Matt Manochio's Blog, page 6

What Pixar doesn’t want you to see …

I love my Mezco Heisenberg action figure! He brings out the worst in my son’s toys, like when Woody loads up on the blue crystal and goes after the crank bug on his nose.

AC/DC will Rock or Bust without Malcolm Young

AC/DC fans got a bit of bittersweet news that we all feared (and knew) was likely coming.

The good: The band’s newest studio album, “Rock or Bust,” releases December 2.

And the boys will tour next year!

The bad: Founding member and rhythm guitarist Malcolm Young is retiring from the band due to an undisclosed illness (the band is notoriously private and close-knit) widely believed to be a stroke. Fans knew he wasn’t appearing on this newest AC/DC album, and now we know he’ll never partake in one again–so debilitating is his illness.

His nephew, Stevie Young, played rhythm on Rock or Bust and will tour with the band. Fans will be cool with this because Stevie’s toured with them before to spell his Uncle Malcolm, who entered rehab for alcohol in the 80s. Stevie’s family, and that’s the only way AC/DC can possibly continue to exist. You cannot replace Malcolm, who’s really the band’s backbone (along with brother Angus), but AC/DC can and will continue. And I’m glad. As long as the boys feel they can play and tour and not lose what makes them great, they will.

Most importantly, I pray Malcolm recovers enough to hopefully enjoy the remainder of his life, and to fully appreciate how thankful his fans are for his contributing to the rocking soundtrack of their lives.

Hunter Shea’s Montauk Monster Kicked My Ass!

Finishing Hunter Shea’s The Montauk Monster is akin to reading any book about the Holocaust and then deciding for yourself which one had a happier ending.

Wait! I liked Hunter’s book (I’m giving it 5 stars on Amazon) and hosted him on my blog last week! And Hunter’s book had zero to do with WWII, let’s clear that right up. But, man, did it drain me and dash my hope in mankind.

Let’s back up: It’s summertime on Long Island, N.Y., and some of the locals have been found ripped up on the beach (Hunter’s hat-tip to Jaws), and what hasn’t been torn apart will soon melt into gruesome gooey puddles. One by one, citizens, tourists and harmless pets are torn to pieces by giant dog-like animals, and it’s up to Suffolk County Police Officers Gray Dalton and Meredith Hernandez to figure out what’s ruining summer on Montauk.

Enter, the Montauk monsters. Hunter introduces us to Plum Island, a government research base off Montauk’s coast where the scientists clearly weren’t trying to create ice cream that never melts. No, these gods in white lab coats spliced together the DNA of a bunch of different animals (boars, wolves, hawks, Philadelphia Eagles fans, you name it) to create war machines—deadly animals whose sole purpose in life is to kill. Think of a Great Dane’s body with a head that has a boar’s tusks and snout, and the mouth is an eagle’s sharp beak. Stay with me! Just think of horrid amalgamations of animals that have blackish-blue diseased skin, and whose bites transmit a deadly virus (Hunter’s hat-tip to Alien). Imagine dropping these things into enemy territory to root out the bad guys, because that’s why they were bred. However, the monsters got off Plum Island and swam for Montauk’s shore.

(Side note: AC/DC’s Black Ice album has a song called War Machine, and I couldn’t help but think of these monsters eating people to the tune of Angus and Malcolm Youngs’ grinding guitars and Brian Johnson’s werewolf howls.)

Montauk’s soon overrun with war machines. Enter the Army, FBI, CIA, CDC, HAZMAT, EPA, DHS, and just about every acronymed government agency out there converging on Long Island to try to stop these monsters and this virus that causes your infected body to bubble and explode.

Hunter’s novel never slows, but that doesn’t stop him from developing characters you want to survive—and that’s tough for the heroes to do in The Montauk Monster. It’s like riding a roller-coaster through hell because of what’s happening to those poor people in the book. Spoiler Alert: Don’t read this sentence if you don’t want to know that you should not get attached to any character in The Montauk Monster.

Here’s what I enjoyed the most about the book: You loathe the monsters because of what they are: merciless killing machines. The only way you could like them is if they were deployed inside the Kremlin to root out Vladimir Putin. But I soon found myself loathing more the faceless people who created the beasts, and the indifference these men and women show toward the innocent men, women and children they just prefer to firebomb rather than rescue if it means stopping the monsters from escaping Montauk. It dawns on Gray and Meredith that monsters need not have fangs.

