Edward Lorn's Blog, page 23

My Semi-Fictional Life #74 (A Recipe)

Hello peeps. I love to cook. I don’t care much for frozen meals or fast food. I used to, but I’ve noticed that the older I get the more I want to know what goes into my food. Not necessarily because I want to be healthier (I do) but because I want to see if I can recreate meals I’ve enjoyed in the past. I want to know what went into recipes, how things work, all that jazz. I especially like meals I can set and forget.

A few days ago, I came across a recipe for crock pot lasagna and then promptly lost the recipe. So, be forewarned, this recipe is not 100% mine. The measurements are mine (I had to figure them out on my own) but the ingredients (aside from the mushrooms and black olives, those additions is mine) were gleaned online.

Where do I start? Pardon me, but this is my first recipe… Like most things, I’m just gonna wing it. Cool? Cool.

Ingredients List:

8oz of ricotta

1/4 cup of half and half

1 four cup bag of shredded mozzeralla cheese

Grated parm

1 egg

1 box of lasagna noodles (or more, depending on how many layers you want, but this recipe only calls for half a box)

1 jar of marinara sauce, or 16oz of your own homemade goodness

1 pound of ground beef (veggie-type folks, replace this with fresh spinach)

(Optional) One can of black olives and fresh mushrooms.

Brown hamburger. Pour in sauce. Mix. Cook until sauce bubbles. Turn off.

In a bowl, mix 1 cup of ricotta, 1 egg, 1/2 cup of mozz, 1/4 cup of parm, and 1/4 cup of half and half. It will be soupy. That’s what the egg is for. Trust me, it will set.

Now we build.

Pour enough sauce into your crock pot to cover the bottom. Lay one layer of dry lasagna noodles. DO NOT COOK THE NOODLES! They will cook. I promise. You’ll likely have to break them to make them fit and cover the entire space. Be creative. You got this.

Now spread a thin layer of your cheese mixture over the noodles. Sprinkle some mozz, sprinkle some parm liberally. Make it rain. Pour on a layer of marinara.

Here’s the optional part: sprinkle in black olives and mushrooms. I love these in lasagna. You might not. Do your own thing. Live your life how you want to. No one’s gonna judge you if you don’t like black olive or mushrooms. You do you.

Then do another layer of lasagna noodles and repeat the layering stated above. Make as many layers as your little heart desires. Go crazy. 3 layer? 16 layers? Whatever. As long as it fits in your crock pot, you got this. Make it happen, Cap’n! When you’re happy with the amount of layers you have cover the whole thing in a heavy coating of mozz and sprinkle a little more parm. This creates a bubbly, gooey top coat of melted cheese that is sex in your mouth. Mmhmm…

Now set your crock pot to HIGH and cook for 3 hours . DON’T LIFT THE LID DURING THIS TIME, YOU NOSY SO AND SO! You need steam to build up and cook your shit. Leave the crock pot alone for three hours then you can check it if you absolutely have to. Stick a fork in it. If the fork easily pierces the noodles, you’re good. If not, replace the lid and check every thirty minutes until you’re happy with the tenderness of the noddles, but 3 hours on HIGH should work fine. It did for me.

Next: EAT THAT SHIT!

You’re welcome.

See you tomorrow,

E.

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My Semi-Fictional Life #73 (A New Release, Freebie, and a Challenge)

Hello peeps. I’ll get to the title of this post in reverse.

First, we’ll talk about the challenge. Since completing my Stephen King reread, I’ve been looking for my next year-long reading challenge. I had three requirements that I came up with to mix things up: I cannot have read any of this author’s work; the author should be well respected in the reading community; the author should have over twelve published novels so that I am able to read at least one of their novels a month for a year. It soon became clear that I had only one choice: John Irving.

So, starting January 1, 2017, I will be reading all of John Irving’s novels in order of publication. The point of this exercise, like my King reread, is to see if I can pinpoint the highs and lows of a career and match them with newsworthy elements from the author’s life. Another point is to try and watch the growth or decline, or both, of a popular novelist. Going into my King reread, I knew damn near everything there was to know about King. I learned very little from my experiment. This time, I’m tackling an author who is completely new to me. I know nothing about Irving, other than the movie adaptation of The World According to Garp is one of my mother’s favorite movies.

I will admit to having read the first 60 pages of The World According to Garp, but I quit because I knew it was something special and wanted to save it until I could give it my whole attention, because at the time I was reading two other books, and they were both just as good. I’m glad I stopped. Now I can start fresh with a truly talented author.

