Humor and Horror, Hand-in-hand: retro review

Totally random movie review. Random because I don’t watch many movies (no television either), so out of default I feel ill-equipped to tackle the all the nuances such as roles of directors, producers, animators, writers, actors. . . . Essentially, novels are from Venus, movies from Mars.

When I first saw Repo! around 2009, I was studying surgical technology. I’d grown disenchanted under the realization that most techs are employed in cosmetic surgical settings rather than the reason most of us had enlisted, which was to help the sick and injured. We did not know we’d be “helping” the self-centered and the wealthy instead.

Hence, Repo! appealed to me in a rebellious way. It lent humor to an otherwise repellent occupation--made it easier to accept that something so sadistic and horrific as mutilation in the name of “perfection” had become the norm. The nature of the movie is a middle finger to the surgically-enhanced population, namely the subzero Hollywood climate of automata with botox, breast augmentations, liposuction, nose-jobs, gastric bypasses, etc.

If you’ve ever shaken your head at an actor/actress/news anchor/model’s resemblance to a mannequin with perfectly frightening symmetry, then you will get this movie and certain parts will make you laugh.

If you're too squeamish to find any of it funny or you are in fact a surgery addict (or cosmetics addict) you will not be entertained as we were, and the moral of Paris Hilton’s face falling off will go over your head.

My article was originally posted in 2011 on Sci-Fi Saturday Night’s blog. Found the text file recently and wondered why I never bothered to put it on my own blog?

(Links in the article have been removed as they may not work; it’s been a year, after all!)
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Repo! The Genetic Opera is the answer to High School Musical for sci-fi and horror geeks. For Darren Lynn Bousman, who directed many of the over-the-top Saw movies, Repo!'s morbidity is fairly tolerable: For every instance of gore there's another of comedy, wrapped up in sing-along punk/cabaret lyric and dance. The opening theme song's only lyrics are "Things you see in a graveyard" sung in an operatic soprano, which sets a murky backdrop.

Minus the hilarity it'd be a fattening slice of gratuity and post-apocalyptic cliche. Horror needs balance to suit my sensibilities; there is no artistic merit in meaningless gore, especially set as a frame around scantily clad women brandishing surgical scalpels and a character who kills them to wear their faces. Then you have Paris Hilton's character, Amber Sweet, a spoiled brat who binges on surgery and painkillers. . . and loses her face.

Bousman handles it with gothic finesse, perhaps taking cues from George A. Romero (the zombie king) to include subtle comedy while taking care not to overshadow the flaws and struggles of his characters. The collapse of humanity, the subsequent obsession with biological perfection, and the emergence of a super villain with a vendetta effectively draw you in. If you like the music, and if you get the humor, the plot won't let you go.

Sarah Brightman's voice could shatter stained glass. Paul Sorvino lends the sedentary gloom and elegance of classical opera. I immediately re-watched it because I had to hear the songs again -- "Zydrate Anatomy", featuring lusty, lackadaisical vocals by Paris Hilton and the monster mash voice of Terrence Zdunich; "Chase the Morning" by the inimitable Sarah Brightman; and "Mark It Up" a tongue-in-cheek duet by Nivek Ogre -- then I finally broke down and got the soundtrack.  

Many compare Repo! to The Rocky Horror Picture Show. In terms of concept and definition, it is. Musically it feels more like Pink Floyd's The Wall, although not quite as manic: Challenging characters and subject matter; high moments of frenzy, tense moments of cynicism and melancholy. The songs are orchestrated excellently, all in the same major key, and each blends seamlessly into the next. Repo! succeeds on underground levels -- an unapologetic, original satire of Hollywood's divas, starlets, and harlots (including the men).

Shades of Dislike

My first book review on this blog. I wish it could’ve been a book that I liked better, but Amazon recommended it, I got it, here we are. Like any erotica, once you start reading Fifty Shades of Grey you become a bit hooked, if for nothing else than the short-lived naughty thrill of peeping into someone’s else’s sex life. And that’s really all this book has. If it’s interesting fresh personalities you’re after, or perhaps prose with creative distinctiveness, don’t listen to Amazon and the New York Times.

