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The Zombie Survival Guide: Complete Protection from the Living Dead
The Zombie Survival Guide: Complete Protection from the Living Dead by Max Brooks
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I didn’t think it was possible for me to like this book. I expected some jokey coffee-table stupidity, I guess. Instead, what I found was both a great survival manual as well as a dead-serious consideration of the zombie mythos in general. Max Brooks (son of Mel Brooks) has written the best criticism of a tired subgenre that I’ve ever seen, and I think anyone who writes a zombie story from this point forward should at least read through this once.

While I don’t agree with every argument Brooks makes (e.g., I can think of several reasons why if the brain continues to function some vestigial behavior patterns could remain), his commitment to a scientific approach to the genre leads in some delightful directions (like zombies walking across the ocean over long periods of time — love that idea!).

Further, I feel this book highlights something about the world of zombie fiction (and, in a more general sense, all disaster stories and apocalyptica) and the role it plays for the reader (or the viewer): namely, that most of the fun of such stories is in the fantasy of a world where survivalism becomes once again paramount. By writing a book that is a straight-up survival manual, he trims a lot of the fat off what has become a lot of rote, by-the-numbers situational drama in a lot of stories that all end up feeling very similar. Instead, he gives his reader the interesting bits regarding what might work well, what might not work at all, and what might end up in disaster. Thinking about the potential for zombies to still swarm on a secluded island, as well as the threat pirates pose to such a place, is both more interesting and also briefer than sitting through another modern-day, half-baked schlock-a-thon.

I didn’t find the final third (brief accounts of zombie invasions through history) as compelling, but I did appreciate it in concept (Brooks really displays his history-buff side, and I like that, in theory). Even so, I’m interested in now giving World War Z a read, if only to see if Brooks can follow his own rules in a longer narrative format.

Those looking for a suspenseful horror novel or a humorous take on this material will probably not enjoy this book, but for anyone (like me) who enjoys watching impressive and straight-faced brainpower applied to a pop fiction mythology, look no further.

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The Land of Laughs
The Land of Laughs by Jonathan Carroll
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

A friend recommended this cult classic to me, and I read it without reading anything regarding the plot. I’m glad. This book takes some amazing, creative turns, even if as a whole I didn’t quite fall in love with it.

An English teacher obsessed with the work of children’s book author Marshall France journeys to that author’s hometown to unearth details for a biography. The narrative tone is likable enough, if slightly square for a book that is at times delightfully weird. On the balance, though, I think the tone works and is an advantage. There’s enough sex and swearing to keep it from seeming chaste or overly cozy.

The trouble with the book is how gosh-darned nice everyone seems for the greater part of the novel. The suspense doesn’t really fully kick into gear until the final third. The whole work feels under-dramatized to me, and the sentences were often a little under-written, as well.

However, the ideas in the book are delightful and nicely thought-through, and a lot of the imagery is compelling and memorable (I found myself really wishing I could read one of the books Marshall France wrote). The answer to the riddle of France’s hometown is a tough thing to do right, and I think Jonathan Carroll nails it. The end of the story is perfect. Overall, I liked this book, but I wish there had been more conflict throughout the piece as a whole.

Imaginative and creative, just a little unfinished.

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We’ve all been there. You’ve just turned the last page on a 1,200-page novel you’ve spent an emotional eternity reading, and you feel both relieved and like you’ll never be able to read again. Whether you liked the book or not, it’s never easy moving on. You’ve come to count on this tome and these characters. Your neural pathways think in the syntax of the writer. When you think back on these days, all you’ll remember is that during your lunchbreak and on the subway in the morning and as you were falling asleep at night, you were reading that book. Idioms and phrases repeated throughout the novel seem like your whole life. If you asked someone what he was doing back in the Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment or told your kid someday he’d sit the Iron Throne or asked a coworker, “Who is John Galt?”–all these questions and comments would be salient and apropos, because everyone in the world knows what a terrible surprise the scouring of the Shire is.

But no. Life goes on. Moby-Dick is not the only book about fish in the sea.

Remember that it’s okay to read different books. Perhaps the best thing to do is to have a quick fling with a short story or two, just to prove to yourself that there are other characters out there. Find a used copy of The Old Man in the Sea, rent a hotel room, and spend an hour reminding yourself what it was like to be an irresponsible teenager with a book report due in the morning.

Talk to others. Go to your book club meeting. The people there can help you learn from what you’ve read and understand how it all came about, pointing out the signs from the beginning of the book which foreshadowed events in the end. By analyzing the things you might have missed, you will become a better reader for that next novel.

Equally important, however: don’t obsess over it. Don’t go online and read every single post anyone’s ever made about the book. Don’t fight with people on the Internet who don’t “get” the book like you do. If you loved the book, you’ll hate to see it being torn apart by the likes of these idiots, and if you hated it you’ll hate to see it being praised when it’s a lowlife, bottom-feeding, piece of shit. But even so, you have to let it go. You have to move on.

