Category: Books That Suck

Ava Gardner: The Secret Conversations

~ Wendy-Marie ~ Leave a comment

Sometimes a book comes out and you wonder why (example just about ANYTHING Annoying Author “writes”). And if you do pick it up and read it, you wonder why you even bothered to spend your time or money (coughcoughAnnnoyingAuthorcoughcough).

Given the above and the fact I kept falling asleep (the kind of sleep where one minute you are awake and the next thing you know it’s two hours later and you’ve drooled all over the couch like a Newfoundland on Mucinex) whenever I tried to read Ava Gardner: The Secret Conversations you would have thought I would just take the hints, close the book, shove it deep into the library tote bag and curl up Mr Couch with something wholesome like the third season of Archer and a packet of Swiss Rolls even though Swiss Rolls are so darn sweet I can taste colour.

My stupid brain ignored all the hints and warnings and epic nap time (aka brain escape) and kept slogging through the darn book. I feel awful and am sure the late Peter Evans was a wonderful writer but no. The ingredients are all there. Reporter who is a friend of rich and famous, down on her luck movie goddess, a book project, London, Hollywood in the 1940s and 1950s. But the end result was more dull and unpalatable than the time I tried to make chili without fresh spices or my first attempt to make scones.

It’s not that I’m a hater. Ava Gardner is one of the all time Hollywood beauties. I’m the person who cut class (really hope my Dad isn’t reading this review), took the Bentley shuttle to Harvard Square, bought Ava: My Story and started reading the darn thing before I had barely left the bookstore as a college freshman. It’s a miracle I didn’t walk right in front of a damn bus that day.  If the publishers and the Peter Evans/Ava Gardner estates meant Ava Gardner: The Secret Conversations to be a memorial to them and the chance for the public to read what happened and could have been with their stillborn attempt at writing Ava’s memoirs then I beg to differ.

All I got out of Ava Gardner: The Secret Conversations is Ava likes a) men b) to swear c) is leery of revealing all d) is broke and everyone in her circle doesn’t want her to work with Peter Evans. And yeah, Ava says she never never ever claimed her third husband was 110 lbs of umm…man meat. (Once again really hoping my Dad isn’t reading this review).  And calling the book Ava Gardner: The Secret Conversations implies there is something beyond shocking and tawdry to reveal. Maybe I’m dim because I didn’t find anything shocking or secret (besides the third husband man meat claim). The most shocking thing is that Ava Gardner: The Secret Conversations even got published.

My Fair Lady

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Blacklight: <looking at the library books piled higgledy-piggledy on the dining room table> “Dickens? I thought you hated Charles…”

Me: <shrieking>: “Monica Dickens! M-O-N-I-C-A! Never say that other name. EVER!”

Blacklight: “How can you hate Char….”

Me: <head explodes>

A few months ago I discovered the author Monica Dickens. And have been requesting every Monica Dickens title available through the inter-library loan system. I may or may not have the Follyfoot series requested (I totally do!). But there comes a point where even a completest such as myself (Blacklight: “Don’t you mean crazy pants OCD?”) breaks. Now I have slogged through the Slough of Despond, I have gone through the Valley of the Shadow of Death (and read Rae Lawrence’s Jacqueline Susann’s Shadow of the Dolls). I have read Tooner Schooner and the first two Meg novels. I have read every single Beany Malone novel my library system has. I have read Eloise Takes a Bawth. But there is nothing and I mean NOTHING (not even the 1918 HP Lovecraft knocking on my door wanting to go for a brisk 16 mile hike holding a crate of Magnum Double Caramel ice creams) that can make me read the abomination I found waiting for me at the library yesterday. You would think I might have gotten a clue from the title but lots of books can have the same title right? And if Ray Garton thinks writing In a Dark Place: The Story of a True Haunting was a career low…oh honey…I think I might have found something even lower….

