zombie apocalypse. Same as any big city, really.”

Now, I was never a bad kid. I didn’t have the proper wardrobe for it. So while the other more popular teens were out snorting cocaine or having under-aged sexual relations, I was hanging out with Connor at Atlas Coney Island, drinking coffee. Back then, before my liver and kidneys had to be replaced with robots, I drank my coffee black and by the gallon. Connor and I would also go for walks. Sometimes it would literally be in the middle of the night, when our friends were partying it up. We’d just walk and talk about our writing, about muppets, about any random thing. It was nice to have a friend whose thoughts were as scattered and imaginative as mine were. In the middle of reading “Hungry Rats,” the main character goes for such a midnight walk. My first instinct was to think, “Oh, God! She’s gonna get murdered! What is she, crazy?” And then I’d remember. Oops!

Most of the time, the memories I have of growing up in Flint are not the rosiest in hue. Ironic as this may be, it took my friend’s novel about serial killers in my hometown to remind me of the good times. I felt superior every time I recognized a street or building, and as you know, superior is my favorite thing to feel. Mostly, I guess I’m just proud of my friend, both for his accomplishment and for including Flint into something really positive and amazing. See? Good things can come out of Flint! It’s not that bad. Really.

So shut your flipping pie hole.

Bring Me Wil Wheaton!

Wil Wheaton, if you’re out there, and if you ever perchance google yourself and find this blog, just know, that to me, you are perfect, and I will love you forever. More even, than I love Elijah Wood, and let me tell you, that is a lot of love, because he played Frodo Baggins.

If you don’t know who Wil Wheaton is, I’m ashamed of you. Not only did Wil Wheaton star in my favorite movie ever, “Stand By Me,” based off of the novella “The Body,“ which was written by my favorite author, Stephen King, BUT, he also was in a little television series in the late 1980s - early 1990s called “Star Trek: The Next Generation.” He played Wesley Crusher, a child genius and was the love of my eight-year old life. Well, he was co-love of my life along with Neil Patrick Harris in the role of another child genius, on the show “Doogie Howser, MD.” Oh, how our childhood dreams get shattered.

But back to Wil Wheaton.

What’s Wil Wheaton doing these days? Making hysterical guest appearances on “The Big Bang Theory,“ that’s what. His first cameo revolved around one of the lead characters seeking revenge on Wheaton after failing to show up to a Star Trek convention.

But that’s not all he’s been doing. Wil Wheaton writes books now. Several actually. I only recently discovered this after stumbling upon his blog. You heard me right, Deafy McDeafpants! Wil Wheaton has a blog, just like me! Only his has way more people reading it. The blog is hilarious, and I highly encourage you to check it out at http://wilwheaton.typepad.com. When I was a tween, like every other tween girl I knew, I had pictures of all the five million actors I was in love with on my bedroom walls. Wil Wheaton was one of them. Too often though, I’d pick up some magazine like GQ or Vanity Fair or even Entertainment Weekly, not realizing that just because these magazines had my current soul mate on the cover did not mean they were appropriate reading material for a twelve-year-old girl. I remember having my bubble burst upon reading an article on John Cusack, and he said something slutty to contradict his ‘nice guy’ image. I was horrified. How dare you be a real human male with non-romantically comedic sexual urges, John Cusack?! How dare you?!

Then I grew up, and realized that most actors are probably jerks anyway, because who else would choose a career where they get to have people stare at and worship them every second of the day?

But not Wil Wheaton. He is a hero that all geeks should praise and strive to emulate. Not only does he have a super hot wife, but he’s also an exceptionally clever and witty writer, in addition to being a talented actor. Seriously, have you seen “Stand By Me?” That movie defined my youth. My childhood best friend Sarah and I used to act out the scenes where Wil and River Phoenix each break down crying on each other, lamenting how messed up their young lives are. I remember sitting on a bench at summer camp, and suddenly bursting out in a tearful rendition of Wil Wheaton’s monologue where he admits his father wishes he’d died instead of his brother Denny (also played by John Cusack. See how this came full circle?) I’m sure we freaked out more than a few of our fellow campers. It was fantastic. And so is Wil Wheaton.

Let it be known, Wil Wheaton is officially added to the list of “Dudes I really want to meet before I die.” I’ve been reading his blog pretty consistently now, and this past Sunday I started reading one of his books, “Just a Geek.“ It’s a memoir about his struggles to find a career and support his family after quitting “Star Trek.” He has another collection of essays called “Dancing Barefoot,” and I hear he’s begun to dabble in fiction as well. Unfortunately, it seems right now that most of his work is only available in ebook form, and you all know how much I shake my fist at technology. Maybe for Wil Wheaton, I’ll make an exception.

