Archive for the ‘whores!’ Category
Obviously, even that title is a spoiler. Read on at your peril.
I borrowed Megan Chance’s The Spiritualist from my sister this Christmas (after being put through an ordeal detailed here), and I finally finished it late last night. I was interested in The Spiritualist because I read and reviewed Chance’s earlier book, An Inconvenient Wife, at a point in this website’s history when no one on the internet cared if I lived or died. Shorter version of my reaction: I didn’t like An Inconvenient Wife. BUT. I did admire it: it had complex, believably vile characters, and although it left a sour taste in my mouth, Chance did her job at making the extremely unnerving ending seem inevitable, if not palatable. When I picked up The Spiritualist, then, I fully expected to read another book that I didn’t like but that did impress me. At first, it seemed as if that might happen: at some points, things were literally so tense that I had to put the book down and go off and read something totally brainless because damn, that shit was breaking through my medication something FIERCE. I was exhibiting most of my nervous behaviors (grinding my knuckles into my sternum, accelerated heartbeat, etc.) and it wasn’t even my life that was doing it.
And then at some point, the book completely fell apart and became I Love My Dead Gay Husband: the Novel.
C.S. Harris, What Remains of Heaven
First off, go check out the cover on this thing. Don’t worry. I’ll wait.
Seriously, isn’t that the most 80’s-tastic thing you’ve ever seen? I’m pretty sure the Barbie I inherited from my sister in 1988 had that dress, y’all.
Michael Gregorio, A Visible Darkness
The third installment of the adventures of Hanno Stiffeniis, a Prussian magistrate during the Napoleonic occupation of what is now Germany.
Can I just state, for the record, how fucking stupid these books all are? I read a couple of blurbs snarking about how they were “thinking people’s” mysteries, but my God. MY GOD, Y’ALL. No, they are not. The presence of obscure history and existential angst DOES NOT AUTOMATICALLY MAKE SOMETHING DEEP. Especially not when your main character is a moronic blank.
And now we will cut, because I cannot rant without spoilers, spoilers, SPOILERS!
My tribulations are just never-ending, y’all. A few days ago, some folks got a good look at Oliver and were all, “We don’t mean to offend you, but your cat is…he’s really big.”
Guys, my cat is mother-fucking FAT. You can say it, because it’s true. I swear it will not hurt my feelings, or his. He’s fat. He is so fat that I had to buy a box of environmentally-friendly baby-wipes for his very own butt BECAUSE HE CAN’T CLEAN IT HIMSELF. He is so fat that when I carry him upstairs, I wheeze a little. Trust me, that DOES NOT HAPPEN with Original Flavor Cat, who is a more conventionally-sized feline. He is so fat that every time I come home, I check his mouth to make sure the other cat’s tail isn’t hanging out of it because we keep him on pretty strict rations and I’m afraid he’s going to EAT HER.
He’s a fat cat, okay? And yes, his weight does bother me because A.) I’m not very fond of wiping a cat’s anus every few days, thanks; and B.) He’s so big that it’s endangering his health, and as a pet-owner, I am not okay with that. But it doesn’t shame me. I don’t wake up every morning and go, “Oh, holy hell, what am I going to do about my 16 pound cat! It’s so EMBARASSING!”
Have we really gotten to a point as a culture where we are so hung about body size that my cat’s weight is supposedly shameful? Seriously. HE’S A CAT. You’re allowed to comment on his weight—it’s not going to hurt anyone’s feelings. As long as you let him sit on your lap and hold his chin while he purrs (he likes that a lot for some reason, the freakbar), you’re good.
My other tribulation is a lot more straightforward in the sense that SOMEONE TRIED TO KILL ME THE NIGHT BEFORE LAST. I was making a perfectly legal lane change on my scooter when suddenly the car that had been going a sane and normal pace behind me flew past me in the same lane with mere inches to spare.
I laid on the horn and cursed the driver out, but I freely admit: I felt all teary and shaky until I had a chance to sit down and take some deep breaths because THAT IS WHAT A BRUSH WITH DEATH DOES TO A LADY.
