Flashback Friday: A Twisted Christmas

~ lobablanca

Twisted Sister + Christmas Carols = Immeasurably Tacky Awesomeness

No sentimental story here, denizens. I don’t particularly like most “traditional” Christmas music. I do, however, loves me some crankin’ guitar solos and dudes with crimped hair and makeup.

Truth be told, I should have just called this “Oh Come All Ye Faithful,” since that’s really the only song from A Twisted Christmas that I really enjoy. And that’s really because I loved when the video would finally start playing on MTV and VH1.

So here’s the video below. Rock out to how they combine riffs from “We’re Not Gonna Take It” with a traditional Christmas hymn. I believe they even sneak a little “Hava Nagila” in there around the 5:36 mark. See? Twisted Sister, on the cutting edge of holiday inclusion!

And if you like the song, head on over to TwistedSister.com. They’re giving this MP3 away for this rockin’ holiday season.

50BC09: Book Number 45

~ lobablanca

fup

Two Book Challenge entries in one day? Such a treat!

Jim Dodge’s Fup was more of a novella, actually, that I finished in one sitting. But what a glorious novella it was! I don’t know how else to describe it other than to call it a “guy’s story.” That doesn’t mean that I think it’s meant only for guys to read or that women can’t enjoy it. I simply mean that there is something so intrinsically…male…about the story. It’s sort of how I felt after I finished Terry Kay’s To Dance With the White Dog, which is one of my all-time favorite novels.

Both of these books depict male protagonists that are…guys. There’s no better way to describe them. They’re not necessarily machismo. On the contrary, they’re well into their twilight years. They’re curmudgeonly. They swear. They’re set in their ways. But they love in their own ways. They laugh. They’re sharp and wiry, doddering and belligerent. Colorful, kind and a swirl of so many other things that can only be summed up with…they’re guys. Most wonderfully, awesomely, honestly intricately, simply…guys.

I don’t know if I’ve properly captured what I’m aiming for here, except to say that both Kay and Dodge captured the essence of their male characters in a way that lacks any form of falsehood or false aim. They both hit their marks with perfect precision. These are characters worthy of love, but who would grouse or curse at the mere thought of being recipients of such attention.

In Fup, we meet Grandpa Jake, his grandson Tiny, and the little duckling they discover and raise. The little duckling that Grandpa Jake christens “Fup Duck.” As in ” fupped uck,” a spoonerism of “fucked up.” So if you were thinking at first that this was going to be a schmaltzy story based on that first sentence, you now know you missed the mark. It’s not syrupy, but it is a sweet story with an ending that, for all its strangeness and abruptness, seemed quite satisfactory once I processed it for a while.

This story also has a bit of an odd personal history to it.

I discovered the novella about 3 years ago, during one of my infamous Amazon.com perambulations and added it to my wish list for reasons that still elude me. It’s a story about a duck. I love animals, but I’ve never had any particular fondness for birds. Something about the description and the sample pages drew me in, however, and so Fup found a home on my list.

Fup later found its way to my front door as a birthday gift from my generous friend, Z. Fup languished for a while in my book backlog, unfortunately. However, it always remained on my nightstand, patiently awaiting its turn.

A few months ago, I went to my parents’ house to help sort through some of my grandparents’ belongings. There were a lot of books. I do come by it honestly, after all. Among all the books on war, history, gardening, philosophy, and religion…thin and small and unassuming sat Fup.

My grandmother owned a copy of this book. A book that no one else has ever recognized when I’ve told them about it. A book that I would have never heard of either, except I stumbled upon it accidentally while poking around on Amazon one day.

I picked up my grandmother’s copy and flipped through it, discovering as I did that she had written on a few pages, her distinctive script immediately recognizable. She’d also left a leaf inserted among the pages, maybe as a bookmark? I don’t know.

I brought home my grandmother’s copy and decided that this was reason enough to finally find out the story of Fup Duck. Z, I hope you don’t mind, but I read her copy rather than the one you bought me. I just needed to read something that I knew she once read. Something she annotated. Something we both shared without even realizing it. Both copies, however, have now found their way onto a bookshelf, right next to my copy of To Dance With the White Dog.

Final score: 5/5. This was a rare gem, indeed, made even more special by the familial connection recently discovered. I foresee I will be revisiting this one many times.

50BC09: Book Number 44

~ lobablanca

mosaic

I think this might be my last Trek novel of the year.

