


by Candy • Monday, October 24, 2005 at 06:26 AM
Sarah: Yeah, I got yer “disdain” right here. I got disdain for your weird bony ribs, your nasty flat hair, and your itchy-looking man-pelt. Not to mention your abnormally-long neck.
Candy: Look, it’s one thing to be stalking hot ladies while undead. It’s another to do it while so undead, your arms are decomposing.
Or do vampires get leprosy, too?
Sarah: There’s the obligatory extended-neck pose, the hot-colored background, the full moon, the shirtness dude. But she looks… bored. He’s not even looking at her carotid. He’s looking at her right boob like, “Oh, look. Another titty. And it’s not as big as mine.” (And are his nipples too high or is that a spot on the graphic?)
And she’s got this expression on her face like, “*Sigh* Go ahead. Bite my neck, whatever. Just don’t stain my dress.” These must be the two most underwhemled vampire romance protagonists ever.
Candy: Homegirl’s arching away with that look on her face because the dude? Has blood breath like you will not believe.
Sarah: “I am zee most handsome vampire in all zee world. Gaze upon my manly chestes hairs. Long to play the laces on my shirt like a lute, using only your teeth. But I do not want to suck your blood. I want to steal zee hair care products from your cabinet. Damn. I am the smooth.”
Candy: The only way this guy could look any more gay would be if you strapped a sparkly purple dildo to his head. Again, I blame Anne Rice.
Sarah: BWAHAHAHAHAH Hair of the Dog? Is that a less-than-flattering endorsement of the heroine’s looks? Metal-headed vampire Trent Reznor is cursed - to go back for more of Thorina’s blood to cure his hangover, cursing every step because she is so almighty ugly!
Candy: Colossus’ fey younger brother starts posing as a vampire to get more chicks. All he can snag is that one desperate high school senior with the wonky teeth, but he’ll take what he can get, thankyouverymuch.


by Candy • Friday, October 21, 2005 at 07:08 AM
Yes, that’s right: We’re going to put up YET ANOTHER sidebar item. This one’s going to be a collection of our greatest hits. Someone who’s new to the site can browse some of our best bitchery and get a feel for the site, while those of you who’ve been around for a while can re-visit old favorites and snicker away.
A lot of our bitchery is made extraordinary only because of the comments--my ramble about rape in romance is largely an incoherent mess, for example, but the people who contributed comments made it a lively and informative discussion. I’m also thinking of instituting a “best tangent” category because some of our best and funniest posts veered sharply off-topic, like that time we started ripping on the Thundercats and He-Man in a Covers Gone Wild entry.
So, what would you classify as some of our best articles/reviews/discussions? Here are some of the more memorable ones for us:
15 Things That Only Happen in Romances
Talking About the R Word
You Like Me! You Really, Really Like Me!
Defining Romances: No Ickiness, Please
Romance: It’s Only For Monogamous Hetero Couples!
You Read Like A Girl
Erotica = Literature, Romance = Formula. GOT THAT? (this is one of my favorites mostly because of E.D’Trix’s absolutely horrifying excerpt of a salmon-y sex scene she had to edit)
On A Wicked Dawn
The RWA will never link to this site...
Carpathian Madness (aka all Carpathian novels by Christine Feehan)
You’re shittin’ me. Please tell me you’re shittin’ me (a.k.a. The Big RITA Trainwreck)
The Contemporary Romance Drinking Game
Paranormal Romance Chit-Chat, now with Bonus Paranormal Drinking Game!
Man Titty Contest / Vote for your favorite haiku/ oh, literate tit!
Masturbation and fanfic and WOO DAMN loads of TMI in this entry so be warned (this makes the grade because of the spam haiku)
Post your suggestions in our comments, and we’ll trim this down so it’s a manageable 10- or 15-item list.
27 comments •
Trackback •
Categories: Fun And Games •
The Link-O-Lator
Tags: This entry has not been tagged yet.







by SB Sarah • Friday, October 21, 2005 at 04:37 AM
Fabulous reader Dr. Frantz, herself a professor of English and romance fan, brought this fabulous event series to my attention:
Conversations about Romance, an ongoing seminar at the Smithsonian.
