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

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.

OK, I have to know this, because it’s been driving me CRAZY:

Isn’t the past tense of lead, led? More and more, I see people using lead as the past tense for lead. I understand that the past tense of read is read, but in English, this don’t mean shit, since I’m firmly convinced there are more exceptions than rules in this wacky-ass language. I learned in school that led was the correct form, and to see it being changed makes me apeshit. But if enough people tell me I’m full of shit, I will swallow my bile and bite my tongue the next time I see this assault to my tender sensibilities being perpetrated.

Another pondering, this one inspired by a romance novel getting a huuuuge amount of buzz that I was putting through the 15-page test at the grocery store last night:

Would a crazy-ass, tough-guy, murderizin’ thug say something that smacks so much of precious Valley Girl-ism as “I’m outie” for “I’m out of here”?

Because seriously? I put that romance down after reading that phrase. The men in my life are hardly tough-guy psychotic nutjobs who’d as soon stomp on your nose as look at you, and I’m pretty sure all of them would regard somebody saying “I’m outie” as being irreparably, unconscionably effete. I can imagine that a crazy-ass thug would rip his tongue out, chop it into little bitty pieces, set it on fire then stomp on the ashes before saying it.

Now, I’m not saying I couldn’t fall in love with an effete hero who says “I’m outie.” I’m just saying that given the set-up we’re presented and the character of the guy who says this, that one little phrase made him completely unbelievable to me.

But that’s just me. What do you guys think?

That wasn’t the only reason I put the book down. The people in question are in a big, noisy nightclub full of what sounds like flashy, beautiful people--lots of pseudo-bondage gear, lots of leather and vinyl, and a chick walks by in thigh-high boots and a bustier made of chains, if I remember correctly.

The music being played? Hardcore rap.

Huh? What in the hell is hardcore rap? See, I’m not a rap afficionado. And, well, rap is a lot of things, but I get the feeling that this club is supposed to feel menacing, and rap just doesn’t feel all that menacing to me. Some of the more raw songs have pretty intense lyrics, but I dunno, it just isn’t scary. For a club like the one this author was describing, I was picturing KMFDM, Rammstein, Ministry and other industrial-type bands. Certain types of techno, like jungle. Maybe White Zombie.

Then I realized I was basically picturing that nightclub from the first Blade movie.

Anyway, since I’m such an ignoramus about rap, when the author mentioned “hardcore rap,” I immediately thought of the Lil Jon rap song: “To the window, to the wall, till the sweat drips from my balls.” Which isn’t menacing. It just plain made me giggle, because then I pictured Chris Rock going “Smack her with a dick, smack her with a dick… Put a dick in the ear, a dick in the ear… Blind the bitch! Blind the bitch!”

Moving on to another item, and this is REALLY up for debate: wack, whack or whacked? Personally, I’m for “wack” all the way, mostly because I thought it was an abbreviation of “wacky.” Whack is a borderline acceptable substitute, but whacked? Is what happens to mobsters who squeal to the cops.

Aren’t you guys so glad to have a glimpse into what runs through my teeny little ADD mind all day?

I loved the Sin City novels. Loved ‘em. But when I sat down and tried to write individual reviews for them, I realized I couldn’t. I just wanted to boil everything down into pithy, snarky vignettes, with “Dwight is hot” and “I heart Marv” making up about 50% of those comments. Then I realized: well, DUH, Lightning Review time, mothafuckas!

The Hard Goodbye: You can read a more detailed review here, but basically, it boils down to: I heart Marv, the artwork blew me away, I heart Marv, the story rocks, and I heart Marv. A

A Dame To Kill For: Detailed review here (and you can totally tell I was already grasping for enough words in that review). Dwight is hot, Marv gets a decent supporting bit, and the story ruled; however, Clive Owen, while a boootiful man, was completely inadequate for his role in the movie. A

The Big Fat Kill: What is it about the idea of kick-ass prostitutes being in complete control of their turf that I find so appealing? Ah, who am I kidding? It’s all about the sex and violence. And Miho. Deadly little Miho. Dwight is hot, too. Anyway: hot hookers, decapitations, bombs, guns, car chases, bastard-ass motherfuckers getting their due and Miho and Dwight fucking the bad guys’ shit up. What’s not to love? A

That Yellow Bastard: I love the story. LOVE IT. Creepy as all hell, and the use of color is very effective. The love story at the core is pretty fucked up, but even as I threw up a little in my mouth, I went “Awww, that’s so sweeet!”. But: Frank Miller can’t draw kids worth a good goddamn. Because little Nancy? Looks as slutty as grown-up stripper Nancy. Which seriously, seriously skeezed me out. He also isn’t all that great at drawing wrinkly old people, because Hartigan ended up looking a lot like Marv. Both of these combined were pretty distracting to me, plus I expected better of Miller. So, docking a couple of points for the sloppy artwork: B+