Now for some self-promo bullshit.

Beyond the Gates of Toyland is live and will be free from December 14-18. This is the final installment of my War on Christmas series. I hope you enjoy the way it ends.

For those of you that do not know, Deck the Halls and Beyond the Gates of Toyland were once one long story, what the industry calls a novelette. Because I give these stories away and do not make any money off of them (unless you buy them before they go free, then shame on you for buying your own gifts), I couldn’t afford to edit all 12,000 words in one year, so I split the final story into two pieces. I know that upset those of you who read Deck the Halls last year, and I apologize. I understand, truly, I do, but it could not be helped, not if I was to keep my promise of a yearly Christmas story. But, yeah, making you wait a whole year for another 6,000 words and the conclusion to this short series was a dick move, and definitely not a decision I enjoyed making.

To answer a popular question, will there be more free Christmas stories in the future? You betcha. Will they continue the story of my version of Santa? I don’t know. I kinda want to know about Santa and Krampus’s first meeting… and of course why Krampus… Oh, wait. Spoilers. Sorry.

So here you go. Beyond the Gates of Toyland, the conclusion to the War on Christmas. Have fun, and tell Santa, from one big guy to another, I miss his fat ass.

See you tomorrow,

E.

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Click on the picture to get your copy from Amazon.com. International links are below the image.

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UK

Australia

Canada

Germany

Japan

My Semi-Fictional Life #72 (A Review)

A review of Ham on Rye, by Charles Bukowski

Masculinity is hilarious. Men are expected to kick ass and fuck anything that moves, as long as your peers approve of those whose asses are to be kicked, or that the housing for the orifice you seek to penetrate meets their requirements. In other words, dudes are fucking stupid. We covet the approval of other dudes when other dudes do little to nothing for us.

“GET ALL THE PUSSY!” is their battle song. But make sure the girl is sexy enough so that your buddies don’t rag you over fucking some troglodyte.

“KICK ALL THE ASS,” they cry! And when you don’t, you’re a pussy. Because all men want pussy more than they wish to be one.

“BEAT IT UP!” they scream. Because sometimes the line between sex and violence is blurred for men. But sex is just as important as violence and requires the same amount of masculinity to achieve. SO ONWARD WAYWARD COCK!

Fuck off. It’s silly. The only thing required of you to “BE A MAN!” is that you have a penis. That’s it. You only need one thing to be a woman. Guess what that is? You guessed it. A vagina.

And because it’s bound to come up, I’m not here to debate gender identity. If you identify as something other than the sex you were born, I respect that. I’m talking about the prerequisites for gender status. Or, if you will, the absurdity of gender expectations.

I was called a “sissy” and a “faggot” a lot when I was younger because I’d only fight to protect myself. I wouldn’t instigate a fight over words, or to defend my honor. Because of this, my masculinity was always in question. Years later, I got married and had two kids. Guess there was never anything wrong with my “masculinity”. My parts work just fine.

I said all that to say this: I love this fucking book. It pokes fun at every aspect of masculinity and the absurdity of manhood. I find it funny beyond belief that Bukowski’s character Henry Chinaski (allegedly an alias for himself, and this book a fictionalized auto-biography of his own life) would point out the posteriors of men just as much as he pointed out boobs and vaginas (or, in his words, “cunts”). He also used words like “pretty” and “beautiful” to describe men in the book. Everything about this novel challenges gender norms and that’s probably what I dug most about it.

The book is vulgar and its crudeness speaks to the theme. You’ll read about everything from old people fucking to guys jacking off dogs to teenage boys looking up through bleachers to scope out a bared vagina. Bukowski pulls no punches. He pours water into the male psyche to find all the holes and short circuit the machinery.

I dug every page of this novel. It is thought provoking and laugh-out-loud funny. Any book that pulls that off gets all the stars from yours truly.

In summation: This novel is, simply put, brilliant. It works as both parody and serious literature. If you think never the twain could meet, I suggest you read this book and look past the simple language to see the bigger message. Bukowski had Vonnegut-level skills, yo.

Final Judgment: Sings, “NOW YOU’RE A MAN, A MAN MAN MAN!”

See you tomorrow,

E.

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Oh, the horror!

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My Semi-Fictional Life #71 (Let’s Play Flash Fiction Fridays, Round 5!)

Hello peeps. You know what time it is. Fill my comments with the most outlandish shit you can think of and on Friday I’ll string all your suggestions together into one story.