Suzanne Brockman, Diana Gabaldon, Mary Jo Putney, Carly Phillips and Jennifer Crusie are each booked for a seminar to discuss their writing, and the host, Dr. Pamela Regis, interviews them with a book signing following each session. If the next session wasn’t 9 days after my due date, I’d be in the car driving to DC, no question.
What gets me is the description on the page itself:
Romance novels were created to celebrate women’s control over their own destiny, with the promise of enduring happiness at story’s end. The popular genre’s established pedigree includes such venerable writers as Jane Austen.
The form allows for tremendous latitude in expanding on the basic theme of the heroine and her man.... However, they all share an abiding sense of the heroine as the winning centerpiece.
“The heroine as the winning centerpiece?” “Celebrate a woman’s control over her destiny?” I am so on board with that.
Dr. Frantz also mentioned in her email to me, and on her LiveJournal that the session she attended with Suz Brockmann was fantastic.
I went to Suz Brockmann’s interview this week (drove all the way up from NC!), and it was just fabulous—although it was Suz, and she’s such a great person, it’s difficult to imagine it going any other way. And while the whole evening was immeasurably improved by the dinner afterward with 20 fans, Suz, and her husband, I still think the interview itself was wonderful and worth attending.
What was truly great about it was that you’re in the Smithsonian, for heaven’s sake. Surrounded by signs advertising classes about Opera and Native American Culture and Far Eastern China dildoes painted with flowers (not really), and all these “high culture” things, and then there’s conversations about romance novels in the same space, given the same attention and respect.
I thanked the woman in charge and she shrugged it off, but I thought it was important to recognize her for having the balls to put on a program like this.
I concur - it is so important to consider the development of the romance novel alongside all the high-academe topics such as the development of women’s rights in the 20th century. We certainly touched on this idea during the monster conversation about rape in romance.
But romance novels in the Smithsonian? I’ll have a grin on my grill the rest of the day - that is fantastic!
10 comments •
Trackback •
Categories: The Link-O-Lator
Tags: This entry has not been tagged yet.






by Candy • Thursday, October 20, 2005 at 11:34 PM
I tried to entitle this post “The Best ‘Had a Novelty Hit in the Late 90s and Everyone Probably Thinks They’ve Gone the Way of Third Eye Blind But They’re Still Around and Really Hitting Their Musical Stride’ Band You’ve Never Heard Of” but ExpressionEngine got all mad at me and denied me like the peasant I am.
OK, EE didn’t get mad at me. I just ran out of space in the “Title” field.
I just came back from seeing Nada Surf at the Aladdin. Fun Portland Factlet: The Aladdin used to be a stroke movie theater. The beady-eyed hag who sits behind me in the office once informed me proudly that she saw Debbie Does Dallas there with her husband. If you guys knew N., you’d pity me this piece of TMI, because she looks, acts and sounds like George Costanza’s mother’s slutty younger sister. The urge to throw myself out of the third-story window after imagining N. and her husband (equally hideous) watching an X-rated movie was strong, but I beat it back. Barely.
Ahem. Sorry for the slight de-rail. Back to pimping one of my favorite bands, Nada Surf.
You’ll just have to forgive them for “Popular,” which was a minor hit in… 97? 98? The album, High/Low, was really uneven overall, with a couple of good songs but the rest being drek.
I bought High/Low on a very foolish impulse, and it kind of kicked around in my CD collection, gathering dust. Two years ago, however, I was watching Conan O’Brien, and they came on. Frankly, I was shocked they were still around. I was positive they’d bitten the dust ages ago, together with bands like Tonic (remember them? Actually, please don’t, blech). And their song? It didn’t suck. In fact, I really liked it.
Turned out that they had a new-ish album out called Let Go, and lo, it was very, very good. Yes, the lyrics were sometimes awful, but when the boys got it right, they got it RIGHT. And the music? Tres, tres jolie. Plus there’s a song in there sung entirely in French. French with a heavy American high-school tang, but it’s still amazingly pretty, and as amusing as listening to somebody with a very heavy French accent sing in English.