MONICA. DICKENS. NOVELIZATION. OF. <choke> My Fair Lady…

I can’t even. No, you can’t make me. Even if you paid off all my bills. The cover alone (a washed out watercolor of Eliza in a pink dress getting gawked at by men folks) is awful enough. The artist was trying to pain Audrey Hepburn but ended up with a zombie Winona Ryder a few years before Winona Ryder was even born. Zombie Winona Doolittle wants to eat my brains and soul. Also isn’t that stupid dress suppose to be white? Have never seen the movie My Fair Lady and have no intention of doing any Google image search to get a definitive answer. Also why in the name of Great Tulu do you NEED a novelization of My Fair Lady says the person who bought The Abyss and Iron Man novelizations. And why drag Monica Dickens into writing it. Did she need crack money? School fees for her daughters? Did the price of hay for her beloved horses go up?

This…horror…this thing that should not be is going right back to the library this afternoon.

I Give Up!

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In my never-ending quest for a)  new things to read b) escape from my life and c) free stuff for my Kindle, I’ve been stuffing poor Mr Kindle with oodles of classic (hey there public domain!) children’s books. It’s at the point where I have more wholesome reading than Lovecraft. Then again aren’t wholesome, clean, upbeat children who respect their elders scarier than the Big Guy in R’lyeh? (Hmm…something to explore in another blog post mayhaps?).

Growing up, I was always a Louisa May Alcott and Laura Ingalls Wilder girl. That snippy, twee little red-headed demon…sorry Ames, I mean, one Miss Anne Shirley, never made it into my bookshelves. And I was the little girl combing the library and every tag sale from home to the shores of Lake Michigan (hey there Grand Rapids circa 1978!) for things to read. And I’m more than old enough to remember and have been the right age to watch the Anne of Green Gables miniseries in the 1980s.

Fast forward mumblemumbletwentysomethingmumblemumble years, I’m still re-reading Louisa May Alcott and Laura Ingalls Wilder, I even have a friend (hi Ames! <waves hand like a mad thing>) who has read Anne of Green Gables AND been to Prince Edward Island. Me? I read the 2008  biography of Lucy Maud Montgomery (Looking for Anne of Green Gables: The Story of L. M. Montgomery and Her Literary Classic by Irene Gammel) and….nothing…

Skip ahead to spring 2012. I have a HUGE hankering to re-read Laura Ingalls Wilder.

It’s late one Saturday night. Libraries aren’t open until Monday. The hankering is so great I will even PAY to buy for Mr Kindle because the thought of going to Barnes & Noble is PAINFUL. I don’t want to be anywhere NEAR children. I just want to read some Laura Ingalls Wilder

Check Amazon. Discover that the Little House series is NOT a Kindle or e-book. Pout and then decide to see if there is any Louisa May Alcott I haven’t read. And then think, “hey why not download all these Anne of Green Gables books…how bad can they be?”

And download I did.

And start to read.

Over the past two weeks I’ve slogged through (in order) Anne of Green Gables, Anne of Avonlea, Anne of the Island, Anne of Windy Poplars and Anne’s House of Dreams.

Last night I flung Anne of Ingleside onto the floor, not giving a damn or a gram it was a library book* and snatched up a book on Hammer Films in the Bray years to stare at pictures of Sir Christopher as tasty hot why couldn’t I be alive in 1950s England to tap THAT total babe Dracula.

Mmm..mmm..mmmm…Sir Christopher Lee…so…tall…SO VERY HOT…huh…what?

Oh yes, Anne of Everyone Lurves Me and People Who Don’t Are Total Dumbass Meanies. And Anne of All The Guys Want Me Because I Am THAT AWESOME. And let’s not forget that classic Anne of ZOMG Some One Doesn’t Like Me BUT THEY WILLLLLL OHHHHH THEY WILLLL WORSHIP ME!

Once I can pry myself from the loving grasp of Mr Couch, I am going to march over to my work desk, snatch up Mr Kindle, cover him in a bazillion kisses for ever exposing him to Lucy Maud Montgomery and delete EVERY SINGLE DAMN ANNE BOOK CACKLING SO WILDLY THAT BERTHA ROCHESTER WOULD SAY “Damn girl! You need HELP! Git A Grip!” before scamper dampering off to try to burn Edward alive…AGAIN…

Usually once I pick a series to read, I READ THAT melon farmer. I read that melon farmer so hard that I will spend the whole day on Mr Couch with the series stacked up next to me IN ORDER! I will get 4 hours of sleep if it’s during the work week. I will “cook” with Mr Book in one hand while I’m plucking the Success rice bag out of boiling water.

