I recently had an e-mail conversation with an author whose opinions I value highly about the way I write about books I don’t enjoy, and how some particularly terrible novels were a running joke on the website. And the latter was something she didn’t get, had never gotten. I’ll admit up front that I’m an asshole, and I tend to drive a point into the ground, so I could see why she wouldn’t think me joking about A Certain Author’s Novels representing the Asymptote of Bad Books was especially amusing—that it constituted a species of harassment, in fact, against the author. I didn’t agree with her, but I could see how people could get that impression.
Then she said, and I’m paraphrasing with wild abandon here, “We get that you don’t like her books, but you know what? Other people do. You think her books are terrible, and that other people shouldn’t enjoy them, and her publishers shouldn’t publish them.”
And that’s when I realized that people often read a whole world of motivation and intent into my words, despite the fact that by and large, I lay it all out there for people to see and read. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not especially good at keeping my opinions hidden.
So here’s one thing I want to make clear, once and for all:
I don’t want people to stop reading the things they love, even when I think they’re absolutely terrible. Why would I? They love it. That’s excellent. I may shit all over the book you love, but that doesn’t mean I want to deprive you of the right to read it and enjoy it. In fact, I want you to engage me about why you enjoyed it, and disagree with me about the points I’m making. I loves me some vigorous, informed argument. I may think you have terrible taste (depending on how bad the book is), but I promise you that I won’t think you’re stupid based solely on the fact that you enjoy something I don’t, or that you’re wrong for liking what you like. I’m a reader of romance novels, ferchrissakes; this means far too many people who don’t know me assume I’m stupid based solely on a genre I read. I’m not about to inflict that particular brand of assholishness on other people. (There are so many other superior varieties to choose from.)
Which brings me to my next point: I have encountered people who say things like “One of my friends just loves The Worst Author Ever, and I don’t know why those Smart Bitches have to be so mean about those books, because my friend who reads them is a perfectly nice person.”
See, to me, those statements have nothing to do with anything. My dislike of a book and consequent assessment of the author’s skill have absolutely no bearing on the character or moral fiber of the reader. I wish people would stop making the leap from “This book is awful, and if you love it, you have bad taste” to “This book is awful, and if you love it, you’re stupid” or “This book is awful, and if you love it, you’re a bad person” or “This book is awful, and if you love it, I won’t like you any more.” Similarly, I wish authors wouldn’t make the leap from “This book is awful, which means you failed at writing a good novel” to “This book is awful, which means you failed at being a good human being.”
And then there’s also the issue of good books vs. bad books vs. books you love, which is something I’ve struggled with for a while; unlike the absolute relativists (how d’you like THAT particular turn of phrase, eh?), I do think there’s such a thing as objective measures for how good or bad a book is, and that sometimes, you love something absolutely terrible, and other times, you dislike something that’s actually good.
And yes, that means you are guilty of the crime of suffering from the occasional bout of bad taste. You know what? We’re all guilty of it. I say, embrace it. Poor aesthetic judgment is not a measure of your intelligence, nor is it a moral failing. Own your bad taste. Hell, own your mediocre taste. Proclaim it to the skies.
I’ll start.
Dara Joy’s books are absolutely terrible. They’re clunkily written, the heroines are annoying as all hell, the heroes are utterly ridiculous, the poor excuse for science fiction plots make me cringe, and their liberal use of SF Gobbledegook makes me cringe even harder. But I love them so.
Those old Mills and Boon novels, in which the hero (who’s usually about 35) at some point grabs the heroine (who’s usually about 19) and gives her a punishing kiss? So. Bad. They’re clumsily written, and awful in all sorts of ways—the repugnant gender politics alone made me seethe with rage, and this was back when I was 11, mind you, when all I could articulate about what I didn’t like about those books was that “they weren’t fair to the heroine and the hero got to win way too often.” You know what? I still found them compelling, and I read them by the boatload.
I could happily go for a week eating nothing but Spam sandwiches. Thinking about it makes me want one now. And very few foods have as little to redeem it as Spam: its nutritional profile is atrocious, and its flavor is this eerie mélange of blandness, saltiness and overcooked meat. I mean, at least foods like natto are so foul, saying you like it gives you a sort of cachet—you’re hardcore, man, you eat natto. Spam? Just indicates your tolerance for sodium and sketchy meat is probably higher than it should be.
Remember Temptation Island? Holy shit, I loved that TV show. I watched every episode with unalloyed glee.