Little Things Hitting Each Other

The world of fantasy literature is oft a repetitive one. Unless your last name is Grimm, Tolkien or “Anonymous Poet From Before We Wrote Shit Down Because Clay Was Expensive,” than you probably stole your story from somebody else.

“What madness is this?” you exclaim. “Oh, that vile wordsmith Steinho is making wild accusations once more! What about Harry Potter, you fiend? For goodness sake, what about Harry Potter?” By the way, in my head everyone talks like Charles Dickens.

Well guess what, popular children’s fiction lovers! Things like boggarts, mandrake roots and the philosopher’s stone were part of English mythology long before the fabulous J.K. Rowling ever included them in her wondrous tale. To her credit, it’s the way in which Rowling wove together existing folklore and original ideas that have made her books so enticing, and her earnings so extensive she could probably fill a giant bin with gold coins and swim in it.

No, it’s all those other fantasy writing hacks that I detest so; the ones who fail to get past the familiar triad of human, dwarf and elf. (Or the current and more repulsive trend of vampire, werewolf and teen moron.) Why must there always be dwarfs and elves? Why must the dwarves always be miners and carry axes and talk with Scottish accents? I’m waiting for the hilarious fantasy novel about the dwarf who got sick of living in a dank cave, and moved to Hawaii to become a pearl diver and teach surfing to tourists.

Until that day arrives, I am thankful for the few original discoveries I have made in the fantasy genre, such as David Petersen, and his graphic novel series, “Mouse Guard.” Once upon a time, in a magical land known as Michigan, a lad named David Petersen was born and watched a lot of cartoons, and grew up to draw his own cartoons about heroic warrior mice, who fight bears and hawks and wear smashing little capes. This is the gist of “Mouse Guard.” While it follows the general guidelines of a typical fantasy epic, with ruthless nobles and legendary swordsmen, terrified villagers and vicious monsters, the key difference is that every character is a badass mouse. Currently, there exist three books in the Mouse Guard world, including “Fall 1152,” “Winter 1152,” and the six issue mini-series in comic stores at this very moment, “The Black Axe.”

Anyone who has ever loved the adventures of Robin Hood or King Arthur, not to mention anyone who appreciates beautiful, rich illustrations, will enjoy these stories. It is such a mistake to assume the media of comics has nothing to offer other than tights-wearing mutants and hyper-violent mayhem. I recently perused the first volume in the “Preacher” series by Garth Ennis, and while I was intrigued by some of the mythology, the excessive visual nastiness kept me from reading further. Maybe I’m turning into an old woman, but I find myself less and less excited about seeing pictures of cartoon faces being blown off.

If you think just because these graphic novels are about adorable mice in cloaks, they will not appease your garish American appetite for violence, than you are most certifiably wrong, you villainous warmonger. In one story from “Mouse Guard: Legend of the Guard,” the wife and young son of two knights must watch as their respective champions stab the crap out of each other, knowing their opponent must die if they themselves are to survive. Another chapter tells of a young lady mouse who watches her fiancée die at the hands of an evil king, and must take up his weapon and blood-drenched armor to avenge the murder. If these mice ever sing, it is not on the shoulder of a cartoon princess.

So if you feel ill at the sight of another Gandalf clone with names like Aoyemandyer, or fantasy series where someone turns out to be the descendant/reincarnation/long-lost cousin of a Greek/Norse/Egyptian god, soothe your rankled soul and read “Mouse Guard.” Because watching a mouse stab a bear in the face is both hilarious, and cool to see.

Set me Straight, Sparks. Set Me Straight.

It’s been awhile since I dabbled in some uninformed smack talk and I do believe today I am in a smack talking mood. As you may recall, this is a chance for me to criticize an author or book which I have NOT read, in an unnecessarily obnoxious fashion.

And today’s winner is… Nicholas Sparks!!!!!

If I was going to write Nicholas Sparks a letter, it would go a little something like this:

Dear Nicholas Sparks,

Why do you hate women? Why do you want us all to be depressed? Did you sign a pact with Jodi Picoult to write the most depressing stories known to mankind? Perhaps when you were a kid, someone threw a shoe at your head while watching the Love Boat, and henceforth you are unable to differentiate between romance and horrible life crises? Help me understand, Mr. Sparks. How do you write a book that is simultaneously sappier than a Canadian maple tree, cheesier than the Green Bay Packers and more depressing than those dog commercials featuring Sarah McLachlan?

