Okay, I know I promised to myself that the first review would be the one for “A Song of Ice and Fire” series, but that would take a level of emotional implication of which I am incapable at the moment. I am far too chilled, too lazy, too liberated from any source of stress (finals are officially OVER!), but it will arrive one of these days. For now, an intellectual review of “The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories” by Angela Carter will need to suffice. This is a very short book, a collection of short stories, which I read in exactly one week (alas, only last Friday I hugged the immense tome of “A Dance With Dragons” farewell, while my tears crept down my face), but the reason why it took me 7 days to read 128 pages (albeit written in a painfully small font) was because these stories were like nothing I’ve ever read, true studies of folklore, feminist literature, supernatural and horror. And when I plan to use Skippy and Skipette (if you are unfamiliar with the names of the couple of neurons inhabiting and controlling my brain, you cause me great displeasure), I actually use them, so yeah, this was an in-depth read. I hope you enjoy my review of this tour de force.

“The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories” is a collection of fairy tales. I state plainly “fairy tales”, because I find the American interpretation of this book to be utterly insulting to the intellect. I despise the “But what about the children? OMG, the children!” attitude. It is decrepit, immature and does not belong in a civilized conversation. The American version of this book states that these are adult fairy tales. I find this quite annoying and insulting, because fairy tales are, in my opinion, adult stories to begin with. Of course they can be toned down and watered down for children, but in their essence, most if not all fairy tales portray elements of the real world with the use of fantasy, folklore and magical creatures, but these elements and issues vary from true aspects of human psychology (such as the study of human nature, basic human emotions, moral values, concepts and emotions) to actual social and political frescoes (the way certain members of society are viewed, the evolution and interaction of different social classes, etc). Folklore has deep roots in the real and the mundane and due to the fact that it is inspired by the development and history of numerous different lands and areas, many versions of the same story may be encountered. These versions, having been related, many times, through common speech, have ended up reflecting a plethora of issues, in many different ways, but the core always remains. And since society is not usually run by children, I refuse to believe that there is such a thing as a child’s fairy tale. The fact that an adult chooses to enlarge their progeny’s imagination by the use of such a story is their own decision (or if they want to traumatize a child into forever believing that wolves will come carry them off into the night if they continue to misbehave; yes, grandma, I am talking to you, but maybe that is why dogs love me so much, who knows). But please, people, do not dumb down ancient elements of our culture because you insist on constantly making the mistake of under-estimating the intellectual capabilities of your children.

This being said, I will begin the actual review. Hey, if you had ever read more than one of my blog entries, you would know that this will not be the first mini-rant. The story that gives this anthology its name, “The Bloody Chamber” is quite possibly one of the scariest tales I’ve ever read, and by the way, I love horror and if there is blood, gore, cruelty, disease, murder, all the better. So I am not weak and easily scared by literature, but this interpretation of the “Bluebeard” folk tale creeped me out to the bone marrow. And it wasn’t even that bloody or perverted (my sick mind needs much more to be satisfied), but the description was so intense, so paralyzing, so intimately vivid at times, that it transported you instantly, locking you up in what would be revealed as “Chateau Murder” and throwing away the key, possibly in acid. The tension is amplified by every word, by every sequence. A young Parisian pianist marries a rich, old, and in my head absolutely grotesque Marquis whom she does not love. As opposed to her mother (who is the best character in this story, by the way), who embraced poverty in exchange for being married out of love, the young girl is seduced by the Marquis’s money, and, as I understood, by the possibility of the corruption of her innocence, something she fears, yet something she is in peril of becoming addicted to. She is taken to his remote castle, separated from the mainland by the tide, locked away in semi-consciousness, surrounded by ghostly maids, by endless corridors, by white lilies symbolizing the death that is awaiting her. Now, I need to state that I usually refuse to read books that lack romance and intimacy (preferably detailed, explicit and unapologetic), but the intimate scenes in this story were seriously disturbing. Probably because of the morbid nature of the Marquis, of the otherworldly tension between them, of the constant lingering scent of Russian leather. Although I can clearly sense a very Sade-inspired atmosphere, the fetishes of death and humiliation were aptly shown. The female character receives access to the entire castle except for one room. The Marquis leaves on important business. You have to be a real dunce not to expect the ever-curious woman to go into the forbidden room. But, as opposed to numerous classical fairy tales, the female curiosity is not used as a lesson shoved down the throats of every female reader, though it is condemned by the Marquis. The girl finds his chamber of horrors, his bloody chamber, where his three former wives are quite dead (one of the best horrifying scenes that I have read in a long time). She cannot hide what she has seen and the Marquis intends to end her by decapitation. The ending of this story was by far the best part. The girl is rescued, but not by Prince Charming (the only other male love interest in this story is blind and about to die with her), but by her mother, who knows her child well enough to sense that something is wrong. Her mother, who had been quite wild and ruthless in her youth comes and shoots the Marquis, thus flipping off the stereotype of the helpless girl saved by the awesome, wise man.

“The Tiger’s Bride” and “The Courtship of Mr. Lyon” are heavily inspired by “The Beauty and the Beast”. Now, I did love both of these, especially “The Tiger’s Bride”, because beyond the story with Belle and the Beast (which is my favourite Disney movie, by the way), there is a lot of social commentary. Belle is basically currency, forced to pay for her father’s mistakes and vices. She is owned, traded, and refused a proper existence, a fact symbolized by the fact that, beside her, nothing human lived in the Beast’s house. She receives a clockwork representation of herself, but it is only an imitation of life, as the beast’s mask is simply an imitation of humanity. The turn of events in the very end is a pleasant metaphor and a different interpretation of the story. The heroine turns from human society, represented by the superficial and she turns to her own beastly nature, representing the pure and the natural, thus the transformation into a beautiful feline.

“Puss in Boots” was by far my favourite story in this anthology. It was funny, raunchy, kinky, old-school romantic and it had strong female characters who, though at first are chained and oppressed, embrace their own futures. Also, it takes place in Bergamo, it is full of those sweet little tidbits of Italian romance, sometimes all-consuming, sometimes hilarious, but either way, lived and celebrated full heartedly. Oh, how I miss Italy! How I miss the warmth and the music and the romance-laden buildings and towers. This story brought all that fantastic atmosphere and it also added to my desire to adopt the building’s ginger cat that is constantly purring and meowing at my feet. Though by adopting it, I would condemn it to a savage and violent evisceration at the fangs of my sweet precious Nero. So yeah. I will have to resort to reading about the quirky, perverted and infinitely brilliant ginger cat known simply as Puss-in-boots.

“The Erl King” is where this book gets weird. What happens is quite easy to follow, and the scenery is beautiful, the description amazing. But this story is full of metaphors and extremely full of feminist symbols, and the POV shifts in the strangest of times, so one needs to read between the lines quite a lot. This was probably my first experience of reading something so heavily based on the depiction of women trapped and consumed by male ideals. The ending left me thinking a lot, and I am sure that more re-reads would enable an even deeper understanding. Basically, it reflects on how one can lose one’s self and how a woman stuck as a submissive must escape the relationship in order to survive as her true self. I may be wrong. Since I also intend to post this review on Goodreads, I will express a desire to be corrected if I misinterpreted the message.

“The Snow Child” is the shortest story but in its meager page of text it depicts an amazing analysis of the woman’s status in society, as seen by many a man. It is based on a variant of Snow White, which is one of my least favourite fairy tales, by the way. A count and his countess are out riding through the woods in winter and the count imagines himself a girl as white as snow, as black as a raven’s feather and as red as blood. Now, my boyfriend and I agree that a black woman with white hair and red lips would be a much more attractive creation, but of course they had to make Snow White white. This doesn’t really bother me since I hate what she represents in the Disney version and this is brutally shown in Angela Carter’s work. She is the male fantasy, meant solely to be beautiful. She has no true purpose, and no future, since she dies tragically and is instantly nothing but a vessel for the count’s pleasure and fantasy. The countess represents the voyeur wife, the woman who accepts to exist solely through her wealthy and powerful husband, whose status is taken away or given back at his whim, and who despises the newcomer not because of her love for her husband but because of the danger she represents. These are cliches which, unfortunately existed in society since its beginning and, sadly, are often perpetuated in numerous circles today. Truly sad.

“The Lady of the House of Love” was a basic vampire story, based in Romania (and as a Romanian, I fully agree with the sun-sensitive, lonely, cursed monster who feeds on travelers), in which we no longer see the poor virginal girl becoming prey for a monster, but the male counterpart, a soldier visiting by bicycle. The story is quite sad. The creature, a dark entity devoid of sexuality or life is awakened to a pseudo-human state only to be found dead at first light. The unnatural, otherworldly beauty that made her so surreal and bizarre fades away, thus making her appear human, normal.

The last three stories, “The Werewolf”, “The Company of Wolves” and “Wolf-Alice” were dedicated to werewolves, duh, and I liked them far more than I expected to, possibly because they captured the essence of what a werewolf is. Although no creature has been more raped by effing bullcrap young adult/Hollywood than the vampire (I will not even besmirch the awesomeness of this novel by mentioning the worst book ever written in the history of horrible books, an insult to all that is feminism, adult fiction, supernatural fiction and basically literature in general), the werewolf has not had an easy road either, mostly because it was never truly completely understood or faithfully represented. I know my opinion is not the norm, but I’ve always interpreted the werewolf as being a symbol of the beast within us all, a creature of a wild and uncontrollable nature, a feral force, but not a stupid animal. And not a whiny bitch who doesn’t seem to find a shirt. Why not make it intelligent? Why not make it devious and sexual? Why not make it so ambiguous and weird that a mirror fails to show its reflection? Well, Carter did this and more. I devoured the last three stories and they talked about more than the woman’s situation. They talked about the outcast, the ephemeral, the unnatural, and how we are different and yet thoroughly similar to animals. A balance must be reached, an equilibrium between the human and the beast.

In conclusion, I loved each and every one of these stories. They were impeccably written. Sometimes, the punctuation was a bit bizarre for my tastes, but it was woven seamlessly with the story. However weird it seemed to me, strangely, it fit. The description was out of this world. Very powerful text. I also appreciated how many of the heroines seemed at first sight, to be quite text book fairy tale girls, and yet turned out to be so much more. Nothing could have happened without the help of Tabby in “Puss-in-boots”, the main girl would have died bloodily and without hope of discovery at the mercy of the Marquis’s sword had it not been for her mum, and the Erl King was slain by the one he had so easily trapped. I adored reading about women who, despite their difficulties and conditions, managed to reign in their destiny and master it. They were their own heroines, they changed and developed because it suited them, because their lives needed to be changed one way or another. And even if the “Snow Child”, which is a blunt and aggressive statement, fails to have even the slightest happy ending, I loved it because it showed the true nature of Snow White, a character so easily misinterpreted. So I recommend this anthology to all who love the real fairy tales, but are not a fan of the slut shaming and demonizing of women which is sometimes a constant. I intend to indulge this pleasure of reading the old folk tales again some time, and I am quite interested in looking up fairy tales from other cultures.