Wait, before you all start reading into what that means in regard to this novel, let me say simply that I make this decision based on my recent review of the books I have read this year.

Damn but I’m a dork.

I have read so much science fiction and horror this year. I know that I own other books. I see them sitting around the house in their random piles, patiently waiting for me to pick them up, dust them off, and jump into them with the same fervor and passion I reserve for what are obviously my favorite genres. When it comes down to it, though, when I’m faced with choosing between a book that doesn’t have Kathryn Janeway on the cover and one that does…well, guess which one the dork is going to pick?

So why stop now? Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’m just saying that for the moment…but come tomorrow, I’ll be sorting through my stacks of books, looking to pick up on those DS9 “eighth season” novels. I do need to consider, however, that if I take up this challenge again next year, I should probably focus on expanding my book choices. You know, get back to me English major roots, what?

However, I needed to end on a better note than the teeth-rattling screech of Before Dishonor. I also needed to read a novel that would restore some dignity to the Voyager character eviscerated by Peter David, who apparently harbors a deep well of hatred in his soul toward Voyager and her former captain.

So I come here now, not to berate Voyager, but to praise a novel based on the life of its captain. Well, sort of praise it. Truth be told, I think that Jeri Taylor’s Mosaic would have been better if it had been written as a straightforward “biography” of Kathryn Janeway. Instead, Taylor alternated between events from Janeway’s past that would lead her to the captain’s chair and a rather dull current plot involving her Voyager crew.

Taylor, who started out in the Trek family as a screenwriter of some absolutely amazing TNG episodes (“The Wounded,” “The Drumhead,” “The Outcast”), was one of the three co-creators of Voyager, with Michael Piller and Rick Berman. She was also the primary voice influencing the creation and development of Elizabeth Nicole Kathryn Janeway.

Yes, I do indeed have mixed emotions about this last statement.

That being said, it should come as no surprise that she would be the one tasked with writing a novel about Janeway. It should also come as no surprise that, of all the myriad Trek novels ever written about any of the series, this and one other Voyager novel, Pathways, (also written by Taylor), are the only two ever considered by writers and creators to be canon. I was quite surprised, in fact, when I realized that there was so much within this novel that the writers actually did utilize in later episodes of the show.

There was also quite a bit that never made it into the show, which I think was unfortunate. It was information that really would have added complexity and sensibility to Janeway…two things that every single one of the Voyager characters desperately needed more of. In this regard, then, I view this book with the same level of irritation that I view those ridiculous expository comic books that came out in tandem with the new Star Trek movie. If you can’t figure out how to work this information into the story you’re telling on the screen, then you’re too incompetent to be telling the story in the first place. So please pass it off to someone with a modicum of talent before you ruin the franchise.

Oh, but wait…

Anyway, back to the novel. There’s really not much else to say about it though. It’s all about Janeway. I love Janeway for one of the reasons why I love Dr. Crusher: for the amazing potential that was there, just waiting to be tapped. Janeway could have been my favorite captain if she’d been developed properly, given a stable, rich personality rather than the spotty, somewhat bipolar personality she inherited from the show’s revolving cavalcade of writers. She needed someone to champion her.

That champion was supposed to be Jeri Taylor. From what I read in this novel, she very well could have made Janeway into so much more. It’s a shame that she didn’t.

Final score: 3.5/5. The present-day Voyager plot laced throughout this novel really irritates me, but I think that the moments from Janeway’s past were quite enjoyable. All in all, not a bad way to spend a few hours (which is another reason why I love Trek novels…so easy and quick to read!).

ZomBev

~ lobablanca

So I’m not seeing a big increase in hits based on my previous zombie references. Maybe I’m not being specific enough. Maybe I should have said something like Zombie Barbie. Or Rob Zombie.

Or maybe I should combine zombies with the one topic that has proven, much to my geeky delight, to bring in the most hits to the lair: Gates McFadden.

I kid you not, denizens: Teh Interwebz is full of love for the Dancing Doctor. Thanks to a couple of incoming links, my Flood Gates posting is by far more popular than anything else I have written here since the lair’s relaunch. My own love for the lovely doctor is such that I am perfectly okay with this fact.

However, this leaves me in a bit of a quandary. I’d hate for my ImagiFriendsTM to be incorrect in their supposition about the popularity of zombies. So, after a bit of thought (and apparently too much spare time), I’ve come up with a satisfactory solution: I simply have to combine the two.

Therefore, I present to you…Zombie Dr. Crusher. Or, more in line with my affinity for portmanteaux, ZomBeverly.