Sincerely,
Steinho

You may think I’m being overly dramatic myself, but allow me to present a few bits of evidence. I took a sampling from Sparks’ books and it was a rare occurrence where everyone made it out alive. In “Message in a Bottle,” the hero starts out with a dead wife. In “A Walk to Remember,” a young religious girl falls in love, and then promptly dies of leukemia post-wedding. Because every woman wants to believe that her teenage husband would spend the rest of his life mourning her when she kicked it at seventeen. No deaths in “Dear John,” but a woman does leave her true love after 9/11 causes him to re-enlist in the military. The main character in “Nights in Rodanthe” endures a sick father and a depressed daughter before she finally is able to fall in love again. And then what happens? Her lover dies in Ecuador! Sorry sweetheart. You don’t get to be happy. This is a Nicholas Sparks story. You’re lucky to have all your limbs and organs! Which brings me to my final victim, the novel I consider to be the epitome of Sparks’ villainy. “The Notebook.”

Ahh, “The Notebook.” If I can get one comment from an angry Rachel McAdams fan today, then I know I’ll have done my job. I get what he’s trying to do here. The whole, wedding “In sickness and in health” vow. I would LOVE to believe there is a beautiful man out there who is spending his whole life preparing to help me through any life traumas and then woo me with his care giving skills and strong shoulders to cry on. But I’m afraid Sparks’ dictionary was missing the “O” section. Clearly, he doesn’t get the concept of overkill.

For those not familiar with “The Notebook,” it’s about an elderly husband (dying of cancer) who reads his wife (who has Alzheimer’s) a story of how they fell in love, with the hopes of jogging her memory. I think I hate this story line for the same reason I hate the movie “A Beautiful Mind.” Love doesn’t cure schizophrenia, and it doesn’t cure Alzheimer’s either. Alzheimer’s means you don’t have enough neurons, not that you didn’t ever get a chance to make out in the rain with Ryan Gosling. It’s a horrible disease, and frankly, the use of it in this schmaltzy love story makes me want to vomit.

Maybe it’s the combination of one dimensional and saccharine characters coupled with depressing plot lines that offends me. I really don’t mind romances, even overly dramatic ones, if they’re done well. I love the book “Wuthering Heights,” and everybody ends up screwed in that story. The difference I suppose, is that Heathcliff and Catherine are dark and complicated characters, driven by passion into making devastating life choices. Or maybe, I just like “Wuthering Heights” more because it’s a classic, and Nicholas Sparks books can be bought in a grocery store.

I Knew There Was A Reason Children Frightened Me

Eva, a dear friend of mine, leant me a few books awhile back, one of them being “Little Children” by Tom Perrotta. I recalled there had been a film adaptation of the book sometime in the last five years starring Kate Winslet. It was a “sad modern drama,” the sort of movie I rarely go to see unless it’s nominated for a million awards, and often not even then. The book sat on my shelf, staring at me, reminding me that if not for my friend, never in a million years would I have picked it up or even considered reading it. But I trusted Eva, and Kate Winslet, not to steer me wrong.

“Little Children,” is a simple story in plot, but a complex story in terms of the human’s ability to mess up their own life. The novel focuses on three characters: Sarah, a disheveled and unhappy young mother; Todd, a gorgeous stay at home dad; and Ronald, a pedophile recently released from prison. Rest assured, this is not one of those depressing stories like Sapphire’s “Push” where children are abused and raped and then overcome obstacles. I don’t want to trivialize such things when they happen in real life, but too frequently do screenwriters and novelists, who know nothing of such dark experiences, try to capitalize on human tragedy and end up turning it into wretched melodrama. “Little Children” is free of that kind of exaggerated horror. Sarah and Todd meet on a playground, and feel an instant connection, each offering the other something missing in their, if not miserable, then at least mediocre lives. An affair proceeds and falls apart over the course of a summer. Again, so simple, and yet so loaded with emotion and experience.

