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

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?”

Sort of related to our ”Things That Only Happen in Romances” entry: What is up with all the heads thrashing in ecstasy in romance novels?

I was feeling kind of blah during the weekend, so I picked up a few old favorites and skimmed through my favorite bits, many of which involved the nookery. And the women? All of their heads, they thrashed. Often fitfully, and right before orgasm, or as the heroes initiated something shocking to their sensibilities, like having their tongues say “Hello, luv!” to their clitorises (clitores?).

The men grunt, groan, shudder and grind during le petit mort, but ne’er do they thrash. Is head-thrashing a girly thing to do?

I have to admit, I’ve had my fair share of really, really hot nookifying in my time, but never have I thrashed my head. Because dude, OW, WHIPLASH. But maybe I’m missing out on something?

I haven’t seen porn stars do it too often, either, but then I haven’t watched much porn--anyone want to weigh in on the state of head thrashery in hardcore flicks?

The only time I thrashed my head with any regularity was when I was 16 and really, really into Guns n Roses and Nirvana. Oh, also that one time when I was 14 and my brother was driving me back from school, and our Toyota got sideswiped by a Proton Saga. Head-thrashing was brief, but suitably vigorous and snappy.

Why can’t these romance novel heroines act like more conventional slutbags, and be satisfied with arching their backs and making keening sounds of desperate desire? All that vigorous head movement makes me think of this girl, who, God knows, did a whole lot of thrashing.

Yarr, the scurvy knave Doug tagged me with a meme!

THE SEARCH FOR JOY

Search your blog for the word “joy” used in the context of “happiness.” If you cannot find the word in your weblog, you may use any of the select list of synonyms below.

joy — amusement, bliss, cheer, comfort, delectation, delight, ecstasy, elation, exaltation, exultation, exulting, felicity, gaiety, gladness, glee, good humor, gratification, happiness, hilarity, humor, jubilance, liveliness, merriment, mirth, pleasure, rapture, regalement, rejoicing, revelry, satisfaction, wonder

If your weblog does not include a built-in search engine, then you can use Google to search it only for the word you wish to find.

If you’ve found the word and it was not used facetiously or sarcastically, good for you. All you need to do is link to your earlier entry, and write a few words about that joyous moment. If, however, you have no joy (whole words only) in your weblog, you must dig deep in your soul and find something wonderful in your life right now. One little thing that fills you with warmth, that bubbles you over with quiet happiness, or tickles you with its good-hearted hilarity, or makes you glad you just took a breath, and are getting ready to take another. It doesn’t have to be anything big. A smile someone gave you; your cat on your shoulder; the way the light angles through your window and casts rainbows on your floor. All it has to be is something genuine, something real, something that matters to you.

Because we all need joy in our lives, and need to take the time — from time to time — to recognize it. And sometimes, we need to pass it on. Even if we’re a big pain in the ass when we do.

Holy fucking crap, those instructions, they are loooooong. Also kinda silly and sappy with the “find joy in your lives!” imperative. Hey, what’s wrong with misanthropic choler?

Anyway, couldn’t find joy per se, though there were over 200 entries with the word “enjoy” in this here blog--often in the context of “I should’ve/would’ve enjoyed this more if...” So I searched for “glee” instead, and bingo! Found a few entries, of which two were pretty entertaining:

• One is me blathering about Mr. Impossible because I’m such a Loretta Chase fangirl. Her books do indeed fill me with glee. However much that woman is making, it’s not enough.
• And then here’s another entry with me talking about ballsacs and codpieces. On re-reading it, it’s pretty lame, but I remember laughing so goddamn hard when I found out what “codpiece” really meant.

So: romance novels, and Harry and the Danglers. They make me gleeful. Like you didn’t know this already about me?

I’m not going to tag anyone specific for this one. How about… the first five people who read this and feel like doing the meme? Sound good?