Christopher C. Payne's Blog, page 32

Morning Glory

I absolutely love Rachel McAdams.  My fiancé has been told up front if I ever meet her, hmmmmm, then all bets are off.  Well, after she smacked me I came back to my senses, but still, I have thought very highly of Rachel McAdams since first seeing "The Notebook".  That is why it is so hard for me to write this review.  "Morning Glory" was mediocre at its best.  None of the actors seemed to click with each other and the chemistry was about as good as oil and vinegar.  Didn't I hear someplace the two don't mix?  Damn, maybe that was vinegar and oil.

After seeing this movie I do wonder how you could pull together a cast with this much talent and come away with such a mundane showing.  Somehow that is exactly what Roger Michell seemed to do and we were left watching his rarely chuckling mediocrity.

Rachel's character is Becky.  She is perky, quirky and talks I swear to God nonstop.  I don't think she every closes her mouth, even when she is eating.  She is a producer for a TV show that is about to get revamped and unfortunately the plans do not include her, so she is fired.  Can we all say, been there, done that?  Becky goes into hyper drive looking for a new show to call home and with little family support, her mother should be spanked if that is allowed, finds a home on a flailing morning talk show.

Enter Diane Keaton, who I also love in almost every role she plays.  Diane is the aging senior anchor for the show and will do just about anything asked of her on air, including filming her pap smear.  Damn, now there are some things nobody should show on TV, even if people will watch it.  Her sidekick is a sexual pervert and Rachel (Becky) fires him on day one.  I know, it is getting a little boring in the description huh……  Well, that is about how the show played out as it plodded along.  I was hoping when Harrison Ford popped in he would liven things up a little bit, but his character was so dry and dull that he actually took it down to a slower paced, more depressing speed.

Mr. Michell did attempt a half hearted effort at showing a love interest for Rachel McAdams, but like the rest of the cast, there was no chemistry and the scenes played out more like a bad date.

I did laugh a couple of times, and I did get to see Rachel on screen which holds a lot of water in my book, but I sure do wish I would have seen something else.  Maybe this will play out a little better once it hits the DVD/On Demand market but I would choose watching "The Notebook" for the 35th time over seeing this movie again.

So I would give it three stars for the attempt, and for giving me a chance to see my favorite Canadian again for a couple of hours, but other than that it wasn't one of my favorites to say the least.

Asylum Lake

I do love a good horror story, and Asylum Lake fits the bill.  It reels you in while developing the storyline and main character and then slams it home with one of the more horrific murder scenes I have read in a long time.  Hello, has anyone seen the twin's hands and feet lately.  Try looking in the kitchen sink if you have the stomach for it.  All that being said the book itself falls short with more grammatical errors than something I would have written, and an ending that left me as a reader flipping through the back pages wondering if I had missed the climax.

Brady was an ace reporter; this is in the past tense since he seemingly has moved on due to the death of his fiancé.  She died in a freak accident that defines being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Brady's only true friend is his dog Gruff, and the two of them decide to venture up to Bedlam Falls, MI where he had spent many a summer relaxing by the lake as a child.  Brady's parents, both recently deceased, had a cabin which had been remodeled into a home away from home.  What better way to forget about the past than dredging up old memories from your childhood.

The only problem with Brady's plan is the damn scrabble game is acting like an Ouija Board.  Remember that little circle with an eye and the hole in the middle that allowed you to talk to spirits.  Damn, it still creeps me out thinking about it, and now thanks to Mr. Evans I might not be able to play scrabble again.  Apparently there are a few spirits meandering about the old cabin and we really are not sure if they are friendly, or plan on consuming Gruff and Brady for dinner.

So Brady begins poking around and come to find out his father, a former detective had found some clues about an old murder and was doing his best to figure out what happened.  Throw in an old flame, April, and you have the mixings for a perfectly formed romantic death trap.  As I said before, the storyline was really impressive and I did find myself flipping through the pages rather quickly in order to find out what was going to happen next.

As always I try not to give away too many details and I strongly believe with this book the story is the punch line, so if you want more insight you will just have to read it.  I will now bring up a few shortcomings of the book and things that will hopefully change in volume II.

Brady's dialogue was just not believable.  The guy is a reporter for a major newspaper and at times he talks like he didn't graduate high school.  I could have done without the tampon scene; it is just too stereotypical to bother writing down.  The lack of editing had me scratching my head in wonder.  Granted Mr. Evans did tell me my copy was an advance edition, but it really needed a lot of re-work.  I know, I know, how many people say that about my writing as well, but I have to put it in here if it is what I believe.

My biggest disappointment was the ending, or really lack thereof.  The book just kind of stops after building up your tempo to the highest point possible.  It would be like licking that lollipop and when you decide to take the final bight, anticipating that tootsie roll center, only to realize it was hollow.  Nothing there.  Empty.  I think part of the reason I was so disappointed in the ending was because the rest of the story was so damn good.  If the author would decide to re-write the last couple of chapters, or add in a chapter with some sort of climax this book would go from being ok to being awesome.

Anyway, even with the negatives the book is definitely one of the more entertaining reads I have picked up in a while.  I would suggest perusing through it with grandeur expectations on what Mr. Evans would be writing for a sequel.  He is very talented and I for one will be keeping up with his work going forward.