See you tomorrow,

E.

 

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Crock pot lasagna was amazeballs…

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My Semi-Fictional Life #70 (Pick My Next Kitten-Squisher!)

Hello peeps. Happy Sunday Fun-Day! Or Church-Day Lurch-Day! Or whatevs. Feel like helping my indecisive-ass make a decisive? Er… decision?

I want to keep up this routine of always having a 700+ page novel (a kitten squisher) on my currently reading shelf. Only problem is, they’re time sinks and I’m no good at commitment, especially when it comes to which novel I want to be reading for a month or better. So I want you to pick for me the book I will pick up after I finish Gone with the Wind. It’ll be like having your buddy rip off your Band-Aid. It’ll be fun. Here we go!

If you would, hop on over to Goodreads and vote on my poll. No! Don’t poke at my hole! Vote. On. Me. POLL! Not my POLE… for fuck’s sake, the one time I try to keep this clean and out of the gutter… Whatever. Just go to Goodreads by clicking HERE and tell me what I should read. It’s my first poll, so be gentle.

No! No, no, NO! It’s not my first PULL! My. First. POLL! Fuck it. I’m done. Just go vote.

Remember, Monday is the next Let’s Play Flash Fiction Friday plot suggestion submission post, so get your ideas ready.

See you tomorrow, you cheeky so-and-sos,

E.

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My Semi-Fictional Life #69 (Personal Story)

Hello peeps. Today’s post is number 69.

Butthead: Hey, uh, Beavis. Huh-huh… huh… he said 69.

Beavis: Hehe, yeah, he-he-he said 69, hehe hehe…

Anypoop, I couldn’t think of anything to post today. I was going to write a review of Ham on Rye, by Charles Bukowski, but I didn’t get around to it. I was too busy playing Fallout 4, and I want to give this particular review all of my attention. So what to write… How about a rare personal story? How would that suit you?

I grew up in Fontana, California, which is a doppelganger for my the fictional town of my creation Bay’s End. I’m the youngest of four kids. My three sisters are fourteen, twelve, and nine years older than me. They are all my half sisters. Tammy (fourteen years older) and Gina (twelve years older) are from my mother’s first marriage, and Little Tammy (nine years older) is from my father’s second marriage. Little Tammy never lived with us. She lived with Dad’s ex-wife, but my mother paid for her child support because my father, being the shitstain he was, didn’t worked while he was married to my mother. In fact, he quit his job the weekend after they got married. He cut grass for cigarette and beer money, but he never contributed to the household bills. Class act, my father.

By the time I was five, my sisters had both gotten married and moved out. They would pop back in between husbands, but for the most part, I was treated like an only child. Because of this, I got everything I wanted for Christmas. We weren’t rich by any means, but Mom would max out her credit cards every December and then spend the entirety of the following year paying them off. Years later, when I started my own family and my mother clued me in on how she did things when I was a kid, I listened to her stories in shock. And, if I’m honest, I felt like a dick. How did I not realize how much debt she was racking up while trying to keep happy? The answer to that was Santa Claus.

I believed in the jolly old elf until I was 13. He had to be real, man. HE HAD TO BE! There’s no way my mother could’ve afforded all the shit I got every Christmas. Hell, I stopped believing in Jesus before I stopped believing in Santa. I used to make a proper fool of myself trying to convince the other kids in JUNIOR FUCKING HIGH! that Saint Nick really existed. To lend further credence the fat man’s existence, my grandmother (who loved to travel) would send me letters from exotic locations throughout the year and sign them as Santa Claus on vacation.

Dude, I loved Santa. He was my buddy. Shit, we talked on the phone all the damn time!

(My grandfather phoning from Palm Springs. This was before Caller ID.)

It wasn’t until I became too smart for my own fucking good that I ruined everything. Couple boys I hung out with were giving me grief over my continued belief in the magical man, so I finally decided to do some investigating. I read a bunch of books on Santa and asked some relatives and finally collected enough information to confront my mother. She successfully skirted all my inquiries, like the boss that she is, and I resorted to guerrilla tactics.

One afternoon, I cornered my father and said, “Mom said Santa Claus isn’t real. Why’d you lie to me?”

Of course Mom had said no such thing, but Dad didn’t know that.

He said, “Santa is more a feeling than a real person. It’s the spirit that counts. Now fuck off, I gotta cook dinner.”

That’s an exact quote. I’ll never forget what he said and the flippant way he said it.

