The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, a (Film) Review

Unless you've been hiding out under a rock, you've probably heard of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, written by the late Swedish journo-novelist Stieg Larsson.  The conclusion to the book trilogy, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest, just came out earlier this year.  All three novels are international sensations, and I admit, I bought a copy of the opening number to see what all the fuss was about.  But, as it goes, I never got to read it, and now I'm not sure if I ever will.

In 2009, a Swedish version of the movie was released.  Like its source material, the film received excellent reviews.  Performance-wise, Michael Nyqvist (Mikael) and Noomi Rapace (Lisbeth) both acted their characters perfectly, so I've read.  The tone of the movie was on par with the book, and all around it's grossed loads of money, if you want to measure success that way.  Knowing that Hollywood would be releasing a (likely dreaded) adaptation soon, I decided to rent the foreign film and watch it on Friday night.  (The movie is in Swedish, but subtitled in English.)

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo is a layered story.  Chiefly, journalist Mikael, recently indicted on several accounts of libel, is contacted by the wealthy entrepreneur Henrik Vanger.  Forty years ago, Henrik's niece, Harriet, vanished, and ever since then Henrik's obsessed over her disappearance.  He hires Mikael to try and uncover what happened to her.  Meanwhile, Lisbeth Salander, a modern-day punk with a troubled past, has been hired to hack into Mikael's computer and keep track of him.  Eventually the two's paths cross and from there the film evolves.

This summary is a rough review at best.  There are several things going on throughout the movie, and the disappearance of Harriet Vanger takes the back burner.  The list of suspects is large, and the film takes time to investigate most.  In America, this stuff would largely be overlooked, I think.  Hollywood seems too bent on churning out action and memorable climaxes that not enough time is spent on the rising action.  In Sweden's movie industry, at least with this film, this is not the case.  The plot slowly unravels, inviting the viewer to learn more about the protagonists and their lives.  The whole time I was wondering what happened to Lisbeth in her past?  Is Mikael as "good" as he's portrayed?  Characterization is truly the main driving force behind the movie.

Lisbeth is a highly fascinating character.  Immediately you can tell she's got something going on with her.  She comes across as cold and uncaring to nearly everyone.  She's obviously smart, being her career choice, but how smart?  She's a character with a past that's strongly affecting her every action, and I was interested to explore her more.  Add Mikael to the mix, who's a bit more open to conversation, and dynamic between the two is amusing.

Stylistically, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo is a dark film.  Part of this comes from Lisbeth's wardrobe.  Part from the cold, deadly grip of Sweden's winter.  Most of it's from the darkness that's becoming more apparent as each minute ticks by.  Incredible acts of violence, some very graphic, and you can't help but feel a pang in your gut.  By the end of the movie, I remarked how sick and disgusting some things were, and Keisha agreed.  Yet, despite this grisly nature, the movie is great.  The real world is not peaches and sunshine.  It's not hard to imagine every dark action taking place outside of the film, and it's a tragedy that such things happen in our world.  The movie is graphic, as I've said, and borderline Realistic, but that culminates in making the film even better.

After watching The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, I can't help but wonder how the final two books pan out.  What's in store for the two fascinating protagonists?  Furthermore, I wonder now if it's even worth reading the book after watching the film.  What was omitted?  Would a Wikipedia summary suffice?  I'm not sure, and if any of you could tell me, let me know.  Overall, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo was an exceptional movie, filled with mystery, tension, and unforgettable characters.  It's dark, but in my opinion there's enough light shining through the shadow to make it worth your while.  If you're going to watch it, I'd recommend doing this version instead of waiting for the Hollywood atrocity that's bound to happen. 

Consider the Lobster: And Other Essays, a Review

"But if I decide to decide there’s a different, less selfish, less lonely point to my life, won’t the reason for this decision be my desire to be less lonely, meaning to suffer less overall pain? Can the decision to be less selfish ever be anything other than a selfish decision?"

 Consider the Lobster, and Other Essays is a non-fiction book by the late, acclaimed journalist and novelist David Foster Wallace. I first heard of DFW on a recent NPR interview, and, like many NPR stories, I found his life fascinating. Then a good friend of mine was talking about him and it reminded me of the interview, and soon after he loaned me a few DFW books. Wallace was a highly intelligent man with an enormous vocabulary and an unusual-but-enthralling writing style. He is widely renown for his command of language and syntax, and it's nearly impossible to read his writing without a dictionary. Wallace is arguably one of the strongest writers of the 20th century.  This is the first book of his I've read. The essays are reviewed in the order in which I read them.

"Consider the Lobster" was written for Gourmet magazine in 2004. Wallace took a trip up to the Maine Lobster Festival and was hired to write about his experiences there. He goes in to great detail about lobster cooking, how there's a huge boiler that can cook a hundred lobsters at a time. He talks about how smelly the MLF is, how hot the weather was, and how long the lines were. Then he discusses lobster biology in great detail and eventually delves into the heart of the article: do lobsters feel pain when they're being boiled alive? The piece was quite interesting, both objectively and subjectively. Wallace articulates the arguments for and against in his normal style, but he throws in his genuine confusion about the subject as well. He explains that he has certain animals he likes to eat and that he just prefers not to think about what they have to go through in order for us to eat them, to which he then muses on our minds ignoring these ugly truths. By the end of the article, Wallace has made no clear choice about lobsters and whether or not they feel, and neither had I. I just wonder how Gourmet felt about this piece?

In "Up, Simba," Wallace was hired as a pencil for the famously liberal Rolling Stone to write about one of the 2000 Presidential candidates. Wallace was put with Sen. John McCain. The piece is long (nearly 80 pages) and sometimes trying, but the overall quality of the essay was excellent. If you've ever wondered what it's like to be on the campaign trail, not the Hollywood-style glitzy trail, but the Real-World-lots-of-downtime-bored-out-of-your-mind-extremely-hectic trail, then you'll love "Up, Simba." The piece doesn't really get deep into politics, but instead muses on the authenticity of McCain and various other politicians. Wallace is constantly torn between whether or not McCain is genuine in his concern, or, letting his inner cynic take over, the man is just putting out an image. The article was revealing and interesting and slightly boring all at the same time, and I enjoyed it quite a bit. By the end, as with "Consider the Lobster," Wallace has made no choice on McCain's genuineness. For me, the cynic was silent and I dared to believe.

"How Tracy Austin Broke My Heart" is a short review of tennis star Tracy Austin's autobiography. It was written for the Philadelphia Inquirer. Wallace played competitive juniors tennis when he was younger and he decided to read and review the famous starlet's book. He basically said it was rubbish, horribly written, badly edited, and offered little-to-no real insight on Austin. He then goes on to muse on our [American people's, not mine] fascination with celebrities and why we want to read about their lives, especially athletes. This piece was quite thought-provoking, and its brevity makes it much easier to read in one sitting.