The Sociopath Next Door

I left this book feeling mixed emotions.  I liked some of the stories Martha Stout used as examples, but I was often left wondering how she felt inclined to throw about diagnosis without ever having met any of the actual subjects.  It was something like reading a book of short stories and then being told how those interpretations led you down the path of acquainting yourself with 1 out of 25 people who presumably fit the mold of insanity.  That being said, I couldn't help but compare some of the characteristics to my ex-wife, and admittedly seem to have gained some insight into her way of thinking.

Yes, if the book did anything for me, it has helped me realize my ex-wife is as close to a sociopath as anyone described in this book.  While we all conjure up ax murdering Freddie Kruger types, in reality that is just not the case.  Most of the conscious devoid human beings spend their time making us average normal human beings miserable.  Lying, manipulating, playing people for all they are worth, it just comes natural to the selected 4% of society that somehow fell off the gene pool one stop too quickly.

I did love the advice on how to deal with one of these mentally disturbed people, avoid them.  Damn, if only life were that simple.  I have found firsthand, once they sink their teeth in you, they are like a rabid pit-bull and won't let go.  They just keep chomping down, over and over again hoping to severe an artery.  Interestingly, you will never even know you are dealing with one until the very end and then your mouth will drop to the floor with the sudden realization of damn, now that helps a lot of things make sense.  For me personally, I just hope I am alive when my ex finally decides to torture somebody else.

I am not really sure where the author was going with this novel though.  It isn't a typical psychology book, filled with facts and figures that make your head spin, and it isn't geared toward the "intellectual" crowd either.  It is just too simple to read and understand.  I found myself enjoying it for a few pages, and then questioning what the point was and how she could make such broad generalizations the next.  While I have firsthand experience with my ex-wife and I can definitively say she has all the qualities of a true sociopath, the author of this novel was not personally involved with most of the subjects she was labeling.

Anyway, I did enjoy the novel overall.  It wasn't perfect, but it was an interesting read and if nothing else it did help me understand my own situation so much more.  I think I will find it easier to refrain from anger in the future knowing that my ex is completely devoid of a conscience.  It is just who she is, so I will attempt to use the advice from Martha and do my best to avoid her whenever I can.  For that I will give the book 3 solid stars and would recommend it as an enlightening easy read for the everyday afflicted common man.

And it might even help you understand that person in your life a little bit better, who is driving you absolutely crazy.

Ripper's Row

Ripper's Row is the collaborative effort of D0nnie Light and Shawn Weaver.  The two authors take the infamous Jack the Ripper and of all things, turn him into a hero.  The public at large might know Jack as a horribly brutal serial killer, but in reality he is a tortured soul who hunts down vampires and their entourage.  You see, all of Jack's victims are blood sucking demons and Jack's mission is to purge the earth of these vile creatures who have robbed him of his one true love.

I loved the take on redefining society's belief in a decades old legend.  How many stories have been written about the serial killer from the poor streets of London?  My guess is a few hundred.  I can also fathom that none have portrayed Jack as the hero.  That originality was ingenious.  Unfortunately the ingenuity stopped there and we are then given the dry old vampire tale we have been fed since Bram Stoker first enlightened the world to the walking dead.  Garlic, crosses, wooden stakes, etc., I really was hoping for a more unique take since the premise of this book was so original.

The book opens with a little background on London and a brief synopsis of Jack the Ripper and then dives into his first kill.  You definitely get a feel for the atmosphere throughout the writing and I could hear the clopping of cobblestones underneath people's feet as I read through the pages.  I am not a huge fan of historical fiction, but I admittedly enjoyed the backdrop of this story very much.  Both writers did a nice job on making you feel a part of the era that implanted Mr. Ripper on all of our lives.  I also think the book did a nice job of mixing the action in with some nice character development on what made Jack click.

I did get the feeling a professional editor wasn't used in proofing the book.  My guess is the two authors proofed each other's writing.  There were many areas of repetition, from words to passages.  The book would be better served if it were combed through a little more thoroughly.  I remember "darkness" used about 8 times in the span of two paragraphs and being told that paper sales was the primary goal of the Ripper stories on three different occasions.  I continue to laugh when I write editing issues in reviews as I seem to get some of the same comments on my writing.  Maybe that is why I am sensitive to the issues, not sure.

Anyway, overall I enjoyed the story.  If you like a nicely packaged tried and true vampire story with an interestingly twisted backdrop, you will enjoy the read.  It doesn't break any new ground but it has established an ingenious take on warping historical villains into heroes that I very much enjoyed.  Overall a nice job and I would be interested to see what the pair comes up with on their next adventure.  I do hope they use their imagination to propel me as a reader into something completely different, they obviously have the imagination for it.

JournalStone's Warped Words for Twisted Minds

Without a doubt, blood, guts, and gore are pretty freaky. I've walked out of movies because I just couldn't stand the sight of any more red stuff splattered across the screen. Note to Hollywood – sometimes, less is more. And, that's exactly what you get with the Warped Words Anthology that JournalStone published this year.

I'm not easily scared, but some of these stories are so psychologically chilling that I had to look away from the page from time to time just to make sure I was still in my own living room. This isn't your everyday book o' horror. There are no slash killings, no creatures that belong in Halloween movies, and no strange aliens coming to conquer our planet.

