Jeff Johnson's Blog: Will Fight Evil 4 Food, page 5

Exiting The Salt Mines- thoughts on working at home

The home office means something different when it’s actually IN your house. I’ve had years of on again, off again experience with this and I think I finally have a feel for it. Here is some unsolicited advice:

Take weekends off. Or take a weekend mid-week. But don’t work ten hours a day, seven days a week, all month every month. Your work and your all-important quality of life will suffer. 9-6 is my gig, with a leisurely lunch in there somewhere. And I sometimes feel like this is too much. That’s a guilty feeling, too. The alternative, however, is terrible. If you scratch away when you feel like it, with no real lasting discipline, you let down everyone around you, you let yourself down, you develop patterns associated with guilt sloth, many people start lying when it gets bad and then all is lost. Everyone around you knows when this happens and it isn’t possible to trust someone again after they went down that dead end road. It’s back to the mop bucket. A little too much work is better than too little. Find the right mix. If that mix feels clean and wholesome, you’re right on target.

Don’t drink, dummy. That beer you had with lunch will turn into whiskey in your morning coffee in less than six months. And weed? Harmless weed? Marijuana has crippled everyone I know who smoked it daily after 30. All of them, without exception. If you’re 31, grow up or report to your mop bucket in the real world. The home office is not for you. If you’re baked all day, here is the difference between your fate and mine- all of it, the whole game, goes to me and my clearheaded pals. You can always be the foggy guy or gal who can dream big dreams while you round up the coffee order. I take mine black. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad weed and booze are legal, but all this crazy shit has to have rules, and the best rule of them all for the self-starter who has to self-start five days a week?? Sundays only, and never before 7:00. Live by it. Show some willpower. It’s the same willpower you need for everything else the home office entails. Believe me when I tell you that if I can do it, so can you. My father was a drunk and my mother was a junky. I come from lowdown Missouri addict stock, so I should be drunk off my ass and sniffing glue in a trailer somewhere, maybe working as a meth cook assistant or a junk picker. But here I am. There have been times in my gloriously checkered past when I smoked way too much weed or drank too much whiskey, and those were not my best times, mind-wise. The same is true for everyone. Understanding this is a positive thing! Tomorrow is a brand new day.

Exercise a little. You don’t need to go crazy with it. A couple miles, pushups until you don’t feel like doing them, maybe some pullups. Ya gotta get moving. If you don’t, dudes, your dick will weaken, chicks, your butt will get big. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but I think you already knew.

Wear clothes. Clean ones. Dress like you’re going to work because you are. But wear cool clothes, because style is important to the mind. You PJs will poison your essence if exposed to too much daylight, just like your workday sweatpants getup.

See people in real life, not just zoom life. So important. Some creatives and home operators go into a weird inner head space and become shy and reclusive. This happened to everyone during covid. Get out there a couple times a week at the very least and mix it up. People are good for the most part! If you stick close to home and just read the news (heaven forbid) as your main conduit to humanity, you will eventually become a heavily armed hermit.

TWO PHONES. A second phone cost a whopping ten bucks a month. I have Cricket. One phone is for biz and I answer it Monday-Saturday from 9-6 because I’m serious about my work. I value people’s time, their voice, their input, their cooperation. I am a real, actual business conducting real, actual business. It isn’t a hobby. The people calling me are the same. I’m also serious about life, dinner, reading time, leisure, water coloring, my chick, so I don’t answer the biz phone after 6:01. It has voicemail. My primary cell, maybe 30 to 40 people have that number, some of them business associates, and I change that number (for ten bucks) every six months or so when I move from one period into the next. I’m about to do it next week. Sometimes I just flip the phones and switch the purpose of the numbers. It takes all of five minutes to text out a new number to my pals and the few business associates who may need to reach me after hours.

Keep your house clean, as in Japanese hotel clean. We have all kinds of antiques and it can be a huge pain in the ass, but this place is spotless. Why? Disorder is the enemy when working at home.

Last, and this is super important- joy. You worked hard as a fucker to get where you are, am I right? Out of the rat race. Free and clear. Maybe you write or do art of some kind, maybe you started a business, but there you are. A human with no physical commute. Listen to some music. Drink the good coffee. Wear the suit, you clever badass, but maybe not the shoes.