And Joe Millionaire? Yeah. I have no excuse for that one.
Let’s not even get started on how I used to compulsively watch Blind Date. I’m glad I no longer use my TV to watch anything other than DVDs these days.
Come on. You do it, too. “I love this particular book despite how bad it is. Shit, I love it because of how bad it is.” Say it out loud, you got no taste and you’re proud.
(All kidding aside, ultimately, I think these snap judgments and conflations regarding good taste = good moral character have to do with cultural shorthand about your socioeconomic class (“Oh there you go, bringing class into it again!”), but I don’t have the time or energy to delve into it right now. Have at it in the comments, though. Come out with your Marxist/post-colonialist /post-structuralist/ post-post-post-post-post-modern/ nth-wave feminist fists swingin’.)
Okay, I’ll go first with a confession of my own. LKH? Love her books. Love reading the hot sexx0ring that goes on. Yeah, the stories haven’t been there for the last few books, but I still enjoy reading the really hot stuff that goes on.
Same with Emma Holly. I love her books somethin’ awful. So few sex scenes I read in books really turn me on (and that’s how I judge my own sex scenes… they are good if they turn me on. After all, if I can’t turn myself on, how can I do it for anyone else?) that when I find an author who can do that for me, well, I’ll be reading really faithfully.
Nora Roberts does it for me, too. Eve and Roarke? Yes’m, I’m right there!
Oh, I’ve just lost all respect for you! I mean, how can I possibly lend credence to the opinions of someone who likes what you like? It’s just defies logic.
However, you have made me feel lots better about myself in the process. I was reeling from that letter to the editor in the RWR calling me a whore for writing erotic romance, but you’ve salved my wounds with your Spamtastic auto-expose.
I can feel elitist and superior again. Thank you!
~ Alessia
P.S. Oh, and I’m a sucker for campy Piers Anthony Xanth books. *wink*
Pam Stephenson’s biography of Billy Conolly. The writing is clunky, but… I mean, BILLY CONOLLY… how can I not like this book?
I never thought you were harassing Ms Certain Author, merely stating your own opinion about her book. Thing is, when you’re seen to be “in a position of authority”, people often take stuff you do or say a lot more seriously. Rightly so? Not sure. Of course, when lots of people listen to you, what you say has a little more weight than usually. On the other hand: it’s tiresome when you can’t state a simple opinion without people thinking you’re the Pope. (“I’m saying this strictly ex cathedra…”) …There’s a fine line between those two factors, and I wish I knew where to draw it.
The advantages of age is that it is easier to say, “You think I’m an idiot for liking this? Fuck you.” So admittedly I had to dig deep to find something even I thought cringeworthy.
Cream horns—those pastry-that-tastes-like-cardboard things stuffed full of carbtastic powdered sugar and some chemicals whipped into oozy, gooey sweet stuff. (I’m not talking about the upscale ones, but the ones found in Kroger.) When I do indulge I always buy a bunch of other—healthy—stuff so it doesn’t look so bad.
Spam—you like spam? Ick.
Try saying anything that might be construed as remotely critical of anything Harry Potter. You’ll be excoriated, and all your books will be said to be trash. I once mentioned online that she gets away with an awful lot of adverbial tags, and I barely escaped with my spacebar intact.
I don’t know why people get so upset when opinionated bitches like me mention their likes/dislikes and go through and critique something. It isn’t as if we slapped the author in public and her crowd must exact revenge. Um, maybe it is.
I think I was trained to do this type of analysis of everything via years and YEARS of English lit classes and being in the Green Group (*the SMART READERS*) every year . . . my teachers at the One-Room Schoolhouse Extraordinaire used to reward those of us who brought up points that showed no book is perfect, not even one by Dickens or Austen or Hemingway. (“ONLY ONE M IN HEMINGWAY, PEOPLE!” Sister Mary Elephant screams in the background.) It’s not about hating the author! It’s about making a scientific observation and bringing it forth for discussion! Instead, there is often much whining, whinging, and wringing of hands. No need! Most people who follow my LiveJournal know this by now, though.