Instead, these stories rattled my understanding of reality. They climbed into my brain and made me second-guess whether all family members are safe – do they the capacity to hurt us? Will they consciously seduce and annihilate others? Or will they destroy us with their relentless, ruthless push for unattainable "perfection?" Undoubtedly, like me, you'll feel your hairs rise when you consider whether spirits and carnivorous creatures share our world, lurking just beyond the fringes of our day-to-day activities. Scratch just below the surface, and what you find could horrify you.

It's not every compilation of short stories that brings together such a talented group of relatively new authors. Each story and author brings a different brand of horror to jump off the page – it's shocking how twisted and decayed the human imagination can be. On every page, I was forced to consider that even in our daily lives – in our supposedly normal society that has manners and is questionably civilized, true horrors exist.  Read this compilation, and you'll realize quickly that you don't need guns, knives, fangs, or monsters under the bed to be terrified.

Open the book only if you want to be scared and jump at the noises in the dark corners of your house. Go ahead – you know you want to.

JournalStone's Warped Words Anthology

Without a doubt, blood, guts, and gore are pretty freaky. I've walked out of movies because I just couldn't stand the sight of any more red stuff splattered across the screen. Note to Hollywood – sometimes, less is more. And, that's exactly what you get with the Warped Words Anthology that JournalStone published this year.

I'm not easily scared, but some of these stories are so psychologically chilling that I had to look away from the page from time to time just to make sure I was still in my own living room. This isn't your everyday book o' horror. There are no slash killings, no creatures that belong in Halloween movies, and no strange aliens coming to conquer our planet.

Instead, these stories rattled my understanding of reality. They climbed into my brain and made me second-guess whether all family members are safe – do they the capacity to hurt us? Will they consciously seduce and annihilate others? Or will they destroy us with their relentless, ruthless push for unattainable "perfection?" Undoubtedly, like me, you'll feel your hairs rise when you consider whether spirits and carnivorous creatures share our world, lurking just beyond the fringes of our day-to-day activities. Scratch just below the surface, and what you find could horrify you.

It's not every compilation of short stories that brings together such a talented group of relatively new authors. Each story and author brings a different brand of horror to jump off the page – it's shocking how twisted and decayed the human imagination can be. On every page, I was forced to consider that even in our daily lives – in our supposedly normal society that has manners and is questionably civilized, true horrors exist.  Read this compilation, and you'll realize quickly that you don't need guns, knives, fangs, or monsters under the bed to be terrified.

Open the book only if you want to be scared and jump at the noises in the dark corners of your house. Go ahead – you know you want to.

Gargoyle Prophecies Part I: The Savior Rises

I'll admit it. I've never been a fan of the whole horror creature fiction genre – the current vampire/werewolf story lines that run rampant in popular literature these days make me yawn. Dark creatures aren't supposed to fall in love and be mushy in any way.

Imagine my delight, then, when I picked up the Gargoyle Prophecies, Part I: The Savior Rises. There is nothing sentimental or heart-wrenching about this novel. Sure, you feel bad for the main character Stefani because it seems like everyone – and everything – in her life seems bent on destroying her psyche. But the story line is a fast-paced, mind-twisting, shocker. I literally couldn't stop reading it from the moment I realized nothing on the page is what it seems.

Except for one scene that depicts the defining moment of Stefani's life at the beginning of the book, we first meet her as a fiercely independent, but emotionally stunted, young woman barreling toward her 21st birthday. I feel confident that most of us approach this iconic, rite of passage birthday with excitement, as if our lives will finally begin once we reach that magic number. The date for Stefani also signals the beginning of a new life, but it certainly isn't one she envisioned.  In some ways, there is a psychological undertone in the book of the torment and tumultuousness we face as we leave behind our childhood and face our "destiny."

Enough about Stefani, however. Enter the gargoyles. I've always been fascinated with these little stone, horribly disfigured creatures that stood atop the great churches of the world. They were protectors. They were valiant, stalwart guards that watched over the Catholic faith and its practitioners. But, in their ugliness, I've wondered if there were an untamed, violent side that lay just beneath the surface. That fierceness is unleashed in this book in both good and evil ways.

Despite being inhuman, the gargoyles reveal themselves as being close to the human race. Some are greedy, some are deceitful, some crave power. Others, though, reveal a self-sacrificing kindness toward Stefani that is surprising. All, however, are ruthless. The brutality with which they both speak and act drives the plot forward, propelling you and compelling you to ride along with Stefani, her protectors, and her tormentors, as they traipse across the globe searching for answers about Stefani's identity and her inherent power.

Without a doubt, this is one of the few books that has kept be glued to the pages. It's not a light-hearted read, but it is an entertaining read. It also carries a deeper theme about the troubles we face and the scars we carry from childhood to adulthood. We all have baggage. How we choose to process and compartmentalize our experiences sets the tone for our lives. Although our experiences may not mirror Stefani's exactly, we all have been damaged in some way, and we long to find a way to a rebirth.

And let's face it – we all have our own gargoyles.

Duncan's Diary, Maturation – Introduction

 

Below is the introduction to the as of yet unpublished sequel, Duncan's Diary, Maturation.  It is the second book in the trilogy know as Duncan's Diary.  The first book Duncan's Diary, Birth of a Serial Killer can be found on Amazon, Barne&Noble or wherever books are sold. 

