2012-11-12 - 8:29 p.m.
As everyone knows, the Saints won on Sunday, defeating the previously undefeated Atlanta Falcons, although I was careful not to turn on the game until the second half, because it seems like sometimes the Saints can't win if I'm watching. By halftime, I could tell from the Tweets that they were winning. Heck, maybe they were winning for the entire second half, but at times they cut it closer than I like to see. I am a fan of the stomping of the foe and the running up of the score, not the nerve wracking close games where the other turkeys almost pull it out in the closing moments.
The other day the library shipped me the Kindle version of the Fifty Shades trilogy. Sheesh, I was warned that it was bad, but it's really bad. Maybe I skimmed, since the introductory five chapters are exceptionally boring, but I seem to have learned that Vancouver is a suburban college town somewhere between Portland and Seattle and that folks around the Pacific Northern Rainforest area say, "Sorted!" Who says "Sorted?" Americans don't say it, and I can't remember hearing it in Canada and, besides, I get the distinct impression the writer thinks Canada is one of the 50 United States anyway. Maybe I heard "Sorted" in South Africa? Another weirdity is that the author doesn't seem to really know the difference between emails and text messages.
But weird un-American slang is just a pimple on the butt of how awful this story is. Maybe I just dislike the entire romance genre. We are repeatedly, tediously told that she isn't attracted to the billionaire for his money, even though she is instantly attracted to him, knowing only two things about him -- that he's nice looking and that he's a billionaire. So...she likes him for his physical appearance. Is that better than liking someone for their money? This is just standard for romance, as far as I know, and it's completely idiotic. Chasing someone for their money is shallow and chasing someone for their looks when they're just a pretty wrapper with a lot of evil bad fucked -up shit inside is equally shallow.
Seriously... There is nothing ever said that makes the man seem remotely attractive. How could you ever feel safe with this whackadoo? If you are wondering, the so-called Fifty Shades are all one shade -- he confesses to being "fifty shades of fucked up," which I guess is one way to describe someone who likes to beat up women who look like his dead mother. It is all very tiresome. He's a stalker, and he has stalkers, some of them nuts with guns. No sane person would marry this dude, much less make babies with him. Is this stuff supposed to be erotic? It's just embarrassing...porn with pregnancy and babies in it. But there's a long waiting list, so I'd better send it back so they can fire it off to the next victim.
While on the topic of S/M in pop fiction, I also just read Barbara Vine's The Birthday Present. It didn't have the spark of some of her best, but I have to say that the opening paragraph or so was wonderful. We will all be 33 when we meet in heaven. And, of course, in a Vine/Rendell novel, we never have to worry about anyone being cured of their sexual orientation by the love of a good woman.
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