electricland

I heart

street_prophets so, so much. You should too. For a sample: How to be a prophet

4. Very strange men with difficult-to-pronounce names will hop around acting like blithering idiots. They'll be all "Look at me! I have horns! I'm going goooore the enemies of Israel! Gnnar rrow rrow!!!"

Or they may be all "The Abramoff scandal is a bi-partisan affair. Democrats don't have the votes to stop Alito. The President is a strong leader."

It's the first birthday of

trashynovels, aka Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Novels! Aw. In addition to trashing bad cover art, they also review stuff. Thanks to

texaslawchick, I think it was, for pointing them out.

On that note, while their only Eloisa James review to date was very cruel, it had some funny, funny, good points. Especially about this:

The ending is also one of the most odd, drawn-out resolutions I’ve ever read; it’s almost like watching clowns pouring out of a car: just when you think “OK, the last clown is out, show over” another one hops out, does a soft-shoe then drags out yet another compatriot hidden in the trunk, who in turn reaches into the car and presents to us a midget hidden under the back seat.

I just started reading Eloisa James courtesy of

crankygrrl, and then in one of those weird Internet-synergy things I come across all these reviews, including this one by

coffeeandink, which linked to this (which reviews a book I actually haven't read yet) and made this deadly observation:

And she has no sense of period at all. Historical romances are seldom about world-building and alienation in the way straight historical novels are; they are more often about the use of period trappings as fetishes: enablements for kink or accessories to fantasy. James seems to use her setting to enable a profound ignorance of sexuality and to force together couples who'd more sensibly part; but she doesn't have any sense of proper public behavior in the Regency, or of things as simple as the proper form of titles, making her world insufficiently realized as a historical and insufficiently constrained for kink.

As always, other reviewers are better than me at putting their fingers on the flaws. Well, perhaps not that exactly, but more merciless at pointing them out. I had already observed that (a) the setups make no damn sense whatsoever in the context of the Regency, (b) the narrative tends to fizzle out, setting us up for a Big Cathartic Emotional Climax! and then sort of letting that fall by the wayside, (c) the NAMES, oh dear God -- Ambrogina? wtf? But I'm willing to let those slide. I enjoyed the three I've read so far very much, and devoured each in a sitting. I have to admit, my criticism threshold as a reader is pretty low, in general. It takes a lot for me to fling a book across the room, let alone threaten to chainsaw it. As long as I'm enjoying the story and there aren't too many excruciating typos and grammar gaffes, I'm generally willing to go along with it. As a rereader, though, it's another story. I like my Big Cathartic Emotional Climaxes (Fiona Walker does those well; so does Jennifer Crusie, who can do no wrong). I like for plots to hang together. I like to be able to like and respect and cheer for the main characters. I like to have lines of dialogue recur in my head. I like for there to be a proper ending (happy, for preference). I like for it to fit within the constraints it's set for itself, and to work.

I sometimes worry that I'm too indiscriminate in my tastes, but lately I think I've just got better at weeding out the books that won't suit me in advance.

That was longer than I expected.

jennycrusie is also awesome, and you should think so too. Even if it is hard as hell to quote from her blog, I'm making an extra effort:

If you put Peeps in the microwave, they get very big. Strangely, this is not the thrill you’d think it would be.

(So, naturally, I left a link to the Peep Research Page.) Also:

When I was home for Christmas, I bent over to get something, and my shirt rode up in back and my mother said, “Why, Jennifer, that almost looks like you have a tattoo.” Eagle-Eyed Jo is seventy-nine but she can spot the top curl of an antenna at thirty paces. I said, “That is a tattoo, and what are you doing looking at my back, huh?” She said, “I’m your mother,” which makes no sense but it’s worked as a justification for anything for fifty-six years, so I let it slide. Then she said, “How is it that you get the tattoo and I’m the bad one?” I thought, “Because it’s my world, the rest of you are just local color,” but I didn’t say it out loud, I’m not that dumb. Then she said, “Well, now you have to show the family,” at which point my nephew Jacob, who had been trying to snicker quietly, gave up and snickered out loud. I said, “Let me think. No.” She said, “Well, then you have to show me,” and she’s my mother, so I did. Then to pay her back, I said, “When you get one there, it’s called a trailer trash license plate.” She said, “Jennifer!” so my work was done, but then my dad said to her, “Well, I guess if Jenny has one, you need to get one, too.” And I thought about taking my mother to Mother’s Tattoo and Piercing in Covington and saying, “Give her a nice red heart with a banner that says ‘Born to Vacuum in High Heels.’” But she said no. Another fantasy shot to hell.

Then my niece wrote my daughter and said, "It was the best Christmas ever."

...oh, and

azerbic comments on the Google issue. Hmm.