The story below contains graphic language and violence so do not proceed if you are not 18 years or older.   

You have been warned.    

       Drip

            Drip

            Drip

 

            Jesus, the damn faucet never seemed to shut off.  What was the issue with valves anyway?  Nothing ever seemed to be made as good as it used to be for some reason.  It almost seemed like we came across a good idea, perfected it, and then the assholes in their suits saw how quickly they could turn it into shit so it was more profitable.

            Our society really did suck when you took in the overall picture.  I mean, really, Meg Whitman in a race to be governor of California?  Did she have any concept of what it really takes to run a government?  Not that I do, but I didn't run for office, either.  The damn woman couldn't seem to take the time to vote, yet she figured she could be governor.  It makes me a little sick to my stomach, thinking how far we've sunk.

            "Wouldn't you agree, Veronika? I asked. Hahahaha, yes I realize you cannot talk.  That is the irony of asking the question, you see?"

            Drip

            Drip

            Drip

 

            "Holy shit, that damn leak is going to be the death of me.  Now you must see the irony in that, my dear, Veronika."

            Maybe now I should take a step back and explain about Veronika.  I realize anyone reading this will have no clue what I'm talking about, let alone what had occurred.

            I sat on the tile floor, in my bathroom, next to the tub.  The tub was filled with water, you see, and Veronika was lying inside on her back with her face directly under the faucet.  It was difficult fitting her in the tub, so I actually had to break both of her legs at the knee caps, twist them like a pretzel, and fold them back underneath her.  The tricky part was keeping her awake while this occurred.

"No time for taking a nap right now, is there, sweetie?" I said.

            I then placed a piece of plywood on top of her that I precut to fit directly over the tub.  I put several concrete foundation bricks on top of the plywood to hold everything in place.   Not that it mattered much. Veronika's hands were tied quite firmly behind her back.

            At the top of the plywood was a nice, round hole that was just big enough for Veronika to poke her head through.  I'm not a cruel man.  Being locked up in a confined space with no way to view the outside world gives me the creeps.  We all have our limits.  Jesus, I guess I can't say that for sure.  Do all of us really have limits?

            If boundaries were a thing that most people possessed then how the hell did that girl from Jersey Shore get a book contract?  What was her name?  Snooki?  I won't even comment on what kind of a name "Snooki" is.  Of course, my name is Duncan Moron, what's up with that?  Let's just stick to the fact that this girl admittedly has read two books in her entire life.  TWO shitty books, and she was writing one.

            A Shore Thing. It hit bookstores during January supposedly.  The sad thing is it will be an instant hit.  I am sure of it.  If that is not a glaring indicator on how asinine our society is, then nothing else could come close.  Can we not look for stimulation that is more challenging, engaging, and worthwhile?  Could this girl really have anything to say that anyone really would give a shit about hearing?

            Maybe she should've run on the ticket with Meg Whitman. Now that would be a pair to vote for.  You'd have the bovine, middle-aged housewife who couldn't even manage to vote and the young, airheaded socialite who probably couldn't even spell the word vote.  Is it just me, or are we regressing as a nation?  No wonder the God damn Japanese own most of our cities.  We are too stupid and undeserving.

            "Anyway," as they said on Friends, when my favorite character Phoebe opened her mouth and attempted to speak.  My intent was to inform you of who Veronika was.  Now I have spent most of my time describing her current precarious situation.

            Veronika attended San Mateo Community College.  Not to say that she wasn't smart.  I'm sure there are a lot of our brightest young minds attending community colleges.  I wonder how many graduates from community colleges actually amount to anything more than clerks, or accountants, or some other mid-level workers.  Not that my collegiate career was anything to brag about.  I'm an idiot when it comes to books.

            "Jesus, you do look sad, Veronika.  It's difficult for me to tell if you're crying with most of your face submerged in water, but your eyes look so mournful.  Are you sorry, Veronika?  Are you now wishing you had made other choices?  Maybe not getting into the car with your boyfriend wasn't such a good idea," I mockingly said to her.

I had ventured over to the college one weekend for the farmer's market that is held in the parking lot.  Some of the most succulent, freshest fruit can be purchased there.

            As I was reaching for a plump, ripe tomato, the kind of tomato that erupts with a cry for you to reach out and shove it in your mouth because it's so fresh, I saw her.  I lost track of myself so quickly a lady next to me actually tugged on my shirt sleeve and pointed out I had crushed the vegetable in my hand as my unbridled exuberance overwhelmed me.

Drip

            Drip

            Drip

Holy shit, that noise was driving me crazy.  It probably had the same effect on Veronika, who, at that point, had been lying naked in this tub for 16 hours and 25 minutes.  She looked like on over-ripe prune, with her skin folding up in flaps and her face turning blue from the cold, sterile liquid engulfing her wrinkled body.

            Jesus, I wondered if she has relieved herself in the water, as well.

It was her happy-go-lucky cheeks that first attracted me.  Or maybe it was her smile and her way of greeting people.  She was one of those personalities that everyone brightens up around. 

            "Hey, how are you doing?  Can I try a taste of the broccoli-basil bread, please?  Oh, thank you."

            It was the kind of talk that normally makes me sick to my stomach, but with her, it just made me smile.

