A Halloween twist on The House that Jack Built . Not the Lars Von Trier film, or the Graham Masterton novel, but the original nursery rhyme, This is tA Halloween twist on The House that Jack Built . Not the Lars Von Trier film, or the Graham Masterton novel, but the original nursery rhyme, This is the House That Jack Built , with which I don’t recall being familiarized as a child, somehow. No matter. Everything can be improved by integrating Halloween themes.
The verse is cute enough, simple, incorporating all the classic Halloween cast of creatures, although not reliably felicitous: (The skeleton was rattled. That checks out, but the werewolf…got upset? What about hair-raised, snarled, moonstruck? Something, anything that ties in with the lore somehow. (Werewolves, notoriously disappointed creatures).
Here I am, griping about lycanthropes and children’s literature again. Somebody stop me. Now to dissect Shakira’s hit song, She Wolf. Awooooo!
But the star of This is the House That Monsters Built is undoubtedly illustrator Jared Lee, most famous, I think, for the (School Authority Figure from the) Black Lagoon series, innocently macabre and memorable books.
The detail in Lee’s signature style shows commitment and personality. This is no exception. Like buzzing childhood nightmares, it is the perfect blend of fun and fright.
Sing this book to your kids, your pets; invent your own spooky melody, imprint the images, and create a cherished Halloween memory....more
“That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain.” —Ray Br“That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain.” —Ray Bradbury, The October Country
Getting ready for Halloween is a year-long affair for us autumnal fiends. I can’t profess that I am always in the Halloween spirit, but I am always in anticipation, homesick for sensations constrained by time as I toil through the torrid torture of summer. A bit maudlin, I know, but there is nothing sweeter than when the cool wind begins blowing fallen leaves through the air, the iconography of hallowed tradition, and the excuse to delve unabashedly in all things paradoxically cozy and eerie.
As I commence this year’s All Hallows’ Read, I am exhilarated to return to form, as a jaded, overworked, fed up, formerly forlorn grown man grasping at guileless wonder once again. For reasons best kept to myself, the last few years have been lacking on this front for me, but I invite you to join me, if you share these seasonal feelings.
As for this children’s book, the description on the back cover serves its purpose better than the Microsoft Paint quality art and, curiously, papyrus text rhymes inside:
”During this season, the players awake, the preparations are being made. Get ready for spooky holiday fun as October merriment they make. The sights, sounds, colors, and smells of autumn fill the air. This is a beautiful time of year. For some, this represents a special time in which seasonal memories are made.”
I’d say I couldn’t have said it better myself, but maybe I kind of did? In any case I’m obliged to concur, and I’m still happy to use it as my inaugural seasonal kickoff....more
That’s right! The much anticipated second selection of my nostalgic ‘90’s Robin Williams Junior Novelization Triple Feature Spectacular Extravaganza iThat’s right! The much anticipated second selection of my nostalgic ‘90’s Robin Williams Junior Novelization Triple Feature Spectacular Extravaganza is Disney’s classic, Disney’s Aladdin (which is apparently spelled with only one ‘L’ and two ‘Ds.’ I have a Mandela Effect memory of it being the other way around, making it difficult to search for this book).
I thought it it would be funny if they just took an abridged version of the original story from One Thousand and One Nights, slapped the cartoon cover on it and called it a day. I doubt that’s the case, but stand by for confirmation....more
Jumanji is horror. The quotidian promotional movie photo used for the cover of this novelization does not negate that. (I mean, c’mon. It looks like aJumanji is horror. The quotidian promotional movie photo used for the cover of this novelization does not negate that. (I mean, c’mon. It looks like a self-distributed Board Games and Your kids: Is it Safe? release during the VHS boom).
I don’t have time to start a new novel before All Hallows’ Read 2024 is in full swing, so I’m opting for a nostalgic ‘90’s Robin Williams Junior Novelization Triple Feature Spectacular Extravaganza! What are the other two? You’ll just have to wait and see!
