It’s only after seeing the preview that my desire to see the new Hugh Jackman movie, Van Helsing, has waned. It the director that did it for (or didn’t do it for me, rather). It turns out Van Helsing was directed by the same guy who filmed The Mummy and The Mummy Returns. As far as dumb fun goes, they aren’t bad, but the special effects in both films leave a lot to be desired. I’m not sure if the director owns a special-effects company or if he simply uses the same one for each of his movies, but the end result always looks like something out of a video game. From the previews, the effects in Van Helsing seem to be equally disappointing. The idea of bringing back all the old movie monsters had me interested, but now, seeing them on screen like enemies in a first-person shooter, I think this is one to wait for on DVD. Or, better yet, to download. Yeah, I’m part of the problem. Bite me.

Some vampire humor there.

Uh … yeah.

Ian

Hell is riding home on the TTC with nothing to read.

Ian

The other day I mentioned to a friend at work that I was planning to see Kill Bill – Vol. 2 (good flick, worth checking it out — not that it needs my hype), and she told me that some kids in school are being negatively affected by the violence in the film — specifically that the slang verb Uma, as in to go Uma on someone, is being used in reference to girlfight antics on the schoolyard.

This story reminded me of another I had read about some time ago. This one was about a young woman who was killed because her car ran out of fuel while she was driving home. She had carried a gas can to a nearby service station, filled it up, and had started back when she was set upon by a group of black youths who took the can, doused her with gas, and lit her on fire. When they were finally caught and asked why they had committed such a horrendous act, the youths replied they had gotten the idea from an ABC Movie of the Week — Fuzz, an adaptation of one of Ed McBain’s 87th Precinct books.

That event took place in the late 1960s or early 1970s, I don’t recall which, and it successfully put an end to TV violence at that time. And while there is little doubt that the youths were telling the truth about where they got the idea to burn the girl alive, I think the real question is, had the movie not been aired, would they have let her pass unharmed, or would they have simply attacked her in some other grisly, perhaps less-creative, fashion?

In the film Bowling for Columbine, a father of one of the deceased kids is at a rally comparing the malefic influence of Marilyn Manson music and Doom-style videogames to commercials run on television to sell automobiles. At the end of his rant he says (and I’m paraphrasing): "Not everyone who watches a Toyota commercial goes out and buys a car — but some people do!" The crowd, assumably made up of other likeminded individuals who believe the medium is not only the message but also the murderer, explode into applause.

The truth is that millions of teenagers play videogames like Doom, millions of teens listen to albums by Marilyn Manson and his ilk — and 99.99% of these kids do not kill each other. Doom and Marilyn Manson are certainly not the only things to have been blamed in the wake of the Columbine High massacre, but they’re certainly on top of the bereaved parents’ shit-list. In their grief — which must certainly be great — they seem to have forgotten that the vast majority of the kids who have played Doom or listened to the dulcet tones of Marilyn Manson have not taken shotguns to school and killed their classmates. So far as we know, Harris and Klebold are the pioneers of that particular territory. Which begs the question, are the millions of kids who have partaken of Doom and Manson in actuality walking timebombs destined to explode in some horrible way, or were Harris and Klebold merely a couple of fucked-up kids who perhaps should have been watched a little more closely by their parents — parents who claimed they didn’t have the foggiest idea that their sons had turned their garages into pipe-bomb labs and ad-hoc armories. Perhaps I’m being too hard on their familes, who are surely social pariahs wherever they go now, but I don’t think I’m being any harder than they and their kind have been on pop culture and the entertainment industry.

I think in the end what needs to be remembered is that these are all mediums of entertainment, and none of them are meant to be taken very seriously. Sure, some critics and professors will strive to cite the importance of books, movies, and music in society, but it doesn’t change the fact that the majority of people who buy books, watch movies, and listen to music do so for pleasurable purposes rather than academic ones.

In the case of people old enough to be prosecuted in a court of law and committed to

one of the countries finer correctional institutes, the responsibility is clearly their own, and most people are not inclined to argue that particular point. But for kids not yet old enough to vote, there seems to be an inherent knee-jerk reaction to blame the book, the movie, the music, or the video game. But even though the subject may be younger, the simple truths of reality remain the same; the blame simply falls upon the accused’s parents or guardian. Yes, it is their fault. And you want to know why? Because of those millions of other children who have been exposed to the same mediums and are not executing their classmates gangland-style.

After all, when the Manson Family killed Sharon Tate and wrote "HELTER SKELTER" on the wall, you didn’t see anyone trying to ban the Beatles’ White album.

Ian

About a year ago I wrote a Tangents on bed books (a fairly self-explanatory concept), and I’m here to report a recent discovery — a truth, if you will, that could only be learned the hard way.