My guilty pleasures? Okay, I imprinted on the “Donna Parker” mystery series as a kid. I tried to go back and re-read them (after eBaying them up . . . Mama threw mine away, the sneak, when I was off at Revival Tent Camp one summer), and they are ABYSMAL in terms of prose and mechanics. I can still see in my mind’s eye the movie that the meta-novel (the entire series) made for me, though, from Donna getting her raincoat switched with Bruce’s on the bus to Donna finding the burned clock-radio at Camp Arawak. Or was that Cherrydale? No matter. It’s there, and it inspired me to want to write. Same with the Bobbsey Twins . . . they’re really awful seen from my current perspective, but they really engaged me back then.
I also like BIMBOS OF THE DEATH SUN by Sharyn McCrumb (many in SF/F fandom hate that book) and THE BOYFRIEND SCHOOL by Sarah Bird (yeah, it has flaws, but I still love it.) But I rank Gatsby right up there with ‘em, so that makes it legal in the eyes of SuperProf.
I even read “Garfield” strips sometimes. (*ducking and running*)
Any Harlequin Presents by the fabulous Violet Winspear is my guilty pleasure.
Tamora Pierce…. I KNOW I KNOW she’s damn Mary Sue. But but but but but red hair! Violet eyes! Getting her own magic pony! *whimpers in girlish delight*
Same with the fabulous “Dragon Singer” by Anne McCaffry. Hell that woman could be “gay by tent peg” for all I care. I do so love her dragons and damn the political correctness!”
I always wondered why the leap happens. It kind of bothers me because people DO have differing tastes and it doesn’t make you an idiot or a horrid person not to like someone. But inevitably someone brings that up.
I listen to Fergie.
Voluntarily.
That’s my confession, but you dont have to listen to me. Know why? Because I like Darwin. Know who else liked Darwin? Hitler. Ergo, by rabid defensive fangirl standards, I’m a terrible, terrible person. Be that as it may, here’s my take:
As far as I’m concerned this is SB Sara and Candy’s blog and therefore they can say whatever the hell they want to say. Anyone who disagrees is welcome to start their own blog—the internet is great that way, isn’t it? Just because the Bitchery has somewhat of an influence in fans of the genre doesn’t mean they have some sort of responsibility to be nice. No matter how big their audience gets, this is still their site and they are dealing book reviews in a manner as advertised. They warn from the get-go that they tough reviewers, so maybe people should stop being so suprised when the guy who says “I’m going to punch you in the face” actually does it. The title of this page most certainly isn’t “Polite Women who have only good things to say about Romance Novels, all of Which are Written Well” . Hell, if I wanted to listen to a blathering literature commercial, I’d read the NYTimes Book Review.
The Smartbitches have always been completely upfront about what they think about their reading material. In fact, if they were more forgiving, I’d have lost interest, because as a relatively new romance reader I’m confronted with a large amount of material to dig through, and I want to know my recomendations are coming from a source that’s being brutally honest with me. I get just as excited about the good reviews as about the bad reviews, I’m not here just for the drama. I love reading, and I love hearing from other people who love reading. Any book reviewer who writes as though they’ve never read a bad book in their lives is like a partner who constantly fakes orgasms: you start to suspect that they’ve never actually had a real one. However, people who know what they hate, also know what they love, and what I love is hearing from people who are passionate about what they’re reading, and who articulate it in more words than “ZOMG HARRY POTTER RULEZ!1!” (He does rule, by the way…as does Fergie).
I’ve always found SB Sarah and Candy to be very up front about their opinons, and while I’ve disagreed with some of their reviews (The Leopard Prince was such a C+ compared to the A of The Raven Prince in my book) I’ve never gone as far as to feel betrayed or taken it personaly if they expressed themselves in a manner I would not have.
And sheesh, to go as far as to feel like they’re attacking your friends because of how nice your friends are? I don’t even get the connection with that. The sweetest girl I know doesnt believe in global warming, but I’m not accusing Al Gore of attacking her.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go sing ‘Glamorous’ into my hairbrush.
Again.
I watched The Adventures of Lois and Clark religiously, so I could drool all over Dean Cain. I loved the theme song for Star Trek: Enterprise (though I couldn’t stand the show.) I like some of Britney Spears’ early music.
And natto isn’t really that bad, if it’s properly prepared.
J.R. Ward. I know those books are racially-appropriating, misogynistic, ridiculous messes, but lord help me, they’re crack and I love them.
Roses. Put a red rose decoration on the tackiest piece of kitsch and I’ll love it and want to own it.
M/M twincest is actually kinda hot. Chris Owen’s Gemini was smoking.