Their latest album, The Weight is a Gift, doesn’t have quite as many perfect songs as Let Go, but it’s still verra good.
They are REALLY FUCKING FUN live. There are only three of them, and all three of them sing and harmonize. It’s amazing how huge, how textured they sound with only a guitar, a bass and a conventional drum set. I was also shocked at how good the lead singer, Matthew Caws, sounded live. He has a somewhat reedy voice, and if there’s one thing The Flaming Lips has taught me, it’s that these types of voices can go very, very, very badly flat during a live performance. Then James Mercer of The Shins restored my faith in reedy-voiced boys performing flawlessly while live. I wasn’t sure how Caws was going to do, but as it turned out, he performed beautifully, and it wasn’t until the very last song that he hit a couple of false notes. The show, overall, actually sounded better than their albums, and I haven’t seen too many bands who perform even better live than they do in a studio. PJ Harvey and Blur come immediately to mind, but not many others.
My favorite part of the show was when they sang this random song about a kitten. In flawless three-part harmony. The chorus, literally, was “Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow.” Partway through one of the last choruses, and for no particular reason, Caws broke off and did a Milton impression ("Uh, excuse me, I believe you have my stapler").
AWESOME.
And Caws has totally made my “Men I want to lick” list. Short, skinny, funny, sweet-faced, AND he likes Office Space. I’m in love, baby.
Anyway, if you like The Shins, Built to Spill, Arcade Fire, Grandaddy, The Flaming Lips and/or Death Cab for Cutie (random tangent: I don’t know what it is about DCFC that makes me want to go Joe Pesci on the lead singer every time I hear his voice, but DEAR GOD I HATE THIS BAND and I don’t even know how I’m allowed to like indie music without lurrrrving DCFC but seriously? I want to stick sharp ballpoint pens into the lead singer’s throat, that’s how much I can’t stand his voice, which is weird because other singers with similar voices don’t give me pause AT ALL) and anyway, end of DCFC hateration, back to pimping Nada Surf. Give them a chance. They are excellent and underrated. If you want some samples, check out their videos.
Sorry this has nothing to do with romance novels or trashy fiction. Does the fact that i’m picturing myself doing unspeakable, dirty things to Matthew Caws count as being somewhat peripherally related to romances? Or the fact that I’m kind of depressed that you won’t find somebody similar to him (short, dorky, funny, not afraid to act silly for the sake of comedy) in a mainstream romance novel because many romance readers seem to prefer their heroes tall, dark, muscularly be-titted, and not averse to smacking the heroine around?
Yeah, didn’t think so. But if I introduce one other person to the joy of Nada Surf, I’ll consider this space well wasted.
Update: Oh my God. I just found out that Third Eye Blind are still around. There is no God.
Update to Update: Oh fuck me, so is Tonic. AND THEY HAVE A MYSPACE PAGE. There is a God. A cruel, merciless one who revels in the suffering of His creations.
20 comments •
Trackback •
Categories: Random Musings
Tags: This entry has not been tagged yet.





by Candy • Thursday, October 20, 2005 at 08:21 AM
Our Grade:
Title: The Historian
Author:
Publication Info: Little, Brown 2005, ISBN: 0316011770
Genre: Literary Fiction

Oh my God. Never has a book sagged so much in the middle. I mean, seriously, it droops more than the bits ‘n pieces you’ll see in Bust a Nut in Grandma’s Butt.
Pity, because it started out with so much promise. The Historian, I mean, not Bust a Nut in Grandma’s Butt.
Warning: You know how annoying I am when I write reviews, what with talking in detail about the plot and all? Well, it’s going to be EVEN WORSE with this one, because dear Lord, so many bits I want to make fun of that I can’t do without giving away details. So be warned: check out the hidden text only if you don’t care about spoilers, or if you’ve read this book already.
