The metaphysical horror comedy novel John Dies at the End is a gonzo mash-up of Stephen King and William Burroughs that’s overflowing with creativity and gleeful weirdness. For his adaptation, Don Coscarelli (Phantasm, Bubba Ho-Tep) manages to cram as much of the novel’s key plot points and batshit insanity into 90 minutes as possible. The result is a relentless blast of humor and gore that’s destined for cult classic status, but not without its share of hiccups. The good far outweighs the bad though, and it’s safe to say that John is going to leave fans rabid for more adventures with inexplicable mind-altering drugs and inter-dimensional leech creatures.

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Ohhhhhhhhh Potter fans! Slap on a diaper and prepare yourself for this news blast upside your wands. (Doesn’t make sense, I know.) J.K. Rowling has officially announced her next novel.

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Welcome to the paperback orgy, where I ramble about old sci-fi novels in the guise of criticism. In the first installment I rapped about Robert Sheckley’s 1956 comic look at body snatching, Immortality Inc. While that one was nominated for the prestigious Hugo Award for best novel (basically the Academy Award of sci-fi literature), this week’s novel won it. Not only that, but it won the very first Hugo ever. I speak of Alfred Bester’s 1953 puzzlebox, The Demolished Man. It’s notable for winning the inaugural Hugo, but in my opinion it’s even more remarkable to note that the novel has NEVER been adapted into a film. For such a landmark sci-fi novel   (one that has it’s share of suspense and action sequences that would lend itself to film) to never get the Hollywood treatment is nothing but a miracle. That’s not to say people haven’t tried, but I’ll get to that later. First, take off your pants and let’s rap about the almighty Demolished Man.

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Now this is a way to spend a spring fucking break if you’re a literature nerd like me. A professor at the University of Mississippi took his students down to Washington D.C. and they went and discovered themselves Billy Shakespeare’s signature.

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Okay, before I’m set upon by rabid Hunger Games  fans dressed in tribute uniforms brandishing axes and knives, let me clarify: we’re talking writing style, not content. I personally didn’t care for Suzanne Collins’ writing style; I get why she wrote the story the way she did, but it did nothing for me. I didn’t finish the first one and I have no desire to read the other two (blasphemy, I know). I tried, but I grew very bored very  quickly. Sparse writing like Collins’, in my opinion, is more suited for shorter works.

But some author I’ve never fucking heard of has weighed in and believes this stark, short, quick-punch style is the future of literature for the internet generation. The English major in me is weeping and flipping tables by turns.

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I could’ve sworn I filled the tank.

I mean, if I was goin’ to risk my life time-travelin’, the best false sense of security I could’ve had would’ve been having enough fuel. As such, I spent countless weeks double-checking my math, the calculations whirring around around my mindscape even as I slept. The formula for post-temporal diesel was arcane knowledge, and if I wanted to concoct it myself I’d have to be super careful.

And when I finally felt that the arithmetic lined up, I got a big `ole metal barrel and mixed the ingredients:

– 1/2 gallon of gasoline
– 20 ounces of Pepsi Max
– 3 gallons of liquid zebra feces (grassfed animals only)
– 1/2 hour’s worth of tears

When the sludge was uniform in color (and pleasant to the taste), I poured it into the Toast-R-Oven I’d outfitted as the energy converter. I plugged in the converter, took a whiff of paint thinner, and then hopped into my combination broom closet/time machine.

I closed my eyes. Waited. Exited.

And here I am, trapped in the year 1998. Ugh. If the 1990s were an orgy, `98 would be the unwashed hippie who’s shown up despite having never received an invitation and hopin’ that some cooze grants poon-access to his scabby semen-dispenser. 1998 brandishes neither the novelty of the earlier 90s nor the enthusiasm of the turn-of-the-century. And yet it still cries for attention, hoping and pleading and wishing that someone will give a fuck.

I could’ve sworn I filled the tank. Next time I’ll check more carefully.

–-

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE. I’m going to present semi-coherence in the hopes that you’ll validate my role as a member of Team Omega-Level. In the process, I’ll detail the various ways I’ll be keeping myself entertained. Fuck human tragedy, let’s all have a swell time!

Your mission – if you’re as brazen as you wished your prom date thought you were – is to hit up the comments section and share the bits and pieces of fun-debris that you’ll be sifting through this workweek.

Let’s dance.

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I wasn’t expecting this. Charlie Kaufman, the mind behind Eternal Sunshine, Adaptation, Being John…  and others is dropping a novel on our asses. Prepare for the META-BOMB, a tool of destruction that Kaufman wields with aplomb.

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Oh sweet butterballs, this is what I’ve been dreaming of for such a long time. More than anything, I’ve been wanting to rebuy all those Harry Potter  tomes I finished so many moons ago in eBook form. I need to comb through the books for the moment where J.K. Rowling finally lost her mind and began her march towards the epilogue.

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One of the joys of being into sci-fi is that the genre has such a rich history to draw from. Even if I quit my job, touched the monolith, took up speed, and did nothing but devour sci-fi books and movies 24/7, I’d never reach the end. It’s a beautiful and exciting thing – especially on the book shelf.   You can go into any thrift store in the world and pick up a sci-fi paperback of yore for a quarter or two. That’s a cheap price to pay for a window into our beloved genre’s history. I thrift for books a couple times a month to snatch up any sci-fi paperbacks I haven’t hoarded yet. Believe me when I say that there are enough used copies of Rendezvous With Rama out there to build a bridge across the Atlantic.

Paperback Orgy will hopefully be a semi-regular column in which I discuss a choice selection from my recent booty. For our inaugural post I want to talk about a book that’s been collecting dust on my shelves for a minute now: Robert Sheckley‘s 1959 comical tale of the soul and the shittiness of rich people…Immortality Inc.

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I haven’t read The Hunger Games  series, but I did see the film on Sunday and very much enjoyed the hell out of it, especially since I didn’t have to yell at anyone for having their cell phones out. I was happy with the direction, the cinematography, the acting, and the casting — especially the casting. I mean, what the fuck did  Lenny Kravitz give Satan in return for eternal youth? Dude looks maybe  25. Jennifer Lawrence, the sole shareholder at CP’s spank bank conglomerate, did a fabulous job as Katniss, and Amandla Stenberg made me weep like a little kid with a skinned knee during that scene. Everyone was flailing while we filed out of the theater, so much that I could literally see  the exclamation points in people’s sentences.  Nothing could harsh my buzz.

Then I saw the racist fuckery happening on Twitter and suddenly remembered the world is full of douchenozzles.

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