Montauk Monster Scribe Hunter Shea’s Take on Horror

Hunter Shea’s a busy guy and–from an author’s perspective–is having an awesome summer. Pinnacle released The Montauk Monster (TMM) last month, and earlier this month my publisher, Samhain Horror, released Hell Hole.

I’ve yet to read Hell Hole, a horror Western that’s queued in my Kindle, but have tackled TMM, and this much stands out to me: Hunter must’ve loved the original Jaws.

I couldn’t help but think of the 1975 blockbuster upon reading the first chapter of the book, which involves a man and woman with raging hormones and a desire to act on them on a Long Island beach. Now, I’m not gonna say what happens, but if you saw Jaws, you know two things:

1. The movie opens with a man and a woman frolicking along a Long Island beach, and the woman goes skinny dipping–resulting in the summer not ending well for her.

2. Based on Jaws’ movie poster,  you know what happens to her:

Courtesy: the Internet

Now, I’m not spoiling anything when I say that a shark is not responsible for any shenanigans at the start of TMM. But something is. Something indescribable. No, really, Hunter does a great job masking what the hell is running (and swimming) around Montauk causing all sorts of problems. Hunter lives in New York, and you can tell through his writing that he knows and loves the area. He also creates likeable protagonists in Suffolk County Police Officers Gray Dalton and Meredith Hernandez, and animal control officer Anita Banks, who are tasked with trying stop these ravenous monsters (that’s right: monsters–plural), whose origins reside on nearby Plum Island, a mysterious U.S. research base where scientists play god and brew up strange creatures with gruesome faces like this one!

U.S. Secretary of State John Kerry

I’m sorry. Did I just get slightly political? Let’s avoid any unpleasantness and move along to a question I asked Hunter–a question I ask of all horror authors: What makes a horror novel? It’s one of those genres that encompasses so many things, making it tough to pin down. Here’s my take. And now, we welcome Hunter Shea!

 

OK, Matt has asked me for my definition of horror as a genre, which by no means is the definitive explanation. Perception is unique to the perceiver, so as a species, we can never have full consensus on anything. That’s what makes us so darn interesting (and frustrating).

Look, I’ve been a horror hound since I was a little kid. When bookstores took down the horror section years ago, I nearly wept. How the heck was I supposed to easily find my horror fixes? Do I really have to get on my knees to find John Saul’s books crushed under the weight of J.D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye?

As I’ve gotten older and supposedly wiser, I’ve come to realize that horror shouldn’t be segregated at all. Horror is everywhere. It wears a multitude of disguises. So while the general public will deem anything supernatural, paranormal themes, monsters or crazed killers as horror, it goes much deeper than that.

Horror is about evoking an emotion. Those emotions can be fear, dread, suspense, anticipation, revulsion and on and on. Anything that picks at those scabs, makes us face our worst nightmares or discover new ones has entered into the realm of the horrific.

I was just at an author panel where we had to reveal our favorite horror movie, book and story. For me, the movie choice was easy – Alien. To me, this is the greatest horror and sci-fi movie of all time. Yes it’s set in space, but damn, nothing scared me more than watching Dallas crawl through the ventilation shafts searching for that creature. Talk about dread and fear walking hand in hand.

Someone on the panel brought up a book about war from varying perspectives. Sure, it would never be officially categorized as horror, but the theme and the scenes sure should. Horror can be found everywhere, from the Bible to the most far out fantasy novels and movies. Game of Thrones is bursting with great horror moments, but no one would ever categorize it as such. Zombie armies, The Imp going on a killing spree, the terror of the Red Witch’s hellspawn. You can’t tell me that’s not horror in its most classic form.

You don’t have to turn on the news to know that horror is all around us, waiting for those brave enough to plunge headlong into our most hidden fears. Open the pages of any book and you just may find it, hiding behind a senseless genre classification.###

Thank you, Hunter! Well stated. As for TMM, it’s the ultimate beach read because it never slows, makes you wonder what the hell’s out there stalking Montauk, and people literally get ripped to pieces on the beach! And elsewhere.

