Thursday, July 14, 2016

Under a bitchy moon

Normally I publish reviews on my other blog, but this book made me suffer, and I need to share my pain.

J.L. McCoy: Blood of the Son. Vampire novel. Or perhaps brain damage. Soooooo...


It’s safe to say this book sums up everything I hate. Skye, the protagonist, is a Mary Sue, or perhaps I should say, a redhead Sookie Stackhouse with a love for rock music. She is gorgeous, but not aware of it. In spite of her Ancient History and Classical Civilization major, she speaks like a Texan cliché with the brain of an ostrich. She’s also petty, insecure, shallow and irritating. She supposedly is feminist but we soon realise she’s just an entitled hypocrite. She has no sense of social boundaries and more mood swings than a pregnant baboon. Her only redeeming quality is her love for her dog. Which leads us to the next question. Who the hell calls their dog Styvi Nix? If you stopped me on the street and asked me what Styvi Nix is, I would have said chest rub ointment.

So, little gothic Mary Sue leads a very exciting life. We’re offered detailed descriptions of all the times she showers, washes her hair, brushes her teeth, pets her dog, the toys she buys for her dog, what she does with them and her dog, what time she goes to bed with her dog, the types and brands of clothes, make-up and perfume she wears, what she eats for breakfast, supper, dinner, the drinks she buys, what she buys when she goes shopping in general… These completely pointless descriptions take about one third to half of the book. I almost felt cheated when we didn’t get any details on her stool production. I mean, I really feel left out. The suspense is a killer. Don’t do this to me. I need to know.

But wait. She is tough, because she takes Krav Maga lessons. Is she really? Almost every time she needs to defend herself, a man steps in and saves her. Maybe I misunderstand her, because she was unlucky in love. Well, judging by her actions, she hardly deserves the higher moral ground. When she gets the chance, she does the same and worse, and has the nerve to act insulted on top. But double standards are fine, because, you know, she is the protagonist and her drama and the unfairness of life makes a single teardrop appear and slowly roll down my cheek. Let’s form a circle and pat each others' backs to feel better.

The male characters of the book. Mmm. They all fall under three categories. Brainless daddy substitutes, ass-grabbing assholes, or generic vampire hunks with stunning abs. Which brings us to Archer. Oh, sweet Archer, you could have been a copycat of Christian Grey minus the BDSM paraphernalia and adding fangs. Bearing in mind I hold Christian Grey in the same high regard as a leper’s steaming turd, I wasn’t a fan. He’s a passive-aggressive, threatening, yelling, patronising ass, and I kept hoping he would be squashed by a titanium safe, or killed in a terrible accident involving a tank, a volcano and accidentally swallowing copious amounts of semtex. If only.

Pretty much nothing happens in this book. Except for the spine-chilling, toe-curling reports of shopping, grooming and eating, fits of jealous rage by almost everyone, some murders far off in the background and generic vampire hunks speaking in Gaelic, I could summarise everything in a paragraph. The only memorable event happens in the last chapter and then you have to buy the next one in the series to see what that is about. Personally, I’d rather stuff my face with poisonous frogs and wear a bramble bra for a week than read more of this series. If, on the other hand, you enjoyed Sookie Stackhouse and Christian Grey novels, you’ll probably find this book riveting. Dunno. Go for it.

Friday, July 08, 2016

Acquire superpowers! Discover amazing music! Get your balls busted with useless advice!


There is only one superpower in this world, and it is not what you think. It is not flying, reading minds or knowing which stocks to buy. It's something simple: the ability to change. I've said that countless times in the past (my friends are probably sick of hearing it), and I'm saying it again now. If you can change, then you've got a superpower few others possess. People don't change; only falling in love and expecting to die can make them behave differently. If you can change without the help of these two situations, then you've got a near-magical ability. There is nothing you can't do, nothing you can't achieve.

I'm tired and dispirited. I don't want to get off the chair. My butt is conveniently grafted on it, and the inside of my head feels full of pickled seaweed. This is why I'll get off the chair, go upstairs to the rooftop and exercise. I need to change my priorities if I want to see a positive result and no-one else can do it for me. I can't become the living impersonation of the protagonist of Assassin't Creed, but I can certainly make my episcopal tummy diminish. By "episcopal" I mean the kind of tummy that rosy-cheeked fat heads of church use it to rest their entwined fingers while they give advice. Well, here's my advice. Change your priorities. Put yourself and your own well-being first. If you can do that... you're well on your way, and you have my deepest respect. If not, well, give it a try just to see what happens. Or not. I am not here to change you.

For the musical part, I am honoured to know personally Cally, the exceptional singer of both videos. She has a voice than can only be characterised as haunting. If you like them (and only being deaf can be a justifiable reason you don't!) then go and like their Facebook page, subscribe to their Channel, and share their videos. If you don't do that, I shall call upon my episcopal tummy to smother you. It will not be pretty. 



Saturday, July 02, 2016

Life


She is closing the shop. The sun has set. She looks at the pinkish-blue sky. There are five chemtrails from airplanes. No wonder, she thinks. Unless they keep spraying us, sooner or later they will have a full rebellion in their hands.

She is sweating, her heartbeat fast. She moves her hips to the rhythm of the popular song, alone in the night, happy. Her t-shirt clings on her, her smile wide, exuberant, unpretentious.

She is watching the second season of Daredevil. There’s a scene with Frank Castle in jail attacking other inmates who are trying to kill him. He is a sight to behold, a well-oiled, merciless, unstoppable killing machine. Every breath he draws and lets out is accompanied by a shower of blood, broken bones, maimed flesh, screams and gurgles. She watches mesmerised as he carves a glorious path of death amongst human scum. He’s a berserker unleashed to rid this world of filth, unshakable in his resolve. She wishes she could be like him.

Her cats have fleas. There are two solutions for fleas: spraying your cats (and learning to kung fu a frenzied cat that somersaults, hisses, scratches and does a kind of superspeed static run clawing with all four legs simultaneously) or buying Stronghold spot-on treatment. The second is too expensive, so kung fu it is.

She is muttering under her breath as she slips her fingers between her legs. She draws a symbol with blood on her forehead, heart and over her womb. She whispers the holy names and welcomes the familiar sensation of energy.

A customer at work apologises for something. She wonders why polite people tend to be overly apologetic while overbearing, rude ones feel so entitled.

She approaches a dog on the street. The dog is tethered outside a shop, its owner inside. She talks to it. The dog growls in response and starts barking at her. She turns her back and leaves. A part of her wants to kick it, to give it an actual reason for growling at her. Another part advises her not to take it personally. Most living beings are a direct result of their conditioning, herself included. I will break this conditioning, she thinks. I will make myself an exception.

She is taking a shower. There is very little shower gel left. She considers buying some more, but then she remembers the bank took all their money for this month because her mother owes taxes. With a sigh, she picks up the shampoo and uses that instead.

There is a mosquito buzzing around her as she types a sentence on Facebook. She shakes her head with disgust at the amount of human stupidity in social media. Moments later a meme makes her laugh so hard that she scares her cat. The cat hides under the bed. She shares a petition she signed and gets up to get a drink of water.

A customer at work gives her life advice. She wonders why others feel entitled to share their wisdom without knowing anything about her, or her life, or her situation. She wonders if she too does the same without realising it and shudders. She should refrain from giving advice. Maybe she should stop voicing her opinion altogether and see what happens.

She is still trying to find a way to stop caring, or cause spontaneous combustion to some humans. She can’t quite decide. For the time being she is just hanging in there.