I have just completed one of the most excruciating tasks of my life.
I have read Twilight.
Even admitting to this makes me feel as if I should hand in my Y chromosome. Those of you who know me are well aware that I have a very strong disdain for this book series that I refer to as The Wacky Adventures of Emo McSparkleVamp and His Furry Friends.
The day I realized I was officially too old for MTV was the day of the 2009 MTV Movie Awards, when the award for Best Movie (voted on by the viewers) went to: not Iron Man nor The Dark Knight, but Twilight. I decided at that exact moment that if this was what the MTV-watching public decided was "cool," then I no longer wished to be a member of the MTV-watching public. My abhorrence for MTV's tastes has recently been reinforced by the Best Movie award for 2010 going to the sequel, New Moon.
I have given my reasons for despising Twilight before, on multiple occasions. So why, you may ask, would I willingly read the first volume of something I have already proclaimed to loathe with the fiery passion of a thousand suns?
About 2 weeks ago, I was expressing my dislike of Twilight to the latest person who was willing to listen: Renne, the sister of my girlfriend Roxanne. Finally, Roxanne had heard enough and called me out on it. She asked how I could possibly talk about this book series, let alone hate it, if I had never even made the effort to read any of it.
I had to admit, she had a good point. I'd been tempted to give Twilight a try before, but always shied away; mainly because almost anybody I knew that had read it warned me not to bother; it was little more than Fan Fiction, and third-rate Fan Fiction at that. But I finally felt that I could no longer express an opinion on something I had not experienced myself. So I borrowed a copy from a friend. (He couldn't even finish it himself.)
Well, I have now read the full 498 pages of this opus, and I can speak with definite authority. This book is, for want of a better term...
Crap.
There are a number of reasons that I can now hate Twilight in peace. Let's journey into it, shall we?
1. This book is sappier than a Vermont Maple Syrup Festival. It should have been written on pancakes, not pages. I rolled my eyes so much at the flowery teen-diary prose, it nearly gave me a migraine. I almost wish it did; that would have distracted me from the painful writing.
2. The main character, Bella, is a vapid, luke-warm, nearly brain-dead martyr. She has absolutely no faith in herself, and believes with every fiber of her being that she is plain, boring and worthless. And with how much she jabbers on about that, it's hard to disagree.
Bella eagerly volunteers herself into situations that she knows for a fact will make her miserable, since being unhappy seems to be the only thing that makes her happy. Moving to a town she hates was her idea, hanging out with people she doesn't even like was her idea, and refusing to believe that anyone could see any good in her was her idea. She even mentions that once, she ate dirt on a dare. Good Lord, woman! Have some self-respect!
This girl intentionally makes herself miserable so that she has an excuse to mope around with a storm cloud over her head that matches the clouds that seemingly cover Forks, Washington, 364 days a year. (I live in Seattle, people. It's not that gray.) She also seems to be incredulous that anyone, let alone 3 or 4 different guys, could be romantically interested in her. It's the Woody Allen theory. "I don't like myself, so if you like me, there must be something wrong with you." (For the record, I've never much liked Woody Allen either.)
3. Bella goes on and on and on and ON about how pretty Edward is (That's the vampire, in case any of you have been living under a rock for the last decade.) She compares him to a marble statue, an angel, a Pagan god, and will not stop GUSHING over how pretty he is. We GET it. He's PRETTY. MOVE THE HELL ON.
4. Nothing HAPPENS for the first half of the book. On the rare occasion that something more that teen angst actually occurs, it seems completely out of place and tacked-on, just to show Edward off as a super-pretty super-hero. He saves her from a car accident that comes out of nowhere and goes away just as fast. He saves her from being attacked in a situation that nobody who lived in a community of more than 500 people would ever get themselves into.
5. This book is teaching an entire generation of impressionable young girls that this is what a healthy relationship is supposed to look like: "Ohh, the really really really pretty boy who treats me like crap isn't here today! Waahh!" (If you think I'm exaggerating, read Chapter 1, and then the third paragraph of Chapter 2.)