The characters in Jaws can be heard screaming, “Stay out of the water!” It doesn’t matter where you’re staying in TMM, because they can, and more often than not, will get you.  

AC/DC and Pink Floyd to release albums this year!

OK, so, how the hell does AC/DC or Pink Floyd have anything to do with horror?

Easy. AC/DC’s album Who Made Who served as the soundtrack for Stephen King’s movie, Maximum Overdrive. King’s a big AC/DC fan and even directed Maximum Overdrive, which, well, might go down in history as the best movie ever directed by Stephen King. Um, let’s move on. Stephen King writes horror, likes AC/DC, hence, the horror connection.

And since I would gladly burn my feet on hot coals at a Tony Robbins convention just to see the band plug in their amps, you might consider me a die-hard fan, too.

This leads me to doing the Snoopy Dance over the news that AC/DC has finished recording its latest studio album, which likely means a fall release! This will be a bittersweet album for reasons AC/DC fans know well. Founding member and rhythm guitarist Malcolm Young won’t appear on the album because he’s recovering from a serious illness (widely believed to be a stroke). So the band enlisted Young nephew Stevie Young to fill in for him. Stevie substituted for Malcolm during the late 1980s Blow Up Your Video tour so that Uncle Malcolm could go to rehab for alcohol abuse. Fans will gladly accept Stevie wielding a Gretsch in his uncle’s stead. And chances are Malcolm had some input in writing the tunes, so he’ll be involved with the album in some respect.

And, oh, by the way, Pink Floyd is getting in on the act, too! I’m not a huge Pink Floyd fan, but my sister is, and this should make her happy: the English psychedelic (whatever you want to call them) rockers will release their first studio album in 20 years! It’s titled The Endless River. Now, even though keyboardist Richard Wright sadly succumbed to cancer a few years back at age 65, the band was able to take some recordings it did during its Division Bell tour and spruce it up with Nick Mason’s drums and, more importantly, David Gilmour’s guitar (and I’m assuming, voice). Band founder, bassist and lead grump Roger Waters had zero to do with this album.

It’s fair to say both Pink Floyd and AC/DC fans will listen to these albums with a fair amount of wistfulness, knowing that key members couldn’t be involved due to illness, death, and being pissed off for 35 years. Such is life, and while we have some left in us, it’ll be nice to rock out or do whatever you do to Pink Floyd as 2014 winds down.

Author Jonathan Janz Defines Horror

Today’s a big day for Samhain Horror authors Hunter Shea and Jonathan Janz, whose respective books, Hell Hole and Castle of Sorrows, hit shelves both physical and digital. I’ll be posting something with Hunter in a few weeks regarding both Hell Hole and his recent Kensington release, The Montauk Monster, which is already on my Kindle just aching to be read. Both guys have been supportive of me in my schlep toward publication come November 4, and I can’t wait to meet both at a yet-to-be-determined horror convention down the road.

But today’s post involves Jonathan Janz, which isn’t his real name and I’m still not sure how to refer to him when I write to him. But that’s another story. Isn’t this a kick-ass cover? (Yes.)

Courtesy: Amazon (Lord of Everything)

Castle of Sorrows is the sequel to Jonathan’s 2012 release, The Sorrows, which I read, and which involves the thing you see perched in the window frame on the cover. That is not a nice thing. I know, how could a monster with hooves and ram horns be anything but a cuddly Care Bear with a heart on its fluffy belly.

Courtesy: Google (the Other Lord of Everything)

Put it this way, you don’t want to be beat up or have sex with that thing above (the ram-horned monster, not the Care Bear). I’m waiting for my Castle of Sorrows trade paperback to arrive, and I’m sure I’ll dig it, as I do pretty much anything Jonathan writes. What Jonathan’s going to write about here is how he defines horror. I find it to be a difficult-to-define genre. What say you, Jonathan?