To be fair, as I said, the lure of naughtiness might keep you reading. Obviously, titillating is an easy sale. But make no mistake, it’s nothing new and the writing leaves a lot to be desired. Certain phrases, word for word, appear in so many different chapters that I often thought I’d accidentally cycled my e-reader back to a previous page (which happens frequently with the iBooks app).

I sound like a complainy-puss, but I don’t like wasting my time with things I had high hopes for. I’m also rather cynical when it comes to erotica; it’s difficult to find unique stuff in a cliché-dependent genre. But it wasn’t the genre that closed the book for me; there are a number of things I take issue with. For one, Author E.L. James’ teensy, seemingly innocuous injections of toxic propaganda. Namely, a conversation where a supporting character, Mia, suggests that the city of Paris is great, except for Parisians (“Boo, French people!”), and an awkward scene where the mother of Christian Grey, Grace, a pediatrician, is called to the phone—a setup clumsily built around her opinion that all children should be vaccinated (“Boo, freedom of choice!”). There are more examples. I’m not writing a thesis on it, though. Suffice it to say it’s almost like Fox News drones on at low volume in the background. And it’s kind of a really big turn-off for an erotic novel. . . unless of course, you’re into that.


The plot follows young, innocent-minded Anastasia Steele, a college student whom falls in love with a psychotic domineering billionaire with cult-like BDSM tendencies—Christian Grey. Her conflict arises from an obsessive sexual attraction for him, despite the fact that he is incapable of love. His idea of a relationship consists of beating, humiliating, and essentially owning Anastasia; he’s done so with every other woman he’s ever known. It begins intriguingly enough. You want to see her rise against this vitiating dude, and for a while she does. Yet plot problems arise as she weakens and succumbs to him, luring herself into a “compromise” with a sexual deviant, which seems inconsistent as far as psychology and human instinct:


There doesn’t seem to be anything in Anastasia’s past to suggest she was destined to be a “submissive” lover—a sex-slave, to be blunt. Moreover, certain details suggest she’d be smarter than that, such as the essentially wholesome, harmless, educated and privileged lifestyle she’s had up until meeting Christian Grey. There are worse things than having a mother who remarries when the seasons change; I thought this facet of Anastasia’s past would’ve made her more adaptive to change and thus more mature, but for all that, she remains “innocent” and “naïve” in the face of insane decisions like whether or not her psychotic lover is an abuser for wholly dominating and humiliating her, desiring to bruise her and punish her like a child. But he’s “hot”, so hot apparently, that she cannot walk away and spends a great deal of time flailing and crying over her indecision.


In the long run, she accepts his bizarre idea of a relationship—going so far as to sign a non-disclosure agreement so that she’ll not try to sue him if he should happen go past her “limits”—and allows herself to believe that his tragic past has screwed him up, but she can change him. Is that not the proverbial mantra of a doomed relationship—“I can fix him/her.” Yes, it’s a black day for true love; womanhood too, for goddess’s sake. Continual references to the protag’s inner goddess is salt in the wound.


There’s no corroborating scene from her past to explain why she retains a grade-school mentality, yet it persists. Numerous references to this twenty-something’s innocence and her childlike mannerisms began to irk me. I stuck around until the middle of Book 2 for some kind of affirmation for why—why is she like this. And when I got sick of waiting, ill from the repetitive not-quite-healthy sex and dialogue, I gave up.