As I began the novel, all I could think about was how much it made me NOT want to have children. When Sarah forgets her three-year-old daughter’s snack at the playground, she can only sit, hopeless and numb, as the little girl screams her head off. Todd finds himself getting jealous of his own son when his wife refuses to move the boy out of their bed so they might have an intimate night together. What affected me the most on a personal level was when Perrotta discussed Sarah’s decline into failure. As a young, feminist college student, Sarah dreamed of teaching young women, changing their lives. But time passes, she drops out of grad school, and is still working at Starbucks into her late twenties. Maybe it’s a post traumatic stress flashback to my retail days. All I kept thinking was how such a life could have happened to me. I have creative dreams, and I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve been given. Watching someone who had such spirit as a youth crumble into such a generic suburban drone made me want to cry. I have nothing against people having children, if they want kids. Some people should have them and some people shouldn’t. For those that do, I would love to hear their perspective on such a book as this. I have to wonder, how much of my horror at Sarah’s plight came from my own fears projected onto the text. Or was that the author’s intent? All I know is that the further I read, the more anxious I became.

The power of excellent writing, and this is excellent writing, dear little blogflowers, is to convince readers to feel a certain way, when it goes against every natural instinct. For example, even though Sarah is the other woman, the one ruining lives and wrecking homes, I was still on her side. Perrotta makes Sarah so vulnerable and sad, and Todd’s wife confident and beautiful in contrast, that it made me happy when he cheated on her. Now in real life, my feelings on cheating are very clear. It’s basically a zero tolerance policy. Yet, I hated Todd’s wife. I hated her for her model good looks, and how she was constantly nagging Todd to take the bar exam so she could be a stay at home mom. I wanted Todd to leave her. I felt like she deserved it. Isn’t that odd, the emotional connections we often have to art.

Then there’s that whole little bit about the pedophile. Every time another character belittled or abused Ronald, my gut instinct was to feel bad for him. Then almost in the same breath, Perrotta would make Ronald say or do something so despicable, you’d almost feel disgusted with yourself for feeling that moment of sympathy.

I should have hated this book. It was depressing and offered no happy ending, no silver lining, just pure unadulterated life. You may be as resistant to read this book as I was, but trust me, the writing is two hundred dollar wine. For a few days of reading, it will make you feel more thoughtful and in turn, smarter than everyone else you know.

Shakespeare Probably Was An Alcoholic Too

What’s better than an old British man? How about a drunk old British man? And what’s even better still? Four drunk old British men. That seems to be the motivation behind Robert Sellers’ four part biography “Hellraisers: The Life and Inebriated Times of Richard Burton, Richard Harris, Peter O’Toole and Oliver Reed.”

Now, I knew Peter O’Toole had a history as a drunk. Even if I didn’t, I’ve seen “Lawrence of Arabia,” and frankly, no one could be that attractive in his youth, and turn into what he is today without what you call some “hard living.” The others, however, I had no idea. In fact, I knew very little of their histories in general. Burton was just that classical actor married at one time to Elizabeth Taylor. Oliver Reed was the dude who died during the filmmaking of “Gladiator.” I remember reading an article about how they had to finish using a body double and then pasting his face in with CGI. Richard Harris, of course, I knew as the original Dumbledore in the first two Harry Potter movies. It seems there are so few parts for older British actors in the American film industry. You’re either a villain, or a wizard. Or in Alan Rickman’s case, both.

The biography cycles through the four actors, each starting from rather grim beginnings, and meandering down a steady river of liquor, drugs and women on their way to success. I swear, these men were in a competition to see who could die first. Richard Burton consumed so much alcohol that he started having severe back problems. You might wonder how such an injury could possibly be caused by drinking, other than by accidentally falling out a window while inebriated. Apparently, if you imbibe as much booze as Burton did, the alcohol can start crystallizing on your spine, causing crippling pain. What I want to know is how did his liver not fail first? He eventually died from a brain hemorrhage at the moderately young age of 58, but considering he also started smoking at age eight, how did he even make it that long? I suppose it is a mystery of the ages.

What fascinated me most about the whole book was how obnoxious these four fellows were at times, and how year after year, directors continued to cast them in their films or hire them for their plays. Even when the producers had to hire entire entourages to keep them, not just sober, but working at all. They were all notorious for performing in entire movies while intoxicated, on occasion not even being able to recall the filmmaking process. Sellers tells an anecdote about Peter O’Toole and a young Michael Caine. At the time, Caine was cast as O’Toole’s understudy for a play. Every night, Peter O’Toole would go out to the bar, and remain there up until minutes before he was needed to go on. Each night, Caine would sit in anticipation, thinking this was finally the night O’Toole would arrive too late, and he could replace him. It never happened. O’Toole always came back just in time, one time even shouting to the crew “Not to let that boy onstage,” as he stumbled into his costume.

