Everyone Needs an Editor: Allen

~ LobaBlanca

Little known Poe fact: In addition to being the master of the macabre, the father of the modern detective novel, and one of my all-time favorite writers, he was also apparently the inventor of the Allen wrench:

I kid, of course. And yet my jaw still aches a little bit from the irritated teeth grinding to which I succumbed as I stared at this placard. I found it while strolling about the D.C. National Portrait Gallery this past weekend. Strangely enough, I’d never been to this particular Smithsonian museum. It’s quite beautiful and filled with an eclectic array of paintings, photographs, and sculptures that could easily consume the better part of a day if you’re so inclined to indulge in a serene saunter through the museum’s many halls.

Leave it to me to find the one editorial error that would be the fly backstroking along in my otherwise lovely soup. Beyond my own personal reasons for cringing whenever I see Edgar Allan Poe’s name misspelled in this way, I can’t help but feel an even greater level of offense for the one-two-three punch of it being misspelled in this particular location:

  1. Let’s start with the fact that this placard is hanging in a museum located in the heart of Poe country. Although he never called Washington, D.C., itself home, he lived and died in the confines of a circuitous path that ranged from Richmond to New York City, with frequent stops in Philadelphia and Baltimore, which became his final resting place. For all intents and purposes, Poe is a local literary hero. For that reason alone, we should know how to spell his name properly.
  2. His name is misspelled on a placard describing a photograph of Stephen King, the writer who is arguably the modern-day heir to Poe’s macabre legacy. It would be like placing a placard next to a portrait of Poe and referring to “Steven King.”
  3. Last, but certainly not least, this is a placard located in a museum. Maybe it’s just me, but I kind of expect a greater level of quality control involving materials associated with museums. After all, the very etymology of the word “museum” denotes a building dedicated to the “Muses” of study and art

BookBin2012: Dracula: The Un-Dead

~ lobablanca

No, denizens, this isn’t a reprint of my previous BookBin entry. See, there was a reason why I chose to re-read a book that I knew I had no intention of giving away. I wanted to refresh my memory and prepare myself for my first reading of the “official” sequel to Stoker’s classic.

First, a little bit of history. Bram Stoker’s orginal Dracula is considered to be part of the public domain here in the United States. It’s fallen under this classification since 1899. Why? Because apparently Stoker failed to comply with one requirement from the U.S. copyright office and…POOF. No more U.S. copyright. Open season was pretty much declared on the Dracula story by all interested American parties at that point, each knowing that they would never have to consult with any member of the Stoker family and each in turn slowly whittling away the dignity of the Dark Prince.

Swoop ahead 200 sparkling years later to the 2009 release of Dracula: The Un-Dead. Touted as “The Sequel to the Original Classic,” this is the Stoker family’s attempt to reclaim the rights to their ancestor’s legacy. The book is co-written by Dracula historian Ian Holt and Dacre Stoker, Bram’s great-grandnephew.

I’m not going to lie: Seeing a new Dracula book with the Stoker name on the cover? Gave me little chills and tingles, denizens. With all the insipid and uninspired nonsense that has come down the pipeline in recent years regarding the vampire mythology, I was elated to see that someone might actually want to put things right once more.

Yeah.

Where to begin. Were this in no way associated with the names Stoker or Dracula…if it were presented as its own original story…I might actually have nice things to say about it. It’s a decent enough story with characters that, if they were original to this tale, would be an intriguing (though decidedly miserable) melange of personalities, characteristics, and attributes. I would still have problems with certain aspects of the story, but not nearly as many as I have with it as the “official” sequel to Stoker’s novel.

As the official sequel, Dracula: The Un-Dead is a murky mash-up in which the real and the fictional mingle in oftentimes disturbingly meta ways (including interactions between Bram Stoker himself and his characters), and which ultimately devolves into a disappointing concession to the years of bastardization that our dear Dark Prince has suffered at the hands of far less talented writers than Stoker.

The real Stoker, that is.

At first, I thought that my only major issue with Dracula: The Un-Dead would be the “character” of Countess Elizabeth B

BookBin2012: Dracula

~ LobaBlanca

See? I told you that I would make the Dark Prince mine once and for all. Electronically, that is. One of the first truly squeelicious moments I had with my Kindle was when I discovered that Bram Stoker’s Dracula was part of Amazon’s free library. I already own a printed copy, but I decided that one can never own too many copies of a horror classic, especially when the cost is non-existent.

It seems a bit trite for me to review this novel, since I’m willing to bet that there are very few people who are not aware of the Dracula legend. In fact, that was one of the things that I found myself regretting as I re-read this novel: I regret that I was never able to experience this story from a fresh perspective, without the baggage of the myriad popular culture translations, references, revisions, and blatant butchery of the vampire mythology as introduced by Stoker.