Anyway, my 13 year old heart was broken. I told Mom that Dad told me there was no Santa Claus, and she lit into him. Gave him loads of grief over that. Now THAT is a fond memory. I don’t think she knows, even to this day, that I suckered the old man into telling me. Oh well. That’s what he gets for being such an asshole.

Can you remember when and how you found out there wasn’t a Santa Claus? I honestly want to know if my being 13 when I found out is some kind of record.

See you tomorrow,

E.

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Today’s the last day to get this free…

 

My Semi-Fictional Life #68 (Flash Fiction Fridays, Round 4!)

Hello peeps. Today’s fever dream is brought to you by new medication and some of the wildest fucking suggestions I’ve ever seen. But, before we get along with the get-it-on, I wanted to offer a reminder that the War on Christmas paperbacks are still available for pre-order, and if you order them by midnight tonight, you’ll more than likely get them before Christmas. Click on the cover below to order yours today!

(I promise it’s better than the story you’re about to read.)

All right. Enough self-promo shenanigans. On with the story…

“A-Maze-Ing Happenings!”

by Edward Lorn

The penis pump arrived on the same day the local weather man quit on live television.

 Major Storm looked directly into the camera and said, “Shit. I’m forecasting literal shit. That’s it, motherfuckers, I’m done. Holla!” He snatched his mic from his suit jacket, flipped the camera the bird, and walked out of frame. He was never heard from again.

Willy Smalls turned off the television, chuckling as he opened his package from Barley Legal, A-Maze-Ing Sexual Devices for the Whole Family! The penis pump had been giftwrapped for whatever reason, and Willy, saddened at having to destroy something so lovely, cried as he tore into the beautiful red-and-green paper.

The pump, unwrapped, was shaped vaguely like a banana to, as advertised, conform to a man’s “natural curve”. Willy’s penis wasn’t long enough to curve, so the feature was wasted on him. He just hoped this contraption would, at the very least, double his inch-long ding dong. Had his dick been thick enough to get friction with, say, a pickle jar, he might not have purchased the lengthener. Alas, his penis was not only short but thin, as well. The size of his wang, or lack thereof, had caused the boys in school to nickname him Needle Dick the Bug Fucker, seeing as how his teensy tiny tent stake was small enough to pleasure the very smallest of insects.

“We’ll see what they say when they get a load of my freshly enlarged ramrod!”

He placed the pump upon his inverted cock and flipped the power button into the On position. The pump growled to life, vibrating and rumbling like a diesel engine.

Over the din of the pump, Will heard his cell ringing. He picked up the phone. The screen read : WORK. He answered.

“Hello?”

“Hello? Willy? Willy Smalls? That you?”

“Yeah!” he hollered over the pump’s engine.

“They doin’ construction over here? Is that a jackhammer I hear?”

“Yeah!” he lied. He gazed in wide-eyed amusement as his penis grew three sizes this day. “Holy shit!”

“What? What’s holy shit?”

“Nothing, boss. Whatcha need?”

“Can you come into work today?”

“Why?” His cock was now four times bigger than normal, all but filling the pump’s vacuum chamber with pinky, veiny flesh.

“It’s Wild West day and we’ve… well, we’ve had some people who had to leave… um… due to illness.”

“Illness?”

“Yeah. Something like that. Can you come in?”

Willy thought about it. Maybe he could find someone to show his massive cock to. That would be rad.

He said, “Yeah. Sure. Why not. Be there in an hour.”

He turned the pump off and sat for a moment, admiring his swollen fuckstick. His dick glared back at him like a cyclops with its face smashed against glass.

“I’m twice the man I used to be!” he sang as he got ready for work.

It rained shit all the way to work. No wonder the weatherman quit.

Willy Smalls was not expecting the carnage he walked in on.

The zoo where he had become a mess of blood and shit. Smashed bodies lay about the pathways half buried in piles of poop: heads crushed to pulp; torsos mashed pancake thin; a wild pig, its rhinestone leash dangling in the collected viscera waste matter, chewed at a flattened corpse. A woman in a Chinese immigrant outfit on a horse that Willy thought he recognized as Shirley from Human Resources covered in layer upon layer of blood and gore and feces trotted up to him.

“What happened here?” 

“It’s all my fault! I was leading Hamhock around by his rhinestone leash when we came upon the elephant attraction. I should’ve known that horses don’t like elephants and elephants don’t like pigs. I work for a zoo for fuck’s sake! It’s all my fault!”