I’m not confessing to my Guilty Sticky Pleasures, because a lot of them are from my fanfic days and I’m not giving names. But there’s at least one review out there with my style quirks all over it, that can be summarised as “It’s badly written overblown nonsense, and lots of people hate it for good reason. Even a lot of the people who like it think it’s appalling, the literary equivalent of junk food. And I’ll chop your hands off if you touch my copy. Sometimes I *want* comfort food.”
*crawls out of the shadows and into the comment box*
Frankly, this blog is all about creating a shelter for a group of people whose taste level is, in society’s eye, not all that it ‘ought’ to be. If anyone understands the dangers inherent in correlating literary (or musical or visual or whatever) taste to a value system, it’s us.
And, as someone who is constantly called a Marxist by her professors, I have to agree with the argument that this is less about art than it is about class. Take, for example, my town. Home to a rather well-respected university, there is not a trashy *ahem* – mass market – romance in sight. Not in the school book store. Not in any of the three bookstores on our main street. It is a barren wasteland full of academic books and chicklit that wishes it could be this trashy. If, however, I jump on the bus (don’t even get me started on the bus and classism) and head to the local WalMart, I can have my selection of such books. Not to mention the fact that in an ‘upscale’ book chain—think a Barnes and Noble—employees never seem to know or care about trashy romances and the people who buy them. I can go to my local B&N, buy a $15 Noam Chomsky book and, suddenly, I’m an intellectual goddess come to life. If I buy $200 worth of mass markets, however, I can never get any sort of real help and usually end up feeling like they expect me to apologize for the whole interaction.
Wake up, people! Welcome to the post-feminist world! I can read these books because I fucking want to and you just have to deal with that!
*inhale. exhale. end rant.*
My own weaknesses? Well, really good sex makes up for a whole lot in my book. And Nicola Cornick—not always the best writing…or plots…but she’s BRITISH, people.
And bastard children. I have a real weakness for them. Give me a hero and his ‘ward’ and I’ll melt into a little pool of Meg-goo. *sigh*
Oh, and Fergie is totally underrated.
Now off to write the 15 pages I have to turn in 9.5 hours from now.
People get so damn offended by your (or my) opion, and they seem to forget, that is just what it is, an opion…everyone has one, you don’t have to agree, as a matter of fact, try to make me see how you arrived to your opinion, it may open me up to something I didn’t see before, I’m always open…okay usually
on that note I LOVE the Harlequin Presents line…yes it can be aboulutley awful, women I want to smack the crap out of and men I wouldn’t give the time of day, but I still love them!
I own Kindergarten Cop on DVD. And I watch it. Repeatedly.
And I am a sucker for any kind of rescue fantasy/bodyguard romance. Doesn’t matter how bad it is, if the heroine is in some sort of danger and is in need of burly protection, I’m all over it.
Don’t even get me started on my music tastes. If a song has been used in an “Alias” fan video on You Tube, it’s probably in my iTunes library.
I totally heart Virginia Henley booke. Her prose is a most violent shade of purple, and in one book a mothertruckin’ LYNX nearly goes down on the heroine. AND I DO NOT CARE! Her books are so very much fun!
Oh, and my all time fave romanace novel is Morning Song by Karen Robards, a book I know you SBs also enjoy, so ha! That’s right- stepdad/daugher sex00ring and I LOVE IT! Oh, sweet freedom!
Flo, I have to point out that Tamora Pierce’s Alana series is rather Mary Sue, but her later books get better. In fact, I lived on them through middle school, and still read the new ones when they come out. Just wanted to make that distinction.
My guilty pleasure? Christine Feehan. Yeah, I even occasionally buy them (though not the hardcover) still. I cringe at some of the dynamics, and the world-building… yet something draws me back. But strong males protecting/loving their feminine counterparts? MMMMM.
Romances with Male Angels (or the universe equivalent in the story). (Not females so much, must be the male) There’s something that really hits my buttons like wings. Especially feathered wings. I can excuse a lot of badness to get my angel fix.
And LKH. And I will also admit to buying the comic books and drooling over the illustrations. ‘Cause it’s bad, but it’s soooo good.
My guilty pleasure? I am sooo into grabbing one of the older (1980s) romance novels. You know, the ones with the classic bodice ripper covers! I too love that older hero and the young virginal heroine. And the punishing kiss? Love it! And love it even better when he throws her over his shoulder (with her kicking and screaming the whole time) and carts her off and throws her on the bed! Absolutely love it!