I have read every scrap of Miss Read’s Thrush Green and Fairacre series (that was hard reading…Mrs Pringle and Betty WEAR on a person).

I have read every single Angela Thirkell Barsetshire series right down to the ones where you think “okay….there are twenty pages left…who is going to marry whom with a special license?”.

I have read EVERY SINGLE FROSTED POP TART MARY LASSWELL AND BEANY MALONE BOOK THAT MY CENTRAL CONNECTICUT LIBRARY SYSTEM HAS!

But I will never, ever, not even if I can group marry Thomas Jane, Dylan Moran, NPR’s Stephen Thompson, Garret Dillahunt, movie Thor AND Christian Bale, finish Anne of Ingleside or read Rainbow Valley or Rilla of Ingleside.

There is no way.

You can’t make.

You’re not my mommy!**

*all the librarians out there can stop worrying. The book wasn’t hurt by saying hello to Mr Floor. It’s now safely jammed deep into my library return bag next to the I will never watch it in a million years first season Game of Thrones Blu-ray.

** okay, two things I liked in the Anne books. Katherine Brooke (Anne of Windy Poplars) pre “ANNE IS THE MOST AWESOME AND I OWE MY LIFE TO HER” makeover. And Leslie Moore (Anne’s House of Dreams ) until she is all “ZOMG ANNE I AM THE WORST PERSON FOR HATING YOU AND EVERYTHING PERFECT IN YOUR LIFE” . Damn it, Katherine and Leslie! Hate away! You two ruled for a brief and shining moment.

Eloise’s Guide To Life

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***The Final May 2011 Eloise Horror…READ THIS IF YOU DARE***

Yup, another Eloise book!

But if you’ve read the original Eloise series, Eloise’s Guide to Life or How to Eat, Dress, Travel, Behave, and Stay Six Forever! is really Hand Over $10 to the Estate of Kay Thomson and Hillary Knight.

Because, Dear Readers, our little guide to the Eloise Life is just a handful of Eloise quips with a few new drawing just the right size to slip into a pocket. But if you’re a hard core Eloise addict, scamper off to Amazon or B&N and “Charge It!”

A Gift from The Lonely Doll

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***And you thought the Eloise series was….INTERESTING….behold…THE LONELY DOLL May 2011 backlog posts!***

Another Lonely Doll book!

Another bazillion dead brain cells!

It’s Christmas time!

And just how do Lonely Dolls and Bears who appear to live in a luxury apartment in New York City celebrate Christmas?

Why they go out to the country!

To visit Mr Bear’s cousins!

(Blacklight: “Sure….Mr Bear’s cousins…”)

But Edith wants to make sure Mr Bear has a very special Christmas! So she decides to make a present! She’s going to knit Mr Bear a scarf!

Cue Blacklight and Little Brat Little Bear “sure….”.

So Edith knits and knits and knits. She even smuggles the scarf to THE COUNTRY and knits some more. And what does Mr Bear open on Christmas Day? The world’s biggest striped scarf! Little Brat Little Bear is quick to point out the flaws in the scarf (too long, holes, dropped stitches).

Edith cries. I would have wrapped Little Bear up in the scarf, poured a pot of honey on him and left him in the woods. Edith is the nicer person. Edith also gets a brilliant idea (no, NOT THE HONEY ONE).

By story’s end all three Big Bears (cue Blacklight cackling madly) are wearing a scarf each…AWWWWWWW….and Little Bear lives another day (DANG IT!).

If I was stuck in an elevator with only one kiddie Christmas book to read and the choices where A Gift from The Lonely Doll  or Eloise at Christmastime, I’ll take the Lonely Doll. The elevator shafts are well too maintained at The Plaza to realize my Christmas miracle wish of Eloise in free fall.