Whether you go and mingle with new releases at a brick-and-mortar store or browse through descriptions on an online site, just get out there. Find something new to read. There are a lot of words out there. They’re waiting.

“The End” is not the end.

Throttle
Throttle by Stephen King
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

So I wanted to read a Kindle Single, and I found this one. Couldn’t resist.

In this episode of Sons of Anarchy, Samcro fights the truck driver from Duel after a drug deal goes bad on Breaking Bad. Written by Stephen King and his son Joe Hill, it’s a tribute to the work of Richard Matheson and some TV shows. It also has cartoonish illustrations which look like panels from a silly comic book.

As a story, it hangs together pretty neatly. Neat, square, cheesy, and ordinary. Slightly boring, slightly entertaining … but definitely derivative. I expected something a little more imaginative from these two.

Ho-hum.

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So a while back, I signed up for Amazon’s Kindle Select program, thinking to take advantage of the ability to give my book away for free for five promotional days. I didn’t like making the book exclusive to Amazon for the required 90 days, but I did it because I wanted to give it away.

After the 90 days expired, I decided no, it’s not the best to go exclusive with an ebook. Since none of these stories even have the imprimatur of being Kindle Singles, what was I thinking? I put it back on Barnes and Noble and iTunes. Then I made it free on iTunes, because it was easy to do.

Now, it seems Amazon has made my book free. Why?

Price-matching! They will match the competitor’s price.

So, while I can’t technically give it away for free on Amazon without being exclusive (and then only five days for everyone who doesn’t have an Amazon Prime membership), I can give it away elsewhere and thereby force Amazon to drop the price.

So now the book is free on iTunes AND Amazon. Who knows how long this will last.

I’ve done the impossible!

(For Nook fans, don’t despair — I’ve got an idea how to get this out there for free for you, as well. It the meantime, it’s still just $0.99 on Barnes and Noble.)

Ah, there is nothing like a random contest win to brighten a day!

Today, I won a Twitter contest over on Unshelved to design a vampire trap. The contest is a promotion for 32 Fangs, an upcoming vampire novel by David Wellington.

Because I had fun, and because Amanda got into it to and provided some hilarious entries herself, I’ve decided to round them up here for posterity. Check out the other winners and runners-up at the link above, otherwise, enjoy these, which were our entries:

1. Midnight marathon past the vamp nest, all runners hydrated thoroughly with holy water. (Winner.)

2. Vampires still gotta bathe. Have Father O’Helsing bless the reservoir supplying the water to Vamptown.

3. Play G Tom Mac’s “Cry Little Sister” at a carnival. Slayers standby. It is to vamps what “Shave and a Haircut” is to Toons. (My favorite of mine.)

4. Though my girlfriend says, “If it was a man vamp, a bloody booby. What’s better than that? Bloody boobies that’re hydrogen bombs.”

5. Girlfriend also recommends: “A trail of bloody tampons … leading to Kevin McAllister’s house.” (Contest judge gave this a nod as the grossest entry in a direct message. I think it’s obviously the best of all of these and am very proud of my girlfriend for being so disgustingly funny.)

At the bottom of a red chasm, the three surviving astronauts played poker. The vessel’s oxygen leaked out of their crumpled craft, rising into the Martian sky, passing the window beside the bruised and silent face of their dead colleague Muncey, who hadn’t been as lucky as the rest of them and was now the designated dealer, although they had yet to move past the first round of betting.

“I raise you the cure for cancer.”

“Under-betting the pot, eh? I’ll match that with my kid’s coin collection, raise you a first edition of The Catcher in the Rye. Nota bene, it’s got a bent corner. Earl?”

“I fold.”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re not afraid of Nelson’s pair of threes, are you? Bet something.”

“Okay, I raise you a repaired spacecraft and another forty years of suburban life.”

“Nice try, Earl, but really best stick to what you can cover.”

“Can we please just see the flop already?”

“You gotta pay to see the flop, you know that. Come on, what’s your bid?”

Earl held up a screwdriver. “Muncey’s magic screwdriver.”

“You can’t bet a dead man’s gear. What else you got?”

“Air. I bet a thimble full of air.”

“Earl, you don’t have a thimble, and you’re almost out of air.”

“Ok, then, Jesus. I guess I’m all in.”

“Ain’t we all, Earl? Ain’t we all. All right, Muncey, Earl’s called. Deal the flop.”

But Muncey stayed dead, and in the window beside his head, the stream of air started to thin. The astronauts exchanged looks.

“I think we’re gonna need a change of dealer, boys. Just not getting the cards I’m looking for from this one.”