“I see horror as a very broad definition that encompasses much more territory than most people would consider horror. For instance, in addition to stories and films that deal with the fear of physical mortality, I’d expand horror’s reach to narratives that deal with psychological, emotional, or even spiritual horror. Books like King’s ‘SALEM’S LOT, Peter Straub’s GHOST STORY, and Richard Matheson’s HELL HOUSE are almost universally considered horror novels. And I, of course, would agree with that label. However, I also view Cormac McCarthy’s THE ROAD, Harold Pinter’s THE HOMECOMING, and Arthur Koestler’s DARKNESS AT NOON as horror stories. These stories deal with the shadowy realms of the human mind and the base viciousness of human behavior. The horror I felt during THE HOMECOMING was more powerful than the horror I experience when reading most horror novels. In THE ROAD, McCarthy demonstrates just how terrible and wonderful human beings can be. In DARKNESS AT NOON, Koestler chronicles a slowly unfolding nightmare, and while the political backdrop and social commentary matter, I just see those as further examples of the great potential the genre possesses.

“I suppose this is why I want the genre to be more inclusive rather than exclusive. No, everything is not a horror novel, but horror is far more than a vampire or a mummy or a crazed backwoods cannibal.” ###

Agreed. It’s not about the monsters, as Stephen King once tweeted (I’m sure it was in response to my blog).

Good luck to Jonathan Janz with his latest release! And, Hunter? See you in a few!

Name the new John Grisham thriller contest!

Whilst browsing Barnes & Noble.com’s’ “coming soon” section, I stumbled upon the cover to the next John Grisham novel, titled appropriately enough:

The New Legal Thriller, By John Grisham.

Courtesy: Barnes & Noble

Now, as you can glean from the cover, that’s not the actual title, which will be revealed sometime prior to the October 21, 2014, release date.

To which I say: Keep it!

If ever a title perfectly captured the subject matter of an author’s next book, it’s The New Legal Thriller, By John Grisham. Nothing against our Mississippi lawyer friend, but I’m not devoted to his work–which isn’t to say I think it’s bad work. I’ve read a few of his books: The Firm and The Appeal spring to mind. Yes, they were entertaining. (The movie with Tom Cruise is another horrid story.) I’m simply not a reader of legal thrillers. But I have nothing against people who enjoy them, and I respect the outstanding body of work Grisham has written and hold no ill will toward him. You go, John!

Which brings me back to the title of John’s next book. For giggles, let’s read the synopsis I found on B&N’s website and see if we can glean an appropriate title. There’s only one rule: “The” must begin the title. Practically all of John Grisham’s books being with “The.” The Runaway Jury, The Rainmaker, The Arcane Legal Technicality (I made that one up), you get the picture. My contest (which offers no prize). My rule (inane). Here’s the text:

“The Great Recession of 2008 left many young professionals out of work. Promising careers were suddenly ended as banks, hedge funds, and law firms engaged in mass lay-offs and brutal belt tightening. Samantha Kofer was a third year associate at Scully & Pershing, New York City’s largest law firm. Two weeks after Lehman Brothers collapsed, she lost her job, her security, and her future. A week later she was working as an unpaid intern in a legal aid clinic deep in small town Appalachia. There, for the first time in her career, she was confronted with real clients with real problems. She also stumbled across secrets that should have remained buried deep in the mountains forever.”

Hand on a bible: I know nothing about this book other than what you just read, but I’m certain this young lawyer (who probably comes to Appalachia with a cut-throat, arrogant attitude perfected by three years of evil apprenticeship under Lehman Brothers) soon finds a soft spot for the salt-of-the-earth country folk and, much to her dismay, learns they’re being exploited by a/an (insert obligatory evil/ruthless/heartless adjective here) coal company. You don’t want to mess with those coal company lawyers, because chances are they’re financed by the embodiment of evil, which, in today’s society, is represented by the Koch Brothers and, somehow, not al Qaeda or government overreach.

So, here are my ideas for the book title:

1. The Sooty Barrister (Nah, too English, a little on the whimsical side, and too many syllables for a Grisham title.)

2. The Hills have Attorneys (Nope, too close to the title of another movie and still too many syllables.)

3. The Coal Miner’s Lawyer (See above.)

4. The Tart Tort (I realize that makes absolutely no sense, but I like it because it’s got alliteration, is three syllables, and sounds kinky.)

5. The Mine (Hmm. It’s somewhat foreboding and abstract, and only two syllables, and unless Grisham’s next book is simply titled The, those are the fewest syllables possible.)

OK, I’m sticking with The Mine, which I’m certain won’t be the title, but I didn’t see the Spurs wiping the floor with the Heat a few weeks back. So what the hell do I know?