Edward, or as he's known by many of my friends, "Sullen Cullen," is getting Bella involved in a textbook example of an abusive relationship. He stares at her constantly, alternating between desire and revulsion. He follows her. He alternately brings her in close and then pushes her away, just to keep her interested. At one point, he disconnects her car battery so that she can't leave home. He shows off how strong he is to her and actually tells her that he could kill her with a simple move of his hand. He intentionally drives at insane speeds with her in the car, despite knowing that it scares her to no end. And the coup de grace:
He. Watches. Her. SLEEP.
This is before they have even started their relationship! Sullen Cullen actually tells this girl that he spends all night, every night, perched outside her bedroom window, watching her sleep! This just sprinted out of Creepy, pole-vaulted over Icky, and landed smack dab in the middle of Unacceptable. The reason he gives for this? There's nothing else in town to do.
6. And finally, this is probably the most shallow reason to hate Twilight, but it's also the reason that rings the most true for why this book series is crap. When these "Vampires" are exposed to sunlight, do they die? No. Do they burst into flames? No. Are they physically weakened in any way? Nope. Then what happens?
They GLOW and SPARKLE.
Call me a purist if you must, but there are certain rules when it comes to the lore of Vampires. Some rules can be bent, some can be broken.
Vampirism is a disease, not a curse? (Example: I Am Legend by Richard Matheson) Fine.
Holy symbols do not repel Vampires? (Example: Interview With the Vampire by Anne Rice) Sure.
But there is one rule that is gospel, and is universal for nearly all bloodsucking creatures of the night:
Vampire + sunlight = bursting into flame, reduction to ash, and death. The only exception is Dracula himself, and he is still physically weakened by sunlight.
Besides being true to the Vampire mythos, the idea of becoming shiny in daylight flies entirely in the face of the natural laws of evolution. Not only does this "glitter factor" completely destroy any ability to camouflage oneself in one's surroundings, it immediately identifies one as a predator! You don't hear cheetahs roaring into the plains at full volume; that would scare away prey!
The best way I've found to express it is the following: Sparkling and glowing in sunlight isn't a sign that you're a Vampire; it's a sign that you're David Bowie.
Quite simply, this is a book that should serve only as a cautionary tale for what happens when you try to pass off a truly terrible and entirely forgettable romance novel as an icon of pop culture. The fact that Stephenie Meyer has become rich and famous by cranking out 5 volumes of this dreck is absolutely beyond belief. And now that I have jumped on this nearly 500-page grenade of mediocrity for you, dear readers, I feel the need to cleanse my palate. Maybe some John Steinbeck will wash this unpleasant taste out of my mind.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Friday, July 2, 2010
Hell on Wheels
Sorry it's been so long, faithful readers (I'm not sure if the plural is even necessary.) Work has been insane, thanks to the new iPhone; my personal life has been deliriously happy and busy, thanks to my girlfriend; and I simply need to take the time to let my mind go to the weird places that kept me single for so long. That said, it's time for a new post!
I got a chance to reconnect with a friend I haven't seen for a couple of years. My buddy Jeff, who I first met discussing literature in a B. Dalton, is back in my neck of the woods, and has taken to skating at the Lynnwood Bowl & Skate, a mere 4 blocks from my apartment.
He always invites all of his friends to join him, so I figured "why not?"
"Why not" is rarely a wise thing to think. Sadly, we don't learn why not until after we receive a harsh lesson.
I got to the Bowl & Skate, met up with Jeff and met his friends. We paid our admission, walked in and I immediately realized that the average age of about 95% of the skaters was...and this is a conservative estimate...13.
You ever get that feeling that you've suddenly become the "creepy old guy?"
Right here. How ya doin'?
My next unsettling moment comes when I exchange my shoes for the rental skates. I wear a size 15 shoe. They only carry up to 14. Fortunately, they fit, but I get the sensation that my toenails are about to slice through this 40-year-old shoe leather like a machete through a coed in a slasher movie.