            Her black hair was hanging down just past her shoulders, wavy and full, but not too overwhelming.  A cacophony of colors seemed to erupt from her eyes, almost to the point you couldn't quite see what her dominant color was.  It seemed odd for a girl from the Philippines, I guessed.  Don't most Filipinos have brown eyes?

            She had a bubble butt that oozed curves as her True Religion's were tasked to the limit, attempting to keep it contained.  Women and their innate need to show off their ass.  What would most women do if they had a perfectly formed set of butt cheeks that looked half as good as mine?

WHHHHHHAAAAAMMMMMM!

I slammed my fist down on the plywood is it curved in slightly at the middle and launched a spray of water up from Veronika's portal of light.

            "SHUT THE HELL UP WITH THE WHINING.  I AM TRYING TO THINK, YOU LITTLE BITCH!"  I screamed at her as the whimpering quickly subsided.

            It was too late, though, as took my hand, wrapping my fingers around her head and shoved it fully under the water.  The surprising thing was how strong somebody can kick, even when both of their legs are broken and knotted into a ball.  The plywood lid to her inevitable coffin bucked and jumped, but it didn't give as she fought with all of her remaining strength for a paltry ounce of oxygen.

            The concrete blocks popped up and down like little ants when you roast them in an iron skillet over an open flame.  It's funny how those little bugs can jump when their feet are burning from the searing heat.  I used to love to do that when I was a kid.

            We all take breathing for granted, don't we?  Nobody cares about the pollution filling the air on a daily basis, yet once it's denied, the inner sanctum of our souls realizes how precious this invisible sustenance really is.

            Luckily for her, I was not quite ready to say goodbye yet, so I released her and watched her nostrils flare as she sucked in the precious substance.  The grey duct tape on her mouth had started to curl on the sides as the moisture seeped in, but that didn't really matter.  It wouldn't need to hold much longer, her time amongst the living was quickly coming to a conclusion.

            A little smile formed on my lips as I thought of watching her die.  She was beautiful, if not a little more rounded than I normally liked.  This was the same thought I had when I saw her only a few days ago.  Nothing like being randomly picked out of a crowd, one of the hundreds of people that attended the market that day.  Talk about some bad luck.

            "Hahahahahahahaha." 

I laughed out loud at the thought, and now I was sure I saw some tears running down her mascara-matted eyes.  It's so funny how the black streaks form such a hideous picture when the make-up loosens its grip of vanity.  The very material that is used to beautify the painted women of our world, rebels against them at the first chance when things turn south and the waterworks begin.

            I had followed her that day.  It was too easy with the crowded market and her self-absorbed personality.  She was nice on the surface, I could tell, but that was all an act.  All women have an innate ability of deception built into their psyche.  They're all adroit liars, and telling falsehoods is nothing more than another way to qualify the very essence of what defines who a woman is.

            Once she finished with her shopping, she strolled back to her little Honda Accord.  It was an older vehicle. But the damn things are meant to last forever, so who can really tell the year.  I sometimes think the imbecilic Japanese culture doesn't really comprehend the true nature of a capitalistic environment.

            Building cars to last too long does nothing more than enable people to keep them that much longer.  Without people buying cars, jobs are lost, and when people lose jobs, they can't afford to pay their bills.  In a way the homeless problem, the infectious plague of America, is caused by the Asian efficiency and higher standards of quality.

            I say give me the American-made crap, and let it fall apart.  To hell with the Japanese.  Then again, I drive a Volvo SUV, so what do I know?  And that doesn't account for the Nissans I've owned in the past.  I really should buy a Honda and say to hell with it.  It's built in America, anyway.  I don't think anyone even knows what American-made means, or if it even has a true definition.

            Veronika, though I wouldn't find out her name until later, cautiously pulled out of the parking lot, and I fell into place directly behind her.  She jumped on the 92 and headed to the El Camino exit.  I wondered for a minute if we were neighbors, but she continued on and ended up in Millbrae at a generic set of apartment buildings right off of Millbrae Avenue.

            I parked on the street as she entered through her gate, wrote down her license plate number, and headed home.  Before I left, I saw her park in the open lot versus heading into the garage, and a middle-aged man walked over to the door and helped her with the bags.

            He didn't kiss her hello or even give her a warm smile, but it appeared that he was her partner of some nature.  It was probably sheer panic of loneliness that drove these two together.  Women, the older they get, the more like they are to settle for the best guy available instead of somebody they actually love.  Pathetic.

            Maybe the drive to procreate kicks in so hard they lose track of what love really means. They care about nothing more than dropping onto the next guy that gives them the time of day.  Show me a women who is in her late 20s and single, and I will guarantee you'll find her desperate and afraid of dying alone.

            At the God damn age of 25 or 26 I think it starts kicking in.

            Over the next few days I sat outside that apartment building, watching, waiting patiently, trying to figure out who this girl was.  I followed her to yoga and to her spin class.  Figured out she was some kind of office employee for a company in South San Francisco, and she loved dining out for dinner.

            Her and her "boyfriend" would go out almost every night.  My guess is they weren't saving much for the future.  They didn't drive nice cars, but from the amount of money they spent at restaurants, they couldn't possibly have much in the bank.

            Drip

            Drip

            Drip

            CRACKKKKKK

            I smacked the top of the plywood with my hand and then began to laugh.