"Big Red Son," written for Premiere magazine, is Wallace's account of the AVN Awards, which is basically like the Academy Awards for adult videos. Reading this piece was kind of like staring at a train wreck. I was repulsed a few times, but equally intrigued. Largely, while Wallace does cover the adult video industry, he goes into inane details about certain performers or directors/producers lives outside the screen, and this is possibly even more terrifying than the sex. The lack of humanity in many of the people is frightening. The vain "look at me and laud me" attitudes was loathsome. And the apathetic views of some directors (e.g. Max Hardcore), not caring how humiliating a situation will be for a "starlet," was downright sickening. Wallace talks about the awkwardness of the situation, standing in the bathroom between two male performers, silently obeying male-urinal etiquette. He muses how odd it is to be behind a woman in the buffet line that he's seen up close and personal. He talks about how cheap and foreign everything is, from the awards show itself to the people there. By the end of "Big Red Son," it's easy to see Wallace's disgust with the business and I shared his sentiments. It's just mind blowing how crude some people can be. Still, this essay is worth the read, if only to somewhat try and understand a group of people you'll never be able to really understand.

"Authority and American Usage" is a massive, exhausting book review of Garner's A Dictionary of Modern American Usage. I read about a third of this piece before I abandoned it. I just really didn't care much about the finer points of American usage, and there were way too many words I didn't understand. Hardcore English fans may enjoy this, but I couldn't do it.

"The View from Mrs. Thompson's" recounts Wallace's experience with 9/11 and the following days. I really liked this piece a lot, the way he mused and questioned the Horror. Possibly my favorite short essay in the collection.

"Joseph Frank's Dostoevsky" was particularly interesting because I like Dostoevsky (though as of writing this I've not read any of his books) and I wanted to read Wallace's thoughts of the man. This piece is actually a review of Joseph Frank's books on Dostoevsky, arguing that Frank's works are unique and great. Throughout this piece Wallace inserts random philosophical musings (see intro. quote), asking deep questions that at times make you stop and think seriously about things. I enjoyed this essay quite a bit, and recommend it if only for the philosophy.

The three remaining essays I did not read. I had no interest in the odd way "Host" was arranged on the page, nor did I care about the subject. Similarly, I never liked Kafka and had no desire to read Wallace's views on him, and the same goes for the review of John Updike work.

All in all, Consider the Lobster was a great read. It falls into a genre I never read, essays, and the break from the norm was fun. I felt like I was slowly learning a bit about Wallace's life with each piece I read. Wallace's cynicism gets heavy throughout some works, and it's really no surprise to learn that the man eventually killed himself. Still, his writing is top-notch, his essays are enjoyable, and his musings mix humor with serious questions.  (I mean, go back and re-read the introduction quote at the top of this post.  How profound is that?  After I read that line I literally said, "Huh."  The guy knows how to make you think.)   Everyone should read a few DFW essays in their life, and Consider the Lobster is a great place to start.

A Star Wars Rhapsody

This thing is great. It cracks me up way too much.

Writing Wednesdays: The Reformed 1.1

Kent
February 1, 2021

    Kent Andrews cracked his knuckles.  The popping annoyed Chloe and he knew it, but still he continued.  If she was going to keep on working with the Reforms then he was going to keep on protesting.

    She eyed him.  Kent shrugged, snapping his neck left, then right.  She particularly despised neck popping.

    “What?” he asked.  He didn’t hide the frustration from his voice.

    “How many times have I told you that doing that will give you arthritis?  When you can’t use your hands or turn your neck, don’t come crying to me.”

    Kent snorted.  “You still think we’re going to live to be old after everything we’ve been through?”

    The annoyance drained from her face.  For a fleeting second Kent could see the haunted look of the past three years flash across her eyes.  He was almost sorry he asked, but before sorrow could form, hard determination reappeared.  “Of course I do.  You don’t?”

    “No.  I don’t.”  The same images flashed through his mind.  The throng of people closing in.  Not knowing who was who.   Total chaos.  Hands clutching and grabbing, but the one that mattered slipping from his grip.  Screams and gunshots.  Loud wails and gentle moans.  He could still hear her shriek as the things pulled her away.  Daddy!

    Kent drained the dregs of the coffee, the bitter taste of expired beans fitting his mood.  He needed another cup.  Silence hung between them as he refilled the mug, letting the steam rise and warm his face.  Another cold day.

    “I should be back early tonight.  There’s not really much left for us to do.”  Kent didn’t say anything.  Chloe moved from the table and stood next to him.  “Maybe we could get some alone time in?  It’s been a while.”

    Her fingers traced his jaw, but he barely felt their touch.  Where is the woman I married?  He sipped the coffee, turning his face away.  He knew it hurt her, but she deserved it.  How could she want to help the monsters that took Kallie?

Soon she was out the door.  Kent wasted no time.  He threw on his thermals, grabbed his rifle, and headed out.

    Giant snow drifts hid most of the surrounding land.  Even the Mississippi River was concealed, though its churning gave its location away.  Kent sat in a tree on a deer stand, reclining against the pale bark.  His rifle lay loaded and ready at his side.

    He’d been sneaking out hunting for several months now, leaving after Chloe left for work and returning home before she came back.  She knew nothing of his trips into the wild.  The counselor in her would say that they paralleled his inner mind’s descent into darkness.  She’d be right.  Out in the wilds, where things before the Fall were ruins, Kent could find peace.  The budding life within the compound proper was just too much for him.

    Here he could let his mind roam.  He could lose himself in his savagery, like a man going native among scalpers.  The depression of the city did not exist outside its boundaries.  Stepping away was the only time he felt alive any more.

    So why do I keep going back?  He didn’t know.  He guessed he still loved Chloe, but it was no longer the flame it had once been.  After Kallie disappeared, his life went one way and hers went another.  He didn’t understand why she wanted to try and help them, the now-called zetas, as if renaming them would change their identities.  No, they were zombies.  Monsters.  Scum that deserved death, not redemption.  A bullet to the brain was the only mercy he’d show them.

    A few hours passed.  The sun brought a warm glow to the air, but Kent reckoned it was still below freezing.  Occasional gusts would chill him, even through the heavy thermals.  The woods were quiet, but they were not empty.

    Through the binoculars he could make out three shambling figures moving slowly towards the city.  His scent was concealed beneath clothes and a deodorizer, but the rag in his duffel would draw their attention.  They were still far out when he climbed down from the stand and made his way to a low hanging limb a few yards away.  He unlatched the container and slung the bloodied rag over the branch, careful not to touch it.

    Back in the stand he watched the creatures change direction.  Smelling the rag, they no longer shambled but instead ran.  Kent picked up his rifle and leveled his scope on the man on the left.  The thing’s mangy face came into view, skull-like and hollow, and he pulled the trigger.  A second later, the head was gone.  Kent repeated the process with the man on the right.

    The last zombie ran on, slowing only slightly once it realized its companions had fallen.  Kent pulled his scope up and stalled.  He hadn’t noticed before, but this one was young, a girl, probably around ten when she changed.  Wet, tangled hair fell from her head, the same auburn color as Kallie’s.  Kent shivered.

    It would be on the rag in seconds.  It might even be smart enough to see the trap, but he doubted it.  If it made it to the city, the CRC would certainly find it.  It’d be captured and whisked away to one of the RC plants and within a month released out into society, a beta.  A Reformed.

    Kent stared through the scope considering what the do.  Killing them wouldn’t bring back Kallie, but neither would letting one go.  And this wouldn’t be the first time he’d killed a child.  But she looks so much like Kallie...  He lowered the gun and watched the zombie grab the soiled rag.  It groaned as it licked the blood from the cloth, biting and gnawing like a dog chewing gristle from a bone.  There was no denying its hunger, its need for nourishment.  But Kent Andrews felt no sympathy for it.  They were always hungry.