“You work in HR, Shirley. You couldn’t have known.”

“IT’S ALL MY FAULT!” Shirley squealed as she raced off toward the shark tank, where she jumped, horse and all, into the water. The waters came alive at the smell of her gore-soaked body and both mare and HR employee were eaten alive.

“Willy? Willy, that you?” came the familiar voice of Blake Lakewood, general manager of the zoo.

“Why’d you call me in, Blake? Everybody’s dead.”

“Exactly. Someone has to take care of the animals.”

“The fuck are you talking about? You don’t need to be calling people into work. You need to call the police!”

“Something’s wrong with you.”

Willy screamed, “Something’s wrong with me? You’re the one calling—”

“No look, Willy. Your dick…”

Willy looked down in horror at the crotch of his pants as his cock burst through his zipper. His dick was yellow and bumpy, and it took him a moment to realize what had happened.

Blake giggled. “Look! Corn on the knob!”

An orgasmic tremor dropped Willy to his knees as something vaguely human-shaped spurted from the tip of his corny cock.

A slimy witch covered in a thick layer of man-glaze stood and cackled. She was dressed completely in cornhusks, even her pointed witches hat was made of veiny husks.

“The ritual is complete!” she crowed. “Soon, the world will bow before the magic of Brenda Barley!”

“Who the fuck is she?” Blake yelled. “What the fuck’s going on!”

“I’ve come for your souls!” Brenda Barley cackled, her voice screeching to the heavens. “You shall all know the horrors of high-fructose corn syrup!”

Brenda Barley mumbled some gibberish and pointed to Willy’s starchy penis. The individual kernels first smoked then popped as his dick erupted in popcorn. He wailed in pain as his massive dong was reduced to theater snacks.

In the distance but growing closer by the second came the thunderous footfalls of a great beast. Brenda Barley, Blake Lakewood, and Willy Smalls never had a chance.

Around the shark tank came Elly the Elephant, gargantuan and unstoppable. She crushed the remaining survivors underfoot in a kind of electric slide dance her trainers had taught her. Then she took a break and had some popcorn.

Because elephants, when deprived peanuts, will enjoy popcorn just as much.

 

 

NRLYMRTL says: My submission: Her task had been simple. It was Wild West week at the zoo. There were all sorts of kids’ activities and family friendly memes scheduled. She was to ride a horse around the park, decked out in her Chinese immigrant Wild West attire, while leading a very large friendly pig around on a rhinestone leash. Alas, horses are terrified of elephants and elephants are insensibly maddened by pigs. Things got messy.

 

William Jones says: Ted, also known as Needle Dick the Bug Fucker, frustrated with the small stature of his male member orders a penis enlargement pump from an ad he found in the back of his Barley Legal magazine only to discover the device is haunted by the specter of an ancient Maze Witch. (That’s right Barley Legal, not Barely. Ted in addition to have the world’s smallest penis has an abnormal sexual fetish for agriculturial products, especially corn). His member grows kernel by kernel, out of control…

Casper says: Shit falls from the sky and overwhelms the senses.

Okay, this was likely the dumbest shit I’ve ever written, but it was so much goddamn fun. Thanks to everyone who played.

See you tomorrow,

E.

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My Semi-Fictional Life #67 (Miscellaneous Stuffs)

Holy shit, did I spell “miscellaneous” right in the title of this blog on the first try? HELL YEA! Anyway…

Hello peeps. I’m terrible at self-promotion. I don’t buy ads or spam people or any of the tried and tested promotional tools available to authors like myself. And, yes, spam works. It’s shady-as-fuck and desperate-as-hell, but it works. It might not work on you, but you have a brain. To the mindless masses, spam works perfectly well. These zombified consumers purchase such things as hotdog/banana slicers, Shake Weights, and tuition to Trump College. People who are susceptible to spam exist, oh, yes they do, and they outnumber the thinkers of the world. I simply won’t do it because I don’t want to be spammed myself. The only spam I like comes in a can. Why, yes, Virginia, I am a fat bastard.

So what do I do for self promotion? Two things: social media presence and word of mouth. Yup. That’s it. Here’s a list of where you can find me the most, in descending order from most visited to least visited:

Instagram

Twitter

Facebook

Blog

Goodreads

Tumblr

Yeah, I’m rarely over at Tumblr. The place feels like MySpace, and we all know what happened to MySpace.