Actually, having “good taste” goes the other way, too. Here are some things I’m supposed to like, but don’t.
Anything by Stanley Kubric. My movie channels are having a marathon. Those few movies I’ve ventured to try – because I don’t like horror or war movies – bore me to homicide.
Opera. Yes, I’ve been exposed to it. A lot. Still hate it.
Shakespeare. I know, I know. But I don’t like poetry, either. A few lines of imagery here and there are wonderful, but having reams of poetry masquarading as dialogue drives me nuts.
I love Martha Stewart. I want to be her. I know people make fun of her and her glue gun. I know the stuff she makes is impractical and over the top but I love her anyway. I also love “She’s Crafty” on HGTV even though my hubby thinks she’s borderline retarded.
I think it’s your blog. Write what you want.
Stephanie Laurens.
Page after page.
Shouldn’t
Wouldn’t.
Couldn’t.
Inexorable inabilty to deny
That this sex scene
Goes on six pages—-
Perhaps eight—-
And that’s only the kiss.
Scorching.
Burning.
Give me those sinful Cynsters
And every other male,
No matter how tenuously related to them—-
the distant cousin, the boot boy grown.
I am putty in her hands.
I can’t believe I’m the first to say it. Add some eggs to that Spam and up the nutritional content . . .
Georgette Heyer, from before I grew boobs. (Maybe helped me grow boobs!) And Mary Stewart. I still read This Rough Magic and get gooseflesh when she’s in the water saving the dolphin.
Two words:
Bertrice. Small.
LOVE it. It’s awful prose and clunky porn, but I. Love. It.
I have them all, and I’m backed up in my opinion by my bunny who thinks the covers are quite tasty – she didn’t touch any of my other books on the shelf, but she pulled down a bunch of the Bertrices.
So the rabbit has spoken!
Moira said “I loved the theme song for Star Trek: Enterprise (though I couldn’t stand the show.)”
I feel exactly the opposite. But I think we can agree that they didn’t belong together!
I <3 all of you. Also fried spam sandwiches, early LKH, and Britney Spears. Also bad movies, like Python (wth Robert Englund!) and Killer Clowns from Outer Space.
Don’t get me started in Christine Feehan’s Drake sisters. Oh! The sisterly bonding, the superpowers, the protective men! I’m such a sucker for that. If they were British, I might try to marry them myself.
I also a huge fan of any romances involving a rake and a spirited virgin. Because, you know, I’m a spirited virgin. Bwhaha.
(And I’m right there with you, Moira, not liking Kubrick.)
I like Barry Manilow.
Make of it what you will
Geeze, if I confess are y’all going to get judgy on my ass? Because really, I have some pretty deficient taste.
1. J.R. Ward’s books. The whole premise and the way it’s set up just squicks me out. But I Can. Not. Stop. Those books are like a fucking drug, dude.
2. Kraft Mac&Cheese with a whole extra lot of salt. Mmmm.
3. Candy, I’m glad you confessed to loving Temptation Island because, damn. That show was so trashy and just plain bad but could I stop watching? Hells no. (I still cringe at the whole nerdy Dave and bitchy Charla thing. Cannot believe I even *remember* that.)
4. Two romance novels I should hate because the gender politics just so so so rub me the wrong way? Whitney, My Love and also Shanna. But do I hate them? No. I love them.
5. I know I’m supposed to be all love all the time for microbrew beers and Czech imports and etc. I still always choose Miller Lite (and used to drink Rainier fatboys by the truckload).
On the flip side, things I should love that would show my fine taste and cultcha, but lo, I do not:
1. The Lovely Bones. My god but that book depressed the hell out of me, bored me, and made me roll my eyes more than any romance I’ve ever read.
2. Atonement. Jesus Christ. The first half was gripping and wonderful and lovely. The second half was as flat and soggy as a first pancake.
3. Crash. I found that movie to be utterly patronizing.
4. Diamonds. Sure, they’re pretty enough, but I far prefer gemstones.
Wow. That ain’t even the tip of the iceberg, sadly.
Dak
Nora, you are not alone. Right now I’m sitting at my desk gazing at my treasured picture of Barry Manilow in the frilliest of frilly shirts….
Anything by Stanley Kubric. My movie channels are having a marathon. Those few movies I’ve ventured to try – because I don’t like horror or war movies – bore me to homicide.
Oh, Moira! I am so with you on this one. Yes, yes, Kubric is supposed to be a genius. But still? Yawn.