Groove on over to http://www.greatpinkskeleton.com for more inspiring mind junk.

What Would Have Happened If Shane Killed Rick Grimes?

The biggest victim, as we’ll see, is probably Carl. Shane was, in many ways, a reminder of what was truly broken in the pre-apocalypse. He had a rude, inward opinion about everything, and he was sure he was right, so sure that he’d do anything to prove it. Defensive, brooding, an American alpha male coward, he’d stick to his opinions no matter the evidence, and continuously try to bully people around to his dim point of view, driving any helpful, intelligent people away. ‘Surround yourself with good people’ is not a Shane thing. Wads clumping into dipshit clans is more his speed. Rick, on the other hand, made concrete his better qualities in action after action that sandblasted away any confusion, and he brought out the best in people. Here, I’ll speculate on the alternate storyline events following the tragic death of Rick Grimes at the hands of the jealous hayseed Shane Walsh.

To begin with- the herd attack on the farm that immediately followed the Shane and Rick showdown. Shane would have returned on the move, the herd at his heels, just as Rick and Carl did, and immediately sweep up Lori and Carl. He’d tell everyone Rick was dead and they had to run for it, and then he’d leave the group for good. From there, Shane, Lori and Carl would move along from house to house as Shane slowly lost his mind. Eventually, he’d resolve into a low creature of malice and begin picking up other survivors (weaklings he could whip around at first, then other sacks of shit like himself) and start his own Negan-like group of Thunderdome assholes. We’ll call this hypothetical group The Dixie Chainsaw Boys. Let’s chart their rise and fall.

The Dixie Chainsaw Boys would distinguish themselves in many ways. First, they would all favor baseball caps and dress in castoff military clothes. Empowered by his flock but also unable to stop himself, Shane would keep them at odds with each other, backchanneling lies, exaggerations and twisted half-truths, so it would be a fractured, uneasy group, full of backbiting and bitterness rather than small harmonies. Eventually they’d raze Alexandria, a totally defenseless place without Rick, then they’d destroy The Kingdom, where Sasha and Tyreese unfortunately lived as well (poor Jerry, he died a noble death). Oceanside would be turned into a brothel outpost and later be destroyed completely in a violent uprising. The Governor would have been beheaded right away, and that’s probably where the Dixie Chainsaw Boys would make their overflowing slob nest. After a solid fight followed by peace talks, Negan, tricked by the wily Shane, would be chainsawed apart in a makeshift boxing ring and fed to his underbosses, who would be butchered directly afterward. The remaining low level Negan goons would don their baseball caps and fold right in. The Whisperers would take one look at the giant army of gun crazy slavers and Alpha, being a woman under that mask and in no way about to risk redneck Sharia, would point her herd toward the Mississippi. The artist colony at the dump would starve out and perish quietly.

But Carl… Poor Carl would grow up angry, sullen, brimming with resentment- a scheming, whiny, absolute bummer of a guy. In his late teens, unable to deal with the squalid half-life associated with unresolved childhood trauma and, tragically, after the Dixie Chainsaws had firebombed every settlement in three states, killed all the men and enslaved all the women, Carl would murder Shane in a secretive, cowardly way and ride off to die a lonely death, too crazy to make a life on his own and too obnoxious and untrustworthy to blend in with any of the wary strays who survived the Dixie purges. Lori would be long gone by then, and Judith would never have been born.

Daryl and the rest, post-farm, would push on to Fort Benning. Hershel would keep his leg. Daryl would take charge and the group would head for Montana after the Fort Benning debacle. There, they would build a strange new culture in the ruins of Livingston, one based on ZZ Top, sorghum and ethanol. It would emerge in the coming decades as a place called Hello Dinner, an inviting name for a township and the regional powerhouse exporter of beef jerky, moonshine, and metalwork.

Glen and Maggie would have several children and both would work at the still, Dixon & Rhee’s Gold Label Corn Shine. Happy. Maggie’s sister Beth would live and eventually form the first post-apocalypse punk bands, REO Asswagon, and afterward become Mayor of Livingston when Daryl finally stepped down. Carol would run Livingston’s restaurant and lounge and age gracefully. Hershel would run the college until he died but establish a fine school that focused on the important things. T Dog would take over when he finally passed. Andrea, who always had a little traitorous gold digger in her, would eventually wind up with Merle, just as she deserved, and have eleven children, all boys.