Anyone who is a horror fan knows that Stoker’s tale is one of the cornerstones of the genre. You cannot be even a passing fan without knowing something about our favorite Transylvanian acupuncturist. But what must it have been like to have experienced this novel for the very first time? Truly the first time, rather than how most of us have experienced it: through the lens of predetermined knowledge forged by Bela, Buffy, Barnabus, Blacula, Blade, Louis and Lestat (couldn’t go on forever with Bs, could I?), Selene, Vampire Hunter D, and the sugary sickness imposed upon the mythology by She Who Does Not Deserve Naming Alongside Stoker?

Actually, now that I think about it, it’s for all these reasons that we should revisit the original. Or, better yet, visit it for the first time. After all, how many Dracula fans have never actually read the original novel? I daresay there are quite a few, which is admittedly their loss. There has yet to be a definitive cinematic interpretation of the original Stoker tale, and this most assuredly includes Francis Ford Coppola’s attempt back in 1992.

[Loba Tangent: I recently re-watched this movie (realizing as I did that I have not watched it in its entirety since its original VHS release). First, I was depressed to realize that this movie was released 20 years ago this year. Second, I was even more depressed to realize that time has severely blurred my memory of what I saw 20 years ago. In my re-watching, I came to the conclusion that this movie is actually quite terrible for many reasons, including an offensive reinterpretation of the relationship between Mina and Dracula, more of which I shall discuss…later.]

If you have never read Stoker’s novel, I implore you to do so. Try your best to forget all that you have seen and instead allow yourself to embrace the darkness of Dracula’s true literary form. It is not the quickly paced sensory overload that Hollywood has turned it into. It is also decidedly not a love story. Not the kind that TPTB would have you believe, anyway. Instead, it is a slow boil of terror and triumph, told from multiple perspectives, giving you a full and unsettling view of events that will transport you from Transylvania to England and back (with multiple disturbing stops along the way). I can only imagine the response of those reading this novel upon its original 1897 release. It must have been scandalous for its shocking depictions and descriptions. Even now, more than 100 years later, it’s still deliciously unsettling. Go ahead, take a taste…

Final Verdict: I’ve got my print copy stored with the rest of my horror classics, and now I’ve got my electronic copy saved on my Kindle. I will say this, though: While reading this electronic copy of the novel, I came across several typographical errors, which brought to mind another possible reason for my hang-up with the concept of e-Readers. I have a strong feeling (at least with the free copies of books) that a lot of these digital conversions do not go through the same level of editing that printed books go through. There isn’t the same level of quality control, and I find that highly distracting. Why? I’m a editr. That’z wye.

I Don’t Give a Damn ‘Bout My Bad Doppelg

~ LobaBlanca

I warned you, denizens. There was a reason for my last Flashback Friday choice.

Truth be told, Joan Jett’s 1988 release Up Your Alley is my favorite album, holistically speaking. This probably stems from the fact that this was my first taste. However, I can find something enjoyable from all of her Blackhearts releases. I can even dip back into her Runaways years and find stuff to make those long commutes at least audibly enjoyable. All I have to do, though, is just see the cover art for Up Your Alley, and the Loba Happy-O-Meter is cranked to 11.

None more black, indeed.

This was quintessential Jett in many ways, especially in visual style: teased black rocker hair, black leather all around, kohled eyes, “come here if you dare” stare. However, I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for the cover of her 1983 release, Album. Atrocious jaundiced background aside, this has always struck me as one of her most “fun” covers:

Nothing better than a Jett in flight, eh? I’ve always loved this pose…so much so that I’ve considered getting the silhouette on a T-shirt. Plus, she’s decked in her trademark black, including the leather pants, but she’s still holding onto her punkier Runaways style with her red Chucks, that bandanna thing she kept going for quite a while, and some badass black leather-studded accoutrements.

I love this version of Jett so much that this is the photo I chose as the inspiration for my own Joan Jett costume for a rock-themed party this weekend:

Close enough for government work, right? I was pretty pleased with the overall look (although I’m sure there was more makeup on my pasty face that night than on an episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race). I thought about taking my Guitar Hero controller with me for effect (after covering the Aerosmith logo, of course), but decided that I didn’t want to run the risk of spilling anything on it. And there was much to be spilled. Open bars make awesome parties.

Most people immediately twigged to who I was supposed to be. One couple, however, did ask if I was Jack White.

Damn young people. Learn your rock history!