ZomBev

I’m sorry if this distresses anyone, especially considering how this is supposed to be the festive holiday season…not the festering one. But I’ve been a bit absent in my blogging lately, and I noted a distinct drop in numbers because of this. So please forgive me for what I acknowledge is a pathetic attempt to increase the number of hits I log each day.

Of course, you do realize that if this works, I might end up making this a regular feature in which I turn various other Trek characters into zombies. Ooh, or maybe I’ll start turning Dr. Crusher into characters from various other movies, shows, and books! I like that idea much more.

Not that I’ve given it any sort of serious thought or anything…

50BC09: Book Number 43

~ lobablanca

buttonmath

There may be a balm in Gilead, but nothing is more soothing for the disappointed geekling’s soul than Richard Matheson.

I should have chosen this book for Number 42, as I have been known to believe that Matheson is indeed the answer to life, the universe, and everything. But life is about moving forward, and what better way to brighten the spirits than by reading some excellent Matheson short stories, most of which I’d never read before?

This particular anthology, Button, Button: Uncanny Stories, received recent renewed attention based on the release of The Box, starring Cameron Diaz and James Marsden. This movie is supposedly based on or inspired by the eponymous story of this anthology. I have no idea how true or even how good this latest attempt by Hollywood was at bringing Matheson to the big screen as I didn’t bother to check out this movie. By how quickly it was pulled from the theaters here, I think it’s safe to assume I wasn’t alone in this decision.

It’s a shame, really, since “Button, Button” is a delightfully dark short story with such a satisfyingly macabre ending. Actually, there were several such stories in this anthology, including my second favorite, “No Such Thing as a Vampire.” The collection, however, does start to lose steam toward the end. I think the last excellent story is “Pattern of Survival,” which is very brief but packs quite a bit of weight in its sparse existence. I read it three times in a row because of how much I enjoyed the strange, surreal nuances. It doesn’t seem to be a very popular story, though, so I might be alone in my enjoyment of this one.

This is my second visit to the land of Matheson this year. My previous visit was his Nightmare at 20,000 Feet anthology, which I’d rate as even better than this collection. The titular story is probably one of his most famous pieces as it became one of the most famous episodes of the original Twilight Zone.

Hmm, I was just getting ready to launch into a list of all the other wonderful things Matheson has written, but there’s simply too much to list with any sort of brevity. Check out his IMDb page to see just how proliferate this amazing writer has been throughout his career. I’m willing to bet you’ll find several things you recognize and hopefully love as much as I do.

Final score: 4/5. Half a point less than my last anthology based on the weakness of the final stories, which are still better than a lot of today’s writers at their strongest. If you listen to anything I’ve said so far in my book reviews this year, hear me now and believe me later on this one: Read Richard Matheson. You will not regret it.

Flashback Friday: A Charlie Brown Christmas

~ lobablanca

Of all the Charlie Browns in the world, you’re the Charlie Browniest.

Yes, yet again I have decided to dedicate another month to themed Flashback Fridays. Of course, this month will be dedicated to flashbacks of my favorite Christmas traditions. Again, I say Christmas. Though I do spin a mean dreidel and I love receiving Solstice greetings from the goddess, Christmas is my designated December holiday.

So this month will be dedicated to those things that make me happiest at this time of the year. And how better to start this holiday party than with the greatest Christmas cartoon, with the greatest Christmas soundtrack? A Charlie Brown Christmas is quite literally the first thing I think of whenever I think of Christmas. I have seen this cartoon innumerable times throughout my life (I say “innumerable” because A) I’m not telling you how old I am, and B) I’ve actually watched it several times since I purchased it on DVD, perhaps even during non-Christmas times of the year).

Even more, I remember one of the first purchases I made after I became a full-time employee at my first “big girl” job was the soundtrack to this cartoon. Composed by Vince Guaraldi and performed by his trio of awesome jazz musicians, this is the best Christmas soundtrack EVAR. Case in point: I’m on yet another Southern Sabbatical, and I queued up this as the only holiday music I wanted to listen to during the drive.

I don’t necessarily consider myself an overly religious person (I’m sure you find this to be a shocking declaration), but I love the simple, true-to-the-point message of this cartoon…especially now, considering how materialistic this holiday has become in recent years. It’s so wonderful in its simplicity, in its sparse animation and its beautiful music.

That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.