And if you think you can come up with something better? Go for it!

The Montauk Monster 2.0 Virtual Publicity Tour is Set to Party!

Originally posted on Hunter Shea:

As if the heat isn’t cranking up hot enough, we’ve put some more wood on the fire to flame The Montauk Monster‘s virtual publicity party! Are you ready to join the party? I could sure use a beer or two to cool me off on this crazy ride of book publishing. So the hottest summer party will be right in my court, peeps. Be sure not to miss any of the action.

Last week we got The Montauk Monster 1.0 tour going with some great authors and friends whose blogs I’ve been visiting this June. You can view that initial list of stops HERE, though I’ll add them all to this list too so you can follow along however you wish. Be sure to take a peek at all their sites and books too. Thanks a bunch to everyone!

Erin Al-Mehairi, my amazing publicist and first reader, good…

View original 858 more words

Giving Blood to Readers and Writers and Everybody

Courtesy: The Internet

Because we all read and write on some level, and we all need blood.

Here’s what I mean: Horror writers, and writers of practically every genre out there, except (let’s hope) children’s books, employ the use of blood either symbolically or because our characters run out of things to use for paint. We all have a visceral reaction when we see blood on the screen and in real life, and that reaction’s never good.

(Really, can you think of a circumstance when it’s fine to be overcome with joy and exclaim “Yippie! Blood!” or “Oh, thank heavens, Murray, the baby’s bleeding!” I can’t.)

That’s because blood belongs in the body and not out of it–with one exception: when you donate it, which, in my 38 years of life, I have never done.

Until last Thursday when my company hosted a blood drive.

Some history: I don’t mind needle pricks. This isn’t to say I enjoy needles. I don’t. Especially when they get stuck in the curve of the arm they use to draw blood. I cannot look at that. Ever. You go Labcorp or Quest Diagnostics and they sit you in that chair that has the funky elbow table on it, they slip that rubber band around your arm to find a vein, and, sheesh, is it getting hot in here?, and then you feel the rubber band digging into your skin, somewhat painfully, and you notice a throbbing and then they dab that cool stuff over the exposed veins, which you imagine look like a hideous purple spiderweb, and the lab technician reaches for the needle andjdkshfdjsabgrae pu 9gneahbhdfsk;a

Sorry, I just fainted headfirst onto my keyboard and need to mop up the sweat. Give me a minute.

Okay, I’m back. While I’m dramatizing (somewhat) my distaste for getting blood drawn, there’s some truth to it. I can’t look at it for fear that I indeed will faint. So why voluntarily put myself through this process, especially when they leave the needle in for an extended amount of time to drain me?

Because I’m a dad. That’s my reason. Things change on so many levels when you become a parent. Responsible parents, and I’d like to think the vast majority of parents are, wouldn’t hesitate to give blood if the doctor said, “Mr. and Mrs. (insert your last name), your child needs a pint of blood, and we need it from you.” No question. I’d be in that chair snapping on the rubber band myself.

So I got to thinking on the day of the blood drive that there are no doubt scores of little boys and girls, and grown adults, who will need blood. I’ve seen numbers ranging from 2% to 5% of Americans who are able to donate blood actually do so. There are a slew of statistics that can be found that illustrate just how badly blood is needed and how it’s always in short supply.

I didn’t think, I just did. For those of you who are squeamish and want to know what it’s really like to donate blood when you hadn’t planned on it, here you go:

1. You fill out paperwork that includes a lengthy questionnaire about your medical/sexual history. Providing you: A, don’t have HIV; B, aren’t a heroin addict; C, aren’t Iggy Pop; D, haven’t traveled to the United Kingdom between 1980 to 1986 (I’m not kidding, there was a question like that), and the like, you should be able to donate.

2. A technician goes over your form with you, asks a few questions to confirm this or that, takes your blood pressure, and then there’s warm-up act for the needle in the arm: the dreaded finger prick. Yup. They need to sample your blood before they do anything, so the technician dabs your ring finger with that cool numby stuff, squeezes the tip until it looks like a purple grape, and sticks it. Unpleasant? Yes. But you are rewarded with a Band-aid so it all works out. In the end, once you’re cleared, in your mind the technician takes on the appearance of the Grim Reaper and slowly points a bony finger to the chairs in the waiting area. You will pass a table of unhealthy food–salty chips, crackers, cookies, fruit juices–that will eventually be your reward, but not yet.