Of course, I did have a disturbing epiphany when I finally stumbled back home that night and caught a quick glimpse of myself in the foyer mirror. With my mullety hair and my thickly lined blue eyes? I looked a little less like an 80s rock star and more like a motorcycle-riding graduate of Eastland Prep…

Loba as Joan Jett Totally Looks Like Nancy McKeon as Jo Polniaczek

Take the good. Take the bad. Take ’em both and there you have just a part of Mi Vida Loba…

Flashback Friday: “I Hate Myself for Loving You”

~ lobablanca

I waxed poetic about Joan Jett before when I wrote my Poster Pick review of The Runaways. As I mentioned there, I knew the Blackhearts version of Jett well before I knew she was a Runaway. In fact, it was during her Blackhearts fame that I first fell in love with her. Seriously, though, how can you not love that voice? Or that hair? Or all that leather?

Discovering Jett was a turning point in my adolescence for many reasons, least of which was my realization that I craved music that was heavy on guitar. And hairspray. Jett and her Blackhearts were in many ways the gateway band that led me ever deeper into the tangles of Hair Metal Nirvana…an ironic statement if you consider that Nirvana was what would inevitably ring the death knell of Hair Metal’s Reign.

Ha.

There’s another reason why I’m posting Jett here as this week’s Flashback Friday entry. But I guess you’re just going to have to wait for that reason. Don’t worry though, denizens. I’ll take your heart, but I promise I won’t take your pride away…

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HPkTGm4RtVM&w=640&h=360]

Poster Picks: The Broken

~ lobablanca

I have very little to say about this poster for the 2008 psychological thriller The Broken, because I think it pretty much speaks volumes without me simpering on about it. I will say this though: It’s effective. And absolutely unsettling. I keep staring at the jagged shards of Lena Headey’s head, and my brain keeps screaming that so many things are wrong that it simply wants to reject what I’m forcing it to process.

Simplicity, denizens. Sometimes it really, really works.

Flashback Friday: U.N.I.T.Y.

~ LobaBlanca

One of my Internet PersonalitiesTM has been thinking a lot about old school rap today, which, in turn, has got me thinking about it as well.

I used to love rap. I loved how, “back in the day,” it was often equal parts rump-shaking fun and social commentary that could get your head out of your ass while getting your ass out of your seat.

Something went horribly wrong somewhere along the way and mainstream rap turned into a derogatory, misogynistic cesspool in which every song seemed based on a boilerplate template of: 1) mention your name as often as possible, preferably while grabbing your junk; 2) mention popular products that cost an exorbitant amount of money, preferably while grabbing your junk; 3) drop a violent threat or five against a competitor rapper, preferably while making a gun motion with your hand…right before grabbing your junk; 4) cram in as many curse words and racial epithets as possible, preferably while grabbing your junk; 5) insult women as many times as possible, preferably while grabbing your junk.

I know there are still decent rappers out there, who honor the traditions laid down by the likes of Grandmaster Flash, the Sugarhill Gang, Eric B. and Rakim, MC Lyte…one of my favorite rappers who came to the scene toward the end of my enchantment with the genre was Queen Latifah. Black Reign remains one of my favorite go-to albums when I’m in that old school frame of mind (Who got my back? The Queen, of course).

The fact that Queen Latifah wasn’t afraid to step up with her song “U.N.I.T.Y.” and take the men to task for their ignorant lyrics (along with other things) definitely earned her a great deal of respect from me. And so I drop this on you:

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f8cHxydDb7o&w=640&h=480]

All hail the Queen.

Flashback Friday: The Pepsi Generation

~ LobaBlanca

I should place this disclaimer right at the top of this week’s flashback: I don’t really like any plain cola anymore. Coke is too fizzy and Pepsi is too syrupy. Really, the only thing either is good for is as a partner for rum or vodka. Actually, though, I kind of prefer my rum with Dr. Pepper and my vodka with ice.

Even though I might not like either cola now, I can tell you that there was definitely one clear winner in my mind back in the day. Wanting to buy the world a Coke aside, I’d have to say that Pepsi was the one that owned the advertising crown during my misspent youth.

After all, they were the ones who succeeded in convincing us that Pepsi was “the choice of a new generation.”

Talk about a brilliant marketing ploy there. Take a campaign from the 60s (that was when “The Pepsi Generation” was first introduced as a concept), snazz it up a little bit, and proceed to convince an entire generation of impressionable kids and teens that theirs is a generation that belongs to one particular brand name? Nice.

And how do you accomplish this? Through a series of commercials that feature such hot-at-the-moment stars like Marty McFly and the Bedazzled Glove himself, Michael Jackson.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BFEQ7aH7JDQ&w=640&h=480]

Fox advertised for regular Pepsi for a while before the company switched him over to their more “adult” Diet Pepsi campaign, pairing him with the likes of a pre-NYPD Blue Gail O’Grady…

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=grP6QeIjVjU&w=640&h=480]

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0Hkqh1IAsQ&w=640&h=480]

Recognize the little MJ in the second commercial in this collection? That would be Carlton Banks himself, Alfonso Ribeiro. Of course, not long after this video was made, he would get his first big break as Ricky Schroder’s token friend of color on the otherwise decidedly Caucasian sitcom Silver Spoons.