Michonne would miss them altogether and eventually find her way to Florida, where she’d hook up with a super tough gang of do gooders who emerged from the ruins of Miami and called themselves The Jedi Muthafuckaz. They would cut a swath across the wrecked face of America, leaving medical supplies, books, seeds, and dead villains in their wake, before finally taking on the worst group to emerge in the Zombie Apocalypse- The Blue Prophets, a crazed pack of pampered high tech Soylent Green cannibals headed by Jeff Bezos. Michonne would perish in the final battle to destroy that phony utopia, but she’d take the cannibal-in-chief with her in an epic crescendo of red. Morgan would look for Rick but eventually he’d go crazy, then come all the way back around to semi-sane and live as a hermit mystic who dolled out questionable and unsolicited medical advice to the rare passing stranger. Eugene, Abraham and Rosita would continue to DC until Abraham died. Eugene would spill the beans at that point and Rosita would gun him down like a rabid dog for lying to them. She’d eventually join the Jedis and hook up with Jack Black, who lived and prospered heroically, the only celebrity to do so. Poor Gabriel would never redeem himself and die on top of that boulder.

So, mostly really bad for everyone, with a touch of good for Daryl’s ragtag band of desperados. I don’t know about you, dear reader, but I’d probably watch The Walking Dead either way.

Cruise on over to http://www.greatpinkskeleton.com and check it out!

Time, Tomatoes, The Cosmos

This morning I saw time again. I was crouched in the garden just after sunrise looking at my phone, reading the news and drinking coffee. The news, of course, is desperate, with people eating locust in Madagascar, women in Afghanistan preparing to endure terrible oppression, Covid everywhere, etc. Maybe it was fatigue with it all, but I considered the tomatoes about every 15 seconds, like a computer skipping lanes and trying to hop to a different window. It was right then that I was time again, something that happens more and more often after 50, I suppose. I’m right in between two points. I know a generation in the last chapter of their lives and I know more than a few who’ve barely begun. From right here, it seems that there are flashes, strange lucid blips, where I can see all the way into the energetic fog of beginning and then turn and peer into the edge of starry night, both equidistant. Tomatoes are a metaphor for everything, because everything is a metaphor in the morning if you try. This year they grew big before they ripened, far larger than normal, and I reason it’s because of the weather, the varieties I planted, the soil- essentially a complex set of variables, combining in new ways I never understand in advance. The Second Law of Thermodynamics in a garden setting.

A few years ago I was in a store that sold tattoo supplies. I was chatting pleasantly with the owner, shooting the breeze and talking about Portland tattoo history, not even guying anything, when I noticed a very young woman. She was buying liners (used for, you guessed it, outlines), so I pegged her as a student. Her own tattoos were tragic, a junkyard NASCAR sticker assemblage of line drawings, but then my own tattoos are tragic, too, just a different generation of garbage. I saw time right then because I realized something like this had probably happened to me when I was her age, but it was a catalogue then instead of a store. I reasoned she would likely be okay. Once, some 25 years ago, a young tattoo guy and his tattoo gal, earnest ink slinging hustlers both, hung themselves in broad daylight from the Steel Bridge, jumping at the same time. She’d never hear that story, just like I’d never hear the tale of one of her bush league pals eating too much Adderall or joining a cult and moving to Idaho to raise two-headed chickens.

Maybe that’s why books are important. Some part of time is captured in what is written. An argument can made that music is the same way, that all art is. Not those tattoos, of course. The shelf life is a single lifespan. These tomatoes, they too will come into being and then pass back into nothing, little bunches of matter drawn together by life and then, after a glorious climb toward the sun and a muscular fruiting, poof- a cup of atoms and molecules again, dispersed back into the sphere from whence they came. Yesterday, I read a document entitled A Statistical Estimation of the Occurrence of Extraterrestrial Intelligence in the Milky Way Galaxy. Most of the life in the Milky Way has come and gone, it says. We are outliers, both in time and in our position in space. That has a pleasant ring to it.

The Dunning-Kruger Effect and The Mother Sauces

I know that I know nothing- Socrates.

The Dunning-Kruger Effect is a bias wherein people grossly overestimate their competence.