I can really only describe this short story as insignificant. It smacks of being produced by a randomized writing exercise generator, which are fun, bI can really only describe this short story as insignificant. It smacks of being produced by a randomized writing exercise generator, which are fun, but infrequently worth reading, let alone publishing:
Main Character: Demure restauranteur Place: Koreatown Situation: Demonic possession Theme: Ancient cultural wisdom
I am a collector of limited edition horror chapbooks. That is why I read this as an inexplicably standalone horror farce with no better additional stories to curve the rating in its favor.
Pansu is a preposterous horror-comedy skit devoid of scares or humor. One would at least expect an ironic twist or creepy cliffhanger to bring it home after the lame proceedings, but it ends with what I suspect was a pitiful attempt at a joke about Asian cuisine of the “let’s do the opposite next time” variety so common in straight-to-video schlock from the ‘80’s. (e.g. *couple gets attacked by shark while vacationing in the Bahamas* Last line: “For our next vacation, we’re going to the mountains.” *Freeze frame* *Credits* Har har har!)
I have copy 393 of 600 signed and numbered softcovers of this story and it’s a cool-looking collectible on account of Glenn Chabourne’s exquisite contribution as cover artist, but I can’t rate it higher just because it would make a good framed piece without the junk inside....more
Why am I reading a stupid spinoff of a stupid side character from a stupid junior novelization adapted from a stupid ‘90’s movie based on a classic coWhy am I reading a stupid spinoff of a stupid side character from a stupid junior novelization adapted from a stupid ‘90’s movie based on a classic comic book? Shut up! That’s why.
Ooh, a page of twenty-seven year old temporary tattoos at the back of the book? Score!
Fuck it. 5 stars!
Oh shit. The protective plastic cover lining is missing. These tattoos are useless.
1 star!
Wait, there’s Yellow #5 in temporary tattoos? What in the name of Hydroxypropyl Methylcellulose gum was the FDA thinking approving this taint-shrinking compound gunk to be a part of my library?
2 stars…
Okay, I’m relying too heavily on jest and not enough substantive analysis lately. I’m too busy to read protracted classics, let alone devote my depressingly limited schedule to exhaustively researched, thought-provoking, unique perspectives on grand works of profundity which few will care about or read anyway.
I’m grabbing short, random books and buzzing through them so I can be the quirky weirdo reading long-forgotten, disposable pop-culture buffoonery and having a go at them for ‘likes.’
So, out of respect for the late Alan Grant, who had a respectable career in comics including work on Batman (duh) and Lobo, I will say that this was a not entirely joyless hour of reading. It was better than it needed to be under the coat-tail riding cash-in circumstances. Hell, it was better than the movies in between which it takes place.
Batman and Robin qualm with one another regarding their crime-fighting methods and the petulant Dick walks out after taking down The Riddler and Two-Face during the events of Batman Forever . He takes a security job at a late-night diner.
Meanwhile, a bitter proto-incel with no skills or means of securing a livelihood for himself makes an impulsive decision to become The Enemy. He mugs a woman, feels a rush, and eventually inadvertently kills the kind old man who gave Dick (Robin) the security job. Dick takes him down, reunites with Batman, and establishes a near-future run-in with a refrigerated Schwarzenegger and a botanical Uma Thurman.
I’m sure it was stipulated that nothing of consequence could occur in this in-between side-plot that would interfere with or confuse the cinematic bookends, but that’s kind of how all ongoing comic book series are. It’s better than having to retcon everything time and again by introducing multiverses and time-warping wormholes or whatever.
“Your next review will be sexy.” —Janie, My Previous Review
Lie back, relax, loosen your blouse, and let me do what I do best; wax nostalgic about crim“Your next review will be sexy.” —Janie, My Previous Review
Lie back, relax, loosen your blouse, and let me do what I do best; wax nostalgic about crime-fighting reptiles. (That concludes the sexy portion of the review, but it counts, Janie!)
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret of the Ooze was my favorite movie as a whippersnapper. (I wore out the VHS tape and my mom had to buy a second copy). As an adult, with a more refined taste in children’s entertainment, I recognize that the first live-action adaptation is vastly superior. This one has a dearth of Casey Jones, inadequately supplanted by the squeaky-voiced pizza boy, Keno.