A far better read in this vein is Jacqueline Carey’s Kushiel series, where the writing lives up to the immense challenge of commercializing BDSM. Carey exceeds expectation through genuinely flawed and lovable characters, vivid Renaissance imagery (requiring research), and of course, the sensual backdrop of fallen angels interbred with mortals. Her erotica feels far less gratuitous, repetitive, and clichéd; at the same time, it offers the same naughty little peeks that attract genre fans. Her characters develop with less emphasis on pathos via repetitive mannerisms (i.e., angrily raking fingers through hair and nervously biting the lip—over and over and over); more emphasis instead on an impressive command of emotional vocabulary and metaphor to evoke poetic heroes, villains, sex goddesses, cities and conflicts. While James’ erotica shows familiar sexual tension and adolescent-style confusion, Carey’s shows the potency of sensual language, and she effectively conveys the purpose of her protagonist’s suffering; forget the BDSM, forget it. The woman carves literary sculptures from silk and pain, treachery and true love. If you’ve already read her, you have likely raised your brow at Fifty Shades. If you like this book series, then, much like Twilight fans, you cannot be helped.


Now I know that Fifty Shades is on the New York Times Bestseller list. I don’t claim to understand the NYT, aside from “who does one have to fuck to make the list?” This novel seems inauthentic, hesitant, and pensive in the genre. . . but it has sexy results. Perhaps readers buy controversy; it worked for Dan Brown. Who am I to say. These are opinions. I don’t know how long the author worked, but it is necessary for me to point out that I’ve read better, where it baffled me on just how long the author must have worked, how much blood and sweat went into an obviously spectacular project that deserves whatever accolades. There are authors that I envy, that I long to be compared to. Others, I have to shake my head and wonder if they didn’t know somebody in the business. As a disclaimer, I am cheerfully cynical, as stated above, when it comes to these things. To me, re-doing an idea again and again after it was initially executed well seems like an arrogant waste of time. However, the New York Times and Amazon’s Top 100 are proof of otherwise—that good old fashioned kinky titillation wins out over creativity and substance in a pitifully massive way.

Another excellent read, far and away from this vein, is Naomi Wolf's The Beauty Myth.

About Face!

I laughed out loud when I ran across this tonight. Not because this young girl was arrested, but because she has my name. Ah, I love the Internet, so plentiful with all its pitfalls, confusions, traps, and mistakes. Obviously, that isn't me. She was apparently booked in Arkansas. I've been on the West Sigh-eed for the last thirty years, yo. If it were me I'd probably be trying to get it taken down, or looking into whether such a thing is even ethical. Sometimes you take things with a grain of salt: lots of people have your name. Sometimes you take things head-on: That is not me. And sometimes you do both.

Speaking of taking things head-on, I thought I'd post a "reprint" of an article I wrote last year. Seeing as how this blog is semi-themed toward reaching other young women like myself -- maybe students, moms, hard workers --I think it's wildly important for all women to take heed. . . perhaps the young woman in the mugshot, too. My husband, who is white, says she's 2000 miles away, looks nothing like me, and he assures me that most white people do not think that all dark-skinned people look the same. We haven't stayed together for ten years by being politically correct. Anyway. The Article.

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Cyber-stalking, Bullies, and Emotional Terrorism
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With a great sigh... it's time for me to spotlight a subject that I dread. It's uncomfortably close to me and very, very ugly in the spotlight. As a victim, though, I feel obligated to speak. I hate being a victim, and pity doesn't pay the bills. But I do believe it's my duty to all vulnerable people at large, mostly young women, to impart what I've experienced in order to prevent it from happening to anyone else.

Stalking, cyber-stalking, hacking. Emotional terrorism. Privacy-invasion. These are crimes by unhinged individuals against unsuspecting prey: Members of on-line communities, of social networks, and of seemingly innocuous forums for advice and common activity.

First I begin with confession; repetition, if you're paying attention. Yes. I have had a stalker, a rather sadistic one. This person has invaded my privacy, and has made the Internet a threatening environment in which I've resorted to using pseudonyms (Makaia, which is an alternate spelling of my middle name, the name I use to post here; and Kaia, which is obviously a shortening of Makaia)to remain anonymous and hidden from their attacks. But no more. I will not hide anymore or remain silent, especially as things have gotten a ridiculous. This person – a middle-aged man -- opened fake social networking accounts in my real name in an attempt to sniff me out as well as get in a little humiliation while he was at it. Maybe you've heard of similar things of late, with the gay girl blog hoax going around the wired.