They tried to do a new Peanuts Christmas special in the early 90s, but that’s something akin to trying to remake Michelangelo’s David or Van Gogh’s Starry Night. You don’t mess with perfection.

I can’t wait to fire this up for my first viewing of the season. If you’ve never seen it, I strongly urge you to do so. And even if you have seen it before, whether one or one thousand times, I urge even you to check it out one more time. And here’s a small clip to entice you 🙂

Sometimes Bad Is Better…

~ lobablanca

…but sometimes it’s simply bad.

What am I babbling on about this time? Well, have you ever set out to watch a movie because you know it’s going to be 100-percent undeniably awful? Sometimes these are the best movies in the world. They’re so horrifying that they somehow transcend their awfulness and become something wonderful, something to be treasured far above rubies. Or rubes. Whichever is your pleasure.

I sought out such a movie last night. I remembered all the hype and bashing of it when it hit the theaters. I knew there was no way in Sto-Vo-Kor that I was going to pay to see it then, but I logged it in my mental vault of things to watch out for on cable.

And then…there it was in the OnDemand Free Movies section: I Know Who Killed Me.

Oh. My. God.

I’m beginning to think that I have deeply ingrained sadomasochistic tendencies that choose to surface in my entertainment choices, because this movie should be listed as a viable torture option for Gitmo detainees.

Yes, before you ask, this is that “big girl” movie that Lindsay Lohan made 2 years ago, as a means of defining herself as being more than the little girl who used to star in all those Disney movies. Seems that somewhere along the line, someone in Lindsay’s confidence convinced her that undulating around a stripper pole somehow equaled gravitas and maturity on screen. From what I’ve read about Miley Cyrus’s latest performance at the Teen Choice Awards, this same person is now in Miley’s confidence. Billy Ray, you have been warned.

This movie is atrocious, and most definitely not in any sort of transcendent way. I’m amazed that any recognizable name would sign on to what should have been a direct-to-DVD flick starring the actress who played “Goth Girl in Crowd” in one of a slew of teen parody flicks that recently clogged Hollywood…or something like that.

What made it impossible for me to laugh at it is the fact that, beyond having severe torture porn moments, this seemed to be the line of delineation for when Lindsay Lohan wandered into the woods of her own very public personal meltdown. Actually, though, I think the meltdown had already begun, because the release of this movie seemed to be almost secondary to all the craziness that was going on IRL.

I can’t help but draw a comparison between Lindsay Lohan and another actress who started out as a Disney girl: Jodie Foster. The comparison is made even stronger by the fact that both played the precocious teenager in their respective versions of Disney’s Freaky Friday.

The same year that Jodie Foster made Freaky Friday, she also did a little movie called Taxi Driver. One could argue that this was the equivalent at the time of Lindsay’s role in I Know Who Killed Me. Only with a much better…everything. Jodie Foster was 12 years old when she played Iris, the runaway prostitute. I’ve heard Foster discuss how she had to meet with a psychiatrist to make sure that she was well-adjusted enough to play the role of Iris.

That might sound silly to us now, but think about the significance of that: Here were people involved in filmmaking who were concerned with how such a role would affect Foster’s well-being. And from what I’ve read of the role Foster’s mother played early in her career, Foster had no dearth of people around her, protecting her and making sure that she made right choices while still retaining as much of her privacy (and, subsequently, dignity) as she could. Looking at Foster now, you kind of have to agree that she grew up pretty well for someone who has spent practically her entire life in front of a camera.

Do you think there were any such people on the set of I Know Who Killed Me, looking out for Lohan’s well-being? No, Lohan wasn’t 12 when she was sliding down a pole in her stripper garb…but I kind of get the feeling that even when she was 12, there were more people in her life trying to figure out how to make a buck off her than there were people trying to help her realize that while there might not be such a thing as “bad” publicity in this celebreality we live in, there are such things as bad decisions that can have as damaging an effect on you as all those horrible chemicals in your Oompa Loompa spray-on tan.

I’m not even sure what I’m trying to say with this post. All I do know is that I’m so tired of watching celebrities self-destruct in the media. And I can’t help but notice that it’s mostly young women doing the destructing. I’m also tired of how we’ve become a culture addicted to lapping up the viscera of these meltdowns like kittens bogarting the milk bowl. I don’t understand how people can make a living highlighting (exacerbating?) other people’s flaws and stumbles. With all this instant global connectivity, shouldn’t we be striving to build each other up, to support each other, to find common grounds and ways to work and live together? Or is that simply too namby-pamby for what seems like a large swathe of the population who finds comfort in the celebration of famous people schadenfreude?