    It stopped and sniffed.  In the quiet woods, Kent could hear its inhale, wheezy and thick.  It did it a few times and then went back to the rag.  Its back was to him now.  And while it took nourishment from the rag, it no longer resembled a small girl but instead the monster that it was.  He took quick aim and ended its existence.

    The rest of the day passed quickly.  Kent moved around to the various stands he’d constructed or found, baiting and killing with ruthless efficiency.  By two o’clock, he’d dropped twelve zombies using only fifteen shots.  The sun was deep in the western sky when he decided to head back home.
    Adrenaline had kept him warm throughout the day, but now that the excitement was over he was starting to cool off.  Long shadows kept his eyes jumping, fully alert for any lingering dead.  But the trip was uneventful, and soon the lights of the compound appeared.

    The place was a large, walled city.  Before the Fall it had been called Middle Port, a small city on the western edge of Illinois.  Now it was known as the Hub by some, Locus by others, and Central Station by most everyone else.  It was the largest of the newly established city-states, current population near two million, not counting betas.  It also was the headquarters for the Capture and Reformation Coalition.
    The west gate was still open as Kent made his way through.  Security wasn’t as tight as it was in the early days, though he still had to walk through the militia lines to enter.  Similar to airport terminals of old, he made his way through his usual line.  As always, Dave manned the station.

    “How’d it go today, Kent?”  
    “Not too bad.  Got fourteen of ‘em.”
    The older man chuckled.  “Good.  Keep it up.”
    “I plan to.  Looks pretty dead around here.”

    “Yeah, cold weather’s keeping most everybody inside I guess.  Or the dark.  Been a few RC crews in and out, but that’s about it.  Couple a transport vans.”  Dave spat.
    The two got along great.  Like everyone, they’d both lost family to the hordes.  Dave was as bitter as Kent when it came to Reformation, though, and because of that the two were fast friends.  If not for the man’s formidable size and prowess, not to mention years of military experience, the Hub’s militia would have decommissioned him after the first betas were released.

    “Well, let’s hope I got more than they brought in, huh?”
    “Definitely.”
    “Gotta head back to the house before Chloe gets home.  Later on.”
    He made his way down Center Street to the large hotel building.  He saw a few stragglers out, moving quickly to get indoors before sunset.  Kent scoffed at the double standards.  In public, people would say they supported the CRC, that they believed betas should be integrated back into society.  The same people hid behind their walls when the betas came out at night, terrified or angry as the next person.

    Before he entered the lobby, a convoy of dark vans drove past him.  They were unmarked, but everyone knew what was inside.  For a wild moment he thought about following them, sneaking behind the betas when they were released.  Maybe even doing a little late-night hunting.  He knew he could do it, but he wouldn’t beat Chloe home, nor would he be able to get away with the murders, either.  The same hiding people would call his actions heinous in the day and execute him without a second glance.
    He watched the last of the taillights disappear.  “Not tonight,” he said.

The Fellowship of the Rings, a Review

The Lord of the Rings is arguably the most important work in fantasy. Tolkien's masterpiece is generally considered the foundation for so many aspects of modern fantasy that it's beyond the scope of this reviewer to even consider. His works inspired countless carbon copies, some good, many terrible, but not a one as wonderful as The Lord of the Rings.

I first read The Fellowship of the Ring in 2000. I was graduating junior high and just discovering fantasy. A friend bought the entire trilogy, plus The Hobbit, and once he'd read them he loaned them to me. As an eighth grader, my understanding of the book was rudimentary at best, picking up on the obvious, but losing much of the beauty. I was concerned with The Quest, to see Frodo and Sam make it to Mt. Doom and destroy the Ring and free Middle Earth. The importance of the journey, though, I mostly missed out on. Now, years later, I've finally began re-reading the series.

I imagine nearly everyone knows what The Lord of the Rings is about, but for the sake of normalcy, I'll give a brief summation. In short, the Dark Lord Sauron is searching for his lost Ring of Power and a group of heroes is trying to destroy it before the Shadow can rise again. While this may sound trite, I offer that it is far from it, that Tolkien was deliberate in his story and that he was the originator* of the cliche.

As I mentioned before, I didn't fully enjoy the journey on my first read-through of The Fellowship of the Ring. This time, however, I relished in it. The quirky songs that seemed to erupt at any given time. The odd and ancient Tom Bombadil and his beautiful Goldberry. The dreams of Boromir for Gondor. The longing in Aragorn's voice. The mystery behind Gandalf. The omnipresent optimistic hobbits and their desire for food and comfort. And this only scratches the surface. While some say that Tolkien used too many words (do trees really deserve that much description?), I think that without the lengthy prose the tale would not be what it is.

Another thing I became fascinated with while re-reading this was the mythology of Middle Earth. Tolkien's worldbuilding is so enormous and vast that some colleges offer courses on it. He created many races, each with their own language or languages. Many had their own histories and legends as well, not to mention architecture style and culture. Tolkien was a renown philologist, and his creation of the many languages adds to the "reality" of Middle Earth. I loved hearing old Elven tales or Dwarven history. I even enjoyed the bits of hobbit history, though it was scarce.

It's impossible to not compare the book to Peter Jackson's superb 2002 movie. Some fans do not like the omissions the film makes, and to an extent I agree. Would I liked to have seen Tom Bombadil or Farmer Maggot? Could Lothlorien or Moria have been better done? Yes. But do I dislike the movie? A resounding no I say. I love it. I think Jackson did a heck of a job making his trilogy and it's atop my list of favorite films. Still, reading the books offers plenty of surprises and differences from the movies, and this re-read helped me see a few of the things I had forgotten.

There is absolutely nothing I dislike about The Fellowship of the Ring. The characters develop nicely through the plot, growing as they transform from rubes to world-weary travelers. There is a quote somewhere in the book about Middle Earth's history being filled with sad tales, and reading The Fellowship of the Ring certainly carries a heavy, tragic tone. Yet, through it all, there is a glimmer of hope, of defeating Sauron and destroying the Ring, and this chance keeps the reader glued to the pages.

If you've never read The Lord of the Rings, then I easily recommend you do so. Tolkien's command of the writing done masterfully, such that there are few dull moments in the book. The story is epic and genre-setting, as evidenced by nearly every run-of-the-mill fantasy book from 1955 until recently. You may think watching the movies are good enough, but I urge you to explore deeper into Tolkien's genius and see the wonderful world he has made.


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*I realize Tolkien got his inspiration from surrounding myths, but that's beside the point.

Hands-On Bible (Updated Edition) NLT, a Review

The revised edition of Tyndale Press' Hands-On Bible (NLT) was shipped to me a few weeks ago for review.  I requested the bible for two reasons:  I've never read from the New Living Translation and was curious to try it, and it looked like a must-have tool for anyone ever thinking about doing any bible-related activities with kids.  As an often church volunteer and a one-day-to-be father, I thought this would be a nice addition to the plethora of other bibles lying around.  As it turns out, I was correct.

The NLT is certainly much more approachable than the KJV, but I don't feel it has the same mmph to it my ESV has.  (That's not to say that I didn't like the translation, but I feel like it's something I would need to invest more time in than what I have for this review.  The ESV has been my translation of choice since college, and all the years prior to that was KJV.)  Some of the verses that I'm familiar with just sounded off while reading, but I enjoyed getting a new perspective on them.  However, I definitely feel like the NLT is simpler than the ESV or NIV and that this translation would be perfect for children.