Jeff and all of his friends have professional-style Roller Derby skates with interchangeable wheels and custom trucks. I have what looks like a pair of work boots with Tonka trucks glued to the soles and numbers etched onto the heels.
Next comes the first big challenge: standing up. But...I don't fall. I stand without a problem, and say "I'm still up; that's a good sign."
I should have known better.
The next big challenge is, of course, moving. That is to say, moving in a direction other than straight down. It's this moment that I realize: the last time I actually laced up a pair of roller skates, half these kids hadn't even been born yet. My most recent experience at a roller rink was after the last day of my Senior year of High School, in 1998. And I wasn't a very strong skater even then. But...I don't fall.
As I'm bobbling towards the benches and the actual skating floor, a girl who can't be older than 12 looks at me and says: "I like your beard."
Huh?
What exactly am I supposed to say to that? "Thanks, I grew it myself?" Of course, I'm 1 of maybe a dozen people in the building who's even capable of producing enough facial hair to make a beard, so I suppose this must be a compliment. I tell her "thank you" and keep moving.
A few fumbles and false starts later (I use football terms to maintain some semblance of masculinity during this awkward event,) I have bumbled my way over to the actual rink, off the carpet, and onto the hardwood. Of course, I immediately start to lose my balance and flail about like a spastic circus clown. But...I don't fall.
I am able to slowly but surely figure out how to use my right big toe as a means of propelling myself, make it to the wall and scoot along the floor at a moderately respectable speed. I try not to notice the crowds of preteens moving faster and more gracefully than I could do even if I'd lived on roller skates since high school. But...I don't fall.
Over the course of the next hour, I make several slow but steady laps around the wall of the skating rink, stopping to rest on the benches for a few minutes after each lap.
Then...the DJ announces that for the next song, everyone is to skate clockwise around the rink, instead of counterclockwise. I decide to give it a try, and head out for another lap.
I make it to the first wall and start working my way along it.
I fall. Hard.
My foot stumbles against the wood, my skates stop moving and my body doesn't know to stop with them. Thanks loads, Newton.
My left elbow slams into the concrete wall on the way down, I land on my right knee and wrist. My first thought is: "And...I'm...hurt. Ow, SHIT."
And here's where I learn the biggest difference between being a kid who gets hurt, and being an adult who gets hurt. As a kid, I can get up. As an adult, I can get up, but I don't want to. But I manage to drag myself to my feet, say "screw it," and limp off the floor to a chair. (Do you have any idea how hard it is to limp on skates?)
Fortunately, I'm not hurt bad, just a little banged around. I've got a sore right wrist, a tender knee, a bruised left elbow and a severely battered ego.
But the night doesn't end there. After my pain subsides a little, I say to myself, "I'll be damned if I'm leaving tonight because I fell and got hurt. I'm getting out there, doing at least one more full lap, and then I can limp away with my head held high." (But not too high; these skates make me 6'7" and the doorways could take my head off.)
So I drag myself out to the floor, skate around (very carefully,) make it a full lap without a problem, and tell Jeff that I've got to go, I'm picking Roxanne up from work in a bit. Fortunately, this is true. Why bother coming up with a lie when the truth makes a perfectly good excuse?
So I may not be a very good skater, even a mediocre one. But you know what? I think I'm going to go back and do it again some time. I only live 4 blocks away, it's great exercise, it doesn't cost much, and Jeff and his friends are a hoot! Next chance I get, I'm going to head down to the Lynnwood Bowl and Skate, and strap on a pair.
And I'll put some skates on, too.
I got a chance to reconnect with a friend I haven't seen for a couple of years. My buddy Jeff, who I first met discussing literature in a B. Dalton, is back in my neck of the woods, and has taken to skating at the Lynnwood Bowl & Skate, a mere 4 blocks from my apartment.
He always invites all of his friends to join him, so I figured "why not?"
"Why not" is rarely a wise thing to think. Sadly, we don't learn why not until after we receive a harsh lesson.