And I can always dream of Little Bear getting lost in the woods…

Eloise at Christmastime

~ Wendy-Marie ~ 1 Comment

***Holiday Horrors…another May 2011 Eloise series backlog post…READ THIS…IF YOU DARE!***

Who would think a children’s book (I know, I know, Kay Thompson never considered Eloise a children’s book but can you find it in the adult section? NO!) would send me into a screaming rage full of burning questions?

Just who in the name of all that is good and holy are Eloise’s parents canoodling with for management to allow this little monster thing from the depths of hell to stay at their hotel? Don’t other guests complain? Does Eloise’s mother have pictures of herself, the owner of The Plaza and a farm animal?

Because trust me, Eloise is a total brat from hell. Imagine the sheer torture of working there as some little monster races through? Having to smile and be all “oh that’s just Eloise” because you need the job THAT BADLY?

Blacklight: “Honey, aren’t you reading this book a little too deeply?”

Okay, okay, okay. Bottle the rage. Bottle it bottle it bottle it.

It’s Christmas time and Eloise is scampering dampering around The Plaza spreading pure evil Christmas Cheer a la Eloise! There’s presents for everyone! (Golly! No Eloise goes to boarding school until she’s 21? Because THAT WOULD THE MOST AWESOME PRESENT EVER).

Scamper Damper Eloise, Scamper Damper.

Do you have some Advil for me?

No?

FROSTED POP TART!

Eloise’s mother has the sense of mind to be far far far away from The Plaza. Smart woman! Then again she did spawn Eloise. Why? Deal with the devil for her teeny-tiny feet and charge accounts? Hmmm…is Eloise a Meal Ticket baby…okay THINKING WAY TOO HARD AGAIN!

Scamper Damper Eloise.

GET TIPPY NANNIE!

GET TIPPY EVERYONE!

Cue Blacklight pouring tequila shots for EVERYONE!

Eloise In Paris

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***You can’t escape it…May 2011 Eloise series backlog post…not even hanging with the Big C in R’lyeh**

Things must be getting hot at The Plaza because everyone’s favorite hell child thing that should not exist in a world hotel dweller Eloise is on her way to Paris!

Or Kay Thompson wanted a reason to write off a trip to Europe.

Or someone had worse pictures than Eloise’s mother, the owner of The Plaza and a farm animal.

Whatever the reason, that happy sigh you heard is everyone at The Plaza knowing they can breathe free, have no guest complaints about a certain so called six year old thing that pretends to be human. The horrid wail you hear is everyone in Paris, me and Blacklight because he is trapped in the apartment by a monster cold while I write this.

Blacklight has second hand Eloise damage. Can we file a lawsuit against the estate of Kay Thompson?

No?

DAMNNNNNNN!!!!

So off to Paris go Eloise, her animals and Nannie. But darn it! They’ve just missed Eloise’s mother.

Am beginning to think Eloise’s mother is a mastermind of pure evil so tricksy that Machiavelli and Lord Vetinari take notes. Instead of the long suffering Plaza Hotel, the Relais Bisson (a real place) becomes the home base of the Eloise party.

And then the name dropping begins in earnest.

Git paid Kay Thompson Git paid!

Very few culture spots in Paris are lucky enough to evade Eloise. Even the House of Dior doesn’t manage that! And they’re the ones who popularized the New Look and the Sack dress!

One of the Dior vendeuses is all “merci NON!” and thisclose to doing a Teen Baby eyeroll at the thought of turning hellchild Eloise into a Dior clad little lady. I love that Dior vendeuse so hard and so bad.

Ain’t gonna happen, so just bill (Eloise: CHARGE IT DUMMY! CHARRRRGE IT!) Mama Eloise and git paid.

But eventually the citizens of Paris must rebel or an act of government is passed because our demon seed Eloise returns to America and her beloved Plaza Hotel (still not connecting with the clever as Mr Fox Mama Eloise).

I wonder if you wander The Plaza today, do the ghosts of the depressed and tormented Plaza staff of yore from Eloise’s reign of terror still haunt the hallowed halls?