Activities galore cover the contents of the bible.  Many of them are simple and require only common things found around the house.  Some may take a little preparation, but none of them are very time consuming.  These activities also really help draw real-world comparisons from text that was read, driving home the point and offering a way to help children remember a passage.  The only qualm I have about these is that some are too short, but that can easily be remedied by expounding more on the passage through words or customizing the activity.

Overall, I really liked the Hands-On Bible.  It's sleek design is attractive and fun looking, perfect for kids.  The text is varying, using bold fonts and illustrations/side-boxes, which helps break up the monotonous look most bibles have (i.e. long blocks of unbroken text).  While this bible is not a beginner's bible, it's clearly the next step after, and I think most young readers would enjoy reading through God's Word in this way.  I also think the activities are a great asset to anyone working with kids, and I easily recommend this bible to anyone interested.

Tyndale has included one voucher for a free copy of the Hands-On Bible to anyone interested.  If interested, please leave your email address in the comments.  This giveaway will go until Friday, September 10.  Open only to US addresses, and only one entry, please.  Winners will be selected by dark magic and bone casting.

**The Hands-On Bible was given to me by Tyndale House Publishers in exchange for an honest and fair review on my blog.

Writing Wednesdays: The Reformed 1.0

Sienne
June 28, 2019

The prey fled, winding corners and jumping over obstacles.  None of it mattered to Sienne.  She would chase it to hell and back if she had to.  Once she caught a whiff of living flesh and blood there was no breaking her determination, no stopping her hunt until the chase was done and the prey between her teeth.

She moved with purpose, easily making her way through the maze of abandoned streets.  This was her clan’s neighborhood.  She knew the terrain.  The prey, likely scavenging for food or supplies, did not.  Sienne smiled.

She rounded a corner and stopped.  The prey was no longer visible, but his odor painted him bright red in a world of grey.  She could smell him.  The slightly soured smell of sweat.  The pungent bitterness of urine.  And, above all, the sweetness of blood.  Her body quivered in anticipation.

Her bare feet padded on the sidewalk as she walked towards a cluster of abandoned vehicles.  The power of his scent was drawing her like a magnet.  Soon she would feast.  Her throat tickled as she purred, soft like a cat playing with a toy.  She inhaled deeply and turned her attention to a blue minivan.  She crept closer, willing her body stay calm.  Sienne enjoyed the hunt nearly as much as the fruits--or in this case, meats--of her labor.

She threw open the sliding door and scowled.  The smell was strong, but there was no body, only a pile of discarded clothes still full of life’s warmth.  She tossed the garments aside, frustrated.  She wanted food.  Sienne slammed the door, snarling.

The cold touch of steel blew through her stomach, knocking her backwards against the rear doors.  Sienne did not understand what was happening when she felt something else stir, something old and long forgotten.  Pain.

Blinding, crippling fire lanced through her gut and out the rest of her body.  She quivered again, this time from shock.  She screamed a terrible yell of hatred and raw natural response against the agony.  Her legs gave out and she sagged, the harpoon lance through her belly keeping her pinned to the van.

She tried to pull the bolt from her, but touching it increased the unbearable pain that she gave up.  Through it all, the smell of flesh and blood wafted around her, making her hungry and sick at the same time.  Nausea weakened her further and she vomited.  

Footsteps brought her head up and she had just enough time to see a crowbar before it slammed across her face and she saw only black.

One Hand, Two Hands, a Review

Max Lucado's One Hand, Two Hands is a kids book that teaches children important life lessons--like helping others or showing compassion-- through example of what we do with our hands. The book is a nice hardcover, sure to withstand grasping hands and toddler tosses. It's beautifully illustrated (by Gaby Hansen) with splashing watercolors and captivating images.

The book is a simple rhyming style early-learning read, easy enough for young readers to follow along or for smaller ones to easily understand. The story is about a young girl that learns what all she can do with her hands, from helping her mom wash dishes to cleaning up her room to playing with pets. The lessons are important and easy to grasp, and I think this would be great for young kids.  The pages are fun and filled and the rhymes keep the attention in check.

Overall, this is a great book with a beautiful message for growing children. It's short and simple enough that I can see myself reading it over again to my kids, whenever that time may come.

This book was provided to me by Thomas Nelson Publishers and Booksneeze in exchange for an honest and fair review of the product.  

Beautiful Orthanc

Being in the realms of Middle Earth of late, (I've been re-reading The Fellowship of the Ring and spent all day Saturday watching Jackson's extended versions of the three films) I decided to draw a picture of Orthanc.  The drawing took some time to do, being that I did it using MSPaint.  The piece is called "Beautiful Orthanc," representing a time when Isengard had not yet fallen to Saruman's treachery.

If you are familiar with Tolkien famed illustrator Alan Lee, then you're familiar with the piece I used to base my drawing on.  Lee's illustration, of course, is of fallen Isengard, destroyed by the enraged Ents.

Orthanc, by Alan Lee

I am nearly finished with The Fellowship re-read, and I'm greatly enjoying it.  I've only read it once before, back a year or so before the film was released, and at the time I was young and mostly new to fantasy, so it's almost like I'm reading it for the first time.  I'll hold off lauding Tolkien now, as I'll likely do a book review, if only for completionist's sakes.

Now, to finish before Sanderson's The Way of Kings finds its way into my hands.

Win One For the Reaper (A Lost Cover)

A friend recently mentioned something about the phenomenal Michael Giacchino soundtracks for Lost and wanted to know if I knew how to play a song from them.  No, in fact, I did not, but I certainly would like to.  So I sat off and found a simple tutorial, practiced it a few times, and 'ere long had the tune down, hopefully committed to memory forever now.

"Win One for the Reaper," or "Life and Death" is a beautiful song, oddly reminiscent of last week's haunting "All Shall Fade."  I learned the song yesterday and played (and recorded) it this morning from memory.  Give it a watch, if'n you'd like.  I think I did a fair job, though it seems a bit rushed at times.  Great song, nonetheless.



(Is it odd that last Friday's tragic song was song by Pippin in LOTR, which also starred Dominic Monaghan, who played Merry, who coincidentally played Charlie in Lost, and this song just happens to be playing when Charlie drowns?  Maybe I'm jumping for Lost connections here...)

A Eulogy for "My Little Corner of the World"

I first met David Wagner of "My Little Corner of the World" fame back in July of 2009.  Our year of friendship and correspondence was a nice year, and now that he's announced that he's stepping away from his blog, I feel compelled to wax nostalgic (I've always wanted to "wax" something.  Forgive me.) and mourn the loss.

The first time I met Dave was in a tiny cafe on the corner of Edinburgh and Bathilda Ave. in downtown Minneapolis.  We were there for the intra-global convention of bloggers and Dave was the keynote speaker for the session on "How to Generate Fodder and Maintain Gaseous Buildup."  His speech brought tears to the eyes of many, and there was general wailing and moaning of repentance from Dave's conviction, like a modern day Jonathan Edwards (see "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" for more info).  But me?  I wasn't having any of it.  No sir.  I did not even get to witness his great speech, for I was too busy watching "Ernest Goes to Camp" with the kid-bloggers in the next room, gorging myself on marshmallows and CapriSun.  Had I only known.  But, I met him at the cafe and we played a rousing game of Scrabble, wherein he stomped my inferior vocabulary and then proceeded to name-call me and throw bagel pieces at my head.