For my usual readers, I hope you enjoyed the entry and I will not apologize for the length since you already know what to expect. And if you are someone on Goodreads, well, I am looking forward to comments, feedback, whatever, or at least don’t curse me for writing so much. Much love to all, and I will catch you soon!

Yeah, there are corpses that are less lazy than I am when it comes to blog writing. I will not invent an excuse. I refuse to stoop to such levels. But I will express my deep admiration for a movie that I’ve just seen and that I highly recommend. Of course, this goes against what IMDB, the putrid pit of lies and deceit, is saying, but after “Drive” has been given the immense grade of 8.1, Drive being basically one of the worst movies I have ever seen in my life, well, I can safely say that IMDB does not exist for me anymore, it is not a valid source of information anymore and it can go tear itself another asshole in whatever hell is destined for attention whore sites. Also, I will be reviewing the massive insult to intelligence that is Drive in the very near future. This will not be a failed promise, something I forget about or drop due to studies, laziness, carelessness or a desire to sleep. I have already commented about this utter piece of crap on several sites, and I will further destroy it here, in my own little kingdom. But not today.

Today, I will review “Machine Gun Preacher”, the new Gerard Butler movie, a film inspired by a real person, Sam Childers, a former biker and drug addict who later becomes a missionary in Sudan and ends up saving the lives of numerous children. Children who are, by the way, sold into sex slavery, kidnapped, killed, or forced to become guerrilla soldiers. The fact that this is a horrific reality of the world we live in adds to the feelings one inevitably is assaulted by during this film. I think it is needless to say that I cried throughout three quarters of this film. Heavy tears, angry tears, painful tears. It wasn’t because I thought it was cute or aww, they got back together, or stuff like that. I cried because I wanted to destroy the monsters in front of me, I wanted to hug the innocents who lost the little that they had, the basic elements that barely hold together their meager lives. I wanted to kill the son of a bitch who spent hundreds to thousands of dollars on a filthy upper class vanity party, but could not give a rat’s ass about real suffering, real pain, the horror of having to walk through the night, through soldier infested forests and mine-covered fields, for the chance to sleep in relative safety, but come morning, these children would find their villages destroyed, burned down, their homes non-existent and their parents brutally murdered. Yes, you die inside when you see this movie and realize it is not the sad exaggeration of a pathetic faux-artist craving weird, meaningless, badly shot scenes (yes, Drive, I’m looking at you and spitting in your ugly face!), but reality. Harsh, unfair, horrible reality. And this does not stop. There is no happy ending, no effing magical love interest or triangle, no epic heroic finale. It is just a fight that never ends, a battle fought by normal people, by men who could give up and yet they do not because if they quit, no one else would pick up their fight.

The acting in this is top notch. I have loved Gerard Butler since the first time I saw him in “Phantom of the Opera”. Well, actually, the first time I saw him was in “Tomb Raider 2″, but that movie was so abominable, it does not deserve mention. Oh wait, I just did. Well, it does not deserve praise, ha! But Gerard Butler is one of my favourite actors and not because he is incredibly handsome. I really think he is a great actor, who takes his roles seriously, who can play the thin line between good guy and asshole, and who can make tough roles believable. I loved him in “Attila”, in “300″ (which is an amazing film, by the way, but haters will always hate), in “Gamer” and even in “Beowulf and Grendel”, which admittedly was boring and unimpressive. And he was absolutely sublime in this film. I loved the way he interpreted Sam Childers, because he was so realistic and raw. They did not struggle to make him the hero of the day from the first second of movie. They did not push him down our throats just because he is the main character. This guy was a total bastard during a significant part of the film. He was violent, vile, misogynistic, a drug user, a bad husband and father and basically a criminal. But many grievous mistakes add up and he grows! Yes, there is actual character development. He evolves, changes, matures and takes care of himself and of his family. Yet, they do not turn him into a pussy, or a cliche hero. He loves guns, knows how to use them, is not afraid to fight violence with violence, is ruthless (which I love in male protagonists and males in general) in his endeavours, and has huge anger management issues, which is completely understandable given the circumstances, but also humanizing. Yes, he finds his faith, he finds his belief in God (I usually HATE films that have even the slightest hint of religious propaganda, but I was not in the least bit offended by any of the church scenes in this film), but his faith is not blind, it trembles in the face of absolute failure, it gives way to anger, to frustration, it grows along with him and it adapts to him as a realistic person. To keep this relatively decent in length, Sam Childers is a real hero, a real human and a real inspiration. And Gerard Butler does a fantastic job portraying him.

The cinematography was amazing (And WOW! No staring aimlessly for lengthy periods of time into empty spots was needed! No pointless scenes of nothing but staring, blinking, chewing a tooth pick! Nothing artsy and fake shoved down our throats Drive-style. Maybe that’s why the people on IMDB gave it a 6.4. Because staring into void for a quarter of the movie is the new formula!). No, but seriously now. The horrors of Sudan. The heat and degradation of rebel-infested lands. The poverty, the emptiness. The ground-shaking difference that a few swings could make!

The action was intense. I saw the trailer before seeing the movie and I had tears in my eyes while watching a two minute preview, so I knew it would be more than mindless shooting. My friends, for example, did not expect much, but they were touched and impressed as well. There is no mindless shooting in this movie. There is no magical gun that sustains the hero without further explanation. There are heavy guns, soldiers, more oft than not ambushes and children used as bait or snipers. There is sweat and dirt and realistic explosions. Yeah, okay, the main character does seem untouchable in a couple of scenes, but I truly think he was that lucky, considering the fact that he is very much alive as we speak. And no matter how much of a pansy one might be, I am willing to wager it is basically impossible to not be impressed by the scene in which this guy stands alone in front of a vehicle with an RPG (my puny female brain thinks it is an RPG, it could be something else though) and fires. You want that bomb to hit home, you want them to explode and burn and suffer for what they did to those children. And you will hold your breath for the duration of that scene.

This movie is important. It is not only well done, realistic and heartbreaking, but it is also relevant to our society and our present. Yes, I know the world is just barely coming out of recession (and some countries are just now experiencing the worst of it), but many people do not realize that the Third World is not a horror story, it is not media propaganda, and though it does not affect me, a common Romanian student, or you, a common engineer in an office, it is a reality that affects millions of people. Innocent children, women, men, who are born into fear and agony and yet find happiness and hope in so little, whereas the youths of America suffer because their parents have not bought them the new effing iPhone for Christmas (I know this is not exclusive to the USA, but it is a massive phenomenon over there, so don’t judge me for hating). I am not accusing anyone of having stuff. I have stuff, we all do. But I think there should be more movies like this, more books, more newspaper articles, more discussion in schools and more people interested in this subject. And oh yeah, more donations. Because it is really sad and disgusting when there are people who get a smartphone app that does nothing except extract $5 from their account if they do not go to the gym or, even better, when people buy another app that does even less than the previous one, but costs thousands of dollars (I crap you not, check it out on The Young Turks’ news channel on Youtube), and is basically a statement of how rich they are. This is monstrous. If you really have immense sums of money to burn away on nothing, hell, on less than nothing, than donate! Invest in something that has a heart and a soul and a purpose. Or here’s something you could really do with very little financial effort: educate yourselves. Fantasy is great, escapism is important, but inevitably, we all have to come back to the cold, cruel terms of real life. So when those times come, I think we should try to act with grace and dignity, I think we should analyze more and think deeper thoughts than “Omg! What did <insert celebrity name here> do? What did they wear? So scandalous!”.

Before I end, I would like to unabashedly declare that 10-15 years ago, “Machine Gun Preacher” would have had a chance to win the Oscar. Maybe not win the actual award, but I believe it would have obtained a nomination. Now? On the poster it says that it was featured in a festival in Toronto. That pleases me, but it is not enough. Today, this movie has absolutely no chance for true recognition. Why? It does not lick enough arses, it is not built on lame angst and cheap drama, it does not have the token gay relationship (I am all for gay marriage and gay relationships but I do not see how the inclusion of a cliche same sex couple somehow makes the story more relevant and Oscar-worthy). You might not agree with me on this. Not a problem. How about this? “Braveheart”, “Gladiator” and “The Return of the King”, which are some of the best movies ever made (and some of the best Oscar winners), would not be so successful either. Why? Because amazing stories, charismatic and profound characters with well-built backgrounds and relevant reasons for their actions, strong conflicts (inner ones as well as outer), classy depictions of battles, life, love, death, strong romances, strong female characters, a message and a meaning and a power over the audience, superb soundtracks and last but not least, the ability to enchant, impress, touch and entertain ARE NO LONGER IMPORTANT. Instead, the ability to bore a viewer senseless is essential. Throw in some actors who you know are good and capable, but who don’t have much of a plot to work with. Add abstract cinematography, low budget aspect, weak action, or no action whatsoever. Gods forbid intelligence and originality being praised (“Inception”), or strong psychological drama (“Shutter Island”) or flawless directing, perfect cast and overall awesomeness (“Inglorious Basterds” – though thankfully, Christoph Waltz was appreciated). And the list could go on forever. The point is that movies should not be judged by the warped and flawed views of the pathetic elitists and snobs.

In conclusion, I give “Machine Gun Preacher” a solid 10 out of 10 because it touched me, entertained me, made me think and made me feel. I left the cinema with my face streaked with tears and my T-shirt wet around the neck. I am an emotional movie watcher, it is true, but one must be truly heartless to not be at least impressed by this film. I loved the acting, the realism, the family’s drama and struggle, the depiction of a country torn apart by war, cruelty, brutality, the main victims of which are the children. And the ending, which was basically a very natural and well done transition into the big picture really felt appropriate and profound. I applaud the makers of this movie, the actors and of course, the man who started it all, Sam Childers.

…is lost! But since a large group of people (4 max) have borderline molested me to get back to writing on my poor, neglected, possibly gone homicidal blog, I finally gave in, yet because of the fact that my muse is only alive during the days of pain and suffering that my beloved university offers, I had to wait until the best effing holiday of my life ended. Yes, the absolute best, the boss of all holidays. It is true that the days in Paris are eternally etched upon my soul as the best possible experience (at least one you can share with your best friends), but a care-free summer spent on the timeless streets of Florence and afterwards, on the beaches, boulevards and in the works of art of Barcelona really takes the whole concept of holiday to a new level. I wanted to write an in-depth article about Barcelona and I probably will one day when the melancholy will overcome me and drive me to tears, but there is just so much to say and so much to explain that I am afraid the Internet might overflow. See, in my obvious laziness I am only thinking about the greater good of the world. Still, perhaps one day…

This article will most likely be a clusterf**k of epic proportions, somewhat similar to the evolution of the last 2 seasons of True Blood. But since I am not financially motivated and a god damned sell-out, I will try to actually make some sense of the numerous ideas floating aimlessly in my head instead of just relying on the stupidity and lack of substance of horny fan girls. But I digress. That has never happened in a conversation with me before, right? Shut up, you know you like it!

At this moment, I am writing from my new computer, which you might already know is frigging awesome! Not only can I play games I could only jealously think of for years, but it is also a fast, silent, exceptional tool. And yes, I played Mass Effect 1 and 2 on it, so I am basically content with life. My content will be even greater after I will have achieved the rest of my gaming list, but it is a good start. Of course, a review of these two games (most likely a 2 in 1) which have climbed all the way to the top of my all time faves will be coming along shortly.