Wow. I’ve gone way down the rabbit hole on a post about I Know Who Killed Me. Let’s reel it back in, shall we?

One final thing. Lindsay, sweetie, I say this with all sincerity: I would love to see you succeed. I remember seeing your cute little Disney movies and thinking that you had something special that could be turned into something great. I wish that you had more people in your confidence who felt the same and said similar things to you. I wish there were more people in this world rooting for you to succeed as opposed to angling for how to make a buck off you when you stumble and fall.

Fall, not fail. I don’t think you’ve failed. You’ve just strayed away from the path that’s going to lead you out of your woods, that’s all. I hope you find your way back on track soon.

Terminator 5: Rise of the Gipper

~ lobablanca

governator

I was looking at a recent photo of “The Governator,” when something quite troubling struck me: When did Arnold Schwarzenegger start looking like Ronald Reagan?

Okay, so the above image has been given a little…assistance from me in proving my point. But I dare you to tell me all the places where Ahnold begins and Ronald ends. I know that both are former actors-cum-governors of the great state of KAHLEEfornia…but this is a bit ridiculous.

Of course, you could call me out on my hypocrisy right now, since it does seem that I’m poking fun at Arnold for looking like the 62-year-old man that he is. I am the one, after all, who railed against Mary McDonnell for all the plastic surgery she got while starring on BSG.

If it seems that I am being hypocritical, I do apologize. I think I’m more fascinated by the fact that Schwarzenegger has been cut off from the rest of his plastic Hollywood herd by his gubernatorial endeavors. Running California into the ground doesn’t leave much recuperation time for vanity stops with the plastic surgeon like the ones he used to make (or is there anyone out there who believes that his jaw shrank and shaped itself naturally?). So I admit that a part of me admires him for believing so much in his political objectives that he would leave behind his vanity. Part of me, though, wonders how difficult it must be for a man who once based his entire career on his looks and his muscles to have to actually look his age while all his counterparts move forward to their fifth, sixth, and seventh faces.

Ahnold’s political service will come to an end in January 2011, unless he plans to run for a congressional seat. There will be no “Presidenator” in his future, however, thanks to that messy Constitutional amendment about needing to be American-born.

I can’t help but wonder if, on January 21, 2011, there’s going to be a hot time at the old plastic surgeon’s that night. True, Maria’s been keeping the family sawbones busy with her slow transformation into Skeletor, but I suspect that the doctor is champing at the bit in anticipation of Ahnold returning with a valiant, “Come on! Do it! Do it! Come on! Peel me! I’m here!”

Okay, that was a lame ending that only Predator fans will follow. I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to end it with some reference to “I’ll be back.” Again, sorry. Just look at the image again and think happy Ahnold thoughts.

License and Registration, Please

~ lobablanca

Sat down last night after dinner to flip through the bajillion and one cable channels that usually don’t have anything on worth watching, and I stumbled upon a movie in which Jed Bartlet seemed on the verge of molesting Clarice Starling. There are just some things that I don’t want to watch. Ever.

So I completely forgot to mention that I was pulled over by a cop on Friday night for no friggin’ reason. I had been at a complete stop at a red light for about 10 to 20 seconds, when I saw a car pulling up on my right, in the “right turn only” lane. I noticed, however, that the car had stopped without pulling up even with me. I looked in my right side mirror and saw that it was a police cruiser. It kept inching forward uncertainly, doing the “I’m spatially challenged and have no idea if I can actually fit past this car next to me” two-step. I laughed and probably made some sort of innuendo-heavy joke at the cop’s expense.

A second later, the cruiser jerked into reverse and pulled in behind me.

The light finally turned green and I made my left onto the main road. And right onto the side of the road as the cruiser’s blue and red lights flared up and the cop pointed his spotlight in through Sammy’s rear window.

I’ve been pulled over numerous times in the past. I have a hereditary condition that causes my driving foot to be pulled uncontrollably to the floor, regardless of posted speed limits. I’ve sought physical therapy, which has successfully reduced the impact of this condition on my driving record (and my insurance premiums). However, this was the first time I was ever pulled over simply for the helluvit.

So the cop ambles up to my window and asks me for my license and registration. In a new twist, however, he asks me how long I’ve owned my car. When I tell him, his response is, “That’s funny. Your license plate comes up in my system as belonging to a 2003 Mercury.” And then he walks away.