3. You get to sit and look at the four or five donors ahead of you who are sitting or lying on reclining tables, and all of them were full of calm, seemingly happy people getting their blood drawn. At least they were when I was there. Mostly older ladies and gentlemen, chatting with the nurses while plastic tubing snaked from their arms to blood-filled bags. (By that point I looked like Data from Star Trek: The Next Generation.)

Courtesy: Google search

4. It’s your turn. The technician who screened me had the presence of mind to write on my sheet “lay him flat.” Everyone else was sitting up, but they made sure I was supine for my donation. Why this was important will be explained later. So you lie down, unbutton your shirt sleeve and roll it up to reveal your soft flesh, and wait. And you not only look at the empty plastic bag that will be affixed with a bar-coded sticker with your details, but you eye at least six empty plastic vials, similarly bar-coded. All you’re thinking is they’re going to run six different tests on my blood before they can confirm whether they’ll use the pint they’re about to get from me. I’m already nervous, and that’s only compounded when I realize I’m paired with the “new” technician who had to make sure he was doing things right by asking the nurse. I like to joke around with people, it usually lightens the mood. I wasn’t in the mood to joke. And I’m glad the technician (a pleasant fellow) wasn’t either. If I was that technician, I’d probably be smiling and saying things to the nervous donor like: “Well, let’s hope you don’t end up like the last guy,” or “Don’t worry, I haven’t had an epileptic seizure since this morning.” Nope. Nope. Nope. There is a time and a place for everything. And joking with a first-time blood donor isn’t one of them. At that point, I’m just thinking, let’s get this over with!

5. Here it comes! The bag is hooked up with tubes, the vials are ready for fluid, and they found my veins by pumping a blood-pressure cuff. I looked out the window next to me the entire time. I felt the swab of cool, heard the guy say “little pinch,” and stick! That’s it. That millisecond of pain is over! The lingering discomfort takes its place. And it’s not comfortable. I was given a soft rod to squeeze every ten seconds, and I can only deduce this ensures your blood continues to pump. So, I’m lying there, counting to ten and squeezing, feeling this tube thing stuck in my arm, knowing full well what it’s up to, and I begin to feel warm. That’s right. I’m heating up, so much so that I notice my forehead is beading with sweat. And I’m woozy. Damn straight. This isn’t fun. I’m glad I’m helping someone I’ll never meet, but does it have to take so damn long to fill a bag with a pint of blood? Answer: Yes. You just keep thinking to yourself: it’ll be over soon, you’ll eat lots of sugary, salty snacks, and I’m going to pass out. There was a time when I thought I might, but I didn’t. I forced myself to squeeze and ride out the discomfort. Because, honestly, it doesn’t hurt. The tech noticed me sweating and, I’m positive, looking like a skeletal albino, and thought it prudent to slip a pillow under my head, place ice packs under my neck and high on my chest, and pray that he wouldn’t have to scream “get the shock paddles!” And after what felt like 10 minutes, the tech came back and (joy!) he slipped the needle out. He placed gauze on my tiny wound and asked me to hold it in place, and I did. He also raised my legs 45 degrees. Eventually he lowered my legs and inclined me 45 degrees to sit, and then to 90 degrees over a period of 15 minutes. One of the nurses said I probably would’ve passed out had I been sitting up during the donation. I don’t doubt it. Once I was deemed capable of walking fifteen feet to the goodie table without collapsing, I chowed down. One of the nurses was having lunch with me and commented “you still look pale, and your lips are blue.” I said, “well, I do feel a little woozy.” She said, “Oh, then we have to lay you back down on the table.”

“NO!” That’s the quickest I think I’ve ever said “no!” in my life. I assured them I was fine and would happily eat junk food with them until they cleared me. And cleared me they did after 2 bags of pop chips and a sleeve of Lorna Doons.