            "I just wanted to see if you were still awake ,Veronika.  Hello?  Veronika?"

            I reached down a ripped off the tape from her protruding, plump limbs in one quick, sweeping motion.  I wondered if this could be some kind of service for the rich in lieu of collagen treatments.  Being stuck in a tub of water for almost 24 hours really puffs you up.  It almost appeared as if I had done this kind of thing before.

            "Hahahahahahaha," I laughed out loud again. "Damn, I know it isn't normal to laugh at your own jokes, but I sure as hell am a pretty funny dude.  Don't you agree?"

            "Please, please let me go," Veronika said in a cracked, unused voice.

            I smacked my hand down through the opening, connecting with her nose and mouth.  The blow followed through, pushing her head with such force that the sound reverberated off the walls when her skull hit the porcelain bottom of the tub.

            "SHUT THE HELL UP, YOU SLUT," I screamed. "I will tell you when you can talk.  If you say one more word, I swear to God I will kill you now."

            For a second, I was worried that my blow had been a little too resourceful.  Veronika's eyes rolled around in their sockets as if they had a mind of their own, and blood began oozing out of her nostrils from the force of my punch.  Just as I began to say the words "oh shit" in my mind, I saw the recognition resurface in her facial features, and she came back around.

            "I just need you to be quiet for a few minutes, please," I said respectfully.  "Can you do that?"

            Veronika nodded her head up and down.  At least, she bobbed it the best she was able to in her confined space.

            Women, damn maybe even men, are nothing more than carnival animals if you think about it.  Veronika had been with me for less than 24 hours, and she was already subservient to her master's will.  I wonder, if I attempted to train a female with treats and electrical shock for negative feedback, how long it would take me to dominate a subject's will.

            As luck would have it, and yes if you are patient enough luck will always find a way, one night the two lovebirds must've gotten into an argument.  It was probably about something stupid, I'm sure.  Maybe he was doing laundry and lost one too many of her socks in the dryer, or maybe he'd been working too late on his computer when he should have been holding her hand.

            I didn't know, but I saw her storm out of the Chinese restaurant I had followed them to with him chasing after her.  He was pleading with her to get in the car, but it was apparent she was walking home, and he was on his own.  Women, does logic elude all of them or is it just the stupidity of man that drives them to insanity?

            She was wearing another pair of tight-fitting jeans, a white tank top T-shirt, and over that a form-fitting, thin blue sweater.  I swear to God, even from over a block away, I thought I could see her nipples fighting for their freedom to escape the confines of her clothing.  It wasn't even cold outside, which made me wonder just how large they must be.

            Finally, he gave up and headed to the car.  You could hear him jam it into gear and the tires squealing as he launched the vehicle from the parking lot and drove away.  Now, she was truly on her own.

            She was only a couple of miles away from her apartment, but now with him gone, she didn't seem to be in any hurry to make her way home.  She was crying, wiping her hands across her face and cheeks, and it almost broke my heart to see her so sad.  How could a girl so beautiful find herself in a situation that was so disturbingly miserable?

            I pulled up ahead of her a few blocks and parked the car, waiting.  I wasn't sure what I was waiting for actually. I just watched her, observing her as she reflected on her life, crying.  She seemed too sad, and it took me a few minutes to realize I was crying, as well.  I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and felt my stomach turning as I wept for this girl I didn't really even know.

            "Please, don't hurt…………."

            CRACKKKKKK

            I slammed my hand down on the plywood again.

            "I promise you this – if you interrupt me one more time, I will cut out your tongue and shove it down your throat, laughing at you while you choke if you do not shut the fuck up.  Do you understand me?"

            Veronika nodded her head again.  Good little monkey, I thought to myself.

            Drip

            Drip

            Drip

            Oh my God, that incessant drip. It was driving me insane.  My hands were shaking, and I couldn't control them.  I felt that familiar yearning inside my loins, but I knew full well it was a false crescendo.  I was a failure as a man.  I lacked the ability to function anymore.

            "What the hell is happening to me?" I asked, but there was no response.  I would make them pay.  I now had my goal.  I knew what I had to do.

            It had gotten too difficult to watch her as she sat down on a bench less than a block from where I was parked. She was still crying with her face buried in her hands.  It was past dusk at that point, and the black of night had begun its inevitable envelopment of our daily lives.

            I had already exited my car, wearing my black pants and my black pull-over, long sleeve T-shirt.  I put my black leather gloves on slowly as I approached her from behind.

            What possesses a woman to sit down on a dilapidated park bench with its back to an alleyway in the middle of the night? It was a questionable-to-bad neighborhood for Christ's sake.  It was not my intention to introduce myself that evening, but the opportunity had been more than I could pass up.

            Nobody was around, and no cars were coming down that little side street.  Veronika was so distracted, she had no idea where she was or what was happening.  What a distinct reflection of life.  Just when you think you have everything figured out, some nut in a black outfit drugs you, pulls you to his car, and tortures you for hours on end.

             I gently reached around her black, silky hair, placing the drug-infused white cloth over her face. By now I had perfected my dosage.  It was just enough to put them under, but not enough to cause them to go catatonic.  If a human's limbs are too loose, they become much more difficult to carry.