This book is an unabashed homage to Bram Stoker’s Dracula. It’s partly an epistolary novel, and it also uses the “I heard this story from this guy who was given the story from this guy who heard it from the guy who actually experienced the events” narrative device. Yes, there’s probably a name for that narrative device. No, I don’t know what it is, and I can’t be arsed to look it up. No, I don’t know what my English degree is good for. I mean, look, I’m ending a sentence in a preposition!
So: About 2/3 of the story is told via incredibly long-winded letters that no person in their right mind would write, with a big chunk of the rest being a story passed on second- and third-hand to the narrator, a device beloved to nineteenth-century authors to impart a cosy sort of feel yet provide a sheen of faux authority to their tall tales. The rest is the narrator telling her merry little tale, plus bits and pieces of ancient manuscripts.
I get what the author is trying to do. I can even pinpoint what this book reminds me of, from Pamela, which is the prototype for the “nothing much happens and the letter-writer is annoying and I wish she’d just get good and raped already but dear God I can’t stop reading gaaaaah” novel, to The Castle of Otranto, to Dracula itself.
The problem is, right around page 350, I suddenly realized: this is it. The most exciting bits of the book have already happened. Regardless, I couldn’t help but slog on anyway because I hoped there would a Stupendous! Resolution! To! This! Big! Old! Mess!
I was, as Garth Algar might say, denied. The ending is… but I get ahead of myself.
The narrator, a historian herself, says in the prologue that she wants to recount some Very Odd Events that happened when she was a teenager for posterity or a reasonable facsimile thereof. The story starts in 1972, when she finds some mysterious letters and an even more mysterious book in her dad’s documents. The book is Ominous: very old, odd-smelling, with completely blank pages except for a woodcut print of a big old bad-ass dragon in the center, accompanied by the word “DRAKULYA.”
She asks her dad—I almost said “badgers,” but the narrator is far too limp to do something that energetic—about the mysterious book. Dad turns pale, stammers, puts her off, but eventually starts unraveling a long, long, long story that took place while he was still in grad school.
Seems that you don’t find the book, the book finds you. After discovering the book in his library carrel while researching his thesis on Renaissance-era Dutch merchants (this sounds incredibly boring, but trust me, compared to this book, I bet that thesis would’ve provided pulse-pounding excitement), daddy-o brings the book to his thesis advisor and renowned historian, a right smart chappie named Bartholomew Rossi.
Rossi, in turn, turns pale, stammers, and then launches into his own story about how he found a very similar book under similar circumstances, and how his investigations have led him to the conclusion that Dracula is alive and well and living in Hell—or somewhere in Eastern Europe, at any rate. Before his investigations can go on much further, though, some Nasty Shit happens that turns Rossi away from the trail. Dracula, it seems, will not brook any trespasses, which makes no sense when you get to the ending--but more on that below.
Right after imparting part of his story to the narrator’s father, however, Rossi disappears from his office, with a puddle of blood on his desk and another sanguineous smear high up on the wall being the only clues. Thus begins the Hunt for Red Rossi. OK, Rossi’s not a commie, but as the narrator’s father finds out, he’s definitely been spirited beyond the Iron Curtain.
So: Story within story within story. All of them mostly boring, peppered with just enough “Oooh, creepy!” to keep me reading.
Later in the book, the narrator’s father vanishes, haring off to seek the narrator’s mother. The problem? She allegedly died when the narrator was but a wee bairn. However, daddy darling leaves reams and reams of letters behind, which the narrator reads over the course of a night—a feat I have much respect for, because that part of the book? Took me two weeks to work through. Seriously, I kept falling asleep every 15 pages or so.
The book is mostly daddy darling’s tale. He traipses all over the European continent, from Istanbul (hearing that name always makes me think of that They Might Be Giants song) to Hungary in his search for Rossi, and in the meanwhile meets and falls in Lurve with a feisty Romanian hottie. Peripherally, we have the narrator pursuing her dad after he vanishes, though conveniently enough, he leaves her all sorts of clues and the aforementioned stuporously detailed series of letters.
Besides the slow, slow, slowwwww pace, two other things bothered me quite a bit about the tale.