Family Values: Short and pretty sweet. The story was entertaining, if a bit incoherent, and it starts off with a really awesome funny bit, where we get to see Dwight trying to fend off a horny female cop. (Ah, to have Dwight in the same room with me and some handcuffs… sigh.) Deadly little Miho is back, and she’s on rollerblades, which I find hilarious for some reason. She’s also drawn with a much lighter touch than the other characters, which lends a rather ghost-like quality to her. Unfortunately, she becomes something of a one-note character in this book; she’s invincible and as much of a cipher as she was when she was first introduced. Every book reveals something more about the inhabitants of Sin City, even the mafia and the corrupt police system, so keeping Miho mysterious makes her rather flat in comparison. Nonetheless, a thoroughly enjoyable read. B+

Booze, Broads and Bullets: A collection of short stories set in Sin City, you get all sorts of vignettes, most of them good, a few of them kinda meh. The story involving Marv chasing some thugs into the bad part of Sin City is worth the price of admission alone, but you know how much I love me some Marv. B+

Hell and Back: This story is the longest of the Sin City series, and also the weakest. The hero? Total Mary Sue. (Or would that be Gary Sue? Marty Sue? Marv Sue?) He’s honorable, he’s hot, he’s an OMG GREAT ARTIST with loads of integrity, he’s a veteran, he kicks le ass avec beaucoup de dispatch, etc. Miller is at his best when writing about psychos and lowlifes; this guy is conventionally heroic, and ultimately, I found him boring. Besides the tiresome perfections of the hero, the story isn’t as tightly-constructed as the others, and I’m not as fond of the art style Miller employs. Plus: WHAT’s with his fetish with bangs? All the supah-hot women in Sin City have bangs (Nancy, f’rexample), and the heroine, who’s black in this book, has bangs too--and unfortunately, she ends up looking like Rick fucking James (bitch!) in a lot of the panels.

I’m not kidding. Look:

Somebody stab my eyes out, please.

However, the sequence in which the hero hallucinates his way through a killing spree? Awesome. Overall, a B-.

A friend of mine reported that she went shopping and bought a Nora Roberts paperback - for $10. Some big splash on the cover said, “Specifically designed for comfortable reading.”

Alas, she reports, it doesn’t come with chocolate.

But what is this comfortable reading thing with the extra cost conveniently built into the purchase price? According to the explanation in the book, the new size is known as “Premium Format:”

The premium format is specially designed for comfortable reading, featuring REMARKABLE improvements on the interior design of the traditional mass market paperback. The book itself is larger, for easier handling. The type is also larger. The paper is brighter and there is more white space between the lines of text, creating a more pleasurable reading experience.

A more pleasurable reading experience. And yet, it doesn’t come with chocolate? Shame, I tell you.

After some cursory Googling, I found an August 2005 article from USAToday (aka McNews) which explains that sales of the mass-market paperbacks, aka the smaller ones, are down, and the folks quoted in the article attribute the decline to various sources, including the Oprah picks which are packaged in trade-paperbacks or hardcover.

So I have to wonder: does size matter? Does a larger trade-sized publication, by occupying territory between mass market and hardback, imply better quality of reading? Do we need a size of book between mass market and trade to make for more “comfortable reading?” Or do publishers need better sales to make themselves more “comfortable?”

In today’s Dear Abby there is a letter (bottom of the page) from an attractive woman who is tired of getting stared at because she is married to a dwarf. She adores her husband and was looking for suggestions from Abby as to how to address rude comments, questions, and stares.

Manner-issues aside, this got me thinking: would there ever be a romance novel with a dwarf hero? Heroine? What other unlikely scenarios could there be - and if you think about them, how unlikely are they really?

Obvious case in point: there’s a romance that makes Candy do the pee-pee dance about a stroke-victim mathematician and a Quaker heroine.  If you’d explained the scenario to me before I read it, I’d have thought you were nuts. After I read it? Heck, I STILL think about it. The more unlikely the hero, or heroine, the more fascinating the romance can be.

Consider the number of military heroes and heroines with post-traumatic stress syndrome symptoms, who aren’t sure they can trust what they experience. Or the number of lead characters who have survived personal trauma that shapes their personality, and provides them an internal conflict to overcome.

So why, when I think, “Hm. Dwarf romance...” do I immediately follow with, “Nah, no way.” Is physical difference a blow to the fantasy? It shouldn’t be.

What unlikely hero or heroines can you think of, and more importantly, is there a condition or scenario that is just completely impossible? I mean, we have people humping the undead left and right at this point in the published romance world. Is there anything that’s truly “untouchable?”