Dak, I’m totally with you on the Kraft—and now I’ve got a killer craving for some. I know I should prefer my Grandma’s gooey cheesy authentic stuff, but really? I’ll take the Kraft over it any day.
Ummm, I own EVERY. SINGLE. Backstreet Boys album. And still listen to them. And I’m 36, they were in no way, shape or form part of my formative years. I just *love* them.
Also, there’s pretty much nothing I love better than a secret baby plot. I love the hell out of it.
I’ll take your Kraft Dinner and up it one, I still put ketchup on it. mmmmmmm
Haha—I ketchup my eggs (which, in the Northeast, get you some really fun looks) but never my precious Kraft
Make-over scenes. I know beauty is on the inside, but man, do I love a make-over scene, both in books and movies. Pretty clothes! Contact lenses! A new hair-cut! All of a sudden, the hunky hunk looks up, arrested at the sight of this beautiful, heretofore unnoticed creature standing before him. Swoon!
Also, I love the Monkees. I don’t care if they were the original boy band. Their greatest hits album gets plenty of play in my house.
n*sync.
Nickelback.
Bertrice Small.
Blaze Wyndham, see above.
Vintage Catherine Coulter.
Britney Spears.
Kraft blue box mac & cheese.
Count Chocula.
“Moonlight.” Holy cow that show is bad.
I’ll think of more.
I also want to second Candy’s column with a “hell yeah” and a “uh huh.” And add one additional leap:
“I think your opinion is wrong” is not:
“Your opinion is wrong, ergo you are awful.”
Hello, my name is Kimberly and I listen to Britney Spears. On purpose.
My love for Demolition Man (three seashells=comedy gold) knows no bounds.
I watch A Smoky Mountain Christmas every single time it comes on, even if that means twice in one day. I want to be Dolly Parton when I grow up.
And I love the cardboard cakes from the grocery store. Especially the frosting.
Liverwurst. LOVE.IT. Oh, and Anchovies.
(don’t all gag at once)
Guilty books? J.R.Ward’s come to mind. Christine Feehan’s as well.
TV? Any show about Rock bands. I’m a “Rocker Mom” here, and damn proud of it!
Books I couldn’t do- Mark Twain. Just couldn’t stand his “voice” or whatever. Same for Steinbeck. Just couldn’t get through them.
Coffee ( ala Starbucks?) never will see a dime from me. Give me a Diet Coke or whatever.
That’s just for starters
I have a friend with whom I trade books. Recently I discovered she’s come to the conclusion that if I pick a book apart, or even pick at one or two bits of it, it means I didn’t like the book at all. I’ve tried explaining to her that taking it apart and seeing how it works is part of the fun for me but she’s not getting it.
Things I love and of which I am slightly ashamed:
Cheese Wiz on club crackers
One Fergie song – Clumsy. My husband plays the other ones just to torture me. I haven’t even admitted to him I like that song.
Certain categories on Literotica.com
Lately I feel like people are trying to make me ashamed to like Robert Heinlein. Oh the misogyny! Oh the proselytizing! Oh the fascism!
Don’t care. Love him. Love him anyways and everyone running around complaining about him can stick it up their bums.
Does it make me low class if I admit that t first I thought you meant your battery operated bunny?
The Hardy Boys series. *embraces the shame* I read ‘em all. I re-read ‘em all.
I love the taste of that cherry sore throat spray, and have been known to fake a sore throat just to have some.
“Most Amazing Videos” on Spike TV. That shit is just wrong, people. That episode where the zoo-keeper is cleaning the elephant’s back feet and the elephant sits down and the zoo-keeper’s head goes up the elephant’s butt? WHY THE HELL WOULD ANYONE WANT TO SEE THAT? Yet I laughed myself sick.
The Godzilla movie remake in NYC with Matthew Broderick? Love it. Own it. Watch it often. Same with The Chronicles Of Riddick.
Sardines in mustard sauce. Shaddup, they’re good! Okay, I know they’re bad, but… they’re a good source of calcium?
I could go on, but I’m afraid more horror might crash the website.
KCfla –
I used to be totally with you on the whole soda over coffee thing. Then I moved to Italy, had real, honest to god coffee and got hooked.
Of course now I can’t get the good stuff anymore and I’m hooked on crap. (Though I’ve been doing better lately.)
Oh, and I love the movie Judge Dredd.
Time to hide under a rock until the shame goes away.