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
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
I’m not sure I have much on this one, excep“And I’m a teen distortion, Survived abortion, A rebel from the waist down.” —Marilyn Manson, Disposable Teens
I’m not sure I have much on this one, except to say that it’s confounding and remarkable just how much attention it has received. Woom currently stands with over 26,000 ratings on Goodreads. When I first ventured into the twisted realm of Splatterpunk and Extreme Horror, most publications in these sub-genres were lucky to break a hundred ratings.
(Splatterpunk dates back to the early ‘80’s, even before I was born. It makes one wonder, if the nauseating ‘excesses’ of the early Splatterpunk authors drew the ire of classic horror authors like Robert Bloch and Charles L. Grant, what do more ‘conventional’ horror authors think about the utterly repulsive nature of modern Extreme Horror? I’m sure there’s a debate raging somewhere, but I’ve removed myself from almost every forum that would leave me privy to such discourse. Furthermore, critic Philip Nutman defended Splatterpunk as a form of art that “reflects the moral chaos of our times.” If that was true, and I’m inclined to agree, what does it say with respect to our current times and the art it aids--or is complicit--in producing?)
On to Ralston’s novel proper; I was not riveted throughout. The stories within the story, a la Chuck Palahniuk’s much reviled Haunted (which, despite being a popular author, deigned to publish something I would be pleased to consider an extreme horror classic), felt like disjointed, oh-so-edgy excuses to indulge in the purveying shock the author wished to inflict. However, it came together satisfactorily, if not particularly ingenuously.
There are two elements that I unequivocally loved:
1. The double entendre of the title that is brilliantly realized in light of Angel’s speech impediment. It is thematically on point and clever without being pretentious (not that there’s anything wrong with that).
2. The notion of a place being haunted without any appeal to the supernatural. Places hold memories—even if only manifested in flights of fancy—but if there is personal history, one can feel tethered to a setting of significance, whether gleefully nostalgic or corruptingly traumatic, and one can feel inexplicably and spiritually compelled to return to make an attempt at closure and resolution, a futile attempt to recapture a moment long past , or even to start over, in literal conception.
As the novel began and progressed, I was skeptical of the Extreme Horror label—not that any work of art must justify itself with a label—as it was certainly sexually explicit, scatological, and depraved, but not extremely horrifying. It came off trivially exploitative—again, no issues with that—and therefore a bit boring. This perspective did not endure throughout. To my surprise and delight, it turned out to be rather grounded and sad, and while perverse in its content and characters, not flippant or outrageous in its presentation. I would by no means call it tasteful, but the thematic significance renders some of the hitherto perceived over-indulgences less obnoxious.
Would you look at that? If you’ll recall (or scroll up a bit), I began this review with the lackluster suggestion that I hadn’t much to say. While far from exhaustively thought provoking, this novella got me thinking and writing, not only about the story itself, but about the history and controversy of the genre of artistic expression I’ve adored since childhood, with all its subtleties and explicit, sleazy excesses. For this reason, I’m boosting it one star.
Congratulations to me for talking myself into appreciating something more than I did initially after finishing it....more
As we writhe through tumultuous life, shoring up the will to carry on, there will be events that seemingly come out of nowhere to latch onto us, submeAs we writhe through tumultuous life, shoring up the will to carry on, there will be events that seemingly come out of nowhere to latch onto us, submerge us, drag us down to the murky depths from which it is all but impossible to reemerge. We will be floating along, blissfully unaware of a lurking, mindless, and revolting terror. It will not be malicious, but it will do what it does regardless of our desires, plans, or lack of understanding as to how, or why, it operates. The question of why is worthless. It is and does because it is and does.
Such is the underlying encrusted thrust of Sacculina. Jim lost his mother to an aggressive, ravenous cancer, subsequently losing, in part, his brother to prison and his father to resultant, chronic depression.
Once reunited, they go on a fishing expedition in a futile attempt to tread toward some sense of normalcy and reclaim some former peace; to transcend and outdistance the gathering misery surrounding them, threatening to engulf them. They are broken, sunken people, but solemnly happy to be together.
A primordial, parasitic cast of crustaceans begin latching onto their boat, quick and antagonistic. All seems lost, again.
This is not pulpy monster carnage (not that there’s anything wrong with that, so goes my refrain). It is a grief-driven tale of oceanic horror done incredibly well. Do not treat these vicious barnacles as mere metaphor. They will liquify you for your pretentious disregard.