So we sit there for like 10 minutes before the cop comes back, returns my information and says, “Yeah, your VIN checks out as belonging to this car, but your license plate is coming up as belonging to a Mercedes. I mean Mercury. Your name also isn’t coming up in our system.”

Okay, so you really can’t drop something like this on me and expect me to shrug and go “Okay, occifer.” My actual response was, “Well, that doesn’t sound good. I guess I’ll have to call the DMV in the morning.”

To which to officer quickly responded, “No, that’s not necessary. My system is probably just down right now. You’re fine.”

Anyone else smelling a rotten bacon stink right about now?

First he tells me that my license plate is coming up as belonging to a completely different make and year of car. Then he tells me that the VIN information is fine, but the license plate is still coming up for a different car…but he can’t seem to keep straight the make of the different car (personally, I confuse Mercedes and Mercury all the time). And that my name isn’t even coming up in the system. But he doesn’t seem to think there’s anything to worry about in any of what he’s saying. And he gets jumpy when I state that I’m going to call the DMV to clear everything up with them.

Plus, there’s the tiny little matter of me not really understanding why I was pulled over in the first place.

I wish I hadn’t been suffering from an extreme case of “Politeness to Those Who Can Arrest You” syndrome. I really would have liked to have asked WTF. Part of me feels like I was duped in some way. I mean, I saw the decals on the cruiser and recognized it as a county sheriff’s car. Officer Dolittle was also in a recognizable duty uniform. So what the dilly-yo? Was he just bored and miffed that he couldn’t figure out how to get past me at the stoplight? Was my bumper sticker or my “Jesus fish” spoof that offensive? Was this abuse of power by a rabid fundamentalist?

Ooh, maybe this had something to do with that crazy woman who bumped into me a few weeks back! That might be a possibility…but then I go right back to the fact that I wasn’t doing anything to draw attention to myself in the first place. Dudley Dolittle had no reason to run my license plate in the first place, beyond the fact that he could have seen me gesturing toward his sad attempts at spatial handling and laughing.

If that’s indeed the case, then I’m ever so glad that my tax dollars are helping to pay the salary of someone so petty and small. Thanks for wasting my money and my time, occifer.

50BC09: Book Number 42

~ lobablanca

beforedishonor

Ah, 42. As special a number to geeks as 69 is to horny douchewangers. So why not select a special book to read for this number? A book that cannot fail to make me happy? A book about my most favoritist television series, written by the author I have stated here at the lair as being “the author I would trust the most with my precious Star Trek characters”?

Surely, Peter David will be able to deliver to me the TNG novel that I have been waiting to read since those halcyon days of Keith Birdsong covers and awesome non-canonical plots!

…

I wish I could undo the horrific damage done by this novel, not only to many of my beloved Trek characters but also to my opinion of Peter David. I wish I’d listened to my own words with my previous post-Nemesis TNG book experiences and simply walked away.

Plot synopsis? As if that’s even necessary anymore. It’s about the bloody Borg again. Only now the Borg have evolved. Instead of assimilating, they now absorb. Everything. People. Ships. Planets. I kid you not with what I’m about to quote you from this book:

The bastards ate Pluto!

Yeah. A Borg cube absorbed Pluto (which apparently regained and re-lost its “planet” status several more times from now until its absorption). Not long after, the cube was heard to state, “We cannot believe we ate the whole thing.”

I can’t go on anymore. There’s so much wrong with this book that I’m literally drained by the weight of my ineffable disappointment. Let’s just say that if you are looking for the very definition of “wrongs darker than death or night,” then this is the book you should read. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Especially when you reach the end and realize that Peter David has done something so utterly horrifying and, quite frankly, unforgivable to a character who shouldn’t have even been in a TNG novel in the first place…

Enough. I’m finished. Literally. I swear to you right now, unless Beverly Crusher herself comes to me and personally tells me to read the latest TNG novel, I’m never again reading anything new from the TNG series. At this point, I don’t even think I can go back and revisit those TNG books I once loved. Perhaps I might find them to be every bit as shit as this one was.

No. No, that’s simply not possible. This is the king of that dung heap of misery.

Final score: …

How on earth can one give a score to the book that has effectively drawn the curtain on my love affair with TNG novels AND has made me question every bit of praise I have ever spoken about Peter David’s Trek offerings? There is no score right enough for this wrong of a novel. To misquote the Coen Brothers, burn BEFORE reading. Or at the very least, save your money. This book is so horrible, it’s not even worth stealing.