This summer was perfect not only due to the travelling, but also because of the reading material that accompanied me along the way. I was and still am buried neck deep in the Song of Ice and Fire series and these books have grown on me like fur on a direwolf or scales on a dragon. At this moment, I cannot imagine having lived this life as a reader and, hopefully, a writer, without this immense literary experience. These books transcend and go beyond their genre and all its tropes and cliches. They paint a fresco so epic and so complete that readers will forever envision at the back of their eyelids. You might remember my passionate review of the Game of Thrones TV series, one that puts almost every other book adaptation to shame, and which shines in glorious perfection as a standalone as well. Well, I did not think the books could be much better, but they are, not necessarily in terms of entertainment, but definitely when it comes to detail, world building, intensity, drama and character development. So if I give the Game of Thrones the final grade of Legendary, the source material written so magnificently by G.R.R. Martin is something so god damned perfect there has yet to be a term fit for it. Beyond Godlike is a probable choice. This summer I have read about 2000 pages (more at this point), and I still feel the need to go on and on and on, until the end of time. I will review the books after I finish the fifth, which is waiting patiently on my desk with its gorgeous hard cover and its 1000 or so pages, while I am travelling from one part of Westeros to the other, with a few well-placed stops around the Free Cities in the immensely engaging third tome.

Artistically speaking, this summer I have been as active as a random object on anyone’s desk, left there to attract unattractive quantities of dust, possibly even some kind of fungus, and by this I mean I could not bring myself to write one single line in the novel or one single verse. Do not judge me, my brain needed heavy recovery. I am currently working on a poem, or, more exactly, a ballad, and make no mistake, if you live in the same town as me, you will be molested with it in the oncoming weeks.

From a physical point of view, I need to state that, against what I would have easily declared about two years ago, sport is good for you. It is healthy and necessary, and yes, we never have time for it, but it is a crime against the gods of above and below to not have some kind of exercise regime during the free summer days. Seriously. Go swim or something. Go play laser tag (FOR THE WIN!) with your best friends, or if you’re REALLY busy, fidget. It has been scientifically proven that people who fidget like a coffee addict would at 3 o’clock at night tend to stay in better shape and maintain a better muscles tone. So the next time you go to a crappy concert because your friends were bored and just felt the need to drag you with them (well, in my case some of the people involved were barely friends), and then they pick on you for randomly kicking your leg because you’re bored and hate the cheap music, just tell them this: I am staying in shape, asshole!

Lastly, I will express my apologies to whomever has woken up this morning with a sneeze or a cough just waiting to happen. I’m sick and you probably have it too. I probably just got sick because of my refusal to dress up in the morning (long autumn means the crappiest assortment of mind raping weather – > chilly morning, wtf-inducing warmth in the afternoon and a jacket is just something I refuse to carry around), so it shouldn’t be contagious, but I’ve recently seen an awesome, though terrifying movie called Contagion. You might have heard of it, with its all-star cast and all. It was frigging brilliant, although at the end I had only three thoughts in my head:

1. WASH YOUR HANDS!

2. STOP TOUCHING YOUR FACE!

3. That dude in the theater just coughed. God damn it.

So yeah, if you were in close proximity to me these past couple of days or if you happen to be among the lucky 3 with whom I shared the lovely experience of re-seeing the best opera in the world, Carmen, late last night, you might want to stop touching your face!

Ah well, I suppose this will be all for my comeback post. Don’t be so disappointed by its underwhelming nature, okay? I am sick and I still have one more extra mission in Mass Effect 2, okay? I mean, since the galaxy has been saved by my awesome goody two shoes FemShep, the paramour achievement has been obtained (with Garrus the sexy turian for the win!), what else stands between me and the perfect game experience except one of the coolest downloadable content missions? Catch you all later, my lovelies!

Last year it was Paris, this year Florence. To make myself clear, I am talking about the one in Italy, not the numerous ones in America (they apparently have a Florence in most states there). I shouldn’t even have to mention the fact that it was awesome and perfect, but of course I will write an entire post about it. Enjoy!

Due to the fact that my writing style imitates my talking style, and is therefore that of a megalomaniac in his proper habitat of words, endless phrases and metaphors, this post will not contain the full story, but simply highlights and suggestions for all those interested in seeing one of the most beautiful cities in Italy. If you know me and you want to hear the hour-long detailed description, reservations can be done through my phone number. Just keep in mind that I’ve already said it all 3 times and I am on the verge of losing my voice.

Our trip started with the usual student-fared (as in cheap) Wizzair flight. I think by now I’ve seen all the possible flight attendants, and they still refuse to give me free water, damn it! Anyway, the flight to Florence is really short, about 1 hour and 15 minutes. Or should I say the flight to Forli is short, because the train journey from Forli to Florence takes two hours, and a lot of stress when you have to change it after one station and the bastard train is 30 minutes late. But the way to Florence is truly beautiful, you pass mountains that pretty much look like the ones in my country, and then you pass through small towns and villages that look better than some of the biggest cities in my country will look in 20 years and you remember the reason why you would rather die than continue existing in said backwater land of yours. Because simple can be gorgeous whereas ostentatious is gritty and visually aggressive, because old is valuable, while new, modern and cheap is soulless. Nuff said.

Eventually, we got to Firenze and I was instantly impressed by the train station since basically it is larger than the airport in my hometown and better organized. We had no trouble getting to the hotel because Anna, my best friend, is a genius in finding the best hotels imaginable. I swear she would somehow find a suitable hotel in the middle of the desert, and even if it were simply a larger cactus, you would be able to sleep in it without the fear of getting stung or having your kidney stolen (*cough* like it happens in hostels *cough*). Our hotel, Il Guelfo Bianco, is in walking distance of absolutely everything. It is in the heart and soul of Firenze and they treated us like gods, meaning, as I like to be treated whenever I go on holiday. I fully recommend it, would definitely go there again, and the people who prepare the breakfast need a medal of honour, because it was the best breakfast I’ve ever had in my life. All my love to Il Guelfo Bianco.

There are some elements that make a perfect holiday: good lodgings (check), affordable food (check), a good visiting plan (double, triple check), the right company (with my best friends this is a given, really). I take pride in participating in the making of the plan alongside Anna. This is essential because without a smart, balanced plan you risk going abroad (a feat which is never free, by the way, no matter how much of a miser you are) to only sleep and eat and walk random streets, hoping you did not just walk into a nasty neighbourhood. Thanks to our plan, we managed to see everything that matters in Florence: the Uffizi (over-rated and to not be revisited on future occasions), the Academia, the Pitti Palace (best of all), the Boboli Gardens, the Bargello (epic win, and sweeter because no one expected it), the Ponte Vecchio, the Palazzo Vecchio, S. Miniato al Monte, Santa Croce, Santa Maria Novella, Badia Fiorentina, Orsanmichele (guarded and closed as a damned treasure), the Medici chapel, Dante’s house, Buonarroti’s house, and last but definitely not least, the Campanile and Il Duomo, and their added number of stairs of aprox. 900 (which in my heart will always be affectionately knows as “The Hell’s Bell Tower” and the “Dome of Doom” ; still, I would totally climb them again, for the win).

Florence is a superb city. It has more historic areas and elements than I’ve ever seen, and walking its narrow, shady streets between palaces and villas in which one can only guess how many have been poisoned, stabbed and seduced is simply a thrill. Italians are among my favourite people and I cherish the Roman blood that flows in me and my own people, because it is the hot blood of warriors, conquerors, lovers, courtesans, and the best artists in the world. The rich and powerful families of Florence lived dangerously, loved dangerously, and died violently, but they remained etched in history, be it in gold or in blood and their tombs stand testimony to their power, wealth and general love for art and beauty. This is a piece of history that can never be romanticized enough in novels because it is, by itself, a perfect example of extreme romanticism, and while I am a 90s kid, my heart flies to those distant times as my eyes are stolen by each and every vein in the marble giants and serene muses, by the epic battles and soft scenes of reunion and peace, by the grand arcs and the vast open spaces scented by incense and the passing of centuries.

What visit to Florence could ever be complete without acknowledging my favourite Florentine, Michelangelo? Not only did he produce some of the greatest and most monumental works of art in the existence of mankind, but he was also a profound and dedicated thinker, a complete artist, a true and rare genius. Of course I saw David, how could I not, but I also adored his unfinished works which show the common person how truly magical the process of extracting a creature or a person from hard, untouched marble really was. The whole process of making something hard and foreign yield and give in and release into existence the item only the sculptor can envision. It was truly inspiring. To have a complete experience, I would recommend reading the book “The Agony and the Ecstasy” by Irving Stone. In my eyes, Michelangelo stands as tall and as fantastic as all the gods above and below. Still, I wonder about something: Michelangelo made David as an ideal among men, as an improvement to sculpture and a realistic representation of beauty and health. Did he expect the pervert that I am to sit about 5 minutes on the benches behind him and admire his perfectly sculpted butt? I would like to think that he did.

Now, I will express my opinions on the Uffizi Gallery. It is said to be among the most relevant sights for tourists in Florence, but I beg to differ. We did not even wait in line (my bane, my horror, I hate few things more than waiting in line), because we had a reservation, and we were still not impressed. The thing is, if you are a painting enthusiast, a real connoisseur, than this is the place for you. If you absolutely know all the painters, both important and no-names, than fine. But if you only know and like some, like Botticelli, Sanzio, Da Vinci and a couple more, than you really won’t be in for a treat. Oh, and if you’re like me and you have a serious problem with seeing 20 Pietas (2 or 3 that are actually good) and even more Crucifixes (again, only a few relevant), than you won’t enjoy walking through entire galleries of religious crap. The thing with the religious art is this: some paintings are excellent, really meaningful and with a good use of metaphor, but most are painfully censored by the age (and the religious leaders of those times), and by a lack of proper technique (let’s face it, not everyone can paint like Mikey or Leo, ok?). There were some I liked, for example, one in which Mary Magdalene was seriously hot, as she should be, and one in which Mary actually looked like a virgin, and not a 60 year old crone. Another reason why the Uffizi disappoints is the fact that beside paintings and sculptures (by the way, the sculptures in the Louvre are much, much better, and also belong to the Italian school), there isn’t much else.

On the other hand, I really really adored the Pitti Palace and the Bargello. The paintings in the Pitti Palace were my kind of paintings: immense, featuring epic battle scenes, Greek gods and heroes, and, the most important aspect, REAL people. You see, in many of the paintings in the 15th-16th century, many of the subjects are almost identical, drawn after the ideals of the age. Some work really well and are works of art, but some are repetitive (again, it’s all about technique). However, if you look at the paintings in the Pitti Palace, they are newer, the technique is superior and the people are so real, they almost escape their tinsels and frames. I loved that. Also, the Pitti and the Bargello had more galleries, containing paintings, sculptures, porcelain, miniatures, pietra dura (I don’t know how to translate it, but it was superb, basically a sort of mosaic) and clothing. I prefer this variety of expression, not to mention the perfection of the royal apartments in the Pitti, in which I could see myself living with absolutely no qualm or issue. And yes, we wanted to hide somewhere and spend the night in the Pitti, but we lack the balls to do it properly, damn it.