A common thing for stalkers to think is that they're “saving” their victims. This is ridiculous, of course. What they want is absolute control over their victim. They're the worst abusers walking the planet, with a full-blown God complex for believing that their state of mind is a) healthy and infallible, and b) a hard set of rules that must be followed. If rebelled against, their ideal world begins to splinter and crack, which to them justifies their destructive behavior. They become threatening, abusive, and possibly physically dangerous to others. Oftentimes they appear charismatic with their fixations and idiosyncrasies -- until they're denied what they want.

It's nearly impossible to convince a very sick individual that they need help, just as hard as it is trying to convince friend or family member that they may need therapy after a traumatic event. Adults develop a natural resistance to help, when gone are the days of childlike curiosity and willingness to ask questions and find new ways to approach obstacles. It's a brick wall until they come to their senses, often at the cost of something like their freedom or wellbeing or the easy predictability in their world.

So, onto some methods of stalking -- new methods enabled by new technology. There's a special brand of invasion into a smartphone called cloning. The symptoms are very specific and hard to ignore once you know them. I had them. Make sure you do not.

A little story: Three years ago, I severed ties with a small on-line writing group after finding Trojans and worms in my machine. I learned that the only way to acquire these particular nasties was in downloading infested documents. The only place I downloaded said documents was in 2008, from our small Yahoo! Group with only 6 or 7 members; a place for uploading chapters from our stories and giving each other critiques. The platform was such that you had to download files in order to read each other's stories, Word files and PDFs, and you uploaded your critiques, which were then downloaded by the writer and perhaps by other interested members.

So over about a year, we shared our little novels and exchanged our little critiques. It was meaningless fun and frustration, at times very tense, but a positive learning experience. I didn't think I needed any other forums and was very comfortable with sharing with everyone there. Needless to say, I didn't surf for any other forums or groups. I didn't download files from any other sources, I didn't click on ad-banners, and I didn't visit porn sites, which are usually a good source for computer viruses. Having an IT knowledgeable spouse (and being proudly intermediate myself) means I understood a lot of information that average computer users do not. I knew how to navigate my way safely through the Net.

Turns out I fell victim to attack, not from clicking on and downloading everything in sight, but due to my trusting nature and stubborn belief that all people are basically good. Why would I mistrust a small group of writers who had also quickly become my friends?

One day I noticed my computer acting quite strange. It had the symptoms of a worm. It was nearly interminable, and the process to get rid of it was painstaking and time-consuming. A lot of research showed that, for this particular attack, the nasty executable files had to be embedded in documents. Since I downloaded nothing else, most likely these documents were the chapters from “someone's” book. So you can bet that everyone in that tiny group was infected -- being spied on and having all their sensitive information closely monitored by a seriously ill individual. One friend from the group (the only one I kept after leaving) told me later that her machine suffered a devastating virus and that she too would never return to on-line writing groups. She probably had the same roll call of Trojans and worms that I had. All our files, including videos, novels, e-tax returns and all sensitive documents, really, including family and private photos – everything was invaded and likely captured by this person to do with as he pleased.

I left that group when my husband and I exterminated all the viruses. I swore never to download documents from an “on-line community” again, meaning I wouldn't be joining any writers' groups again. I ran across this article not too long after, the outcry of a woman who had witnessed the ill effects of an under-governed on-line writing community. Her words, although seemingly harried and fearful, never washed off. I had seen similar things. I felt culpable for never speaking out, for not reporting abuse, and not realizing when the same was happening to me. Again: No more.

I – we – are safe now, as the proper authorities are involved and there was never any impending physical harm, but I felt that the situation would remain a point of fear for me if I didn't discuss it. I feel human doing so. If your smart phone/computer is displaying similar symptoms, you will know what to look for. You will know that although things might be edging into the Twilight Zone, and you might not want to confess, that you can, and should.