Eloise In Moscow

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***Another horror from the May 2011 Eloise draft vaults…READ THIS…IF YOU DARE!***

You have to hand it to Mama Eloise.

Somehow she manages to send her demon spawn daughter to Moscow without a second thought. Heck, Eloise’s grandmother even ships a big old limousine to Moscow for Eloise’s stay. Of course when our precious tot (can’t believe I typed THAT without breaking into gales of laughter) arrives, Mama Eloise is elsewhere.

As I’ve said before, clever bish that Mama Eloise.

Perhaps Mama Eloise is hoping her tiny tot will be sent to a gulag. Eloise and Nannie and stupid dog (can’t remember name, don’t feel like looking it up, don’t EVEN WANT to open that book again EVER!), roam about Moscow, see the sights, annoying their spy/guide and causing the usual Eloise mischief. There’s some spy sub-plotline but seriously if ELOISE DOES NOT GET SENT TO A GULAG WHO CARES!?!?!?!

And so help me Deity of Your Choice…there’s one more Eloise book!

Heavens have mercy on me!

Eloise Takes A Bawth

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***The horror and the terror that is…an Eloise May 2011 backlog post…read if you DARE!***

Want to see Blacklight run faster than a cheetah or jaguar or gazelle?

Try screaming “Oh…please FOR ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY HOLD HER DOWN! DO IT DO IT DO IT! You’ll get off with JUSTIFIED HOMICIDE! You’ll get a medal from the Mayor!”

Some books are just so awful you have to wait until the author dies and their estate decides to cash in go into the archives/trunks for the unpublished crap/things that should never see the light of day goodies to please the rabid fandom. I know of what I speak, remember I am a Lovecraft fan girl. I’ve read The Mound for heaven’s sake. AND Medusa’s Coil (hold me!).

For the Eloise fandom, the elusive unpublished manuscript was Eloise Takes A Bawth or as it’s become known in Casa Mr and Mrs Blacklight as The Estate of Kay Thompson Grape Sodas Your Wallet and Memories AND I Mean Grape Sodas It HARD!!!!

Nannie has decreed Eloise has to take a bath because the manager of The Plaza is coming to tea. I refuse to type BAWTH any more than absolutely necessary. Eloise scamper dampers off to the bathroom. If Nannie was a decent person she would creep into that BAWTHROOM and HOLD ELOISE DOWN IN THE BAWTH. But that would be a very very short book. Heck, not even a book, a mere flyer.

Meanwhile the manager is freaking out over a Venetian ball and there are horrible leaks everywhere. Management freaks. Guests freak. Well, all the guests except one certain hell spawn guest whose busy flooding her bathroom while having wonderful adventures. Sadly ONCE AGAIN, Nannie does not take this golden opportunity to rid the world of Eloise. Think about it. It would be so simple. She stepped away for the tiniest minute and the child just drowned. Stupid stupid stupid Nannie. Think of the payoff you could have gotten from Mama Eloise…

Delightful phantasies (the ones with a PH are the best!) aside, things aren’t looking good for The Plaza. Nannie opens the bathroom door (finally! Do it Nannie DO IT!) and out comes Eloise and a tidal wave that knocks Nannie over. The Manager HAS HAD IT! He is MAD!

Might Eloise be facing her final moments!???!??! (oh please oh please oh please).

NO!

Eloise flooding the hotel has made the Venetian Ball BEYOND AWESOME SAUCE! And the little bish has the nerve to tell the Manager to charge the damages to her account.

Golly, I hope Eloise’s daddy or stepdaddy or who ever is responsible for half her DNA is rich because The Manager is saying there’s five million dollars in damage. To my eyes, either Serve Pro or who ever those damage repair specialists are will make a mint or Te Plaza is a tear down.

Either way. ELOISE NEEDS TO PAY. IN BLOOD!

