My post-Game of Thrones decent into pure phantasy nerdom continues with the Mistborn trilogy. This first book in the series is a well-plotted story and has some pretty memorable characters. The prose can be a bit mediocre or, at least, strangely repetitive at times—the characters all seem to be able to "raise an eyebrow" when they are thinking. Independent eyebrow control must be a high-level magick skill. However, overall it kept me interested throughout and it seemed to tie up loose ends nicely at the end.
This is the b-side of Jim Bakus' "Delicious" single from my not-so-vast record collection. The a-side is legendary, the b-side is still pretty good to.
Leave it to The Phantom Surfers to release an instrumental surf record without any music, singing, talking or audio of any kind. I believe in some higher circles of society these types of records are called books, but what do I know. Rock Stardom for Dumbshits presents itself as a step-by-step guide to making it in the music industry. Bands are offered advice on how to sell-out and compromise everything they believe in for the near-impossible chance of making a living as a rock musician. Of course, it's all a big goof! This is The Phantom Surfers after all.
Before Gregg Turkington was creating anti-comedy as Neil Hamburger, he was, along with guitarist John Singer, creating anti-music in Zip Code Rapists. This album rides the fine line between genius and stupidity.
Martin Gardner died around the time this book was released. Like many of his books, it compiles articles and essays that he has written over the years. This volume lacks much of the consistency of his other books. As usual, he still manages to hit some of this favorite topics: mathematics, pseudo-science, religion, and his overly-enthusiastic love of G.K. Chesterson. Personally, I think he is at his best when he is looking for paradoxes and puzzles within the framework of these broader areas of interest.
You know you are in trouble when the most convincing performance in your film is by Isaac from The Love Boat. Despite the skin and swears, this is a made-for-TV quality blaxploitation film. It is uncommonly low on action, and the acting and dialogue is painful. Even Eartha Kitt disappoints.
Oh my. Most of my buddies on Facebook lean leftwards and I am anticipating an explosion of liberal rage come Tuesday evening. They can't seem to shut up talking about Christine O'Donnell, or whoever the right-wing boogeyman of the moment happens to be, while completely ignoring the main gripe of over-reaching government that is going to swing this election. I will try to document the "gosh, Americans are stupid" and "Somehow this is still Bush's fault" nonsense and publish it here.
My Halloween movie fest continued last night with a re-watching of Mother of Tears, the third film in the Three Mothers trilogy. When I first watched the film I pondered if it would get better on rewatching. Nope. It was actually more painful on the second viewing. What a rambling mess of a film with awful acting and dialogue all around. No screengrabs for this film. It doesn't deserve that level of respect.
My Halloween movie fun-run continues with Mario Bava's Kill Baby, Kill. Not really his finest work, but it is memorable for the scenes of the ghostly child at the windows:
The first full-length record from Martin Atkins all-star review. Very drum centric as one would expect—on many of the tracks it seems like drums and vocals are about all they could muster. This band is, almost by definition, self-indulgent and quality is a bit of a crap shoot. Sometimes they are great, often times they are an audio endurance test.