For those that have had similar experiences, gather your strength and blog about it, publish it, tell the world. Report it. Tell your mom, no matter how old you are; tell your sister, your husband, the police. Tell everyone who you think it is, where you think they are, what you believe they have done. Loved ones listen and take action. Turn the tables and make your stalker feel like the stalked. Do not remain a victim just because the attacks are silent and virtually invisible.

Strength Is A Sentence

When you know someone -- and I mean really know them, perhaps love them, admire -- and the only flaws you can discern are physical, the flaws, then, reside in you.

Art Decaf: A Snifter of Portfolio

Anahita - sketched quickly with a black fineliner. She was originally a character from one of my stories. The provocative pose says nothing of her true character, which I later determined was a prim and composed, but weary, leader. . . . Freudian?

Astrian & Eve - sketched first with ink then prismacolors added along with flecks of acrylic paint here and there. This is the upper left corner of a much larger piece of work that took me close to a year to finish. I donated it to this e-zine about three years ago. Again, these two are characters from my stories. When I can't write, I draw; when I can't draw, blah blah. Much of the inspiration for my writing comes from envisioning the characters and some of their "adventures", then putting them in ink. I can't say that's what I set out to do; it just sort of happened. I've got about a hundred sketches of these particular characters in various poses, clothing, armor, naked, etc.

Aylea - another fast sketch, this time in pencil. Aylea is the protagonist of a novelette, written by a friend. I finished her story then picked up my sketch book, drew Aylea, scanned her, and sent her via e-mail to my friend. She was very happy. And so was I, because she was.

Reaching - a not-so-quick sketch done in black charcoal and a black fineliner. It's a da Vinci homage. Specifically, to this drawing. After studying his work, I became fascinated with armor and helmets, shields and swords, etc. There's a Japanese flavor to this one, of course. Overall it is, hopefully, a genuine blend of styles between Yoshitaka Amano's work and Leonardo da Vinci's.

English Landscape - I shot this piece with my iPhone. Oil pastels on yellowed parchment; originally finished overnight, due for an assignment the following morning. I was convinced I couldn't produce anything worthwhile with oil pastels. I'd never tried them before. The medium is pretty challenging, too -- oily. But it quickly became fun, and once I got the hang of it, I deliberately used every color in the box. Got no sleep, but did receive an A and have since become open to all mediums and combining them.

Dragon Eye logo - a quick little inking -- literally little, only about 3x2 inches -- that I doodled on graph paper (maybe during math class). It's obviously assymetric, while the graph lines hold it steady. I imagined it in the upper left-hand corner of a t-shirt for some reason. That, or a tattoo.

Firefly - a work in progress, all bold ink lines that are dying for some color. I'm posting this one to show how I go from zero to 100 colors using pencils (truly wonderful pencils. Truly). This image is a photo shot with my iPhone in our dining room. The sunlight in there was perfect; certainly better than the light inside my scanner, which tends to bleed through grainier types of paper. I started this picture out by measuring several triangles then figuring out which body part, sword, or wing fit non-awkwardly into each one. It's striving towards geometry and assymetry at once, while keeping the body in "motion." It was a challenge for sure, and at first I wondered why I gave it to myself, but pushing the boundaries simply gets you better results. And I'm satisfied with the results, if a little hesitant to place permanent color on her, knowing how specific each area was and how dramatic the lighting will have to be, Rembrandt dramatic, maybe. Again, Renaissance cuisine with Japanese flavor. This one's next on my hit list, after my current WIP.

Wind & Rain - I snapped a photo of the piece with my iPhone. India ink and black coffee were combined to stain white illustration board. This painting is an oldie, but a favorite. My husband says it's gotten better with age as the coffee's grown yellower, almost gold -- and I agree; the stains finally resemble the sunbeams I intended. It was my introduction to using India ink with calligraphy pens and rabbit hair brushes. He is the wind, and she is the rain.

The Fleuracle - the foreground is ink and pencils, the background velvety black marker. The moon aligns with her crystal ball as she sprouts up like a night-blooming flower. She was for a Halloween short story idea that included many tiny creatures such as faeries and elves and insects.