Seriously, driver of that car: I know it wasn’t my fault, because you then proceeded to dart in and out of traffic, speeding zealously and changing lanes constantly in an attempt to get wherever you were going as quickly as possible. And then we ended up side-by-side at the same light. Because you are a goddamn fucking moron, and there is just no getting ahead on a packed road with many stoplights.
But even if there had been a way to get ahead, wouldn’t it have been spoiled by that whole accidentally killing me thing? I think that committing vehicular homicide in front of many, many witnesses would slow you down much more than say, OBEYING THE RULES OF THE ROAD. Jackass.
But once again, nothing in my personal life can compare to what’s going on in Boinking in the Bayou. Trufax.
A few days ago, I got an email from the rescue organization that I adopted Oliver from. It read in part:
Have you told us what your pet does to make us smile yet? If not, hurry! Your story could be selected for a feature spot in our 2010 calendar.
Contest entry is simple. All you have to do is go to www.lostdogrescue.org/calendar.htm,
share what your pet does to make you smile, submit the $15 contest entry fee, and a photo of your pet.
Lost Dog & Cat Rescue foundation is a great organization, and Oliver is highly photogenic. I think he’d make a great Mr. September. But I don’t know–I just don’t seem to have any pictures that really capture his essence, yanno?
I mean, there’s this:
Assuming that you all care about romance novels of dubious quality. Which is assuming rather a lot.
Wait–most of you found me because of I Love My Dead Gay Husband. We’re good!
Eloisa James, A Duke of Her Own
After years of whoring around and never using condoms, the Duke of Villiers has six illegitimate children. Well, technically only five, but he let that one chick lie and say the kid was his because that just seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do. Anyway. He’s got all these kids, and he’s never had very much interest in them, but now he’s trying to round them up from the various schools and homes he had them sent to. Only problem is, it turns out that his lawyer was a cheat and a crook, and was pocketing the money for the children’s upkeep and sending them to all sorts of horrible places.
One kid was a mudlark, and two others were stuck in an orphanage where they were all named the same thing and forced to make buttons for a living.
The Duke feels hella guilt over A.) being so careless as to accumulate six children in the first place; and B.) being so careless as to have LOST THEM. So he wants to make amends by treating them as legitimate, settling huge amounts of money on each of them, and getting a biddable wife who will raise them as if they were her own.
But then again, probably not. I have a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to puns.
Iain Pears, Stone’s Fall
A mystery told in four parts by three narrators, the story begins relatively simply. Journalist Matthew Braddock, now an old man, attends the funeral of a mysterious Frenchwoman to whom he has some unexplained connection. After the funeral, he spends time with a young lawyer, who tells him that now that Madame Whosit is dead, Braddock can finally receive a bequest from a long-dead acquaintance, a Mr. Cort. In due time, Braddock comes into possession of a series of papers, some by Cort, and some by businessman John Stone. The book proper then begins with Braddock narrating how he came to know of John Stone, who fell to his death in 1909 (Stone’s fall–geddit?): the mysterious Frenchwoman was Stone’s wife, Elizabeth, and she employed Braddock to find an illegitimate child Stone mentioned in his will.
Sound complicated enough? It gets worse. Once Braddock has had his say, Cort takes up the story twenty years earlier in 1890, and when he’s done, Stone picks up and narrates the crucial events of 1867, upon which the rest of the plot depends.
This was a good mystery, well-constructed, but it made my brain break for two very spoilery reasons, both of which are behind the cut.
Hi kids. I’m about to spoil everything in here like woah. But considering the fact that both books are at least fourteen years old, I think you’ll get over it.
Karleen Koen, Through a Glass Darkly and Now Face to Face
I’m not going to lie to y’all: I enjoyed the ever-loving shit out of Through a Glass Darkly. The writing was rather uneven, especially in the first hundred pages or so, and if I had taken a shot every time the heroine tossed her head or stuck out her chin, I would have died of alcohol poisoning, but oh! Rapture! This one stars Barbara, the granddaughter of a duke and the daughter of a disgraced Jacobite earl, who must marry well in order to repair the family fortunes! Her wicked mother, Diana, is pushing her toward the Earl of Devane, but Barbara doesn’t mind, for she has loved him ever since she was a child!
I should probably mention at this point that Barbara is fifteen. And that the earl is in his forties.