In a nutshell: I was reading a rather large tome of Shakespeare’s collected works (The Tempest, specifically) and fell asleep, as is usually the case when I’m reading in bed. In the past my bed books have always been paperback novels, and now I know why. As I drifted off the other night, my grip on the book slipped and it toppled on top of my groin. I tell ya, it’s better than an alarm clock, but I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone who plans on raising a family.

I guess the lesson here is that if you partake of the bed-book ritual, and you are a male of the species with sensitive parts below the waist, you may want to stick to the paperbacks.

Ian

So it finally came, one of those weekends where I find myself alone with nothing to do but read and write and, perhaps, sleep.

As it turned out, I didn’t get very much sleep, but I got a lot of reading and writing done.

After watching a Stanley Kubrick film festival on TV a few weeks ago, I decide to revisit Arthur C. Clarke’s 2001 books. I had been given the final one in the series, 3001, at Christmas, and I thought it would be a good idea to reread the other three before I began. The book, although entertaining and imaginative, is disappointing in the end. Not exactly the grand finale that I was hoping for. But hey, Clarke is still alive and still pumping it out on a regular basis, so I think he’s allowed a stinker or two.

3001 was a bed book, and although I had Dark Forces, a collection of horror stories from the 1970s, on deck, I decided to catch up on some short-story reading, instead. I ended up working my way through the following: "Notebook Found in a Deserted House" by Robert Bloch, "An Occurence at Owl Creek Bridge" by Ambrose Bierece, "Got a Letter from Jimmy" and "The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson, and "We Can Remember It for You Wholesale," "The Minority Report," and "Paycheck" by Philip K. Dick. I also finally read H.P. Lovecraft’s essay, "Supernatural Horror in Literature." Good reads all around. Glad to be catching up on some old favorites and some classics I knew about but had yet to read.

The weekend was also productive on the writing end: I’ve nearly finished a pair of new short stories, "Relaxed Best" and "Something While You Wait" — both of which will be traveling into magazine-submission limbo soon.

Ian

Just finished reading Mythology by Edith Hamilton — a authoritative crash-course in Greek and Roman mythology, with some Norse tales thrown in for good measure.

This is one of the books recommended by my editor, who has been gently haranguing me to read up on early literature and the roots of storytelling. I had never heard of Mythology before, but in one of those weird twists of fate (like the one that recently turned my old editor and my current editor into neighbors), I discovered the same book on my girlfriend’s father’s bookshelf. I figured it must be a sign and put it at the top of my reading list.

I’ve come up with what are probably some very pedestrian observations — but bear in mind they’re coming from a guy whose last dose of Greek mythology came in a grade-five study unit, as well as a couple of grossly-inaccurate cinematic interludes (e.g. Clash of the Titans, Gladiator).

First of all, I was glad to be re-acquainted (and in some cases, newly acquainted) with the pantheon of colorful Greek gods. The adventures and trials of Hercules were also entertaining. In addition to a plethora of nasties, he apparently killed a fair share of innocents (his wife and kids among them). He always paid penance for these less-than-chivalrous acts, but he didn’t seem to learn from his mistakes. His life was one long cycle of performing heroic deeds, commting some atrocious act, followed by a righteous act of self-punishment, and finally redemption by his friends and colleagues who deemed him ready to return to society.

Some other highlights:

Hera constantly on the prowl for the philandering Zeus; the Trojan War and the Fall of Troy (which has gotten me interested in the forthcoming Troy movie); and the stories of Hades and the rape of Persephone (which has provided the geek in me with a new understanding of The Matrix Reloaded).

Also, I think the best etymological hand-me-down must go to Pan — the Ted Kennedy of the Greek gods — whose drunken escapades in the woods caused travelers to experience an emotion which ended up bearing his name: panic.

Next up: Suetonius’s Twelve Caesars.

(Oh, and in case I have to state what I thought was fairly obvious — although no one picked up on it when I did the same thing last year —yesterday’s entry was my annual April Fool’s Day joke. Hil-arious, I know.)

Ian

So I finally sold a novel. It’s been a long time coming, as the old Tragically Hip song goes, but I always knew if I stuck with it I would get there eventually.

I’ve finagled a sweet two-book deal with Harlequin Press. The first one is finished and will mostly likely go to press with the title I have chosen for it: Love in the Time of Ebola. (My one concern is that the editors may feel Love in the Time of SARS may be more au courant.)

The other book isn’t quite finished, but it’s on its happy way — a tale deliciously white-trash–Canadian in the tradition of Dickens, except instead of London the backdrop is Sudbury. Tentatively titled, A Tale of Two Trailer Parks.

Top of the world, Ma!

Ian