At some point in the future Dave realized that I was a fan of Joe Abercrombie's First Law books.  I had just finished reading book one, The Blade Itself, and was musing about purchasing the last two books of the trilogy when Dave sent me a message saying he had them and would gladly mail them to me, free of charge.  I was taken aback at his generosity, willing to give two perfectly readable books to a complete stranger.  So I gave him my addy and then, lo, a few days later there were two perfectly readable books sitting on my kitchen table, silently beckoning me to dive in.  Perhaps it was this act of generosity that made me dive in a bit further to "My Little Corner of the World."

Dave's blog was a constant source of amusement and a perfect way to kill time.  (For, truly, what more can one expect with a blog?  While blogging is a great way to learn and discover new things, it's rarely something one can do professionally, and as such is usually relegated to free-time/down-time/slow-time.  How many of us actually place our blogs at the top of our lists of important things to do?  I enjoy blogging and reading other blogs, but they're certainly not top priority.)  Each morning I would open up my Google Reader and wade through the collected feeds, reading what I was interested in, passing what I wasn't.  But if "My Little Corner..." ever had a new post, I'd never skip.  In fact, almost always, I'd reserve it for last, cherishing the silly randomness that sits so close to my heart.  You truly never knew what to expect.  Perhaps it was this strange affection for odd and desultory posts that kept my attention on his world.

One thing Dave's posts never lacked was that they were always interesting.  It's fascinating how much you can learn about someone after following a blog of theirs.  They let, either intentionally or by accident, tiny pieces of their lives slip in.  Some bloggers go all emo and intimate.  Others guard their personality behind a wall of anonymity.  Dave fell more so into the latter group, but even then there were things he'd let out that could give you a peak of what was going on, never fully opening himself up to the public, but slightly cracking from time to time.  And at these times I felt compelled to say a prayer for him and his life.  Perhaps it was this razor-thin line between anonymity and real-life that pulled me back to his blog.

The hour draws nigh and it is now time to say farewell.  So long faithful blogger and frequent commenter.  Thanks for the beautiful landscape photos that were always breathtaking.  Thanks for recommending White Ninja and Left-Handed Toons and the many other recommendations.  Thanks for churning the motors in my mind, forcing me to think about deep theological quandaries from time to time.  Thanks for the often funny pictures.  Thanks once again for the Abercrombie books (which have now been passed on to K. Denby, another fellow blogger, in continuation of your generosity).  Most of all, thanks for sharing your world, even if it was only a corner of it.  The blogosphere will be a bit darker now without your posts.

Hellboy: The Chained Coffin and Others & The Right Hand of Doom, a Review

The Chained Coffin and Others is different from the previous two volumes in the Hellboy saga. Volume 3 is a collections of small vignettes that re-tells folktales Mike Mignola has come across. One such example is "The Chained Coffin," which stems from an Irish folktale the author once read.

Like the first two collections, this volume is beautifully illustrated and wonderfully scripted. The colors are still rich and dark, capturing the essence of the gothic-horror feel. The characters are getting more developed, especially Hellboy, and I'm very interested to see how his future will play out.

Also included in this collection is a story about the Baba Yaga, of whom I was interested from the Fables series as well as some previous stories of Hellboy. In fact, there are several short, wonderfully dark tales that any fan of folklore or fairy tales will love.

Overall, this collection was highly enjoyable, easing off the familiar plot of the previous volumes and venturing into short-story. Still, even these short tales add to the complex character of Hellboy and his world, and I was most impressed with Mignola's work. This is a highly recommendable addition to the so-far excellent series.

***

The Right Hand of Doom is similar to Volume 3, in that it collects a few short folktales in the beginning of the book and one longer story arc, "The Right Hand of Doom," to finish the work.

Like the previous edition, the short stories are all beautiful renditions of global tales I've never heard. Mignola deals with mostly European folklore, but he also includes a Japanese story in this issue that I found beautiful and interesting.

One thing I really liked about this volume was the revelations of Hellboy and his destiny. Most of these tales hint at his purpose in this world, and "The Right Hand of Doom" comes right out and tells it. Coupled with breathtaking artwork, the plot moves along nicely and captures the reader's attention.

The Right Hand of Doom doesn't carry the same conventional story progression as Volumes 1 & 2 do, but it's still a great addition to the Hellboy universe, easily worthy to sit alongside the rest. And with the truth about Hellboy coming out, I'm certainly eager to see where the hero will go now.

A Touch of Melancholy

It's bittersweet.  The song below is haunting, truly, and brings with it feelings of death and memories buried.  But on the same hand there's something beautiful about its sound, like it reaches into your soul and commands you to listen, despite the grim words.  In the end, all shall fade, so it goes.  It fits my mood, I think.

While the song is originally sung by Pippin in The Return of the King, in the scene where Faramir rushes out to die to please his crazy old man Denethor, the version below is a beautiful cover.  I'm not sure how many times I've listened to it, but it keeps pulling me back.  Give it a listen, not just a simple "play."  Close your eyes for the minute and absorb the song, feel its tug on you.  Let the singer weave a spell on your ears.  Go on.  Try to resist.

Home is behind, the world ahead,

And there are many paths to tread,

Through shadow to the edge of night,

Until the stars are all alight.

Mist and shadow, Cloud and shade

All shall fade,

all shall fade.

Not only does the soundtrack nearly move me to tears on a few selections, it's appropriate for today.  Like the deep loss and sadness that spreads across Middle Earth, plenty of folks die here for no good reason.  Famine and hunger.  Murders.  It's disgusting how little we do.

My brother is going back to Afghanistan today to finish out his tour.  The fifteen days he's been home now seem short, and I wish he didn't have to return.  I saw him three times in the fifteen days.  Once at Ian's birthday party, once at mom's for supper one night, and then on Tuesday night.  We sat around talking for an hour or so, and it felt good.  It didn't strike me until later that I didn't hug him bye.  Just told him I told him I loved him and to be careful.  I can only pray for his safety.

On the brighter side, the tennis tournament begins tonight, followed by tomorrow morning's disc golf scramble and then another round in the tourney.  Should be a thoroughly exhausting weekend.

Fables: The Dark Ages, a Review

After finishing the first 75 issues, I recommended the series to many different people. (See "Comics You (Really) Should Read [Part 2]")  It told an epic story, crossing through familiar folklore territory but adding new twists and turns. I had planned on stopping with #75, but something just kept pulling me back, beckoning me to pick up and read what happened next. My resolve eventually broke and I did, requesting that the library order a copy. Soon it was in and I had a new graphic comic collection to read.

Fables: The Dark Ages collects issues #76-82 of the series. The story begins right after the events that spanned issue #1-75 come to a close. Fabletown's newest citizen is given a tour of his new home, and many fables aren't too keen to have him among them. A new antagonist, Mister Dark, appears starting in #77, and he threatens to destroy Fabletown and its inhabitants. Will the fables survive?

It was nice to be immersed back in the world Bill Willingham imagined. As always, the various artists do beautiful panels and covers, changing styles frequently between issues. The way a character looks may even change between issues (compare Pinocchio or Bigby from #76 and #80), and I really enjoy the artistic freedom given. Sadly, the trade paperback does not offer the glossy finish a comic page carries, nor does it truly display the beauty of each individual cover. That's not to say that the collection isn't beautiful, because it is, but it's just not as pretty.