Most of us never really noticed how widespread it’s become until the Trump Administration, when we witnessed it on the big stage, all day every day. We watched in awe as he bungled his way through one disaster after another, bragging about how great he did, attacking people he mistakenly deemed his peers, and we all wondered what the fuck was wrong with the guy, how he could be so painfully unaware. With that template, it became easy to see the same delusional behavior in other places. Case in point, the anti-vaccers, who to our collective peril believe they know more that the CDC, the strange anti maskers, the climate deniers. Former President Dunning-Kruger empowered our nincompoops and gave them a platform.

I eventually saw it in myself, and though I lack the grandeur and operatic scale of some, I can no longer deny it. I should never, ever do certain things with food, especially when I’m sure it will be a cake walk, in spite of the obvious difficulty, and these things, especially when I think I’ll feel inexplicably compelled to brag about it afterward… well. It’s The Dunning-Kruger Effect. The top of this list? Reinterpreting any of the Mother Sauces with a New Mexican fusion flair. I don’t care how perfect Béarnaise is on paper. I know, deep down, where I know Santa isn’t real and the Earth is round, that I can reinvent it. I know I can. And, given past results, I also know I will fail. One simply cannot add green chilis to everything. And yet as I write this, I- I feel a growing certainty that the key is cumin seed oil. Toasted cumin seed oil! And… a stock form of garlic and green chilis and shallots, double reduced. With a hint of smoky, caramelized pine nut puree. Why do I do this? I’m forced to admit that I have no idea. Probably just like the rest of them.

I know that I know nothing- Socrates.

Head over to http://www.greatpinkskeleton.com and check out the Summer Reads list for some great cookbook suggestions.

Delia’s Rellenos

This is one the things on my Friday to-do list I can knock off right now- post the Delia’s Relleno recipe. A couple people asked for it this week, so here it is. This is a wicked relleno recipe with just the right pedigree, too. I transcribed this out of a text message from the bass player in my late 80’s, early 90’s punk band Dirty Bird. Mike Martinez, the bass player and my friend all these many years, is a magnificent dude. I met him when I was 16 and we immediately conspired to tear a black hole in space with our sonic fury. That was in New Mexico. The band moved to sunny Portland, Oregon for reasons none of us remember, and Mike went on to become a noteworthy chef. When I mentioned that I needed the quintessential Delia Relleno, this is what he came up with. His instructions-

Take some beefy looking chili peppers, two per person, New Mexico or Anaheim, roast them really well until skin blackens under a broiler or on a gas stove top. Put ‘em in a paper sack for a few minutes and them peel ‘em. Put a slit down the side of each. Take some of the seeds out and fill ‘em with long chunks of white cheddar.

Now take three eggs and separate the whites/yolks into separate bowls. Whisk the shit out of the whites with a good solid teaspoon of baking powder until fluffy and beautiful. Whisk up the yolks but not as magnificently, then fold them gently into the whites.

Get a few tablespoons of oil nice and hot in a cast iron or equally proud pan.

Put some flour in a shallow bowl. Roll the chilies in the egg wash and then the flour and lay gently in pan. Don’t over crowd them. Mind your heat. Cook em a couple minutes on each side until cheese is melted and then put them in a tray in the oven to keep them warm while you cook the next round.

On a personal note, I’ll be making these this weekend, and I’ll be serving them with friend green tomatoes. Like a great many Portlanders, I have a garden full of huge, glorious tomatoes that just won’t turn. BUT! You can use this same pan AND the same egg wash. Dredge them in masa with a pinch of salt and pepper.

People Will Think You’re Crazy- the price of an artful life

I’ve paid a high price for a life in the arts and it ain’t over by a longshot. If you make things for a living, you know what I’m talking about. If you’re just starting out, you will pretty soon. And I’m here to tell you something important- it’s worth it. Willie Nelson famously said divorce is expensive because it’s worth it. So, too, is the price you pay for living outside the cubicle.