And if the merciful heavens are kind, the estate of Kay Thompson doesn’t have another abomination  unpublished manuscript in their hands. I don’t think my nerves (and Blacklight’s) can take another Eloise adventure…

Sinners

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When you get to my great age (okay I know I’m not THAT old but when you’ve spent the day chatting with a younger coworker old enough to be your son, well…you know), you forget certain things. Turning off the oven (guess who has charcoal briquettes…I mean chicken nuggets for lunch tomorrow?), charging your cell phone, checking the weather report BEFORE leaving the house in cute velvet ballet flats on a rainy day, remembering Sinners has to be the worst 1970s Jackie Collins novel EVER!

Even worse than The Love Killers.

Actually The Love Killers has an interesting story, three women getting revenge for the murder of their friend. But Sinners?

WHISKEY TANGO FROSTED POP TART. Why didn’t I remember how bad this was?!?!

The only thing keeping me from flinging said book against the wall was a) did NOT want to have to buy replacement copy and b) book hitting the wall would have woken up the small children next door leading to their mother yelling for them to go back to sleep. So Sunday Simmons Is An Idiot Sinners ended up on the nightstand.

Now I read some awful books as a young lass (see review of June Flaum Singer novels, Rae Lawrence’s Satisfication) so what makes the divine Jackie’s Sinners stand out? Hmmm…

-over the top names: our Brazilian/French heroine SUNDAY SIMMONS, robo-bimbo aka Gold Digga DINI SYDNE…honestly, my brain HURTS just typing that last name let alone reading it…my brain was “ummm Didi, Dimbo….DINDI? Like Cindi? Whiskey Tango Frosted Poptart!”. Almost makes himbo actor Branch Strong sound refreshing versus a bi-curious porn star.

-Queen’s English to Americun English: thank the deity of your choice I gobble old British gentle read novels because if not I would have been the spouse asking “what’s a box-room?”. (very long story for another day).

At this stage of the game Jackie was still split between America and the UK. And it shows. Not so bad you need an annotated Jackie Collins (how COOL would THAT BE?) but still.

-Sunday Simmons: our golden skinned/haired lioness heroine with luscious knockers that can poke out your eye in a totally hot but classy way (Blacklight; “keep talking” Me: “Pervert!’) makes you LONG for Lucky Santangelo. Because Lucky has BALLS. Big, clanking, how can she walk brass ones.

Sunday Simmons? She has ethics about been exploited on a film in the first few chapters. Go Sunday, git yours. She manages to avoid getting too involved with man-ho actor Steve Magnum (they’re engaged but she finds out he’s cheated on her with her so called friend Dimbo DAMNIT DINDI before they do the deed).

But the divine Jackie sure makes up for it. By the last seventy five pages Sunday’s gotten raped or nearly raped by creepy hot French director/utter bastard Claude, the two actors in Claude’s film who do a rape scene BY RAPING THE LEAD ACTRESS WHILE THE CAMERA ROLLS, a group of twisted bleepers who can only get off on having sex at “black magic parties” (I dare you, I triple dog DARE YOU to get this far into the book) and lastly by her stalker/chauffeur Herbert Lincoln Jefferson.

And the last page?

Guess what’s most likely to happen to Sunday now that’s she’s escaped to England with her new boyfriend Charlie Brick? EWWWW….

In one of the earlier HP Lovecraft Literary Podcast episodes, hosts Chad and Chris mention that a story has an opening that feels like a first draft/trial run for a truly classic opening. British comedian Charlie Brick might seem like a rerun of Charlie Dollar but his quirky comedian with an outrageous former showbiz mother feels like a dry run for Lenny and Alice Golden in Lucky.

Same goes with a cameo featuring two strippers (one beyond skinny, one hugely plump) brings to mind George I’s two mistresses from Hanover AND the groupies who hook up with Al King’s doomed son in Lovers and Gamblers. Sorry…spoiler alert I guess…

And yes, I DID just make a historical reference about a Jackie Collins novel. 

Ramblings aside, Sinners lives up to it’s name. It’s full of sin/scandal/sex. It’s also a difficult read if you’ve only read Jackie Collins 1980s and after.

Read Sinners if you MUST, but don’t come crying to me or asking for the $8 to replace the paperback at your local library.