Pepsi relied heavily on Michael Jackson’s powerful persuasive presence in their marketing campaigns throughout most of the 80s and early 90s. But things started getting a little awkward toward the end of their relationship…what with Jackson incurring ever more negative scrutiny for his strange behavior. So Pepsi decided that it might be time to find a replacement spokesperson, just in case Jackson’s personal peccadilloes proved to be more harmful to their advertising relationship than Pepsi nearly immolating Jackson during one of their earliest commercial shoots.

So who would they turn to as a less controversial performer? Why, Madonna, of course! That’s right, Pepsi tried to tame Madonna and make her palatable to play in Peoria. They made a deal with her that would allow them to debut her song “Like A Prayer” for the first time on television through a 2-minute commercial that was pretty much Pepsi’s attempt to duplicate the marketing success they’d had at the beginning of their contract with Jackson. I swear, there are a couple of sets from the Madonna commercial that look like they were recycled from previous MJ shoots.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h8qtsUaoVak&w=640&h=480]

But then Madonna had to ruin it all when she stripped down to her slip and jiggled about on a hillside lined with burning crosses right before dry-humping a Black Jesus on a church pew. The pope got his papal panties in a bunch, religious groups threatened to boycott Pepsi, and the company panicked and revoked their contract with the Material Girl because she was simply too controversial. So they went back to MJ. Yeah, because there was a controversy-free singer.

Don’t cry for Madonna, though. She got to keep the $5 million that Pepsi paid her for her contract. Not a bad price, if you think about it, for such high-profile global publicity.

No such thing as bad publicity, right? Right.

I know that Pepsi still pulls in big names for their marketing campaigns. I just don’t know who any of those names are anymore. Coke still tries as well, I guess. They’ve got those big fluffly polar bears…because, you know, when I think fizzy-up-my-nose cloying sweet cola, I immediately think polar bears.

Actually, now that I think about it, I do immediately think of polar bears. Whatdya know…advertising does work after all.

Who Are You?

~ LobaBlanca

I was fingerprinted this morning.

No, you’re not going to see me on the national news, being led away in handcuffs from the scene of some horrible pre-caffeinated rage crime. Believe it or not, I had to be printed for my job.

This statement is just going to fuel those pesky secret agent rumors. I know it.

Truth of the matter is, while what I do does require a bit of clearance from the agency to which I am detailed, I really don’t do anything that would demand this level of security clearance. However, the federal government, being the machine of brilliance and preparedness that it is (and not the least bit hyperbolic in its actions whatsoever), has decided that all people affiliated with any aspect of the federal government will inevitably have to go through this security process.

Which is how I ended up being fingerprinted while my two pieces of government-issued photo identification were scanned and I was photographed. And then everything was uploaded into a government database to be processed to confirm that I am who I say I am, and that I have not committed any sort of crime that would prevent me from receiving final clearance.

After the initial disappointment I felt when I realized that: A) I was actually going to be fingerprinted (there was some confusion about this fact from my sponsor); and B) the fingerprinting wasn’t going to be done by Sara Sidle, I settled into a state of conflicted resignation. The tech-geek side of me was fascinated by the tool they used to capture my fingerprints. Gone are the days of messy ink stains and paper ten-cards. It’s all digital, denizens. You know those machines we see those TV CSIs using? The ones that always make us roll our eyes and tsk in disbelief?

They’re real.

The security agent pulled out this device that was no bigger than a box of teabags and proceeded to print my fingers, just like you see them doing it on TV. Each finger, rolled across a plexiglass slide. Each print immediately captured in a digital image on his screen, saved to the appropriate designated box. Took fewer than 5 minutes.

While the tech-geek was mesmerized by all this, the conspiracy side of me was raging over the fact that the digital capturing of my fingerprints has somehow stolen that much more of my privacy. Kind of like how those isolated tribes felt that pieces of their souls were stolen away every time one of those pesky National Geographic excursions came through to photograph them.

If you hadn’t noticed this about me, I’m a bit of a private wolf. I like keeping as much personal information as I can…well, personal. I know it makes me seem paranoid (which I admittedly am), but I like the false belief that I have some shred of control over my identity. Up until this morning, one of the things over which I thought I would always have control was my fingerprints not being in any database.

Now, like those sad little tribes and their ever-shrinking souls, another little piece of my privacy has been hacked away. And they couldn’t even send Sara Sidle to do the hacking.