The other big let down of this sequel is that, despite there being no blood or on-screen death in the first film, mothers across the land complained that it was too dark and violent, leading to toned down, more light-hearted fair that had the turtles fighting not with their trademark weapons, but with sausage links, yo-yos, and pool noodles. Just another example of whiners and committees compromising artistic integrity. (I will give credit to the novelization. Leanardo commanded his brothers to stow their weapons, stating that a true ninja is a master of his environment, and their environment in the moment happened to be a toy store being robbed, so at least I got an explanation denied me as a child).
The subtitle of the sequel refers to the origins of how the turtles became mutated, and Donatello, the most logical and scientifically oriented member of the family, ironically has an existential crisis w/r/t how they came to be. He wanted there to be more, to have been deliberately created, which has the most religious subtext in anything I’ve seen in the series. I would have enjoyed that theme being explored further.
Tokka and Rahzar are awesome. That’s all I have on that. They were shoehorned in as stand-ins for Bebop and Rocksteady, and everyone would have wanted to see them on screen, but the wolf and snapping turtle costumes looked outstanding. They were the highlight of the movie.
Vanilla Ice was not mentioned by name, so I’m guessing his iconic involvement was not a done deal before this was written, or there was a rights issue. No matter. The Ninja Rap is a classic.
The biggest disappointment is with the Shredder. He survives an appropriate send-off in the first movie/novelization only to meet a trivialized and disgraceful end. (Yes, I know I’m essentially reviewing the movie, but the book is just a dumb cash-in tie-in. Leave me alone). He drinks the mutagenic ooze to become Super Shredder. He looks badass. He is primed for an epic battle…and he dies by taking down a dock on himself. It makes sense that he would be consumed by his anger and lust for vengeance and thus be the source of his own destruction, but it was a super weak climax.
I still watch the movies regularly, and it was fun to revisit them in a different form, but I’ll never read these novelizations again....more
”I have tried to channel your anger, Raphael, but more remains. Anger clouds the mind. Turned inward, it is an unconquerable enemy. You are unique amo”I have tried to channel your anger, Raphael, but more remains. Anger clouds the mind. Turned inward, it is an unconquerable enemy. You are unique among your brothers, for you choose to face this enemy alone. But as you face it, do not forget your brothers, and do no forget me. I am here, my son.” --Master Splinter (Happy Father’s Day)
Movie novelizations are a top genre for which this arbitrary rating system proves itself insufficient. (It’s their fault, not mine!)
There was a plethora of dark children’s fantasy in the ‘80’s (much of it from Jim Henson Studios), but nobody could have foreseen that an obscure, three-thousand copy debut run of a gritty, violent, Daredevil parody about anthropomorphic turtles and a vengeful rat would become a billion dollar franchise beloved by generations from X to Alpha and likely beyond (but most of all, I would presume, by Millennials).
The 1990 Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie holds up like it’s been taking daily Tadalafil for the past thirty-four years. It stayed as true to the original source material as best it could while incorporating enough of the popular cartoon’s raucous cheese to make it—mostly—palatable to families and children. (More on that when I discuss the sequel, The Secret of the Ooze).
The movie had wit, style, wisdom, mature themes, turbulent family dynamics, exceptional costume design, and a better personality profile indicator among the four brothers than Myers-Briggs and 16 Personalities. (Tell me you’re a Michaelangelo, and I’ll understand what you mean quicker than saying you’re an ENFP(T)).
It was a staple of my childhood. It is an enduring bonding agent between my brothers and myself, and it fleshed out and brought into their own the individual characteristics of the turtles themselves better than any incarnation of them, prior to or since.
But what of this hasty, mid-grade, mid-elementary school adaptation of an adaptation that begins with Dickensian gravitas?
“It was the worst of times. The citizens of New York were being victimized daily by a terrible crime wave.”
Well, it adhered to the script well enough, but it was rushed, breezy, and could not compete with the admirable concatenation of elements that brought the movie together in its ideal form. It’s little more than a tie-in to bolster movie sales, so I can’t get angry about it (how pathetic would that be?) but most of the best moments from the movie were brief plot point sequences of the meanwhile… or and then… variety and without the context of the movie as a companion, don’t leave much of an impact. In one egregious case of preposterous trivialization, a moment of terror and rage when the brothers discover their father has been abducted, the book’s narrator actually applies the neologism ‘ratnapped.’