If “Hellraisers” suffers from any flaw, it is that of repetition. One can only take so many witty tales of debauched buffoonery. Over and over, Sellers dissects each bender, each on-set blowup, and the frequent accidents or hospital trips that followed. The stories are often painful to read, simply because you can’t help but sympathize with the actors or family members suffering at the hands of Burton, O’Toole, Harris or Reed’s drunken antics. Even as Burton‘s first wife, Sybil Williams, would rush to his side in times of emergency, she‘d be faced with not one, but often two mistresses also waiting to take care of her husband. Sellers goes into great detail about Burton’s constant shuffling of his women to ensure they never came in contact with each other.

Throughout it all, not one of the pack ever seemed particularly apologetic about their misbehaving. While they often showed remorse for hurting the ones they loved, they rarely acted sorry for the deeds themselves. There were attempts later in life to curb their bad habits, but never the flat out denial of a problem that you see in so many drunken young stars today. In a way, I suppose that is refreshing.

Someone Get Me Some Smelling Salts, Because I'm Horrified.

My first new year lesson to you, my dear little Blogflowers, is that just because a book has a picture of Oscar Wilde on the cover does not mean that it is going to be full of delight, wit and beautiful men making out with each other. What an utter disappointment.

No, I did not expect pornography from Gyles Brandreth’s novel, “Oscar Wilde and a Death of No Importance,” but maybe that would have helped liven up this otherwise dull mystery. It would seem that I never cease to be fooled by the clever marketing and synopsis writing of publishers. The book promised Oscar Wilde solving the murder of a beautiful young boy whore, along with the help of his dear friend, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This should have been manna from my deranged heaven. The only thing worse than a terrible novel is a terrible novel created from a quite clever idea. In the spirit of Wilde’s dramatic life and writing, let me offer you this overly dramatic and wailing lament to the tragedy that has befallen dear Wilde in the pages upon this novel. (This is the part where you should picture me fainting onto a chaise lounge with a frilly handkerchief to my forehead.) That horrid prison, where the great man was subjected to hard labor, could not have more successfully stripped him of his soul than the words within this novel.

The first thing that struck me was the presentation of Oscar Wilde. Yes, he was a fancy chap. He was known for his sense of style and aesthetics, a lover of poetry and art and beauty. In this novel, he is portrayed as a petulant child, moody, deceptive and manipulative, neurotic and almost mentally unstable at times. My historical knowledge of Wilde is minimal, so I will not try to argue a point as to his true persona. Speaking purely from my gut instinct, Brandreth’s Wilde irritated me. He came off as the sort of person I would make fun of, had he been in my creative writing workshop in college. You know who I’m talking about. The guy who wears a ponytail and doesn’t bathe because Hemingway didn’t and writes on Moleskine notebooks because Mark Twain did. Yes, that guy. A poser. Nearly every time the fictional Wilde encountered a new character, Brandreth made a point of mentioning how quickly Wilde’s fine speaking, nobility and grace, charmed his new friends. Perhaps the real Wilde might have, but not this Frankenstein creature, patched together from the dead pieces of previous authors. Byron’s club foot, perhaps, or Keats’ consumptive lungs. I’d say the only person this Wilde is charming is the waiter. I swear, he spent half the novel shoving food down his face. Brandreth must’ve been terribly hungry while writing this book because in every other sentence, he has Wilde beckoning his friends to join him for oysters and champagne or mutton or goose liver. Certainly Oscar Wilde lived a decadent life, but if you really wanted to talk that much about food, write a cookbook. Do not waste my time and sully the persona of one of my favorite authors while you’re at it!

Then there’s the little matter of Wilde’s sexual persuasion. Your humblest pardons if I have my Victorian authors confused, but I am quite certain Oscar Wilde was engaged in a homosexual love affair with Lord Alfred Douglas. Honestly, I don‘t blame him. The guy makes Jude Law look like the dead squirrel my friend once stepped on in a gutter. Not only does this novel seem to suggest that Wilde never had any inappropriate relationships with men, but even makes the killer a secretly homosexual man, driven to murder after his own young lover is slain by his wife. The narrator goes on and on about how nervous it makes him that his dear friend Oscar should associate with the sort of fellow who likes to hang out with pretty young men. Thanks, but no thanks. My fluff reading should not make me feel obliged to make a political speech on my blog page about civil rights and stereotypical judgments.