I am always on Instagram. In fact, it’s the only place my tablet is set to notify me of new posts. I upload bookish pictures and clips of me playing guitar and all sorts of nonsense. If you think you’d like seeing such oddities, follow me over there and join in on the conversation. Right now I’m asking for Christmas song requests, which I will then play horribly.

What else did I want to talk about…

Oh, yeah, my meds. I started new medications a few days ago and it’s making me feel like shit. Everyone keeps saying, “Give it time to stabilize you.” But I just don’t feel like myself, you know. My heart’s all fluttery and I’m exhausted all the damn time. Right now, as I’m writing this, I’m dizzy, so please pardon any errors. It’s hard to edit when there’s two of everything.

Could my body be used to being sick? Could I be feeling funny because I’ve not been healthy in a long time? Probably. But that doesn’t change the fact that, even if I am better off on the medicine than off, I still feel like shit.

I felt so bad yesterday that I went out for some retail therapy. The Pic of the Day is my purchases. Each one was a quarter a piece. And then, after dinner, I slept from 6pm to noon today. Yay, new meds… yay…

Anyway, enough rambling. I gotta go lay down before I fall over.

See you tomorrow,

E.

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My Semi-Fictional Life #66 (Preorder for new Signed Paperback!)

Early Edition:

Hello peeps! Part Two in the War on Christmas series, Deck the Halls, is FREE! You can download it on Amazon by clicking HERE, or by clicking on the Pic of the Day at the end of this post. If it’s not free when this post goes live, give it time. When it finally goes free, it will be free for five days (Dec. 7-11).

Only one more week before Beyond the Gates of Toyland drops. It’s been three years since this series started. The only project I worked on longer than this one was Cruelty, which is $0.99 until January 1, 2017. Oh, in case you missed it, all of my books have been marked down to $0.99 until the first of the year. If you’ve ever wanted to test the waters of Lake Lorn, now is the time.

Now I have even more news about the War on Christmas series. On December 21, the omnibus edition of the series will be available for free on Amazon, along with a paperback version, which will be available to purchase for you collectors out there. Here’s the cover reveal.

This is one of my favorite designs that I’ve done. Really proud of it, mostly because it came out exactly like I imagined it. If you’ve read the entire series, you’ll find quite a few Easter eggs hidden throughout the cover image.

I’m doing a preorder for signed copies of the paperback . You can grab that HERE for $15.00, with free shipping within the United States. With the ever-increasing price of international shipping, you’ll have to email me if you live outside of the U.S. Word of warning, though, the cheapest shipping on this to the UK is $35.00, so you’re looking at a cost of $43-45 for this 108 page book, depending on where you live.

I will be doing one big order a week, so I cannot guarantee shipping before Christmas, but chances are, if you order before the 10th, you’ll get yours before the 25th. Each one will be going out priority mail with tracking and insurance.

I think that’s all for today. Remember, Deck the Halls is free for the next five days (Dec. 7-11), and the series finale, Beyond the Gates of Toyland, will be free from December 21st through the 25th. Feel free to spread the word. The more the merrier, and all that.

See you tomorrow,

E.

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United Kingdom

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Japan

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My Semi-Fictional Life #65(A Review)

A review of David Bowie Retrospective and Coloring Book, by Mel Elliott

Has Mel Elliott ever actually seen a picture of David Bowie or naw?

In this book, Bowie looks like Pewdiepie, Jim Morrison, and Paul Frehley. See also: Rick Astley, Nick Cave, Marilyn Manson, Mick Jagger, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and Bret Easton Ellis. In fact, it might be fun if you guys were to check out your local bookstore and flip through this book to see if you can match the above people to the images in the book. Should be easy. Have fun, but I wouldn’t suggest buying it. My point is, he looks like everyone but himself.

I’m actually kinda disappointed in this. Luckily, this isn’t for me. It’s for my wife, whose father died a few years back. Irving was my father-in-law’s name, and Irving loved himself some Bowie. I dug the man and his music, as did my wife, but Irving’s fandom went well beyond ours. So I requested this one from Crown Publishing in return for a review. Glad I did, too, because Chell squealed in pleasure upon opening the box. To her, this book is more than just pictures. It’s a reminder of the good times with her dad.

In summation: My wife loves this thing for the sentimental value, but the pictures are of really poor quality. Might be fun to color, but I’m sure Chelle will never color in hers. Thanks to Crown for the review copy. *smooches*

Final Judgment: Artwork by Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder.

See you tomorrow,

E.

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