On a couple occasions, the narration fortified the implications of what was on screen, so what follows are a couple examples of clarity that are, if not necessary and still probably better off unspoken, at least appreciable:
1. “There was a frightening intensity to [Raphael’s] anger.” This wouldn’t have worked as a line of dialogue, but the description as a precedent for not only what would contribute to his near-downfall and—as an adult—my favorite scene between master and student, father and son, works. Splinter waits for Raphael to return home after blowing off steam late into the night and demands that he sit and listen (see epigraph above).
2. Another wonderfully implied moment from the movie is when Mikey is waiting on a pizza and Donny approaches to ask if he ever thinks about losing their father, what it would be like to be without him. This is foreshadowing of course, but it is a telling character moment for Michelangelo as well. He dismisses the question, wipes his hands and says, “[t]ime’s up! Three bucks off!” Mikey does not want to deal with such cogitations, and focuses on pizza. It is his coping mechanism. This novelization provided insight into such behavior:
“Donatello understood that some things were just hard for Mike. It didn’t mean he didn’t care; it didn’t mean he didn’t think. Mike just didn’t like to talk about them.” (This is true for many men, especially those who mask their pain and fear with humor and indulgences).
All in all, however, I would implore any readers to watch the movie. Revisit it. It is among the best younger audience movies using almost entirely practical effects and encapsulates a bygone era that I don’t believe has been surpassed....more
Early Bret Easton Ellis spunk is all over this novel. However you choose to interpret that statement, it will be accurate and appropriate. In particulEarly Bret Easton Ellis spunk is all over this novel. However you choose to interpret that statement, it will be accurate and appropriate. In particular, the rich and the famous wallowing in their exuberant misery, in a perpetual daze of pharmaceuticals, stimulants, booze, and wanton, casual sex.
But Chandler Morrison is his own beast. At first, a seemingly acid hate letter to the Los Angeles lifestyle; American Narcissus is an acerbically hilarious, cataclysmic tale of dread and desolation as four interweaving characters burn toward ruin, incapable of distinguishing reality from their respective self-induced stupors.
All the while, a grinning menace and a spreading wildfire auger the inevitable.
There are times when, despite a penchant for a particular sub-genre, a story presents itself with such brooding promise, affixing an expectation of unThere are times when, despite a penchant for a particular sub-genre, a story presents itself with such brooding promise, affixing an expectation of unspoken dreadful delight. Some stories call to me as if a dream I once had was disseminated through ethereal channels into the pen-holding—or laptop slouching and clacking—hands of a sage designated to transcribe what I fabricated in my vagary and releasing it at the appropriate time for me to discover and relish, and of which I would subsequently proselytize on its behalf (if not consumed with envy that I had not written it).
Solipsistic suppositions aside, I felt tremendous anticipation for Undead Folk from the crudely superimposed, yet enticingly ominous and atmospheric cover design alone. Let’s talk about how that turned out:
The author does not lavish, mercifully sparing the reader a recounting of the cause of the current, barely habitable state of the world. I say this not because Katherine Silva is unskilled in prose—she is quite skilled—thus risking a tedious preface of apocalyptic events, but because, as in McCarthy’s The Road, it is not particularly relevant. (Demands for this kind of expository banality in stories that do not call for it always vexed me in writing workshops).
Similarly, it did not concern me that necromancy was a given through use of some nondescript herbal, floral, elixir solution and an incantation. Call me a rube, but folkloric wisdom and supernaturalism—even if sentimentally motivated—make for much more compelling reading to me than bogged-down scientific jargon. Such ‘just because’ explanations are often condemned as lazy, but most people don’t consider the metabolic process of energy consumption and conversion through the alimentary and digestive system; they just know they’re hungry. I don’t need a rundown of plausible explications of sorcery, telekinesis, or ghosts any more than I need a dissertation and lineage chart of each tribe in a sprawling, fantastical monomyth. Get on with the story! (or at least with the exuberant, verbose tangents. Ahem…)
So, Undead Folk commits no error the pedant in me could nitpick if so inclined, but the final third of the story (which is to say, the last 20 pages or so) meanders off into a wasteland. Once Amos, the resurrected fox with partial amnesia was revealed, I guess—it seemed to be a revelation, a twist, but it whistled hollow—to be…something (God, I hate working around spoilers), this reader’s interest receptors became belabored.