            I sat down next to her on the bench as her head dropped on my shoulder.  My arm was wrapped around her with my hand keeping her propped up next to me.  Anyone who saw us would think we were two lovers enjoying the evening, basking in our budding romance that would eventually lead us to marital bliss.

            I picked her up and carried her to the car. It was only a block away.  I had left it unlocked and gently placed her in the passenger seat.  I carefully fastened her seatbelt, latching her into place, protecting her from any possible harm.

            The drive home was easy, and I pulled into the garage. I stared at her lustrous black hair, wishing I could have her. But I knew my body was now betraying me.  She was so beautiful.  Her skin was a silky brown tan that erupted into a smooth, blemish-free creamy complexion.

            I hoisted her out of the passenger seat and took her to my bedroom.  I knew I shouldn't have brought her home, but I couldn't stand the thought of not lying with her.

            I undressed her slowly, removing her sweater and then her T-shirt.  I took care to fold the cloths and put them on the dresser as each layer flittered away, revealing her to be more exquisite that I could have hoped.

            Once she was finally naked, I lay down next to her, my head cradled between her breasts as I imagined what it would be like to be happy.  What would a world be like where she and I lived in harmony? What would it be like for her to hold my hand as we entered a movie theater, bought popcorn and laughed about some joke I heard at work.

            When I looked into her eyes, I saw she was beginning to stir, and then the atrocity hit me like a wrecking ball.  There was a huge, brown mole underneath her chin with two long, black hairs protruding out like antennae, grasping for radio waves.  I almost threw up.

            That had led me…….

            Drip

            Drip

            Drip

 

            "VERONIKA, THE NOISE, YOU HAVE GOT TO MAKE THE NOISE STOP.  JESUS, MAKE IT STOP.  MOVE YOUR HEAD OR…….."

            CRACK 

            The room almost erupted as I brought my hand down on the plywood, and I felt a sharp pain shoot up my arm and into my shoulder.

            "Shit!" I screamed. I shook my hand back and forth, trying to get feeling back inside. I jumped up, hitting the plywood as I did so, shifting it at an angle.  I saw one corner teeter as it moved from its perch, precariously dangling over the edge.

            Suddenly, one of the concrete blocks began to slide, and I watched in horror as it gained speed, heading directly for Veronika's head.  The result was immediate as the corner connected with her forehead, driving a deep gash across her otherwise perfect skin.

            All I had wanted to do was clean her up. I wanted to wash the mole off her flesh and cut those disgusting hairs.  I had just wanted her to be perfect.  What is wrong with perfection?  By definition, it cannot be wrong. It is perfect.

            Now, the water started to turn red.  Her head was completely submerged.  She wasn't fighting anymore – she wasn't really even moving.  The rippling of the water had an eerie feeling as if she were translucent in an almost ghostly sort of way.  I wondered if this meant she would remain here, in my bathroom, as a spirit somehow with her perfectly rounded breasts and that oddly attractive bulging butt.

            I sometimes feel guilty when a murder occurs, but this seemed more like a tragic accident than a preplanned, thought-out criminal act.  I hadn't meant for her to die, at least not in this way.  I wasn't done yet.  I wasn't finished with her.  I still needed her that night.  I needed to be held.  I needed to be told everything would be okay.  I needed her, and she left me.

            I let the water drain from the tub, washing the blood away as I bandaged over the wound in her head.  After I dried her off, I carried her back to my bed and placed her under the covers.  I had just recently changed the sheets, and they had that just-washed, wind-blowing-in-the-fields smell.  It was so refreshing.

            I propped her head up on a pillow and went to the kitchen to get a glass of ice water.  I can't sleep comfortably without a glass of water next to my bed at night.  Even if I am not thirsty, just the comfort of knowing it is there somehow helps me rest.

            I stripped off my clothes except for my underwear.  I have to sleep in my underwear at night.  Something about being completely naked makes me feel a little creepy.

            Veronika lay next to me. She was naked, of course.  It is different for a woman versus a man.  A woman's body is meant to be shown off.  Almost in any form, the body of a woman is so much more attractive than a man.  Granted it might not always age as well – at least that's what I hear women say. But women are just so beautiful.

            I curled up next to her as I wrapped her arm around my shoulder.  I wished she could rub my head.  I closed my eyes and imagined her stroking my hair, twisting strands between her fingers as she told me about her day.

            "Really, that sounds nice.  Are you kidding me?  No way, that didn't really happen did it?"

            I seemed to be answering out loud before I realized what was happening. I knew that wasn't a good sign.

            The last thing I remember was playing with her belly button,  running my finger across it and listening to her laugh.  Wait, she wasn't really laughing, but it seemed like she would've been laughing if she could have. Her smile was so beautiful with those cheeks, perfectly rounded, like a tomato, just waiting to be squeezed, then popped into your mouth and eaten.

Draculas

Draculas is the much hyped novel by Blake Crouch, Jack Kilborn, Jeff Strand and F. Paul Wilson.  The four of them collaborated on the novel and incorporated all of their input so it truly does flow fluidly.  It actually flows about as smoothly as a nice stream of blood from a cut artery, which there is ample amount of.  Blood that is, as well as severed arteries I guess.  There is more blood flowing in this novel than all of the Quentin Tarantino movies combined.  I think more people might have died in this book than all the other books I have ever read combined.