One of them is a peeve I’ve had since I was a child. You know how frustrated you were as a kid when you read a Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys book and you figure out shit wayyyyy faster than the allegedly smart, sassy investigators, leading you to wonder if they’d been hit on the head one too many times by nefarious kidnappers who don’t want them to figure the Secret of the Haunted Barbie Doll? Or when they ignore the easy, obvious solution in favor of doing something completely fucking retarded? The characters in The Historian do the same sort of thing several times. And I’m not just talking about the good guys—the bad guys do it, too.
My favorite instance of this sort of obtuseness revolves around a completely unremarkable copy of Dracula belonging to the narrator’s father’s university library. A creepy undead librarian attempts to remove its entry from the card catalog, Hot Young Romanian thing has checked it out, and everyone acts like it’s the only possible copy to have and OMG IT’S SUCH A DANGEROUS BOOK TO READ.
Dude. It’s Dracula. I doubt that book has been out of print since its first publication. While they’re making a fuss over the one copy, I’m wondering why the narrator’s father couldn’t have walked into the nearest bookstore and just bought himself a cheap paperback edition, and why the creepy undead librarian hadn’t torched all the bookstores in town carrying copies of this book if keeping people from reading this book was so stinkin’ important.
In the meanwhile, this intrepid reader contemplated taking a razor to the wrists—not hers, but the characters’; I thought maybe fresh blood would lure Dracula out and they’d solve the mystery that much faster, but alas, I couldn’t.
The other thing that bothered me is going to entail quite a bit of spoilerage. Please, for the love of tacos, don’t read this any further if you don’t want to know the resolution of the book, because HOLY SHIT it’s stupid.
OK, ready?
Dracula wants a librarian.
Oh yeah, that’s right. Dracula himself hand-makes all these creepy little blank books with nothing but a woodcut of a dragon and his own fucking name right in the center. He hands these out like candy to bright young academicians, though why he picked this batch, I will never figure out because a lot of the time they seemed about as sharp as a sack of wet hair. Oh, sure, he occasionally scares off the dilettantes with random acts of cruelty and mayhem, but ultimately, this is all a big, perverse test because he wants to pick the most persistent chump to help him catalogue his supah-secret subterranean library.
Sorry for the overuse of sarcastic italics, but: Dracula is going through all this trouble for a fucking librarian. What, the classifieds weren’t good enough any more? Let me tell you, if the Internet and Craigslist had been around in the 50s, we would’ve been spared this sorry story. Out of all the many “What the FUCK?” endings the author could’ve chosen, this is probably right up there with Dracula seeking a colon hydrotherapist for fun times and love a la Kenny Loggins.
(Actually, if somebody wrote an erotic parody of The Historian called The Colon Hydrotherapist, that would be so. fucking. awesome.)
And after all the stupendous build-up and the ominous atmosphere, the vanquishing of the bad guy happened so fast, I would’ve missed it if I’d blinked. In one of the few parts of the story that could’ve used more detail and drama instead of less, it was all “Wham, bam, thank you ma’am” and “Oh hey, bad guy’s dead.”
Yet, despite all its flaws and its uncanny ability to mimic Ambien, I still found the book readable. Initially, the slow pace built up the suspense and I raced through the book, eager to find out more; it’s really too bad that the pace actually slowed down and the suspense went nowhere. And no matter how saggy and baggy and slow it got, it says something about the author’s skill that I still slogged on, determined to find out the ending no matter how much I had to pay in library fines. The concept overall was pretty cool, and it provided reams of historical detail whose accuracy I cannot vouch for but which sounded pretty damn cool. And the quietly creepy parts were very, very creepy.
If this book were a piece of meat, it’d be in need of a really, really skilled butcher, one who really knew how to trim the shit out of that shit. As it was, it was a big, bloody hunk of meat with all the gristle and fat and tendons and icky crap attached to it, and I had to chew my way through all that. My teeth are stronger, I guess, and it didn’t taste all that bad, especially because I’m the kind of freak who generally enjoys the extraneous, icky crap, but I’m still kind of pissed off, especially since this is being touted as the most tender of filets.
(Yeah, I know, but hey, I warned you about the meat metaphor.)