Our vengeance seeking protagonist, Ella, or Janet, or Barbarella, traverses a formerly familiar terrain permeated with corrupted memories. Encounters with nostalgic ruins and liminal decay are the strongest parts of the story:
“Snagged in the threads of her thoughts, she looked down at Amos. He’d stopped a little behind her. The mouth of the old tunnel stared back at them from ahead: its darkness vast. It seemed to tug at the edges of her thoughts: little fragments of her memories with Hugh sifting away like sand in a receding tide.”
I dare say, this description sets up the tunnel itself as a far more threatening adversary than the cancer-stricken geriatric who doesn’t even show up in the story until it’s time to confront him. I loved the anthropomorphic qualities written into the tunnel—muddled sensory metaphor notwithstanding: “The mouth stared back[?]” (Italics, boldness, punctuation mine).
Hearkening back to the tunnel as a symbol of confronting darkness ahead and behind—blinding darkness—is another line of significant simplicity: “There was nothing to look forward to. Only to look back on.” Even when you emerge from the other side of the tunnel, battered and assailed, you will look back and see its gaping, black maw ready to swallow you again. What’s done is done and you cannot escape.
I know there needs to be progression, setup, payoff, but the familial could have been explored, the futility in vengeful pursuits; all of that, without devolving into what I considered to be shoehorned representation and a feeble final confrontation. It is probably evident that I had hoped for more dwelling in/on the tunnel. Once emerged therefrom, I didn’t look forward to much, but that is not to say I wouldn’t to future efforts....more
I would think that a monstrous piss-take of a popular children’s genre would have some accompanying visual depictions of the entities poetically descrI would think that a monstrous piss-take of a popular children’s genre would have some accompanying visual depictions of the entities poetically described within, but alas, the only one we get is on the cover which, after reading its corresponding entry--
…Jagged fangs, eyestalks, a dorsal fin, a beard of tentacles, filthy vulture feet…
--doesn’t leave much doubt that it is indeed the Sewer Clam.
I reckon commissioning an artist for this project would have been too costly and the limited space available would have been difficult to double, interspersed between the already crammed pages. Many of these entries are better left to the imagination anyway. Therefore, I wouldn’t consider it a big disappointment.
This was imaginative, bizarre, ludicrous, jocular, and even had some quality verse.
Without further ado, here are my brief and bare summaries of each entry:
A for Adipossum: Parasitic larvae multiply in skin cells, causing morbid, undulating obesity; keep expanding, but never die; non-fatal B for Blammoeba: Temperamental nuclear nuggets B for Brown Creeper: Existential specters haunting basements of childhood homes. Fears give way to age-related cognitive and physical decline. C for Control Freak: Viral, severe OCD. D for Dungfish: Pretty self-explanatory; Eukaryotic Excrement Enthusiast; Siluriformic shit-lord; chordotic crap-eater. E for Elefantoccin: Puppeteer’s soul transferred to his winged-elephant creation, but not the brain. He floats up aimlessly, mindlessly, eternally. F for Fire Slug: A nihilistic creation myth. G for Glucozoth: Not a Pfizer diabetes medication, but a saccharine tyrant of gluttony, subsuming those who consume. G for Grandaddy Longlegs: One of my favorites; Steampunk, Antarctic arachnid gargantuan.
“It lives off sound-waves, constantly feasting On the mad roar of eternally howling winds.”