I wished for more after finishing, an epilogue perhaps, but soon settled on satisfaction that as contained as the story was, it did not require a safe docking....more
The ever-shifting legend of the werewolf is my favorite in the pantheon of classical monsters. Combine that with a small town setting, a sheriff forceThe ever-shifting legend of the werewolf is my favorite in the pantheon of classical monsters. Combine that with a small town setting, a sheriff forced to face past failures, a cast of local weirdos including a town drunk and cryptid hunters, and it’s a recipe for some exuberant, trope-laden, retro horror carnage.
I may be burnt out on the ‘monster-as-metaphor-for-trauma/grief’ thing for a few reasons. Firstly, and most plainly, I want realSomething is missing.
I may be burnt out on the ‘monster-as-metaphor-for-trauma/grief’ thing for a few reasons. Firstly, and most plainly, I want real monsters posing real physical threats in my horror. I guess it’s the old-school creature feature devotee in me. Secondly, it’s played out. That wasn’t necessarily the case when this novella was released—I enjoyed The Babadook when it came out as well—but unfortunately, I didn’t read this then. (It’s become a kind of art-house horror trend akin to the dual-personality twist popularized by Fight Club). Lastly, it’s unnecessary. Monsters, fiends, and villains are excellent fodder for analysis. They always have been. I prefer discourse on what they represent outside of the story itself. Allegory is great, but if that’s all it is, I feel cheated out of my horror.
But here’s the thing about Husk. Deering is a talented writer. It had a solid setup, well-developed characters, an authentic milieu…and then the ‘horror’ elements were introduced (too little and too late, I would submit). It felt like the author started losing interest in her own story and wanted to wrap it up, or maybe that was me.
The creature was described as pale and bulbous-headed (which, alas, brought to my mind the alien from Mac and Me. Not particularly scary), and it was rather unclear whether it was actually there. It skitters around a couple times until it finally mounts Kevin, our virginal veteran protagonist’s head as he’s supplying some of his own to his hometown hottie, Samantha, which in turn had me wondering if this Dobby-demon was more a manifestation of sexual performance anxiety than PTSD. It suckles at his brain-stem, but Samantha doesn’t notice. So, not real, right? Whatever.
In any case, Kevin’s descent into isolated madness was rushed, the creature was scarce, and its implications were vague, leading to a predictable conclusion that was bereft of much impact....more
I’ve missed rock ‘n roll. That is to say, I’ve missed the spirit of cultural dissent in art. I don’t mean didactic or reactionary messaging, but ratheI’ve missed rock ‘n roll. That is to say, I’ve missed the spirit of cultural dissent in art. I don’t mean didactic or reactionary messaging, but rather the refusal to conform to strictures of language and the ever-shifting criteria of ‘offensive’ content. What that entails and encompasses has changed and expanded under the canopy of corrosion—even since the publication of this collection—but it’s all the same stifling bilge.
And for the love of God, have we done away with the death knell for creativity; the soul-destroying advent of the sensitivity reader yet? I can only imagine how stories like these would be mutilated—and not in the good way—if they were subject to these neo-NKVD expurgators and selective sanitizers.
Sick Puppy by Del James: A junky werewolf with AIDS wants to go GWAR on a former president. This story was as whacked out as its narrator. It begins, inexplicably, with a recollection of the 9/11 terror attacks, pivots to the racial and sexual politics of the AIDS crisis, soliloquizing on urban decay, and then, surprise! He’s a werewolf tearing apart street punks. It’s disjointed, grimy, and tasteless. It was pretty great.
A Revolution of One by Brian Keene: I’d believe it if you told me this was a redditor’s manifesto. Juvenile ravings against the masses with some fair points sprinkled in.
Real Gun Control is Hitting What You Aim At by Thomas F. Monteleone: Lead-based irony in a hypocritical chamber.
Testify by Lee Thomas: Ted Haggard has always been blushing, but this would skewer him with a red-hot poker, and he’d like it. It might be the best of the bunch. Told through a series of legal statements and press releases, a religious leader is caught with his pants down after being outed by a rent-a-boy. It’s astonishing how many such scandals broke in the fundamentalist circuit a couple decades back. The disgraced preacher resorts to occult practices to enact revenge. Redemption be damned....more
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