Plot-wise, Willingham doesn't give the fables much time to rest. They've been through a terrible ordeal with the Adversary, and now that that's over, they get thrown into something else that may make the Adversary look like a cute kitten. Mister Dark is a wicked creature, hellbent on destruction and revenge. For what wrongs, we're unsure, but he intends to make them right, no matter the cost. The pacing of the plot was never dull, and Willingham masterfully plays with our emotions.

Overall, it was fun being back in the Fables universe. I didn't realize how much I'd missed these characters until I went through The Dark Ages, and now I'm going to have to do some heavy comic reading to catch back up. If you've read the first 75 issues of this series, then I can easily recommend this collection to you. Conversely, I wouldn't start with this one or you may be lost.

The Warded Man, a Review

When the sun falls below the horizon, the demons rise from the ground ready to slaughter any they may find. The only thing that keeps mankind safe is the forbidding wards, ancient symbols and patterns that must be exact lest they fail and the corelings feast. Some say there used to be offensive wards, but that knowledge passed from the lands long ago. Every night man sleeps restlessly, anxious that their wards won't hold, and every day the ward patterns are inspected and mended in preparation for another night. Such is life in the fantastic world of Beter V. Brett's The Warded Man.

I've read quite a bit of praise for this book and I needed me something short and exciting to read, and Brett's novel met those desires and then some. The Warded Man is a dark fantasy novel, where the world is constantly plagued and man cowers each night afraid of corelings. A rich and dynamic world, Brett's command of the prose pulls the reader into the book and slowly reveals the world and its workings, leaving much up to imagination, but providing enough to shape your thoughts.

There are three different POVs in this book. All three are young when we are first introduced, but the plot of the book spans nearly twenty years. Arlen spends his days mending wardposts in Tibbett's Brook and helping his father farm. He has dreams of getting away from the Brook, but only when tragedy strikes does he actually pursue them. Leesha, from Cutter's Hollow, is a smart and beautiful girl who spends her time dreaming of the day she gets to marry Gared. He will save her from the awfulness that is her mother, but when something happens, Leesha's life takes a different turn. Rojer, the youngest of the lot, is only four when we meet him, and tragedy hits him early, putting his life on a one-way path with a somewhat famous man.

These three characters are all deeply realistic and personal. I cared about Arlen's life and the choices he made. I wanted happiness for all of them, but Brett's world is a vile one, and happiness was sparse to be found. Bad things happen to these characters and they do bad things, but I could not imagine it otherwise and be satisfied. Brett's ability to make you care for the protagonists--and loathe the corelings--was a big reason this book was so good.

Other than characterization, the plot of the novel is very quick-paced and never dull. And rightly so. How can you expect the world to be mundane when demons rise from the Core every night? Along with this, the world-building is superb, creating a few different cultures and a rich history that only gets hinted at. I'm hoping this gets expounded on more in a later volume.

Overall, I really enjoyed Peter V. Brett's The Warded Man. It's certainly the best book I've read so far this year, easily ranking up there with the likes of Abercrombie, Sanderson, and Rothfuss. If you're looking for a new fantasy series to try, The Warded Man is it. It's rich in imagination and wonderful in story, and I strongly recommend it be added to your reading list.

Flash Fiction Friday (the 13th): H&H Rob the 42nd Street Bagle Bros. Bagel Shoppe

Note:  This one's a bit absurd and plays with some cliches, but was fun.  It originally started as an exercise to see what I could come up with in 10 minutes. Maybe this stems from the massive amounts of comics I've been reading...

--

Hubert stepped into the bagel shop and held up the gun.  He popped three quick shots into the ceiling to show that he meant business.  The screams stifled when he threw angry glares around the room.  “I’m not here to hurt anybody,” he said, his sing-song voice squeaking melodiously, “but I am prepared to if’n I have to.”

Behind him, dressed in a matching purple jogging suit and white fanny pack, his brother Herbert snorted.  Hubert glared at him, too, and the younger sibling quietened.  “Who here can tell me about Jonny Beatnick?”  He surveyed the terrified patrons.  In all it looked about fifteen people.  One man, possibly in his fifties, appeared to have either peed himself or spilled coffee down his front.  There was a young couple sitting snugly at the settee, a laptop resting on their conjoined knees shaking furiously.  A few middle-aged professionals stood in the queue, briefcases and cells in their hands.

With all the speed and accuracy of Clint Eastwood, Hubert fired a bullet through a man’s hand that was holding a phone.  While the stunned victim cried out, Hubert continued.  “Now I hope nobody else plans on alerting the police like our dear hero was, or perhaps I might not be so exact with my next shot.  In fact,” he licked his teeth and nodded, “it’d be best if we just all threw down our phones now.”

Herbert was now at the counter, holding king size pillow case.  “Schweetie,” he said, hiccuping, “why don’t you pop open that cash drawer there and drop it in the bag.”  The terrified cashier nodded, her ponytail bobbing.  Hubert watched  for a moment and then went back to his directions, nodding at the cell phones slapping the ground.

“Nobody knows Jonny Beatnick?  He’s impossible to miss.  A big fella, maybe three hundred pounds.  Always in Hawaiian shirts.  Loves bagels?  Anybody?  I have it on good authority he frequents this bagel shop often.”  He was kidding himself if he actually expected an answer.  The hand-shot man was writhing on the floor and the cashier was sobbing hysterically.

“Please don’t kill me.  P-p-please.  I-I’m...”

“Oh hush, darlin’, I ain’t gonna hurt you.  Couldn’t dream of hurting a cutie like yourself.”  Herbert smacked his lips and sauntered back over to his brother, bag of cash in hand.

“I thank you all kindly for your assistance today,” Hubert said, unzipping the fanny pack around his waist and pulling out a photo.  “But I’m really interested in finding Mr. Beatnick.  Perhaps this picture will--”

His voice faded into a gargle as he collapsed on the floor.  Herbert turned to his brother and came face to face with the super hero.  Donned in a bright floral shirt and a rubber mask that looked like a child’s Halloween face, Lei Man shook his head slowly at the still-standing robber.

“B-B-Beatn--”  Lei Man’s fist slammed into Herbert’s nose, blood spraying from the impact.  The criminal swung the heavy cash bag, but the hero ducked and uppercutted with a Fist of Lei.  Herbert flew in a neat arc and crashed into a table and chair.  The man groaned.

“Get up, Herbert,” said Lei Man.  “Or should I say Moon Boy?”

The bagel patrons all gasped at once.  Someone’s phone rang out a dramatic duh-dun-dunn!  The disgraced criminal cackled.  When he stood, the oafishness that had been there before was replaced by raw malice and genuine instability.  An elongated cat-o-nine had somehow appeared in his hand.  “Very good, Lei Man.  How did you know it was me?”

Lei Man laughed.  “Who else could it be, Herbie?  You’re the only one left.  All the rest are dead, in prison, or retired.  It’s just you and me now, old friend.”

“Ha!  Is that what you think?  There’s a whole new breed rising, Lei, with ideals that put ours to shame.  Dreams of domination.  Of suffering!  Hahahaha!”

Lei Man popped his knuckles and cracked his neck.  “Well let’s get this over with then.”  Moon Boy nodded, bringing up the cat-o-nine as he did so.  The whip smacked inches from Lei Man.  Moon Boy slashed it around the room, some of the tails cutting into stunned patrons.  Lei Man growled and barrelled toward the final rogue.