You don’t just walk in Florence. You climb. Stairs. Many, many stairs. I honestly think I have developed a phobia for stairs. In total, I would guess I climbed (up and down) a total of 2000 stairs, maybe more. My legs are at this moment made of steel, so there’s that, plus you cannot enjoy some of the most beautiful panoramic views without climbing. Overall, I would do it again, no questions asked and I like to believe that the constant metaphoric constructions I spewed between barely caught breaths entertained my best friends.

There are some things we could not do, but that remain as plans for the future: buy a Rolex (we could not do this because the bastards closed shop before we got there, not because we could not afford original, gold-plated watches, because I honestly think we could get a good price for our kidneys on the black market) and find good food (the last day does not count because it was pasta).

I enjoyed the Italians. They are genuinely friendly, good-humoured and talkative (they say 2-3 full sentences in Italian before realizing that the stupid look on your face is caused by the lack of understanding). I felt safe and I felt that I could walk up to one and simply start a conversation (if only I could find one in the crowds of tourists). There are, however, strange people in every country. The one we met in Italy has definitely become embedded into our minds and will remain there indefinitely. This is a story one must hear to enjoy at its fullest value, but I’ll do my best. After waiting in line (grrrr) for more than an hour to get our return train tickets in advance, we went to the information booth because I simply cannot understand the concept of Italian trains, with their weird tickets and strange lines. We went inside and it did not occur to us to choose the female employee over the man with grey, chaotic hair who looked like a frazzled orchestra conductor. No, we chose the loony. I went up to him, ticket in hand and asked him whether this was the correct ticket for the direct regional train to Forli. Sensing my inferior, non-Italian accent, he immediately cut me off, without looking at the ticket, explaining that it was pronounced FOR-LI (you cannot feel the musicality in this, but it’s as stereotypical as it gets; think Inglorious Basterds, the scene where the Americans try to act Italian). Ok, have it your way. Still, my question is unanswered. He proceeds with his explanations, completely ignoring me, my ticket and my friends and addresses an abstract point somewhere on the wall, saying that we were to take the train and change at FA-EEEN-ZA, pronounced as if we were all retarded, deaf, or both, with the typical Italian hand movement you would only see in old school comedies. This piece of information was repeated 4 times because of our evident lack of understanding, however, it was incorrect, our train was direct, no changes needed. When we expressed our issue, he asked us the time of departure and mistook our 7:17 for 7:07 and showed us a different variant, this time being Prato, or, as he said it: PRAAA-TOOO. Yeah. 4 times. Hand movement. No eye contact. Confusion turned to horror and my ticket was still unseen and unattended until we explained that it was not the god damned 7:07 train and he finally agreed that the “via Bologna” on our ticket was the correct version and finally stopped suggesting we go to Prato for some relaxation. Oh my god, how we laughed that day. Of course, we still bumped into Prato and its magnificent nothingness. The next day, when we were about to leave, we boarded the wrong train, jumped off and were once more directed towards the now infamous PRAAA-TOOOO, until we realized that our train was about to arrive at the next platform. It did pass through the suggested Prato and Faenza, but we did not have to climb down. Instead, we watched them through the train window, realizing that had we lost our train, few other solutions would have kept us from spending the next 2-3 days stranded in Faenza or Prato.

Finally, we got back home. Each and every moment we enjoyed, savoured, and kept with us for many future discussions. We laughed as we always do, we had fun, we walked as much as we could and we immersed ourselves in yet another brilliant and unique culture, in its art, legends and historic beauty. Geographically speaking it is a beautiful city in Europe. Emotionally speaking it is a whole different experience, and yet another knot in our friendship, all engulfed by more culture than some people can collect in a lifetime. I think I speak for all my friends when I say it was worth it, every moment of it, every step. All my love to Anna, Peter and my precious Andy, and may we have many such summers together! Ciao, and of course, FA-EEEN-ZAA! )

Tis an uncertain world we live in, but there is and always will be one eternal, ultimate and undeniable truth: HBO know how to make TV series. A Game of Thrones is by far the best series I’ve seen in a long time, and it is right up there with Rome when it comes to my all time favourites. It is a gem, a gift from the gods bestowed upon us worthless and undeserving mortals.

Game of Thrones is a medieval fantasy, a political and clan drama and a war story. It takes place in a realm defended by a Wall which keeps unspeakable evils at bay. I loved the fact that, though the opening scene is related to the other side of the Wall, you do not get more than a glimpse, a suggestion, a whisper of horror, all extremely potent due to the prophetic repetition of the phrase “Winter is coming.” Other than the Wall and the oncoming winter, the story is mostly realistic, and that is why I love it so much. I can handle my share of high fantasy. I consider Tolkien’s masterpieces the Bible of fantasy, but I admire Tolkien more for what he did with the English language, for his contribution to it, for his exquisite use of metaphor and lore. Yet, I prefer the take of G.R.R. Martin, the author of The Song of Ice and Fire (the book series containing Game of Thrones) because he made it real, graphic, intense and visceral. And oh, so sexy.

There are many people (though I would not call them people but whiny little brats lacking in culture and possibly illiterate), who condemn the Song of Ice and Fire series for being too dark and gritty. Yeah, because it was so frigging awesome back in the middle ages when this book supposedly takes place, even though it’s fantasy. Dudes, let me express this clearly once and for all. Back then, if you reached the age of 30 without dying of disease, war, famine, drought, you could say thanks to whatever deities you worshipped. The middle ages are considered the dark ages for a reason. Intense social cruelty, no cleanliness, immense corruption and a lack of technology and knowledge that pretty much led to life sucking a lot, especially if you were nothing but the common peasant. If you were nobility or royalty you had it better socially, and the status allowed you to screw the commoners and your brother and sister if your preferences ran that way, but you still weren’t safe from the lack of hygiene, war, etc etc. So don’t bitch about this series being too dark, because it is accurate and amazingly done.

Another pet pieve of mine is the criticism of how women were represented. Oh, how I would like to crack some skulls. Apparently the book is quite rape heavy and this was taken down a notch in the TV series. I can understand why they would do that, but I cannot understand why people might have a problem with the way the author wrote it. Listen, I am completely against violence towards women, and there are few who are as vindictive as I would be. I hate men who beat their wives and murder is honestly too soft for them. Try torture then murder. The good ol’ hanging, drawing and quartering. But I get why in a medieval setting women are seen as inferior. Because they were actually seen as inferior. The woman had control and power over the children until a certain age and over the household, as long as the man was okay with it. She could act as regent while the king was away, but only then. And when a kingdom invaded and conquered another kingdom, women were part of the spoils of war. It was horrendous and evil, but it’s happened in reality, not only in a book. The sensitive bitchy reader needs to understand that they don’t have to agree or like the action, but they have to understand its purpose. Onward with the review.

Because this series is character-based, I will insist on this aspect. The series has amazing characters. Seriously, some of the greatest and most believable people I’ve ever seen in anything. So fleshed out, so complex. No one, except Joffrey, the pathetic little demon spawn has just one side to them. One of my favourite female characters, who I think is also a good representation of an accurate medieval woman of high birth, is the wife of one main character, Catelyn Stark. She is awesome and this is why: she is a great mum, loving, warm, kind hearted, but only when it comes to her children. The bastard of the family is nothing to her, a blemish in her perfect relationship and she does not hide it. You cannot hate her because then you see her fighting for her sick child, protecting him, going through difficulties and obstacles to avenge him. Her judgment is not always on mark, her cruelty is often visible, but you can’t help but root for her and understand her. As I said before, there were many battered women back then. So when a noble woman actually ends up with this extremely honourable and good man, it is understandable that the burden of being left alone due to his necessity to serve the king is a hard one to bear. I adore the actress who plays her and I love her character.

Eddard Stark. One of the main characters, played by the awesome Sean Bean. He is the epitome of honour, of respect, of soul. And yet, he sucks so so hard at playing the game of thrones, thus leading to his fate. Forgive my spoiler, but, well, if you’ve read anything up to date regarding this series you already know. He dies and many were scandalized. OMG, the main character!!!! He is not the main character, there are about 10 main characters. His death brought me to tears and I had really enjoyed his character, but I get it. I see why he died, even though I cannot accept the exact circumstances. In a game of politics and corruption, I’m not saying you should be the back stabber, but you should definitely expect a sharp knife coming your way. Honour is a virtue and very respectable, but in such a situation, it gets people killed. Also, life gets people killed, so don’t be so surprised. I admire the balls of an author who does not go over his head to bring back a character, or who does not refuse to kill him because of the fans, although that is obviously the deserved and suggested fate (*cough* Harry Potter should have died *cough*). The death of Ned Stark was also a very important plot device and it shook things up. Sad to see him go, happy to move on.

Arya Stark and Sansa Stark. Arya = the tomboy who everyone loves, including me. Sansa = the girly girl who most hate, except me. I shall explain. I usually despise girly girls and wish bizarre tortures upon them simply because I do not think it normal for women to dress, look and act like Barbie dolls, to depend on men and to only think about their hair/nails/shoes. I consider that girls who at the age of 12-13 already see themselves not only as teenagers, but as adults are foolish and will simply end up missing out on their young years, not to mention make huge fools of themselves. I, myself, was a tomboy and am damn proud of it. So it is truly easy to love Arya, the little girl who struggles with the roles imposed by her gender, who wants to fight not to sew, who ends up being mistaken for an actual boy. She is smart, dynamic, interpreted flawlessly. It is also easy to hate Sansa, who is her complete opposite. She falls in love easily, she faints, she cries, she wants to get married and basically nothing else. She can’t defend herself and she accepts her role. Although she stands against everything I believe in, I do not hate her and here’s why. As the eldest daughter, back in the middle ages, you would be raised for the purpose of marriage, especially if you come from a respectable family. Alliances have been forged and broken over arranged marriages. You have a kid, I have a kid. Hey, they are 5, but at 13 they can get married, sure thing. Now we won’t kill each other anymore. Children were used as collateral all the time and if all you’ve done from birth has been sewing, learning proper etiquette, posture, etc, than what do you expect? So I cannot demonize her, even though, had I been in Arya’s position, I would have probably stabbed her or something. But as an intellectual, I cannot demonize a realistic character who may even end up suffering quite a lot for her weaknesses. I expect great things from Arya, as all do. But I also expect Sansa to grow up and learn. We shall see.

I will not insist as much on the bastard and the kid, namely Jon Snow and Bran Stark. I did not really care about Bran Stark, probably because I find him tiresome most of the time. Jon was great and he is the portal to the other side of the Wall. Through him, you get to see and understand that Winter truly is coming and if the Wall falls, all will end. You can’t help but sympathise with the guy who is willing to give everything he loves up just to defend a construction. He is too kind for my taste, but he works and I am looking forward to seeing his evolution and more from the other side.

