So yesterday around 7 p.m. I'm riding MARTA up to Doraville to get the bus to my writer's group meeting. The train car is getting emptier and emptier; once we're past Lenox there are like seven people on it.
Well, wouldn't you know one of those people has to be on his mobile! And not that I am generally bugged by this because after all, if you're on a train you're not driving, not crossing the street, you're not in a library. It seems a perfectly good place to talk.
That said, there are certain things you just don't discuss IN PUBLIC because, well, you're IN PUBLIC.
Example (and mind you, these are all principles VIOLATED last night):
1) You do not mention friends by name and then go on to say that they're "having sex" and "doing the nasty."
2) You do not mention friends by name and then talk about how things are going really well because the woman is "getting really good oral" because the guy "gives really good oral" and she's "highly, highly satisfied." (Think: Chef on "South Park.")
3) You do not explain the fact that the reason your girlfriend-of-the-moment is so happy with you and helping you move your furniture is because "the other night" you "gave her a full-body."
4) You do not mention any of the things REALLY LOUDLY on a near-empty train, especially one of the new cars without the sound-insulation of carpeting and especially not when the train stops dead and there's not even motor and electric noise to cover you up.
I've got a sick mind and I'll talk about some explicit stuff in public but you have to be DISCREET, damnit!!!!!
So I wrote to the Andover Townsman, my hometown newspaper in Massachusetts, asking about putting in some sort of item about the book. The reporter who wrote me back says he also went to UMass Amherst, graduated the same year as me, and recognizes me from us having eaten in the same dining hall. I'm sending him the release.
Go to Amazon.com and read customer reviews of Blackwood Farm -- sort from lowest rated first.
This one was pretty pithy:
My god, this book may never end. Dante could have had a whole circle of hell involving the reading of this book. 400 pages of monologue to tell the story of a whiny, boring hero who speaks, unaccountably, in purple, vaguely 19th-century Byronic language, the very worst of Rice's already tired breed of laconic, manic-depressive, wealthy, beautiful, bisexual, angst-ridden vampires. She really needs to start a new series. She's made enough money off of these silly wretches, make up something else and stop ruining what had been, for quite a few years, a good series of books.
All I read were those sample chapters online... and damn, they looked like a set-up for disaster!
It is just so sad. I'm glad I have moved on because apparently so has Mater, or did, a long time ago.