Conjure Wife
Conjure Wife by Fritz Leiber
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

There’s a lot to recommend this story of a man who learns his wife has a bit of a witchcraft habit. The writing style is clean and admirable, and the story moves at a decent clip. Whether Tansy Saylor, the wife of skeptical college professor Norman, is actually a witch or is instead one among a group of similarly deranged women is left to the reader to decide. Either way, in order to save her, Norman must often act as if the magic were real. I personally found the restraint required for such a balancing act to work a little tired by the twentieth chapter, but I often found myself really enjoying the chapters which attempted to place witchcraft in a more scientific context.

While I liked Norman and Tansy well enough, the book as a whole feels thin to me and a little too old-fashioned. I enjoyed its realism and its delicate touch, but often I found the other characters flat and not very compelling. It was difficult, for example, to tell the other wives apart, and even more difficult to remember the characteristics of their clueless husbands.

Still, there are some scenes that were very good–enough so that I’m glad I read this book. It was a pleasant enough diversion, and parts of it were still pretty inspiring.

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I’ve been following this film for a long time (it was originally filmed in 2009, but its release was delayed by MGM’s bankruptcy), protecting myself from spoilers, dreaming of a fresh new genre deconstruction that’s also a great horror film in its own right.

Having now seen the film, I don’t understand the media embargo regarding spoilers. The entire plot of the movie has, actually, been given away by the official trailer. And if it hadn’t been given away in the trailer, the basic conceit is given away in the first five minutes of the actual film. Written by Joss Whedon and Drew Goddard and directed by Goddard, the film looks to be a clone of The Evil Dead, but ends up being more like The Evil Dead mashed together with the Initiative from season four of Whedon’s Buffy, except instead of being run by Lindsay Crouse, this paramilitary group is run by — well, I guess I can’t say. The day-to-day operations are handled by Bradley Whitford and Richard Jenkins (my favorite characters), with Amy Acker saying some lines over their shoulders.

I wanted a lot from this movie, perhaps too much. When I saw the 92% rating on Rotten Tomatoes, I thought I was in for a treat. Sad to say, I was let down. The Cabin in the Woods is not a bad film; it’s just not a great one, and it’s disrespectful of its own genre. I enjoyed it far less than last year’s Tucker and Dale vs. Evil. Cabin is slicker and savvier, but it’s also lacking any really likable characters, which given Whedon’s presence as co-scriptwriter, surprised me. Kristen Connolly’s Dana is no Sydney Prescott, and Fran Kranz’s stoner Marty is such an obnoxious, selfish twit he nearly ruins the film single-handedly (I also hated this actor a lot in Whedon’s Dollhouse, and my opinion of him has only grown worse).  The film is also not very scary or funny (it made me laugh a couple times and scared me not once). The trouble with the movie’s monsters is that they seem like the off-brand versions of villains we know too well. Instead of Hellraiser‘s Pinhead, we get a vaguely S&M-ish guy holding a puzzle sphere with saw-blades in his face. The film ends up less involving than if someone took the posters of a thousand horror films, cut them up, threw them on the floor, and then pissed on them to make them less recognizable.

Now I’m going to discuss the specific things I didn’t like about the movie. In detail. Get out now if you want to see this for yourself; spoilers after the jump.

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Sometimes it took weeks before he found another one that worked. He was a big man with plenty of scars. No one could ever look at his face and say he wasn’t terrifying, so he looked for the ones who would hate their own suspicions–the ones he could reassure with a smile.

Hold the door, please, he would say, coming up behind them as they entered their buildings, I know I look scary, but please don’t judge me. 

And then to strike the right sheepish note, a disarming awkwardness as they shared an elevator ride or moved up the stairs together. All it took was a flinch, just the right amount of defensive posturing, and he would keep walking, move past, up another flight of stairs, his quarry safely below, unlocking her door, ducking inside, closing him out.

Safe.

Above, he would wait, longing, his breath quick. His need voracious. Such nights as those, he would need a boy–the filthy one with the chipped teeth the others kept for him in the place on Roosevelt Island. Then he’d sit with the other Deermen in the brown room with the green carpet. He would have ice cream with them. He would share some with the boy, but not too much.

“You don’t want to get fat,” he would say to him. “Do you?”

A few days later, he would try again. And sometimes, his quarry and he would be alone, and she would be calm, perfectly calm, unthreatening, and he would follow her all the way to the door, putting on his pink candy gloves, the fabric soft, pleasing, and he would pull out the polished wooden dowel. She would be unconscious before she could think to herself,  Should’ve known. 

Now he watched the woman sleep. She had a small child’s chair in her bedroom she seemed to use for her dirty gym clothes. He’d moved those aside. Pulled the chair up. Sat in it, made it minuscule, and watched her sleep on her bed.

His pink candy gloves hot on his knees.

A few moments later, he reached out and put one hand over her mouth, another around her throat, and squeezed. She woke up, biting at the gloves. He let her bite, thinking, Go. Go on. Eat. Eat. Eat. 

And beyond that, a high tide would come in of thoughts and emotions he could never tell anyone, the hidden self beneath the breaking skin. Beating against him like her fists.

Eat.

Eat.

Eat.