Now, my favourite female character and my favourite couple: Daenerys Targaryen and Khal Drogo. Epic win. I love everything about Dany. She starts out horribly, as one of the last of her family, the last to have dragon blood (yes, this series has a drop of dragons and anything involving dragons is superb in my book, unless it is really really bad, of course, but it’s not the case). Her brother, the second character I truly despise and cannot possibly redeem sells her to the leader of a horde. These are wild people, barbarians, inspired, I believe from Huns, maybe a little Persian influence, you get the idea. Horse people and warriors. She is to be the bride of Khal Drogo in exchange for her brother, the so-called true heir of the throne getting an army. Now, this woman is gorgeous. The actress who plays her is superb, and I love the fact that she does not fit into the retarded stereotype of tall and anorexic, or even shrimpy and anorexic. Ugh. She looks like a woman, she looks healthy and beautiful, and her eyes are just….listen, watch the series, you will adore her. But what I most liked about her is the fact that she grows the most. Her development is epic. She starts out as an innocent victim, a confused, silent child bride who gets sold off to savages (I personally love the Dothraki, but I see how they can be scary), and ends up seducing and taming the savage lord (oh yeaaaah! Khal Drogo is frigging beyond words hot), and becomes the Khaleesi (which is right now one of my favourite words ever), the queen, taking command. She evolves into a complete woman, she gains trust in herself, in her body, she understands her heritage and her fate. There is much tragedy in her life, and I cried my heart out, but she beats all of it. She is the female protagonist that women need to look up to. Realistic in origin, tragic in start, powerful and brave throughout. Flawed, don’t get me wrong. She has her issues and her missteps, and they hurt, but they also help her grow. Overall, my favourite character, and the couple she makes with Drogo is delicious.

Lastly, if I’m discussing characters, how could I not mention one of my other favourites, Tyrion Lannister? The only Lannister that really deserves to live, and hey, even be king. He is considered the lesser of the famed and self-obsessed Lannisters, because he is a little person, also named the Imp. That little guy is epic. The lines he has in the movie are stupendous. I could not believe the genius of it all. He is basically the most exposed character, but he talks himself out of anything, he gets people to fight for him and he knows military strategy. He is a secret romantic, and a pervy wanker all the way, and I love all aspects of his personality. The actor playing him also does him great honour and takes his character to the next level. One of the best written people, not only in this series, but in all.

Here I stop with the characters, mostly because I could go on forever. Except Joffrey and Dany’s pathetic brother, I love all of them, from the honourable Starks, to the money-hungry, incestuous Lannisters, all the way to my heart’s closest, the Dothraki horde and Dany. Some words on the plot.

The main drama is related to the Iron Throne and the owner of the ass sitting on it. There is a number of contenders, each bringing different weapons and different strategies to the game. It’s a very intense, dog-eat-dog battle, no one can be trusted, and, in said battle, the clan drama has a potent presence. And all this beneath the glare of the oncoming Winter. There is much plot intrigue and the conflict is complex. Characters evolve and are warped by several tragedies. It is also very visceral. It does not hold back, it does not censor the reality of the story. It isn’t for the weak of heart. There is a guy decapitating his horse, I crap you not! Blood, gore, vicious attacks, murder, and the element without which I cannot enjoy a series of any kind, sex. This is an extremely sexy and graphic show, but it is also well done. There were some who called some scenes gratuitous. I honestly failed to find anything in bad taste or just there because it had to. There is some fan service, but most of the scenes have a precise role in the story.

The music and the opening sequence kick ass! I found it unique, and hey, we all love the maps in the fantasy books, so it was a thrill to watch it each time. The execution is flawless, the costumes are very age-appropriate and the kinky ones work so well it’s almost a sin. The dialogue is brilliant, especially Tyrion’s neverending rants on life and childhood memories. The dialogue actually helps make some of the more despicable characters appeal to me, like Cersei’s explanation of her actions and her perverse relationship with her brother. I actually felt for her and saw the world through her eyes, and trust me, it wasn’t easy.

Finally, I have to say that I am currently going through withdrawal. There are things that are so god damned good, so perfect that they ruin you for other things. Game of Thrones has not yet destroyed my ability to like all other series, possibly because of my personality and obsession with history, battles, kinkiness, etc, but it has raised the bar to a level which many series may fail to reach. I shall see. The point is that it is one of the best things ever made for TV and from a cinematic point of view as well, since many people leave behind the shallowness and pettiness of Hollywood and turn towards TV series instead. I feel like an eternity is separating me from the 4h of July when supposedly my book set of Song of Ice and Fire will arrive from Amazon. I am dying to read this immense ongoing marvel of a series. Apparently, people who have read the books have stated that the series sticks incredibly close to the source material. Hallelujah for that! Very much looking forward to entering this world with every read and every re-watching, and yes, I intend to watch it over and over and over and….over again.

In conclusion, I thoroughly recommend it, A triple +, no questions asked. I had planned on watching it throughout an entire week. Yeah right, I finished it in 2 days, and that’s cos I was emotionally stressed about the last exam (not mentally). Once you start on this epic masterpiece, you will not be able to stop. So go on, stop reading my almost 3000 words and go watch it!!!!

7:31 AM. Bloodshot. Frustrated. A bit nauseous. Barely 6 hours of effing sleep. So this post will not be deep, interesting or relevant to the normal, level-headed reader. It is, however, a way to express my incomprehensible anger at being forced to live near the recently opened borders of the Twilight Zone.

There is a park near my house, an awesome park I spent my childhood in. It has been empty, strewn with homeless, frigging closed down for about 8 years. Nowadays there are people who walk their dogs or their kids in it, but I have not set foot in it for many a year, possibly because I am not a fan of possible rape or dead, empty space. But a few days ago, the thieving bastards that reside ever so comfortably in the city hall have agreed to finally begin renovation. I’ve read a fresh article online and it is supposedly a German project, so it can’t all suck, and it’s supposed to become this awesome play and recreational area. Finally. Too bad I am 21 and about to move out of the area, but yeah.

The subject of this article is related, yet completely different, bordering on the effing supernatural. It has been 2 days, I believe, or more accurately, 2 nights. The heat of all hell has descended upon my city and my life and I basically begin to breathe and to live the moment the sun goes down. So one would think I’d be most content during the night. This was true until 2 nights ago. I’m sleeping and all of a sudden I hear this goddamn wail. To amplify an auditory experience which I believe is now permanently imprinted upon my brain, forever to haunt my life and death, imagine this: a scream as if someone with a very high-pitched voice was just getting raped by something close to tentacle creatures. Over and over and over and forever. WTF! And as I am writing this, eyes bloodshot and nerves wrecked, the auditory rape continues. I do not own a gun, because of my mum’s issues with them, but I swear if I had one, this noise would end here and now.

So okay, I take it like a grown woman the first night. I go back to sleep, cradled by the happiness and smug joy of knowing I passed the first exam of the series, thus enabling quite a short session of exams. Yay for me and barely passed disasters! But that euphoria has left me as the oncoming exam is no longer something that happens after the never-ending weekend, and after listening to music non stop until 1 AM last night, I was content with going to sleep and snoozing until my mother brutally woke me to go walk the dog. The issue that forbade my sleep was canine in nature, but my poor sweet Nero had nothing to do with it.

It appears that the in-construction park needs some effing protection during the oh-so-long summer nights. Because a bunch of dirt and metal has all of a sudden made it interesting to thieves. Come on! So, naturally, a dog is brought it, or I hope to the Gods that this is the reason for my suffering. Because if I find out that the abomination making my nights a living hell has been DUMPED here by irresponsible owners and its howls are of grieving instead of just utter stupidity, I will not need silver bullets. Normal ones work fine on stupid bastards who abandon their animals. But I digress.

This beast, which, if it is the dog I noticed yesterday as I was parking my car, is a piece of crap, anorexic pup that barely reaches my knee. Cute? No. NO! It’s a monster and I refuse to believe it is of normal canine origin. It howls as I described above. It screams. It wails. And it does all that without breathing. Its noises are an unending continuation of high-pitched vocal manifestations. I find it highly impossible to believe that the maw of the barely there dog that I saw can produce such horrendous, otherworldly, down right demonic sounds. And trust me, you cannot sleep through them, unless drunk on alcohol or the joy of passing an exam, and the second wears off as the basic reality of the life of a student hits you: THERE IS ALWAYS ANOTHER EXAM. All night, I crap you not. All night, this beast communicates with whatever demons spawned it, or with whatever aliens dropped it off. This creature will destroy us all with its incessant howling.

At some point, when mercifully you sleep in the small hours of the morning, the sound will be forcefully locked into your brain. Can’t hear the sound of neurons (Skippy has cloned itself in the winter exams, so now there is Skippy and Skipette) communicating? Of course you can. It’s that demonic wail. And this thing has some sort of perverted intelligence because it knows when to produce the most irritating sounds of all. When I am on the verge of finally sleeping. You know that perfect second when you are slightly conscious but not enough to care about the outer world, when the rim of your next dream is visible and almost tangible? Precious, right. Well, the Wail of Death steals that from you than laughs, or better yet, screams in your face.

At 7 A.M, mentally damaged and feeling a weird pain on the side of my nose (I feel this whenever I wake up early in the morning, I don’t know why, but I think it’s my brain liquefying and flowing away), I barge into the kitchen, demanding of my mum to know if she heard the creature as well. If it is not only in my mind, if Polly has not finally managed to rob me of my sanity. Well, this morning, her eyes matched mine not only in the colour of the iris, but also due to the reddish lines around it. And she sleeps with the window closed, by the way, so this beast knows no boundaries.

It is now 8.02 PM and the world is silent. So from this point on, all possibility that the monster is a dog has vanished. Werewolf all the way, and I want it dead, gone, skinned, impaled, burned, and I am willing to pay. No normal dog has the pulmonary capacity to produce such howls, without apparently stopping to breathe. I’ve had a howling dog. It was music compared to this. This is just a warning to all humanity. This is insanity about to happen.

Seriously now. I love dogs, I own one and if I ever become a millionaire or develop awesome mutant powers (X-Men First Class for the win, or at least for the super sexy, super perfect Magneto, yum yum), I intend to adopt and take care of all strays. But there is a first. There always is a first. And to make it less horrible, I won’t do it myself. I will take it to my Nero and may the best dog win. Nero isn’t particularly bright or violent, but he is probably 15 times bigger. I mean, come on. At least scare it into a heart attack. Just make it stop. MAKE IT STOP!!!!

As I end this, I want to explain what I meant by living on the edge of the Twilight Zone. You would say that one weird howling creature in the night is not sufficient. Well, a few years ago, when I was in the 12th grade, during the FINAL EXAMS, because hey, if you are gonna screw with me, do it when it most counts, there was yet another god damned abomination, this time, feathered, or at least winged. There was a bastard bird somewhere in the park (I swear, that park has issues, seriously), and it felt the need to sound off every few seconds, throughout the entire night. It was so high-pitched and weird, you could hear it through closed sound-resistant windows. WTF! And by the way, although my grandma was convinced it was a stupid owl, I stand by my opinion: demonic pterodactyl.

So yeah, the last thing that would complete this awesome orchestra of freakish things you can only hear, never see, would be some kind of overgrown mutant felines that would screw and then rip each other to shreds beneath my window, all the while meowing a symphony of sleep destruction. Oh wait, I vaguely remember a summer in my childhood when during every weekend there was a cat orgy beneath my window. So it’s settled.