H for Heliosaurus: Invisible, beyond microscopic, utterly taciturn dinosaur. Indistinguishable from nothing at all. I for Internet Witch: Witches on the internet. What can I say? J for Jelly Chicken: Half jellyfish, half chicken, all monster. (Getting a bit lazy with the names). K for Kleptomunculi: Tiny, vegetable-stealing cannibals. L for Lungpuppy: Smoking induced condition in which the lungs literally burst from body as living canines; fatal. M for Mollywog: Amphibious, shrinking kittens have a penchant for neutering sleeping humans. N for Necromorph: Ineffectual malevolent roadkill. O for Oncoloscarabaeus:(Most satisfying pronunciation). (I’ve heard some wild Ancient Egyptian alternative histories, but…) carcinogenic beetle juice used by pharaohs as mascara? P for Plastozoid: Plastic parasites from microwavable Tupperware; causes lethal stupidity and vapidity. Q for Quetzalcuckoo: Clinically insane feathered dickheads. R for Rat-A-Tattlers: Genetically experimental snake-rats crawl up toilet drains in packs to devour humans, asshole first. S for Sewer Clam: Putrid assembly of mollusk, aquatic creatures, and a scavenger bird. (See cover illustration). T for Theodoptera:Winged kaleidoscopic ray of wonder probably exists only as a collective psychedelic trip at music festivals. T for Tumble Roach: Time-travelling, flesh-eating swarms of arthropods appearing as dried Amaranthus albus in the wind. U for Ultragorgon: Alcoholic, woman-presenting beast; ever-shifting for male attention. U for Urban Lamprey:Humanoid entrail sucker. V for Vyvyka Megamega: Art eater. W for Were-Mannequin: Infectious immobility after being attacked by a storefront prop. X for Xeno Sapiens: Celebrities. Y for Yellow-tailed Satanus: Interdimensional bird; not traditionally alive. Z for Zumble Bee: Zom-bees make barbecue sauce honey, I guess? Z for Zzhark: Consume all life on earth at some point, as the prophecy goes, except germs, including each other. Simplicity restorers. That’s a wrap. Life is good.
________________ I have lettered edition U of 78 (I'm not sure what that means) specially printed copies from Dead Letter Press....more
I am forever a howling fantod, in both senses of the phrase. I didn’t necessarily think I could still call myself a fan of David Foster Wallace. TheseI am forever a howling fantod, in both senses of the phrase. I didn’t necessarily think I could still call myself a fan of David Foster Wallace. These past few years I have experienced a reading depression—a consequence of a general, deep depression which got worse before getting better—and thought I may have lost my ability to appreciate and enjoy literature, as well as my passion for the written word, for language. I was grasping at straws—by which I mean books—desperately trying to stay engaged, but I was incapable of finishing anything. (Forgive the sentimental aside, but I predominantly credit getting active on Goodreads again and being able to write, discuss books, and read reviews from all of you fine people with overcoming that collapse, so thank you; yes, you).
There is no way for me to read or listen to David Foster Wallace without lamentation. It’s like having a lucid dream about an old friend, deceased for years, knowing it’s a dream and just trying to stay there with him for as long as you can. I know that’s more sentimentality, but I can’t help it. My discovery of his work marks a time in my life I often wish I could return to.
After DFW’s suicide, there did develop a kind of cult of sentimentality around him and many readers formed a parasocial relationship with him, posthumously, through his writing and interviews. I was among them. Lexicographer Bryan A. Garner captures this in his introductory tribute:
“Sometimes, when I’m unhappy, I’ll read David’s commencement speech immortalized in the booklet This is Water…And it makes me happier…His words uplift me. They give me hope. I’m not alone. Strange, isn’t it, that he didn’t find the hope within himself—the hope he gave to so many others.”
His spectacular experiential essays had a lot to do with it, in my case.
Quack This Way is, in long form interview, a giddy celebration of language and writing. I gobbled it up and loved every moment, not least of which because it provided proof that I am not done with writing, with improving, and literature is not done with me. (I’d be interested in hearing if anyone else has had a similar lapse and recovery of their reading/writing life).
I’m sure I’ve committed infractions discussed in this interview in this very review:
“I am not, in and of myself, interesting to a reader. If I want to seem interesting, work has to be done in order to make myself interesting.”
Moreover, I know my work and my writing has suffered due to my time away from literature. I backslid. I got dumber, frankly. I was heartened to read DFW express something similar:
“It’s also true that we go through cycles. Right? At least in terms of my own work, I’ve gone through three or four of these, and I’m in one now, where it feels as if I’ve forgotten everything I’ve ever known. I have no idea what to do… “And except on the days I’m really depressed, I realize that I’ve been through these before. These are actually good—one’s being larval…Or else, I just can’t do this anymore, in which case I’ll find something else to do. And I brood about that a fair amount.”
This book aided me in rekindling my “lifelong apprenticeship.”...more
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