It was over. Well, not really. Salem’s Lot fans, remember the part in the book when Danny Glick stumbles weakly out of the forest and is ghost white and incoherent? That’s what I was like for the rest of Thursday and all day Friday. I am not joking. I felt like Barlow had gotten ahold of me. I had planned on taking Friday off anyway for unrelated reasons and am thankful I did because I was literally down a pint of blood for the first time in my life and my body didn’t know what to think, other than “Just go really slow.”

I’m not going to get preachy and say “everybody should give blood!”

No, if you honestly don’t feel you can handle it (like I did), then there’s really no shame in not doing it. I know a lot of people are scared to do it. But I’d like to think that I’m living proof that you can get through it. No, it won’t be fun. Since when is taking anything out of your body with medical instruments over a drawn-out period of time considered fun? But, trust me, it’s not as bad as you think it will be. And you will be helping someone.

The blood mobile will come back to my workplace within the next six months to a year. I’m not certain I will be the first in line with my sleeve rolled up. I’ll probably have to talk myself into it again. And that thought will involve some child, like my toddler son, in need of life-saving blood, and I’ll probably go ahead and do it, knowing it’ll suck. But it’s not the worst thing that can happen to you at work. Just make sure you don’t have anything big planned for the next day.

Reading Stephen King’s Carrie 40 years later

The problem (if one can call it that) with reading Stephen King’s first published novel, Carrie, 40 years after it originally published in 1974 is you know what happens. The bloody parts, anyway.

Carrie White, an introverted, sheltered teenage girl genetically gifted with telekinetic powers, has her first menstrual period (not realizing what it is at the age of 16) in a high school shower stall and falls prey to her classmates’ ruthless bullying. When Carrie isn’t being tormented by her peers in Maine, she’s mentally victimized at home by her religious fanatic of a mother, Margaret White, who currently polls first among Maine Tea Party candidates who are vying for an open state Senate seat.

SPOILER ALERT: Wait! I’m sorry, I think the two preceding sentences might have divulged important details to someone who hasn’t read the book and who now is saying, “Oh, man! Why’d he go and write that?” And if that’s the case, where the hell have you been for the past 40 years? Seriously, you didn’t have any inkling of an idea about Carrie’s travails? You didn’t, like me, see bits and pieces of the original movie adaptation starring Sissy Spacek as Carrie? Really? Now, I don’t recall seeing the movie straight through, but I remember the classmates setting Carrie up as the

high school prom queen, only to have Vinnie Barbarino dump a bucket of pig’s blood on her to humiliate her, and then blood-soaked Carrie flashes open her eyes, locks down the school with her telekinesis, sets the building ablaze, and essentially commits one of the first mass murders in

an American high school without bringing a gun. Anyone who’s nearing 40 and doesn’t know that is probably pulling the lever for Margaret White.

So, if you already know what happens in Carrie because of the movie (and the one that came out last year), why bother reading King’s first book?

Because it’s always nice to see how the greats started their careers, to read King’s work, knowing it was written at a point in his life when he was living paycheck to paycheck, hoping to be able to make a living that could support his family.

Now, I wasn’t expecting King to write the book in third-person narration interrupted by scientific journals discussing the Carrie White phenomenon, or witness testimonials to the Carrie White Commission, or novel excerpts published by surviving classmates. Had I not already known what happened at the high school, the way King teases up to it, I would know Carrie’s responsible for something awful that laid waste to many people. But what? And we know it must be bad. Commissions aren’t typically convened to discuss why ice cream tastes yummy.

Thinking back, King was in his early 20s, not far removed from his high school days, a time when we all either witness bullying or are victimized by it. So the material was brutally fresh in his mind. Now, Carrie isn’t “boo!” scary, nor is it gory. King spills blood with purpose, never in irrelevant excess. Carrie’s disturbing because of what we all witnessed in high school. We identify with the characters (sometimes wishing we didn’t). It’s not unusual for impressionable teens desiring to smite their enemies, but rarely do they act on it in ways that grab headlines. King delves into Carrie’s mind and her classmates’, and we get the creeps because the warning signs were there, but ignored. A teacher laments that she didn’t try to help Carrie sooner. No doubt the same has been said for the murderers of school children we’ve read about for far too long.

Carrie’s a sad book more than anything–a sad but great introduction by a novelist who knew what he was doing way back when. And for the record, I couldn’t have read Carrie when it was released. I was a year away from birth. And, fortunately, telekinesis skipped over me.