Category: Why Why Why Why

Bridget Jones: Mad About The Boy

~ Wendy-Marie ~ Leave a comment

In the last week I’ve read Stephen King’s Doctor Sleep and Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones: Mad About The Boy and you know what? Blacklight is right (Blacklight: “I am? Really? About what?”)! Bridget Jones: Mad About The Boy is the scariest thing ever. I would rather snuggle with a worm beast thing straight of out of Laird Barron’s The Croning. What the blue hell happened to the Bridget Jones I read over and over again? The Bridget Jones I tracked down UK papers to read?

Bridget Jones: Mad About The Boy finds our Bridget as a single mum of two, eating grated cheese straight from the bag (gross) and guzzling wine. I guess the Independent columns of 2005/2006 aren’t canon (Bridget has Daniel’s baby-a son) because Bridget’s son is a miniature Mark Darcy and her five year old daughter Mabel is a lisping little troll who only charms me when she refers to something called a Sylvanian Mulberry Raccoon Family as the Fuckoon Family. Come on…FUCKOON! <Goggles Sylvanian Mulberry Raccoon Family> Ohhh…those…I’ve seen these creepy things at a posh toy and hobby shop… <shudders>

Now apparently the Internet imploded when people found out Bridget is a single mum because *****SPOILER ALERT**** HORNS SOUNDING**** SPOILER ALERT**** READ FURTHER AT YOUR OWN RISK*****OKAY WHATEVER I WARNED YOU***** Mark Darcy died in Darfur doing humanitarian work. How is this a problem? Mark Darcy has always been a decent and kind person and a happy relationship makes a boring book. Am I sad that Mark Darcy is gone? Yes. But Bridget Jones is the Queen of Romantic Bleep-Ups and is at her best looking for love, she NEEDS to be single. If you want silly mum with the perfect husband please feel free to stop reading this review and pick up Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic series.

Okay, so you’re still with me. So our Bridget is a widow, fat (brace the floors because she’s….175 lbs!), and lonely. She’s also working on screenplay of Hedda Gabbler by Anton Chekov. Now even my dim only reads weird books brain knows that’s wrong but Bridget? Well…what do you expect? It’s Bridget! Encouraged by her friends (where the bleep is Shazzer! I demand Shazzer!), Bridget plots to lose weight, be an excellent mum, get laid, etc. She discovers social media and oh Great Tulu if I thought Lola’s text speak in Marian Keyes’ This Charming Man was horrific, I apologize, I love you Lola, I truly do…because Bridget on Twitter aka @JoneseyBJ is worse. I really wish Bridget had discovered a working brain cell vs the joys of Roxster the youngster. And Roxster? Really?!??! Even Daniel is boring. Sex-On-A-Stick Daniel! Well except when he used a syrup covered fork to comb the tiny demon Mabel’s hair. Good on you Daniel!

It’s really not a good thing whenever you end a page you wonder just how big the advance check for the book was and if the author needed to pay off her mortgage or children’s private school ASAP. I certainly wasn’t caring a fig about this Bridget. Because to me, Bridget Jones Diary is awesome. The Independent columns of 2005/2006 are awesome. I want that Bridget Jones back.

If you adored the first two Bridget Jones’ novels and haven’t cried yourself to tears over dead Mark Darcy, then by all means snap up Bridget Jones: Mad About The Boy. But if you’re not in the mood for How Bridget Jones Got Her Groove Back then do what I should have done at the library last week, back slowly away from the “F” section of the New Fiction Shelves and grab  the latest Lauren Willig Napoleonic-Era British spies book.

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.

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!”

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

~ Wendy-Marie ~ Leave a comment

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.

 

 

Real Monsters, Gruesome Critters And Beasts From The Darkside

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Yes I’m the person who has Monster Quest on her Netflix Watch Instantly queue (every single bloody episode) and is getting Mystery Quest parceled out DVD by DVD. And I’ m the person who has intra-library-loaned every single book by Joe Nickell and James Randi that her library network has. And has every episode of Monster Talk on her iPod.

But Brad Steiger’s Real Monsters, Gruesome Critters, and Beasts from the Darkside? Bigfoot, aliens, chupies, Loch Monster monster oh my. No, no, no, a thousands times no.

Chad Fifer and Chris Lackey (gods of the HP Lovecraft Literary Podcast) say in Episode 13 (Facts Concerning the Late Arthur Jermyn and His Family) a) why was it written? and b) there is finite time in all of our lives and there are better things you can be reading.  In regards to Real Monsters, Gruesome Critters, and Beasts from the Darkside I concurr fully with second statement. The first? I dunno know? Money? Preaching to the choir? Trying to convert evil skeptics like me? Who knows? What I do know? Back to the library with you Mister Book, back to where you came…