It was there, in the tiny bagel shop that the world’s last super hero and villain fought.  The battle was fierce and the bloodshed plenty, for these were true men, fighters of their passions, not ethics.  And when the dust finally settled, when the screaming and the cursing finally ground to a halt, when the newspaper’s had their photos and the reporters their stories, there were free bagels for all.

Word Count: 774

When Struggling to Finish a Book

I'm the type of person that finishes things I start, be it a book or what have you.  I've always been that way, especially with books, thinking the author deserves the time to at least read what's been written.  I'm a patient individual, as it is, and not too slow of a reader, so I almost always give the book cover-to-cover time.  But sometimes, on occasion, I truly struggle to finish.

That's happening now with one of the five books I'm currently reading.  I read Robert Jordan's opening tome for The Wheel of Time, The Eye of the World (review here), and finished with a slightly favorable impression.  Nothing amazing and terribly exciting, but the series is one of the essential fantasy series, so I thought I'd give it a chance.  Plus I'd already bought about five books in the series.  Book Two, The Great Hunt, is grieving me as I press on.  I find myself not caring really at all about any of the characters, only mildly interested in what's going on and what their fates are.  I'm currently on page 481 of 705, but I just don't know if I'll be able to finish.

But still I feel bad about not finishing a book.  Part of me understands that there are so many other unread things out there waiting for me that I shouldn't spend time with something I'm not enjoying.  I completely agree and understand this part of me.  But then I also feel like I'm giving up, and that doesn't jibe well with me.  In fact, the last book I put down was almost a year ago, Dan Simmons' The Terror (review here), and I went through the same struggle with it.

Who knows what the ultimate fate of this series is?  I really wanted to get to the Brandon Sanderson take over, but I really don't see that happening now.  I also would like to have read the whole series just to experience it, but again, I just don't see that happening.  The Wheel weaves as the Wheel weaves, eh?

(On a side note, Peter Brett's The Warded Man just may be my favorite thing I've read this year.  I'm about halfway through this, too, so look for a review in another week or so, as time wills it.)

cause and effect, a poem

dreaming,
eyes searching,
heart longing
breaking beyond the bound.
rise up
and vanquish.

flying,
arms pumping,
legs kicking,
beating gravity and ground.
out of the angry planet
and into silence.

floating,
limbs turning,
lips smiling,
absorbing light and sound.
leave behind troubles
and let go.

freezing,
teeth chattering,
bones shaking,
trav'ling homeward bound.
space is cold
without a jacket.

falling,
lungs filling,
voice screaming,
nearing solid ground.
unintended consequence
of freedom.

White Water Rafting the on the Ocoee

As I write this, my arms are heavy and weighted, my legs are rubber, my brain is fried, my body is exhausted, and my bladder is full.  One of those is not really related to the weekend.  Nevertheless, the bachelor party for William, consisting of white water rafting and true camping, in the eastern hills of Tennessee and the western mountains of North Carolina, was tremendous fun.

Adam and I took my car down to William's house on Friday afternoon, top off and windows down.  The trip is about five hours, plus a time-zone change (CST to EST).  On the way we worked a diagramless crossword puzzle and managed to finish by the time we got to Chattanooga.  We got there first, unpacked the car and filled William's truck, and waited for the rest of the group to get there.  Little sleep was to be had, for I am but a super-sensitive sleeper, particular in that I almost need pitch black and deeply cold rooms accompanied by absolute silence and a whirring of a fan.  Still, I managed to get a few (2-3) hours and woke up excited to hit the river.

From William's, we drove another hour or so east and met up with his brothers at the rafting outfitter.  The eight of us checked in, signed our waivers, got our gear (life-jacket, helmet, and a paddle), and watched the safety info.  Soon we were bussed to the river and carrying our raft down at the base of a dam.  We picked the vessel up and stepped it into the water, feeling for the first time the coolness of the river.  And then we were in it and rapid bound.

Total time on the river was about an hour-and-a-half.  Much of this time was spent in the rapids, from names like Broken Nose to Hell's Hole.  I was amazed at the sheer power of the water, at the white-foamed bubbles from the swift flowing river, broken by massive boulders and jagged rocks spread throughout.  The rapids were loud and noisy.  The whole river was beautiful.

Going through a rapid is an exhilarating experience.  First is the anticipation, hearing the raft guide tell you about it and how you're going to have to paddle to make it through.  It's important that everyone paddle in sync to be efficient, and for the most part we did this.  Next comes entering the rapid and the guide yelling directions.  The boat is rocked and pulled to one side, bumping into a rock here, spinning around there, free-falling over a ledge there.  It's kind of like mixing a roller-coaster with ATV riding, only you're on water.  Sometimes you may all have to lean one way or the other to prevent a capsize, and sometimes the raft may be inclined as it rides the waves or sucked down by a powerful whirlpool.  Finally, once the rapid is cleared, you're either in a brief calm section or approaching another rapid, the guide already giving directions.  As I said, exhilarating.

The first time we capsized I slightly panicked.  The raft flipped, we all spilled over into very cold waters, and I swam up to the surface.  However, I came out of the water below the raft and I was disoriented.  I gasped and gulped down water and tried to breathe.  Eventually I realized that the raft was flipped over and the air cavity would let me breathe, and so I took a lungfull of air and made my way out.  After a moment to calm down, I relaxed and floated on down the river.  It was a calm between rapids and we enjoyed a few minutes of swimming.  Still, the body never really acclimates to the temperature, but I enjoyed swimming in a river.

The guide asked us if anyone wanted to ride the bull.  This means that the rider abandons their seat and paddle and goes to the front of the raft.  Then they hop up on the side, dangle their legs over, and hold on to a rope attached to the tip.  It's almost like riding a mechanical bull.  There are three spots during the trip that one can ride the bull, and I did it on the last spot.  When I hopped up there, the guide told us we were going through Hell's Hole and Powerhouse.  He gave the warnings that if the raft flipped to make your way immediately to shore, that this section was strong and swift.  Somewhat apprehensive, somewhat thrilled, we entered the rapid and I held on for dear life.  Riding the bull was crazy.  I was pounded by ten foot waves, taking the brunt of them head on.  The whole time I was fighting for air, but drinking down water.  I could feel the raft tipping forward and backwards and sideways and I loved it.  I managed to stay on the whole time and shortly after the trip was over.

White water rafting was an incredible experience that I would love to do again.  We all had a great time together on the river, and spending another late night out camping was also fun.  Sunday, cold and fatigued, we packed up tent and headed back home.

Overall the weekend was phenomenal.  It was good seeing people.  It was fun camping again, as it's been a long time.  And it was amazing being able to raft.  Good times all around.

Home From Afghanistan (At Least for Now)

Some of you may be aware that I have a younger brother that was deployed to Afghanistan back in January.  Jake, and his wife Courtney, had their first son (Ian) back in August, and Jake’s leaving this time around was sadder than before.  But off he went for a year long tour, driving some kind of big truck and doing armed escorts or something of the like.  It’s dangerous, being out on the road and susceptible to IEDs or road-side bombs, and I’ve prayed for him a lot.

Yesterday was Ian’s first birthday and Courtney was having a party for him.  Jake was scheduled to have a 2-week R&R time some time in August, but the exact dates were never really clear.  We first thought he’d be in for Ian’s party, and then he said it’d be later in the month, and then it was possible again.  Eventually, and to everybody’s surprise, Jake landed back in America yesterday morning.  Courtney drove to the airport and picked him up, and Jake made it home for Ian’s first birthday.