Recently, someone commented on this blog and talked about some short stories they had gathering dust. All it took was a nudge to get this ball rolling again, but why does ‘the ball’ ever stop in the first place? The reasons are many. For me, it was almost always people. When I first started playing guitar and writing songs, I remember my trust fund pal Tom Winkle telling me I was never gonna get the hang of it. Twenty dollar garage sale guitar, no years of piano lessons to draw on. He was one of many who felt the ass burn of my might guitar phallus eventually, and I admit, a love of music was part of it. But I was young then, and another big part of it was the simple distain for anyone who felt the need to instruct me on what they mistakenly thought were my limitations. Cooking was the same. I usually worked with a handful of culinary school graduates who really, really felt a powerful loathing for the kid who was there because he was poor and hungry, but way too vain to work at Denny’s. Meh. Some of the chops I developed were out of pure spite. I’m willing to admit that. By the time I got to tattooing, all those years ago now, it was established fact that I’d beat on a mofo for mouthing off (I have poor impulse control, ask anyone), so I got far less shit than you’d expect. Tattoo shops weren’t hair spas in those days. But the MOST shit I’ve ever received has been for writing. Literally everyone will try to stop you. In my case the loudest voice was that of my older brother, himself a failed writer by his own admission, who encouraged me to commit non-ritual seppuku at every juncture after I started writing. More than a few ‘supportive’ people realized I’d likely make money at it (I almost always make money, if I don’t I’ll die of brokenness jokedness) and those folks, well, they basically wanted to fleece me. In television and motion pictures it’s pretty much the same (here you sometimes get the insane, though still laughably quaint, suggestion that after 50 you’re actually too old to manipulate the visual/storytelling medium, as it involves pogo sticks or break dancing). And if I fail? There’s no family safety net beneath my high wire act. I fall and its all the way down into an unmarked grave. Hard lesson to learn, and part of the reason I’m not fuckin’ around, either. I’m serious about this stuff, and all that is part of the price as well. A motivational part, not a bad thing at all really. It’s a clean equation. You might think all this shit would inspire burnout, but… my 8th novel, Sweetwater Junction, is coming out this fall AND I talked to a pretty nice film producer I know about an hour ago. Movie in the desert, don’t you know it. Where is the silver lining that keeps ‘the ball’ rolling?

The silver lining here is actually gold, encrusted with diamonds and delivered by the Swedish nymphomaniac bikini team. Going pro is the ultimate litmus test for the people in your social orbit. Listen to what they tell you! Often, it is “I’m incredibly bad for you, you should get rid of me and never look back.” I did. And I tell you what, dear reader, it made me happier. And that happiness made me more productive. This incredible theme flows through literally everything. When you learn how to play an instrument, you wind up hearing more in the music you love than you did before. It’s the same positive feedback loop. When you learn to cook, you appreciate fine food in a different, more nuanced way. When you spend time painting or drawing or tattooing, I swear, flowers become more beautiful. So does the rain, the sunrise, all of it. When you write, you eventually hear more in stories. You understand your favorite authors a little better. And when you do these things with zeal, with passion, it squeezes the cave mud out of your life and draws fellow dreamers like a beacon on a hill. So go, cool guy who commented on my Tropic of Cancer blog. All the rest of you makers of fine things, you go too. Sally forth and crush all in your path. Whether you succeed or not, the journey is its own reward, and a true richness and well-being awaits you.

Stop by http://www.greatpinkskeleton.com and check out the Summer Reading List and see some of the cool shit I’m doing in defiance of the odds.

The Greatest French Fries On Earth

Will Fight Evil 4 Food - The Jeff Johnson Blog

What makes a great French fry? Is it the oil? Peanut? How
they’re blanched first? Or is it all about the potato itself. Red, white,
yellow, russet… Why is the ‘f’ sometimes capitalized and sometimes not? Is
Thomas Jefferson really responsible for the popular term for these here in
America?

All good questions, but who cares in the end. The real questions- where are the good ones and what is it about them that makes them worthy of inclusion on a world’s greatest list? Here we go-

Paris, France

Rue du Four and Rue de Grenelle isn’t an intersection. It’s a sort of tangled snaggle of worn cobblestone. The streets in the Latin Quarter are thick with restaurants, but right in the area where Four and Grenelle almost meet is a gyro and falafel place run by a super rude fat lady with a hairy mole. It was there, years…

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You Lucky Mofo

Using exponents, estimate total number of individual, discrete lifeforms to have existed in the entire history of Earth and include the number alive at the moment of your calculation. Include all life, from viruses to single cell organisms to whales and all points in between, throughout all terrestrial history.

There is no number this fucking big. And yet here you are, a mammal, one capable of reading no less, at this point in time, looking at a computer. What are the odds? Like a quintillion gazillion trafigagiglion to one? You lucky mofo.