This is not your every day vampire book.  These creatures have one goal in mind, to kill as many people as possible, suck them dry and then head off to the next guy and do the same.  They will kill off their own, rip children's heads off and drink them like a soda pop, and never bat an eye.  If that isn't enough, and they lose track of time, finding themselves more hungry than they can stand, they will chew off their own innards and suck the blood from themselves.  It is just a non-stop bloodbath.  Trust me when I say you have not read a book this bloody in a long time, if ever.

Mortimer is an old guy, very old, and he is very very rich.  He has been diagnosed with cancer, is a few weeks away from the end and he gets a special package in the mail.  The package happens to be the skull of an ancient beast, recently excavated, that might have a human quality to it, save the hundreds of jagged hollow teeth that fill the monstrosity of a mouth.  After taking a few glances at it, the old guy implants the teeth from the thing into his throat and then starts convulsing.

The nurse and his geologist aid rush him to the local hospital where all hell breaks loose, and I do mean all hell.  Within minutes the old dude begins to change and all of a sudden his mouth transforms and his teeth eat right through his own jaws.  His hands turn to alien appendages and he suddenly has a craving for blood that cannot be quenched.  I do mean it cannot be quenched.  He jumps on everyone he sees and commences to tear at their skin while sucking as much blood as he can.  Those that do not die turn into the same form of monster that he has became, and they do the same.

And so on and so on and so on.  You get the picture right.  It doesn't take long before there are more Draculas roaming the halls than there are people.  They are everywhere, and all they care about is sucking blood, any blood, even their own if they have to.  One of my favorites is the five year old girl who refers to the blood as red candy and can't figure out why all the mean adults won't give it up to her nicely.  Damn, she is used to getting what she wants.  Why all of a sudden is everyone being so stingy?

I don't know if I am giving too much away, since the book reminds me of so many recent horror movies.  I don't think there is a huge plot to hide.  There isn't much depth here.  It is all about killing, blood, gore and death.  Every page, every paragraph and every sentence is about somebody dying or being killed.  So if you like horror books, with a lot of descriptive gore, then you will have died and gone to heaven or hell so to speak.  The book is very well done, filled with action to overflowing and keeps you extremely entertained.

I would give it a very solid four stars out of five.  I can't go much higher because I do tend to like something more in my reading than just blood, but then again, I can go this high because the book was pretty damn awesome.  If you can't handle violence and I do mean over the top violence, then stay away from this read.  If you love a gory blood soaked evening then tear at this one and enjoy.  You will be a little stressed out, but you should be satiated upon completion, at least for the time being, until the hunger kicks in again.

A Taste of Cuba in San Francisco

San Francisco is famous for its tourist hot spots. Fisherman's Wharf, Pier 39, Alamo Square, China Town, Golden Gate Bridge, and Union Square can be found crawling with tourists on any given day. While these places are all interesting attractions to explore, the real gems are hidden throughout the city like a pirate's buried treasure. This is just one of the reasons why living in a place trumps being a tourist any day. Of course, you get the best of both worlds if you happen to know an insider who lives in the city you're visiting. That's a good combo, too.

Despite having lived in San Francisco for the past six years, I am still discovering treasure troves tucked away in the little pockets of various neighborhoods. The recent heat waves have had me wide awake at night and wanting to play. No better way to do it than cruising through the streets on the back of a motorcycle. There's just something about being on a motorcycle that makes me feel cool. Plus, without the roof of a car obscuring my view, I often see things I might have otherwise missed.

That was how my friend, Michael, and I stumbled upon Radio Habana Social Club. Michael is my hair stylist and rocker friend. We met while sharing the stage for a rock and roll belly dance show I produced. His band, Electric Sister, headlined. Nothing like getting to know people while you're undulating on stage with them.

We were driving back to his place for a late night hair cut (that's the only way I've managed to get my hair cut these days) when we heard jazzy Cuban music spilling out of this tiny bar.

The place was almost too eccentric to describe. It was like the Mad Hatter's playground; nothing made sense, and yet it all came together in a way that fit. Avant garde and abstract art adorned every nook, cranny, ceiling, and wall. Even the floor was covered in art. Marionettes and random objects dangled overhead, like a flock of mismatched birds suspended in flight. Most of the objects were hybrids of various items that had been joined together in a way that was creepy yet mesmerizing. Doll heads with fish bodies, barbies with dragon wings, eyeballs and random body parts glued onto toy cars. All sorts of grotesque images that will haunt your dreams. In addition to this madness were black and white photos of Cuba, musical instruments, and pieces of quotes and poems. The menu had been spray painted on the floor in several places.

This eclectic spot is apparently known for its sangria. Michael and I had already downed some beers at a bar, so we opted for herbal tea and desert instead. Yeah, I'm not as much as a party girl as I make myself out to be. Either way, the cheesecake we shared was melt-in-your-mouth yummy.

Also, big thumbs up for the service. The owner was like the sweet grandma you always wished you had. Don't get me wrong, I love my grandmothers, but this lady was adorable in a way that you only see in fiction.

Perhaps that added to the surreal vibe of Radio Habana Social Club. Well, I guess the customer with his face painted in

Dia de los Muertos make-up and the old Cuban men smoking cigars helped, too. It seemed like the kind of place where anything goes. Exactly the kind of place I like to be on a warm San Francisco night.