I got to the Bowl & Skate, met up with Jeff and met his friends. We paid our admission, walked in and I immediately realized that the average age of about 95% of the skaters was...and this is a conservative estimate...13.
You ever get that feeling that you've suddenly become the "creepy old guy?"
Right here. How ya doin'?
My next unsettling moment comes when I exchange my shoes for the rental skates. I wear a size 15 shoe. They only carry up to 14. Fortunately, they fit, but I get the sensation that my toenails are about to slice through this 40-year-old shoe leather like a machete through a coed in a slasher movie.
Jeff and all of his friends have professional-style Roller Derby skates with interchangeable wheels and custom trucks. I have what looks like a pair of work boots with Tonka trucks glued to the soles and numbers etched onto the heels.
Next comes the first big challenge: standing up. But...I don't fall. I stand without a problem, and say "I'm still up; that's a good sign."
I should have known better.
The next big challenge is, of course, moving. That is to say, moving in a direction other than straight down. It's this moment that I realize: the last time I actually laced up a pair of roller skates, half these kids hadn't even been born yet. My most recent experience at a roller rink was after the last day of my Senior year of High School, in 1998. And I wasn't a very strong skater even then. But...I don't fall.
As I'm bobbling towards the benches and the actual skating floor, a girl who can't be older than 12 looks at me and says: "I like your beard."
Huh?
What exactly am I supposed to say to that? "Thanks, I grew it myself?" Of course, I'm 1 of maybe a dozen people in the building who's even capable of producing enough facial hair to make a beard, so I suppose this must be a compliment. I tell her "thank you" and keep moving.
A few fumbles and false starts later (I use football terms to maintain some semblance of masculinity during this awkward event,) I have bumbled my way over to the actual rink, off the carpet, and onto the hardwood. Of course, I immediately start to lose my balance and flail about like a spastic circus clown. But...I don't fall.
I am able to slowly but surely figure out how to use my right big toe as a means of propelling myself, make it to the wall and scoot along the floor at a moderately respectable speed. I try not to notice the crowds of preteens moving faster and more gracefully than I could do even if I'd lived on roller skates since high school. But...I don't fall.
Over the course of the next hour, I make several slow but steady laps around the wall of the skating rink, stopping to rest on the benches for a few minutes after each lap.
Then...the DJ announces that for the next song, everyone is to skate clockwise around the rink, instead of counterclockwise. I decide to give it a try, and head out for another lap.
I make it to the first wall and start working my way along it.
I fall. Hard.
My foot stumbles against the wood, my skates stop moving and my body doesn't know to stop with them. Thanks loads, Newton.
My left elbow slams into the concrete wall on the way down, I land on my right knee and wrist. My first thought is: "And...I'm...hurt. Ow, SHIT."
And here's where I learn the biggest difference between being a kid who gets hurt, and being an adult who gets hurt. As a kid, I can get up. As an adult, I can get up, but I don't want to. But I manage to drag myself to my feet, say "screw it," and limp off the floor to a chair. (Do you have any idea how hard it is to limp on skates?)
Fortunately, I'm not hurt bad, just a little banged around. I've got a sore right wrist, a tender knee, a bruised left elbow and a severely battered ego.
But the night doesn't end there. After my pain subsides a little, I say to myself, "I'll be damned if I'm leaving tonight because I fell and got hurt. I'm getting out there, doing at least one more full lap, and then I can limp away with my head held high." (But not too high; these skates make me 6'7" and the doorways could take my head off.)
So I drag myself out to the floor, skate around (very carefully,) make it a full lap without a problem, and tell Jeff that I've got to go, I'm picking Roxanne up from work in a bit. Fortunately, this is true. Why bother coming up with a lie when the truth makes a perfectly good excuse?
So I may not be a very good skater, even a mediocre one. But you know what? I think I'm going to go back and do it again some time. I only live 4 blocks away, it's great exercise, it doesn't cost much, and Jeff and his friends are a hoot! Next chance I get, I'm going to head down to the Lynnwood Bowl and Skate, and strap on a pair.
And I'll put some skates on, too.
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