Japanese Oysters and The Book of the Dead

There are times when we reveal ourselves as the twilight species Desmond Morris described in The Naked Ape, creatures caught between a primitive state and our ultimate evolutionary future as truly sentient beings. The Japanese oyster debacle is one of these times. I love Japan. I always have fun there. One of my really good, lifelong friends is a little Japanese woman who lives in Tokyo. But this crazy oyster blunder gives me pause. It is, sadly, the kind of wasteful thing Americans would do. Here are the balls out brass tacks:

The Forest Waterway in Tokyo Bay is where all the rowing and canoeing events for the Olympics will take place. They put out over three miles of floats to make the courses and then, an unexpected delight! Oysters found them! What a strange and unlikely miracle! And the floats… started sinking. Closer inspection revealed that these were not just any oysters, however. They were none other than the prized magaki. No one knows why it happened. But it did. There will come a time, I have no doubt, when we will look on this as a charming boon and throw a beach side oyster party, complete with naked holographic dancers ten stories high, hangover free sake and more, but this time, they were scraped off and thrown away. Several tons of perfectly good magaki, toast. The issue, of course, is all the “red tape”.

There are bigger examples of this kind of waste. Take the ill-fated Keystone pipeline. Shut down, and with good reason, but somewhere out there, lying in piles, are endless miles of now useless conduit. It’s raining like a bastard on one side of the country and the other is scorched. In my twilight primate mind I think “Hmm. We need some big ass tubes to pipe that floodwater over to the burning zone.” Probably too much of that same red tape.

Waste not, want not. That only applies to you and me, dear reader. Recently I read something interesting that made me consider these kinds of problems in a new light. Researchers from the University of Canterbury in New Zealand put a segment of scroll wrapping from an Egyptian mummy into a digital database, and by golly, some research dudes and dudegirls at The Getty Research Institute instantly realized they had the other half of it. The completed scroll (complete again after who knows how long) contains a hieratic passage from The Book of the Dead. In short, a solution to a mummy scroll puzzle was solved by people who weren’t even in the same room. These same people, at least people with these same qualities, need to be in charge more often in my opinion. That had to be kinda hard, right? The ‘throw the oysters away or eat them’ puzzle was simple in comparison.

The Wide Refocusing

Once, many years ago, a couple friends of mine and I dropped a mighty load of LSD with some waitresses we didn’t really know. It was a truly mixed bag, walk-of-life wise. We were scrappy punks with guitars and they were college students with trust funds and new Volvos. At the end, when the smoke cleared and the epic psychic washing machines had gone still, I could sense the same takeaway in all of them- if life was truly as fragile as we’d been led to believe, we’d all be dead. It was life affirming. I see this same expression in the faces of strangers now. The news this morning illustrates an interesting tributary to this mindset. Delta is on the rise, burning its way through our gullible Republican rubes. Europe just flooded. Oregon is on fire again. Drought. Voting rights. On and on. Overpowering tragedy, utter blackness, all is lost… just like in the middle of that particular acid trip, when we’d just come off the shocking pre-dawn experience of hallucinating tornadoes on the freeway as a group and then, in the sudden, quiet safety of a basement apartment, one of the waitresses stepped on an enormous tree roach. Barefoot. We were still a deer at that awful crunching sound, minds blown past the ephemeral red line, and then… then… we could all hear what could be metaphorically described as a distant Buddhist gong. I could see it in their faces. It was all going to be okay, and more than that, a certain personal detachment would be easier to find again in the future. I see now the resonate eddies of that gong in the eyes of the convenience store clerk, the mailman next door, pretty much everywhere. This may be a divided nation, with lunatic Republican suckers to the right, and judgmental, whiny liberals to the left, and not much in the middle, but I can’t help but imagine that the center is growing again as the bad news and warped social media that forces all of us to pick a side loses its potency. If we’re lucky, we are entering a period of post-overload Zen. Fingers crossed. That’s my hopeful observation for today, July 17th, the year of we don’t care anymore let’s just be cool. Here’s a useful tool to help you on your way if you’re struggling to get there- instead of looking at CNN or FOX every morning, check out Phys.org for the latest in kick ass human achievement.

Be sure to travel over to http://www.greatpinkskeleton.com for the latest book and movie news. Cheers!