Smart Bitches Trashy Books | All of the romance, none of the bullshit.

Mmmmm, Dwight. Damaged, borderline-psychotic Dwight. Bam was right: he’s nummy. Buy this book. Read it. Fall in dirty, dirty lust with Dwight.

Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. Ahem. Let me try again:

Dwight, like just about every Sin City character you’d care to name, has problems. The love of his life left him years ago for a rich man, he lost his job as an award-winning photographer for Alcohol-Related Reasons that aren’t elaborated in the book, and he’s now reduced to sneaking around, taking pictures of husbands behaving badly for a hilariously sleazy private detective.

Then a blast (no, make that the blast) from the past, Ava, shows up. She makes noises about her life being in danger. And she’s being shadowed by a huge (and I mean huge) motherfucker who’s allegedly her husband’s chauffeur.

Dwight has two weaknesses: booze and dames. One weakness feeds off the other. But Ava isn’t a weakness for Dwight so much as she is his San Andreas Fault: when he sticks around her long enough, catastrophic things happen, and vital chunks of himself threaten to tear free from the mainland.

Wow, check out that analogy I just made. That’s, like, deep, man.

Anyway, complications arise. Complications involving blood, and lots of it. And Dwight goes on a rampage, first with the help of your favorite delusional thug and mine, Marv, then with the help of the working girls in Old Town.

This story starts out slower than The Hard Goodbye, but once it got going, I couldn’t put it down. One of the neat things about the story is that it happens concurrently with The Hard Goodbye and you get to see little vignettes from the last book interspersed in this novel, often as background action. The stories stand alone very well, but it’s a lot of fun looking at the scenes from different perspectives, and figuring out the timeline for various events relative to the timeline of The Hard Goodbye.

The characters in this one are every bit as fascinating as the characters in the first book. Dwight is hot. Have I mentioned that? No? H-O-T. Hot. He’s quixotic and gallant, the way Marv is, but unlike Marv, he’s not confused, and he’ll hurt a woman if presented with enough provocation.

I’m not normally into pain, but let me say this: Dwight can hurt me any time.

This book also introduces the prostitutes of Old Town, including one of my favorites, deadly little Miho and her array of sharp objects.

For those of you who liked the movie* and were wondering why Dwight needed plastic surgery, this story explains it all.

My only complaint, minor as it is, is that Dwight is a lot less hawt after his plastic surgery, largely because of his gay-ass haircut. What the hell? I mean, fine, he couldn’t be hot and bald any more because hot and bald is a pretty distinct look, and the point of extensive reconstructive plastic surgery is to disguise your look, but DEAR GOD couldn’t Frank Miller have given him a better haircut? That floppy center part should only be sported by sissy-boy Hong Kong pop singers, not tough-as-fuck characters for a noir graphic novel.

Other than that, this book was a blast to read. Go. Read. And revel in the hotness that is Dwight.

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*An observation about the movie sparked after reading this: man, Clive Owen doesn’t do Dwight justice in the movie. Not even close. Yes, he’s yummy, and yes, gallantry oozes from his pores the way oil does from mine after a meal at Popeye’s, but he doesn’t have the raw sexuality and crazy edge that Dwight exudes in the book. Plus the way he struggled with the American accent was distracting. I think Christian Bale would’ve done a better job, because Lord knows he’s proven himself capable of playing psychos, both amiable and not-so-amiable. Plus he’s hawt, and built--I mean, seriously, Dwight in the book is BUILT, yo.

Inga Mahn lost just about everything due to Hurricane Katrina. Seriously: her house? It’s gone. Not destroyed, not demolished. Gone. Poof.

Amy E., that magnificent bitch, has organized a series of auctions in her benefit, to help her and her family rebuild. Sarah and I agreed to contribute the following items for auction:

Three months worth of ads, including ad design.

An author interview, wherein you get to pimp yourself, your books, and hell, whatever you want to, up to and including your fabulous perm.

A manuscript critque--a FULL manuscript critique, bitches, not just the usual partial + synopsis.

BID, MOTHERFUCKERS. Don’t make us look bad, or we’ll cut choo like a peeeg.

Plus, you’ll be helping out Inga.

Sarah:

Beavis: Whoa!
Butthead: WHOA!
Beavis: She’s like, naked! With armbands!
Butthead:Huh huh. Yeah.
Beavis: And she’s gonna get stabbed by that CHURCH! YEAH!
Butthead: Huh huh.That’s cool.
Beavis: Stab her! Stab her in the BUTT!
Butthead: Huh huh huh huh. Tell her to move her hand first so we can see her boobs.
Beavis: Yeah! BOOBS
Butthead: Yeah. Huh huh.

Candy: Wow. I can hear the headlines: “Devastating S&M Tragedy! Woman’s spine pierced through with a pointy castle roof. Find out more about this deadly new fetish. Pointy castle roof fetishists: are they warping our children’s minds? THEY’RE OUT OF THE CLOSET--AND IN OUR STREETS! More at 11.”

Sarah: Gosh, could that hero look any more excited about the posing hottie in front of him?

Ho hum. Another Scarlet Cavern. Gee. There are some boobs. They look rather large and oblong, like someone pulled them southward.

Hmm. Perhaps I’m not the first to enter her scarlet cavern. It is a cavern after all.

Candy: Man, that is possibly THE nastiest peroxide job to end all peroxide jobs on that chick there--and there have been some really skanky-lookin’ blondes on romance novel covers.

And the guy… I could’ve sworn I saw him on Faces of Meth. If he isn’t on there already, he will be soon. He also needs a Silkwood shower in the worst way. That’s probably why he doesn’t look too excited by the equally nasty blonde hobag stripping down in front of him. He’s too busy suppressing the urge to scratch at his scabies.

Sarah: Now that I’ve started breathing again after falling on the floor in twisty laughter, let me attempt to address just one thing that is wrong with this cover.

Does she have a tumor on her ass? Or a saddle horn? Because her back isn’t long enough for the dude to be holding onto her ass. My ass doesn’t curve around like that. My back doesn’t bend like that, either.

Candy: The force of attraction… of being a certified proctologist.

Romance novel cover models really need to learn that Astroglide is their friend. Really, look at all the pained expressions. All those dry runs up Hershey Creek make Baby Jesus a sad panda.

Sarah: The ride in question is the lowride of her jeans, I bet. Even SIMs should not have to have a bikini wax before they put their jeans on.

Man, he has some little hands on the ends of those beefy arms, too.

Jeez louise.

Candy: The danger in this ride is the elevated risk of contracting genital herpes. That, and getting splinters in your ass from humping on that rickety-ass looking fence.

Man, these models look naaarsty. What the hell is up with that hair? Did she superglue it on to her titties? Why? To cover the fact that she has more nipple hair? Or the fact that one of her nipples bears a disturbing resemblance to Doogie Howser’s face? Inquiring minds want to know.

Sunday afternoon, watching the Steelers game, and creating SBTB prizes, Sarah and Hubby had the following conversation:

Sarah: Oh my God.

Hubby: What?

Sarah: There is a romance novel.

Hubby: Yeah?

Sarah: Called What an Earl Wants

Hubby: NUH UH.

Sarah: YEAH HUH.

Hubby: That is just AWESOMELY bad.

Sarah: I know. Wow. 

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