Mushrooms and Moonfrogs - Ink, color pencils, some crayon, another one shot with my iPhone because this one's too delicate to crumple into a scanner bed.  I wanted to create the most vibrant nightscape possible, everything shining and bluish and surreal. If the little frogs are poisonous. she doesn't care at all.

Patron Saint of Nursing - black fineliner and marker. Yes, there is a patron saint of nursing. While drawing her I thought 'tattoo' because it seems like such a definitive stamp: medical professional, geeky-cool, rebel with a clue.

Number 9

Here's a link to a nice review of the Australian journal that my poem, "The Flute's Song", was published in earlier this year. (The link to the issue is on this blog's menu of affiliated links. . . over there--------->).

It was my first published poem, the experience one of those special little (momentous, ginormous) events in a newbie writer's life. Etchings has an awesome staff, an impressive journal, and an elegant collection of writing, photography, and interviews (including one with Adam Elliot, an Oscar winner!) in Issue #9.

If by chance you're a writer, check out their website, read some of the free content to get an idea of what they like (perhaps buy a copy -- it's a lovely book!), and drop them a submission. The deadline for Issue #11 is drawing near. . . .

A Little From Column A and a Little From Column B

This post is probably mostly for women and about physical appearance, a topic that I avoid because there are plenty enough birds out there squawking (and definitely tweeting) about it already. Perhaps then it's also about perception, which I strongly believe is more philosophical than it is visual or physical.

What this is not: The proclamation of a feminist; the rantings/ravings of a mad woman; a passive-aggressive attack on any individual on the planet. This might be categorized as cautionary, if anything. So. If during a random sequence of events a stranger said you were ugly, and then soon after another stranger said you were beautiful, who would you listen to? Who should you listen to? Is it a matter of opinion, or is it fact?

A stranger asks with sincere curiosity, "What, are you 22, 23 years old?" Another makes a point of recommending an eye cream to you for your "problem areas." Who do you believe? Either someone is lying, and likely has something to gain from your low self-esteem, or someone is trying to get something out of you and stands to gain from your high self-esteem. Both of these options are likely, and sensible, although the latter is somewhat unlikely because a random compliment from anyone -- a stranger -- shouldn't garner much from you beyond a ladylike oh-why-thank-you smile or, at the absolute max, the shy acquiescent giggle.

Obviously, someone gaining from your low self-esteem is far more damaging. And far more common -- someone is going to be happy that you're miserable because there's a profit of some kind in there somewhere. That's just the way it be. I'd be daft to give out clichéd advice like "just listen to what your loved ones and friends say", because loved ones have your love to maintain; that is, your own mother isn't going to tell you you're ugly, and a true friend probably isn't looking to become your enemy. Neither should we take our loved ones' compliments too seriously, as we know they love us and will say things to that effect. So who do you listen to, who do you ignore.

I will say that I think the media has a corner in the self-esteem market, and generally it's looking to distort your view of yourself so you'll buy its sponsored advertisers' products. There are people out there who literally get rich off of how ugly and fat and imperfect you think you are; they need women miserable because Miserable will purchase anything that might make her Happy.

But what about Content? We are none of us symmetrical. Smile and admit. Art mimics us; it's what we'd like to be and yes, it's beautiful. But it's not real. All of the media's images and ideals, those on magazine racks and in commercials, are airbrushed with cosmetics, Photo-shopped to look skinnier, touched and retouched, or follow someone's script. When you look at that stuff, you absolutely should not believe you are seeing perfection and then start stressing about what you are lacking in comparison. If you do, you have effectively become the victim of low self-esteem, and eventually you'll become a needy, wiry little bramble of misery.

Don't.

You control how you think about yourself, you, and no one else. If you take care of yourself, and take pride in what you can do well, you can be content. You can know that you're already doing everything you should be doing to maintain healthy self-esteem, and you'll find yourself perfectly capable of deciding what's real and what isn't and who to listen to or ignore.