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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.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, August 20, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
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.
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.
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