Alas, I have not yet succumbed to natural or unnatural causes, except perhaps to my own laziness. I know I have not posted in ages, and to be honest, I was not going to any time soon, seeing as I am in finals and it’s much too hot outside, and I am bored out of my mind, and also, if I have not mentioned, I am in finals. Still, I feel like I will not be able to move on with my day unless I share my grievances. My present grievance, of course, for if I even attempt to enlist all that abuses my nerves, well…I will probably miss tomorrow’s exam due to the inability to leave the computer.

I have just seen the Mid Season Finale of South Park and it is the only episode in 15 seasons that has left me completely and utterly depressed. The episode was ending and I was sitting there, more than convinced that something good would pop up, something positive, that it would not end in either a cliffhanger or a collapse into the abyss. Honestly, I cannot make up my mind regarding the ending, it was just so…messed up and almost cruel. If the writers are simply trying to stir things up, keeping us all questioning and tormented until bloody October, I think it is a seriously perverted method. But if I interpreted the signs and the suggestions accurately and South Park truly is coming to an end, well, I have cause for depression.

Now, some of you reading this article may not know or care about South Park, so you’re probably clicking away. No matter. South Park is special to me because it has been in my life for many, many years, throughout exams, graduations, break ups and holidays. It has been one of my favourite shows to watch during lunch or snacks, it has offered numerous laughs. It is nowhere as relevant as the cartoons of old, the nostalgic series of my childhood (or even of my adult days, i.e. the one and only “Gargoyles”), but it was there as I matured, as I got really interested in social and political satire. Plus, it was always there for countless moments of silliness, obscenity and down right perplexing scenarios. It offered an interesting cast of characters, that were surprisingly funny even after so many years (come on, you know you never get sick of Cartman’s sick plans and Randy’s antics, and you know you almost spit out a lung from laughter in the episode with the average penis length).

Anyway, about this episode. It shows one of the show’s protagonists, Stan, turning 10 years old, and thus beginning to grow up. Something happens. The music he thought was cool (mortifying, horrendous tweeny crap the burning of which I myself fully endorse) has started sounding like crap. Actually, everything he used to like begins to be crap. Including his friends, unfortunately, who by the end of the episode basically abandon him in his incurable pit of cynicism. Horrible? Not yet. Randy, his dad, pulls another one of his retarded “finding his youth” stunts, thus leading to a fight with his wife. We’ve all seen that before, but unfortunately, this time it doesn’t seem as ridiculous. This is where my heart broke. Seriously. They spontaneously admit to not being happy for a long time. They make a parallel between their fictitious lives and, in my opinion, the evolution of the show for the past couple of seasons. If I am reading too much into this, fine. But if I am not, than the creators of the show are suggesting that SP could soon come to an end. The ending does not help, although it features the amazing song “Landslide”, but having this song as a soundtrack to the breaking of friendships and, even more messed up, the break up of Stan’s parents, well, I was touched. And in many ways, I get it. But still, how crappy was it to basically have the entirety of SP unravel like that?

Yet, my sadness is not caused simply by a cartoon episode. Come on. I am older than that. Yet, the potent message got across loud and clear. We all grow old at some point. Be it when we turn 10, when our kids turn 10, or simply when we stop seeing things as we used to. And this is unchangeable, we cannot return, and unfortunately, not many of us are lucky enough to even remember where we came from. I myself hope that despite all the changes I’ve been subjected to, the core of who I am has stuck with me, and always will. The exterior and the outer layers mature, sure, but there are some values and concepts that define you, that will always be your tether line to childhood and youth. I nurture my inner child, as often as I can, and I suggest you all do it.

The final reason why this episode seems impossible to take out of my head is the fact that it strikes several sensitive chords. Not when it comes to family life, but when it comes to friends, who are basically one’s extended family. I have gained and lost numerous friends throughout my life, and though some of those losses have been either my fault or no one’s fault, many have been due to the fact that people change, and more often than not, they change into worse versions of themselves. They aspire to conditions much too high for their mental and emotional possibilities, they abandon the people who matter most and become lost and floating. Or they just double cross you and to me, treachery requires the ultimate penalty. People become older. Yes. It can’t be helped. But when they grow apart, it’s their own fault.

Alas, this was haunting my mind, and strangely, I do feel more at peace at the moment, possibly even capable of going over my entire goddamn exam curriculum. Oh, how I despise exams and finals, but to be honest, after five effing tortures, asking me to care about the sixth is asking me too much. I just wanna go back to my beloved “The Ground Beneath Her Feet”, in the wonderfully shaky and unstable universe crafted so marvelously and perfectly by Salman Rushdie, because there I feel like I belong far more than in a stupid, soul-less exam room.

As I end this, I extend my thanks to the creators of South Park, because after all, it is anything but easy to make and maintain a long-running series, and, since there are 7 episodes coming in October, I can only wish that if they do go, they will do it with a bang, as all fans must surely expect.

First of all, it is good to be back, but unfortunately, two of my favourite posts have disappeared and shall probably never be seen again. The reason is the same as that of my absence: hosting issues. Damn them! Alas, I mourn the loss of my Lupercalia entry, not only because it was a work of genius, but because it was vastly appreciated and read. The one about the Oscars is not really necessary since we all know that the Oscars 2011 were a travesty except for Natalie Portman and Christian Bale who totally deserved winning. But since I am back, I shall try not to delve on the past and write an actual entry, which I will most definitely back up because the Internet hates me and probably always will. The feeling, I assure you, is mutual.

This weekend will mostly be dedicated to the cult of myself. This Friday has brought the liberation of yours truly, as the last exam of the most disastrous winter ever has come to an end. Will I pass? If there is any fairness in the world, hell yeah! But sadly, fairness is the last thing that actually exists in this infinite pile of excrement that is the world. Still, there was an event worth mentioning this Friday. Me going to see Sucker Punch, the new Zach Snyder movie, a film I had been looking forward to for months and months. I will begin my review by simply stating that this movie will either be an A for people like me (people who are completely obsessed with fantasy, SciFi, violence, zombies, nazis, nazi zombies, sexy women in revealing clothes and in independent, empowering roles, guns, swords, anime, bad-ass soundtracks, cgi well put to purpose and frigging awesome action scenes) or a D for everyone else. If you are not in this category don’t bother, but I do think you’re still missing out on a movie which, while not the epitome of depth has something entertainment has really been lacking recently: STRONG FEMALE CHARACTERS! A plague upon you, Bella effing Swan, it’s all about Sweet Pea and Rocket!

First, I will state that I am a huge Zack Snyder follower. I love the way he sees the world, the way he uses slow motion, his CGI and soundtracks. He is a fantastic director and I absolutely adored “300″, “Watchmen” is among my favourite movies of all time and “The Owls of Ga’hoole” is just so sweet and awesome that it is purely timeless and ageless. So of course I would have done anything to see Sucker Punch, an epic about girls in a mental asylum imagining a fantastic world where they fight for their freedom. Duh!

Behold the premise: a 20 year old girl who will be known as “Baby Doll” ends up in an insane asylum (as if her life did not already suck sufficiently), where she faces lobotomy. In the asylum/brothel she meets the rest of the girls with whom she plans escape, a feat made possible by a series of items. The items are procured one by one when the guards and main bad guy are distracted by her dance. You don’t see her dance but apparently it is something to behold. However, each time she dances she enters a fantasy realm, each time differently themed, where the girls do hardcore battle in order to obtain an item that symbolizes the one they need in real life.

The execution of this concept is really good. The world of the asylum is dark, sinister, oppressive, depraved. The illusions are vivid, hardcore, violent to the extreme, yet powerfully unreal and basically a combination of impossible battles, anime, the Matrix, etc etc. Each mission takes place in a different setting: Secluded Temple ; World War 1 featuring zombies, yay! ; Lord of the Rings – inspired castle, with plenty of orcs and dragons ; futuristic train loaded with droids + bomb + sad scene where I cried (I don’t think there is anyone in the world who shed tears during this movie except me). The battles are out of this world, explosive, exaggerated, impossible, but so what? Who in their right minds expected realism? To be honest, I loved the battles not only because they were flawlessly done but due to their complete lack of sense. Why would they be realistic in a fantasy world? In someone’s head? And moreover, I identified myself with those worlds because that is how my brain looks like, that is how it has looked like ever since I was a child. I played with Barbie, sure, but Barbie was always in danger of getting slaughtered by all kinds of demons, monsters, furniture, etc. I wasn’t a pacifist when I was a kid and my Barbies were not only single, independent, strong women (no Ken Doll, and he was not missed), but they were constantly in mortal peril, from which they escaped either through fierce battle or through the Deus Ex Machina of a child’s perverted grasp on game play. So of course I found myself in the fantasy part of this movie, because in my opinion, fantasy is not something for children. It is something ageless that evolves and develops and lurks within everyone’s mind. It is a safe, private place in which we can retreat, in which we can find our peace either by meditating beside a pond encumbered by lilies, or by kicking zombie ass (guess where I go). And of course we are always safe in our fantasies because in there we can do no wrong. We take the frustrations of every day life and turn them into something that perishes before our wills, before our hammers and swords and AK-47s. And we come out stronger, more confident and ready to actually face our fears.

This relation between reality and fantasy was what I liked depth-wise in this movie. Other than this it isn’t really a ground-breaking study of persona and character development, but I do not believe anyone expected this out of it. The dialogue is cheesy, as it should be, since the scenes where they talk are more like the cut scenes of a video game. The action takes precedence. The characters aren’t explored enough, or at least they don’t all get equal treatment. The Asian girl, Amber, for example remains mostly in shadow. Many have commented on the nature of their outfits, calling them misogynistic. A big _|_ to you! I have said this before and I will say it again. Is sex the worst thing in the world now all of a sudden? Grow up, retards! If a woman is beautiful, sexy and confident with her body, why the hell should she be reduced to something less than human for appearing in clothes that do not cover her from head to toe in sceneries that, although would require a more practical attire (cos I can’t imagine that wearing a short skirt and a top in winter is very comfortable, but it sure looks good), are not real, therefore, common sense is irrelevant. Why are women who simply look good considered shallow and whorish? And furthermore, why the hell have so many people (stupid indoctrinated bastards) called out high and low that this movie is absolutely for guys. That it has nothing for women? I curse you retards, for it is you who are the misogynists. I am a woman and a straight one and I absolutely adored this film, and found the women in it gorgeous. Not because of the boobs or the legs or midriffs. But because of the energy they emanate, because of the sheer beauty and sexiness and strength. Because I finally got a movie where the women are the heroes, the men are rare and mostly evil (though very well played!) and the women can handle themselves. Of course the ending is not the trivial Happy Ever After. I would have hated the movie had it been so. No, this movie is all about overcoming the impossible, spitting in the face of odds and finally, self sacrifice. And a deep understanding of one’s possibilities. The weapons that the girls use are metaphors for our own. And I’m sorry for all the pathetic little teen and tween girls who consider this movie specifically for men. You should effing watch it and learn from it, because of course, it took another man to create good female characters to add to the collection of no longer sung heroines: Xena, Buffy, Scully from the X-Files, and so forth. Congrats, Mr Snyder.