Seeing my brother again was nice.  We’ve grown apart a bit as we’ve aged, but I still feel close.  And knowing that he was safe and out of a war zone eases that subconscious stress that lingers.  I believe he’ll be out of Afghanistan for 25 days, but I’m not sure.  He said the temperature was miserable, that they were constantly drenched in sweat, waking up at midnight covered in perspiration.  And he comes home to a record heat-wave in Kentucky, where the heat index yesterday reached 119*F.  Still, from time to time there was a breeze and shade.  He did say, however, that the food over there was top quality and he was eating good.  Lots of down time, though.  Lots of boredom.  Lots of reading.  I suppose that’s better than the flip side.

The party was fun.  Ian got a lot of presents and played with the water-based and bubble-based ones outside.  Watching my only nephew makes me happy.  The boy is cute and all smiles, and he reminds me a lot of myself and how I looked when I was a wee lad.  One of these days Keisha and I will get around to having a baby, and I’m getting more excited about that with every child I’m around.  One of these days…  For now we already have our two babies.

So I’m glad my brother’s home now, even though I probably won’t be seeing him again until next week some time.  The rafting/camping trip will keep me away, and my Monday night tennis league will keep me tied up early next week.

The Adventures of the Princess and Mr. Whiffle: The Thing Beneath the Bed, a Review

So long ago I don't remember when I first heard about Patrick Rothfuss' not-for-children children's book.  What began as a bedtime story he told his girlfriend made its way to publication through Subterranean Press.  I put my copy on reserve months ahead of time and, eventually, the book arrived at my house.

At a cursory glance, The Adventures of the Princess and Mr. Whiffle seems like any other children's book.  The cover has a cute little girl and her stuffed teddy bear playing in a creek.  Even the names "the Princess" and "Mr. Whiffle" imply all is well within the pages.  But, as the author, the publisher, and the accompanying sticker tell the reader, this book is not for children.

The Thing Beneath the Bed is a story of three parts, that is to say it has three different endings.  One ending is a sweet, happy ending that may be read to appease the lighthearted or those in need of a happy ending.  One ending leaves a bit more to the imagination and has horrifying ramifications to the story.  And the third ending, Pat's "true ending," as he calls it, hearkens back to an older style of fairy tale ending.  Of the three, the third is certainly my favorite, as it captures both my type of humor as well as offers a shock value that can let the reader think.

But what about the plot?  What about the illustrations?  Both of these work hand-in-hand together in this book (as they do in any comic or picture book).  Illustrated by Nate Taylor, each page is beautiful and conveys a certain message or feeling.  Some pages require background investigation to pick up on things in the Princess' kingdom.  One thing about the illustrations that I particularly liked was the use of black and shadows, especially when dealing with the Thing.  I also liked the sweet caricatured facial expressions of the Princess.  As for written plot, the story is simple.  There is a Princess that lives alone with her stuffed teddy bear, Mr. Whiffle, in a castle, and together they play and try to avoid the Thing that lives beneath the bed.  The duo have adventures and fun together during the day, and at night they keep the lights on.

One thing that greatly intrigued me about this book was the prospect of three completely different endings.  I was intrigued to see how the story would end, and I'm glad to say that Pat did not meet any of my expectations, but instead well exceeded them.  I was thoroughly pleased with all endings, and I think that if one were to stop at the first then it would be a fine book for children.  The latter two endings still may be fine for children, depending on maturity levels and faith in the world, but to be on the safe side I'd recommend the multiple warnings to keep from kids.

Overall, I really enjoyed Patrick Rothfuss' picture story book.  It was short, dark, twisted, and bittersweet, and it fit right up my alley.  I read the book aloud to my wife, showing off each page like a kindergarten teacher.  (My wife preferred the first ending.)  If you didn't get your hands on a copy of The Adventures of the Princess and Mr. Whiffle, know that this book is currently only available through Subterranean Press.  It was one of Sub Press' fastest selling books of all time, and they currently are offering a signed 2nd printing for $25.  (Makes me feel conflicted.  I have an unsigned 1st printing...)  So, if you've the money to spare and are interested in reading Pat's delightfully dark "children's" story, click the above link and order your copy today. 

In a Few Days...

...I'll be on the road, heading down to East Tennessee for an unforgettable weekend.  My dear friend William is getting married in November and I am honored to be his best man.  As such, it falls on my shoulders to plan a bachelor party, which I have been doing for several months now.  The plans come to fruition this weekend.

A group of eight, friends from college and William's three brothers, are going white water rafting and camping.  I've never been rafting before, and the Ocoee River is supposed to be awesome.  In fact, the 1996 Summer Olympics held the rafting events at the Ocoee.  A few friends have been to the Ocoee and have told me how much fun it is, and others that have been rafting all assure me I'll have a blast.  And I know I will.

So I'm packing up my beat-up-but-beloved 1995 Honda Del Sol, taking the top off, loading some music, and hitting the road Friday afternoon.  My friend Adam is riding down with me.  The destination is about six hours away, but we're spending Friday night at William's house in Chattanooga, which is only an hour and a half from the river.  We'll get up early and hit the water for a few hours, then after we're all exhausted we'll head over into North Carolina and set up camp.

I grew up camping, and it's been a long time since I've gone.  There's just something about being out at night with a clear sky and billions of twinkling stars above.  When the air has cooled from the day and the darkness of night is all around.  Where the toads burp and the crickets chirp.  Where the glowing of the campfire is the only source of light other than the moon.  Ah how I've missed it.

And on Sunday, after cooking breakfast over the fire, Adam and I will hop back in the Del Sol and head home, back to my waiting wife and pups.  Truly, I'm very excited about the weekend.  Rafting will be enjoyable, and camping will be a sweet return to a long-lost love.  It will be good to hang out with old friends and remember times forgotten.  While I'm in no real need for a break, I'll gladly take one.

Hellboy: Wake the Devil, a Review

Hellboy: Wake the Devil picks up shortly after the incidents of Seed of Destruction takes place.  A brief introduction informs the BPRD team on the life of Vladimir Giurescu.  Giurescu lived an illustrious and bloody life during the early 19th century, fighting in wars and struggles.  More than once he received mortal wounds and died, but his body was always returned to Castle Giurescu, where he would return to life after the full moon, whole and fine.  Eventually Giurescu dies and his body is kept from returning to his castle.  Of course, something goes wrong and the BPRD is called to investigate.

The plot is really pretty straightforward from here on.  No one knows exactly where Castle Giurescu is, though there are three likely locations.  Three teams are sent separately to investigate and recover the bones before the full moon or things could be bad.  Very bad.  The hero, Hellboy, goes alone to one castle, and what he discovers there rocks him to his core.

Like Volume One, this issue has fantastic illustrations, using the same style and colorings to keep a very gothic feel.  Part of the beauty of these comics is how much information is conveyed with each panel, even the ones without dialog.  No scene is wasted.

I enjoyed this addition to the Hellboy catalog.  I'm not sure I fully understood what happened by the end, but what I did understand sat well with me.  Hellboy is a shiny, wonderful comic series that keeps pulling me back in, despite my efforts to try and read something else, and Wake the Devil is a perfect sequel to the excellent opening number.