Before I conclude, I will say that this movie is not for everyone. If you want real drama, incredible depth, a mind-numbing story or if you only watch movies that are so boring they could murder a corpse, then please don’t invest your money. But if you are like me, a person capable of enjoying most kinds of movies, the deep and the quirky, the violent and the heartbreaking, the nonsensical and the brilliant, then go see it! Although people will have thoroughly divided opinions of this movie, I believe that anyone with ears will agree that the soundtrack was the bomb! It went perfectly with every scene and ultimately the viewer is left with the memory of one kick ass song collection that manages to transport you into the realm of dragons and zombie soldiers more efficiently than the CGI. Plus, it is great to hear songs that feature the voices of the actual cast, I kind of miss the times when actors could also sing and dance and do their own stunts, so this is a great plus.

Overall, I think this movie is worth it. It is not for everyone, but it may be one of the greatest live-action anime of all time. Because crazy stuff like that can only happen in anime. Still, amazing cinematography, superb eye to detail (especially in the WWI and the dragon part), gorgeous and well-acted characters (except Vanessa Hudgens who is a stupid bitch on and off screen and ugly as hell, but she dies, thus satisfying me), kick-ass soundtrack. This movie will never win an Oscar, but hey, the Oscars are crap anyway so who cares? But it is worth the time and the money if you fit in the aforementioned category. It is a movie to see with your friends, but the soundtrack is perfect for late night solo listening.

With this I end my review and I recommend it to all who do not have a big, thick, nodule-covered stick up their ass (or those who do and like it). Always, I love you dear readers and hopefully there will be no more hosting issues. See ya soon with more reviews and artistic depictions of my torments and musings.

First of all, I need to apologize for my complete lack of posts in 2011. I suck as a human being, but the past 2 month have been an infectious pile of compost. I will not even discuss them, the memories are too messed up. In short: crappy, depressive beginning of 2011, disgusting last week of the first semester of the third year of suffering, worst finals of my life, and the crappy part is, I am basically still in finals, because the mentality of the retards that take student-related decisions is something on the line of: “Hey, it sucks, but let’s make it suck even more! Because ass-licking is our favourite passtime, and if we do it, everyone has to join in! YAY!” I wish a slow, painful death on the people who decided that it is a good idea to force 4 exams in 3 weeks and who moved the second set of exams one week after the first. I hope you scream like little bitches.

Under normal circumstances, I would be in the mountains right now, skiing, having fun with my friends. So you can imagine how happy and thrilled I am to be sitting in my room, in front of the computer, typing this on my blog. Is this what life has been reduced to? Don’t get me wrong, I love occasionally spilling my guts on this black and orange page, but I would much rather be skiing and actually having a LIFE. And I am also struggling with another problem: filling this entire screen with the type of profanity I use in my every day life, and which I have tried to keep as far away from my readers as possible, mostly because my bro advised me to. He said something about Google not liking F-words and stuff like that. So I will refrain. For now. But know that it is hard!

This post will not be about anything, but  after I take large breaks from the blog I need a come-back entry. I promise to not make the next ones as lame as this one. There will probably be reviews of “127 Hours”, “Never Let Me Go”, some rants about the Oscars and how much the world sucks, because, trust me, it never ceases to suck. But for now, I need to return to the plethora of activities I have planned to fill the void of my existence: continuing and possibly completing the kinky scene for my novel (even though I am light years from actually needing it in my plot, but my mind had been demanding some literary porn for quite some time and I hate the cheap excuse that is considered “good” these days), convincing myself to attempt to commence studying for the first (and most painful) fail, and of course wallowing in self pity because I somehow managed to catch a frigging cold by just sitting inside the house. See ya soon, lovelies!

Ah, the simplicity of the world manages to astound me yet again. After having read one of the greatest works of art in modern literature, “Shalimar the Clown” by Salman Rushdie, I knew that not many books will come close to offering the experience of this romantic, enchanting, heart-breaking masterpiece, one which I will review very soon (I need the right mood for it). But I had no idea that I would waste two weeks on one of the most tedious, most boring and pointless books in existence: the final part of the much hypes, overly discussed Millennium Trilogy by Stieg Larsson. I was extremely pissed off during the reading of this useless brick, but I will take advantage of this post to review all three books, mostly because I don’t want it to be a series of insults. There are good aspects as well. Therefore, sit back and enjoy my commentary of a trilogy you really do not need to read. I will try to be as specific as possible, so you get the main points of interest without all the immense amount of FILLERS that a vast portion of the world’s population consider to be good literature.

First of all, the first book: Men Who Hate Women.

I absolutely refuse to refer to this novel as “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo”. It is so utterly sexualized for no purpose, just, perhaps to entice stupid Americans into buying it. The title is grossly inaccurate and misleading, and it fools the shallow reader into visualizing something entirely different and much less deep. Who gives a crap that the protagonist has a god damned tattoo on her back? Really? Is modern society so against a simple artistic manifestation that is quite common, to be honest? There is nothing special about a tattoo. It, of course, holds special meaning to the person bearing it, but that is about it. It is not something that shocks or turns on, in my opinion, it is simply body art. The true theme of the novel is abuse and violence against women, presented in numerous forms. The misogynist, the serial killer, the man seen socially as a pillar, but who is actually weak and thus, abusive against what he considers a lesser being: the woman. Therefore, the appropriate title should be: Men Who Hate Women, as it was in the original Swedish: “Män som hatar kvinnor”, the Italian: “Uomini che odiano le donne” or the Spanish: “Los hombres que no amaban a las mujeres”, the French: “Les hommes qui n’aiment pas les femmes” and EVEN the Romanian: “Barbati care urasc femeile”. So yeah…

Fortunately, though the title is lame, the book itself is amazing. I really, really enjoyed it, and I had not read a police story quite as fascinating for a long time. It had violence in sufficient amounts to make one grit their teeth (not a veteran of violent books like me, but well, it was still scary), it was perverted not to entice, but to document a cruel social reality, and it had a good, strong mysery element to it. Plus, I loved the characters. I especially adored the “Girl”, Lisbeth Salander, one of the most powerful female protagonists in existence, and though I could not find myself in her (few people can, I believe), I agreed with her, with her actions and her way of thinking and I especially loved the fact that she was a hacker, a mathematical genius, though deemed socially unfit and retarded. Such a contrast really helps build a fascinating character. She is strong, independent, extremely angry, but immensely efficient and talented at what she does, though she receives little recognition. She is also a rape victim and survivor and she deals with this as she deals with her entire life, by confronting it full on, by kicking it back in its face, by exerting revenge upon it. But what I most loved about her was the fact that she remained more or less a mystery. We did not know the entirety of her background story, we did not have infinite insight into her mind and being. She remained weird and mind-boggling throughout the first book. Too bad this was all lost in the next two, but I will get to that later.

Another character is Mikael Blomkvist, the utterly flawed middle-aged reporter, completely and utterly dedicated to his work and to exposing corrupt organizations and their leaders, and, strangely enough, an unstoppable female magnet. Seriously. This guy screws his way through life, but he doesn’t even do this as a means of survival or because he is a douche. Women simply can’t get enough of him, and I really did not like this. Yeah, that’s right. I do not like something of sexual nature. OMG! Call the doctors! No, but seriously, as much as I enjoyed his witty dialogue and dedication, I fail to see how he could attract so much attention. Although he isn’t ugly, he is by no means drop dead gorgeous. He is a complete workaholic, and that is not necessarily a character flaw, but after working and running around like crazy, do you really have enough energy left to be a sexual machine? Come on. Plus, he has this strange secretive nature, and when he gets wind of something interesting, he drops mostly everything else. I personally would stay away from a guy like that. And there is also his sick relationship with effing Erika Berger, a character I wanted dead from her first introduction.

Erika Berger is supposedly presented and sold in the book as a strong, independent woman, but in truth, she is the complete opposite of Salander, and therefore, a stupid bitch. She has basically everything handed to her and she is mostly appreciated for her looks and ability to look good on camera, as if that is some kind of personal achievement. But the thing that truly makes me want to hate her is the fact that she not only cheats on her husband with Blomkvist, but this is accepted and presented as a plus. WTF? Is cheating cool now? Is it in fashion? She is married to this seemingly perfect guy, who basically offers her everything she might need, but somehow, the skank cannot possibly exist without her lover of twenty years, the reporter whose family she tore up, and who must have some kind of unspeakable dick power to have such control over her. This, for me, is wrong on so many levels. First of all, screw around as much as you want, but now when you’re married, damn it. I don’t see marriage as sacred, or pure, or bullcrap like that. No. But I believe that if you chose someone, for the duration of that relationship, you have a moral obligation to respect them. If not, you can always divorce, what the hell? And the thought that a guy would want to share his woman is truly disgusting. That, in my opinion, is anything but love. So the bitch can die, and should have died, instead of receiving frigging glorification in each and every book.

I took time to present these characters because they appear throughout the trilogy. The plot in the first book is basic mystery. Blomkvist needs to help an old industrialist find out the truth behind the disappearance of a young woman in his family. The problem: she went missing 40 years ago, and it all happened on an island completely isolated from the mainland due to an accident. The family in cause is extremely wealthy, and reminiscent of a powerful dynasty. This particular clan has Nazi elders and a whole bunch of unlikeable characters. The mystery of Harriet Vanger brings the two protagonists Lisbeth and Mikael together in a remote cabin, and it grips the readers from the very beginning to the very end. Really good writing and though at some point one begins to suspect the truth, the way the two reach the devastating conclusion is really intense and quite brilliant.

The finale of the novel is nice, a happy one, but also a realistic one. Lisbeth begins to have feelings for Blomkvist (like basically any life form with ovaries), but though he feels a strong friendship for her, the feelings are not fully returned. A satisfying, natural ending. I am pleased, and I recommend this book to all who enjoy police stories, mysteries, and who are ready to read something with strong, violent content, including rape, murder, incest, corruption, etc. This book is not for everyone. The characters are flawed, but well written, the story is raw and the theme is dark, but painfully real. Overall, an excellent read, great female lead, good plot. I adored the fact that the issue of rape survival was presented from multiple perspectives, not just Lisbeth’s. Every woman is different, and they all react differently and this adds to the drama and the tangibility of the story. Lisbeth is fantastic in her own way, but trauma takes its own personal toll on different personalities.

The second novel, “The Girl Who Played With Fire”. This is where it gets weird.

The book itself is not badly written, but there are a lot of new elements and it strays from the first one a great deal. Actually, it stands alone, except for the main characters. We begin a journey (a very detailed and pointless journey) into Lisbeth’s background, into her persona and history. This may sound appealing to many who have loved the character, but to me (and I did love her character), it was quite cumbersome and disappointing. Not that the story itself isn’t interesting or captivating, because it is. She ends up being the daughter of the biggest lowlife imaginable, but, unfortunately, that lowlife happens to be more important to the Swedish government than his abused family, and mostly, Salander’s mum and herself. So their rights are profoundly stepped on, and her problems with society commence. All this is fine, drama, anger, confusion, impotence against the system, but at the same time, the myth of Lisbeth Salander is ruined. She is reduced to someone who, although has been royally screwed by life and the government and mental institutions, has nothing intensely special. Sure, she is brilliant, and sure, she survived, but when all her history is thrust upon me, I feel as if I am supposed to feel sorry for her, and I do not. I look up to her for being so strong, but at the same time, she is presented as such a victim of ridiculous circumstances, that this clashes with my initial opinion of her. Lisbeth Salander should have remained a mystery, a conundrum, something you cannot get close to.

We are introduced to the Secret Police, to spies, crooked motorcycle clubs, prostitution, sex trafficking, and the craze of mass media. All this is fine, except, I for one do not melt upon hearing about conspiracies and secret effing police. I live in a post-communist country. I am not impressed by phone tapping, surveillance or corruption. I am not shocked to hear statistics about girls who end up being forced to become prostitutes. Sure, you are offered a job of baby-sitter or waitress, but you’ve never heard of that certain company, and you leave home without your family’s knowledge or consent, and you are, more or less a minor. I know that those girls are victims, but they are also pretty stupid as well. I am not talking about the victims of kidnapping or blackmail. I am talking about the silly girls who want to leave their countries of origin no matter what it takes, but don’t bother to actually get educated, get a stable job even if it is not in an intellectual field, or at least do the proper research.

Still, there were enjoyable elements: Salander’s adventures abroad, certain changes in her appearance and mentality, her relationship with Miriam Wu, the kidnapping of Miriam Wu and her being saved by a boxer, several murders including the one of Lisbeth’s rapist, Lisbeth’s complete annihilation of men twice her size and her final showdown with her father and monstrous half-brother. These things kept me going, because, besides all the conspiracy and bla bla bla Secret Police bla bla bla, I wanted to see her in action. Screw Blomkvist, Berger and a ton of other minute characters I didn’t really care about. It was all about her. The ending is intense, very violent, but I found it too fantastic for my taste. When one gets shot in the shoulder, hip and HEAD, albeit with a pistol of a small caliber, after which one is buried alive, one doesn’t exactly survive. WTF. I understand the effect of adrenaline, the desire to survive, the anger. But still, medically speaking, a bullet to the head doesn’t exactly constitute as a condition in which you continue to walk or think, or attack with weapons.

Overall, it was an okay read, though the only story of interest is the one that follows Lisbeth. The part about trafficking, though disturbing in its reality does not impress me, it was like watching the 5 o’clock news. The part about the Secret Police was just boring, but, unbeknowst to me, it would all suck extremely hard in the final installment.

And lastly, the barely finished “The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest”. The title is misleading because it should have been called “The Girl Who Is In The Hospital, Hacking, While A Bunch of Boring People Talk A Whole Lot In The Background”. Seriously.

I understand the importance of dialogue in novels. It gives the characters a voice of their own, it helps with the progression. But when you get nothing but effing dialogue for half of 743 pages, it gets beyond annoying. Talk, talk and more effing talk. Boring as all hell, and I’ll explain why. If you are not a retard, you managed to understand most of Lisbeth’s story from the second book. But just to make sure that all is known, there are about 40 or so pages in which the bad guys, a bunch of random guys you don’t give a crap about, the secret group within the Secret Police, known as the Section (can you hear my snores of boredom) basically tell you what happened from the beginning of time onward. All this long, uninteresting story about bureaucracy, corruption, a lame-ass Russian spy (because the so-called Zalachenko is nothing like the spies of history, he is a bastard, a woman beater and a defector, therefore, a filthy traitor), rookies and veterans of the Secret Police, secrets and classified files. So you know what went on, they know, and now, it is all a matter of time before several groups (the reporters, the cops, the good guys in the Secret Police) catch up through several means. I thought I would literally die with the book in my lap. Lisbeth is mostly absent, and I don’t blame her, I blame the writer. If you have such an awesome protagonist, don’t have her shot in the head and thus confined to a hospital bed for more than half a novel. True she manages to connect to the Internet, and she contacts her dear hacker amigos, but you have to wait a whole third of 743 pages for that to happen. Meanwhile, you have a lame subplot of Berger getting a fantastically paid job at a magazine where everyone hates her, after which she begins to battle a stalker that constantly informs her of being a whore, which, by the way, she totally is. I immediately guessed the identity of her stalker, and his reasons were pure cliche. Oh, and if you plan to make a smart, strong female character, no matter what weird sexual stuff she has in her past, make sure that the evidence of her escapades are securely locked up somewhere, not in her bedside table, up for grabs. Seriously, I think that her entire character is some lame form of fan service. Hot woman in her 40s, still utterly attractive, pampered but still managing to be a workaholic, fulfilled, or so it seems, yet entirely unfaithful to a husband she claims to love insanely, addicted to her best friend, and generally, a stuck up bitch, and burdened by a seemingly random array of sexual activities. Fake much? I believe so. I can taste the desperation.

Another subplot is Blomkvist’s budding relationship with yet another useless character, Monica Figuerola. I rolled my eyes every time it was mentioned that she is extremely muscular, which I personally do not find hot. It is one thing to be fit and in good shape, but an entirely different thing to be addicted to body building, ewww. I accept her for the sake of diversity, no matter how unappealing she is to me personally, but I found it in extremely bad taste to constantly insist on how muscular she was. It is the same as having a woman with large breasts and constantly insisting on that aspect as if nothing else mattered, or having a man with beautiful eyes and spending full paragraphs and chapters doing nothing other than describing his eyes. So after so pathetic an introduction, she immediately becomes obsessed with Blomkvist, which would be fine except it’s the fifth time I’ve seen it in these books. Why? What does he offer them that is so addictive? One would hope that after reading so many scenes about him before and after sex, you would actually have at least ONE scene during sex. A little explanation. A little description. Not just that he snores afterwards and the woman is completely satisfied. I call bullcrap on that!

Finally, after hundreds and hundreds of wasted paper, after so much boring and pointless dialogue, after a complete lack of relevant character development, I managed to get to the good part. Yes, this monorail has something good after all: the ending. The trial of Lisbeth Salander, which, in my opinion, should have been the main point of interest in the final installment. After all, wasn’t this the whole idea? Salander vs The System. Duh. I liked that part, it was dynamic, well written and the character of her lawyer was great, mostly for destroying the horrible doctor Peter Teleborian, a borderline child molester and psychopath in his own right. Lisbeth is acquitted, as was expected, but we are given one final action scene during which she gets revenge against the last loose ends in her life.

Maybe this is why I hated the third book’s length so much. I love long books, but length needs depth and interesting subplots and complexity, not just stupid talk about conspiracies and spies. And the thing is, you already know how this all will end. Of course you do. None of the main characters will die, unfortunately (hint: Berger), Lisbeth will be acquitted, the bad guys will all die or go down. All this is fine, except you already know the ending at the beginning of the book so surely it could have been shorter and more compact, right? Right? After the trial ends, Blomkvist, the in-your-face author auto-insert states that it wasn’t about spies and secret police, it was all about violence against women and infringement of rights. I get that, possibly because I am not retarded, but than why, oh why all the pages spent discussing said spies and police? Is it the desperation to sell a so-called controversial book to simple minded masses? I believe so.

And please, do not even attempt to bore me with the whole Stieg Larsson drama. I respect him and I am sorry that his family had to lose him. He is obviously a talented writer, though, to be honest, I do not like the style of writing because it is ridiculously accessible and easy. People who aren’t fervent readers will have no trouble with it, and I prefer more complicated, more detailed, more metaphorical and artistic styles. These books feel like newspapers, like exposes similar to those written by Blomkvist, dedicated to the masses who simply cannot exist without the press, without the scandals and the obsessive over-reactions. I do not fit into that crowd. Also, although I am convinced that Larsson has pissed off a great many people throughout his career, I doubt that his death should be the subject of controversy. Heart attacks may not be all that common at around 50, but due to stress and other reasons, I can accept exceptions.

Before I conclude this lengthy rant (sorry about that), I will say that the movie adaptations are absolutely weak. They have been called masterpieces. Not even the first one, which respected the book the most, though not completely, and that had the appropriate feeling to the characters does not come close. The following two are a waste of your time, despite, of course, the fantastic interpretation of the wonderful Noomi Rapace, who has become one of my favourite actresses, not only due to her performance, but due to the way she talked in interviews. Very well-spoken, beautiful, elegant, dedicated, a true method actress, and not a Hollywood whore, like so many “appreciated” actresses these days. I look forward to seeing her in more movies. I especially respect her for NOT reprising her role in the extremely useless remakes of the original Swedish movies. Americans are too retarded to read subtitles, it seems, therefore, they need to remake 3 bad movies. I respect Noomi for having the decency and the dignity to move on, to evolve, to take on different projects, and not sell her soul to a franchise. I hold the director of the remakes in high regard, and that is the only reason why I hope they will not completely suck. I am giving them a chance, despite the fact that I hate Rooney Mara, the lame no-name wannabe who will play Lisbeth. I think they could have done much, much better. But considering how much I loathed the second and the third movies, I have reasons to hope that just maybe they will stick to the books more, and actually follow the plot, instead of inventing useless crap. Of course, there is the huge possibility that they will make it overly sexed up, erotic where it should not be, or terribly cliched, thus emphasizing the already existent flaws.

In conclusion: This trilogy is not worth all the hype it received, despite the value of the first book. It is a series for the masses, written in a very fluid and easy style, but that is a complete turn off if you like good literature. Good characters, flawed to the extreme (but that’s fine with me), yet they start sucking throughout the second book, and especially in the third. An almost tangible obsession with conspiracies, controversy and the damned Secret Police. Overly revealing to the point where you don’t have to think at all! Unnecessarily long and bulky. Great idea (the one about violence against women), but except Salander there are few women characters that actually matter. A lot of tidbits of commercialism, and as you proceed you will observe a lot of cliches. Thoroughly expected ending, leaves nothing to the imagination, or at least not enough. If you must read this, please just stick to the first book, the only truly deserving one. The rest…check out a summary or something like that. SPOILERS: Salander is the daughter of a bad excuse of a Russian spy, her half brother is a freak who doesn’t feel pain, she set her father on fire with a Molotov cocktail because he was abusing her mum, he did not die, she was locked in a mental institution where she was mentally and physically abused by a messed up doctor, she received legal aid from a good lawyer who became her guardian until he had a brain stroke, she became the ward of a perverted bastard who raped her, after which she forcefully tattooed him with a significant message, and thus, as he sought revenge, she became involved with all the aforementioned crap once more. In the end, they all die, so yeah. There you go, the plot of the second and third book, or at least the part that matters, minus the dialogue.

I am glad I am done with this series, and now I can move on to books who are appreciated and loved not because they feed the pathetic desire for scandal and controversy. I will soon review one of the best books ever written, and namely “Shalimar the Clown”, a book that is entirely far more controversial than the Millennium trilogy, but in a way that actually makes sense, touches you, inspires, frightens and is not only a selection of names, years and horrendously tiring dialogue.

I wish you all a Happy New Year!