Review: Fifty Shades of Grey by E. L. James

Fifty Shades of Grey feels like reading the private journal of a 13 year old girl from the suburbs, whose lust floods so profoundly at the sight of a wealthy young man that it leaves one to wonder how she can walk despite her knees buckling over the slippery spills of her effervescing vagina.

Fifty Shades of Grey feels like reading the private journal of a 13 year old girl from the suburbs, whose lust floods so profoundly at the sight of a wealthy young man that it leaves one to wonder how she can walk despite her knees buckling over the slippery spills of her effervescing vagina.

I read 30 pages, which is a little over 3 chapters.

E. L. James is quite brilliant.  She dials back her writing so anyone smarter than a fifth grader can think, “I could write this.”  Too often, authors waste time with cliché literary techniques like describing stuff.  Some authors have a problem of ‘showing’ rather than just ‘telling’ with their writing.  James literally tells readers what to feel and think.  i.e. – He’s hot.  Suddenly, she’s hot.  Why use imagination?  Ain’t no body got time fo dat.

Even though the story is fundamentally told in the first person perspective of Anastasia Steele, the book is actually just non-stop dialogue.  It has the charm of reading a direct-to-video screenplay that is devoid of any scene headings, action sequences, parantheticals, and camera directions.  The story carries itself on dialogue styled in honor of the harmonious yimmer-yammer of divorced housewives dining on a few boxes of wine, all the while admiring the allure of a dangling mosquito zapper.  It’s musically musical.

I was impressed with her frequent ability to encompass an entire complex emotion into unique singular words such as “happily”, “nervously”, and “quickly”.  As a reader, nothing makes me feel more rushed with frantic anxiety than when an author writes the word “quickly” to describe action.  Commoners define her technique as adverbs.  I call it magic.  Adverbs are sometimes considered cheap and hollow because they lack informative value.  But James glitters the pages in so many adverbs, the story flows at a swiftly magically magical pace with a majestically mystic tonely tone…writtenly.

One problem I had with the writing was that James didn’t write any omg’s, rofl’s, or =)’s into Anastasia’s narration.  I don’t understand y she chose not 2.  How am I supposed to take the book seriously without ever needing an urban dictionary nearby?  The story would have been more relatable if the main character’s narration described her horny fluster as:

(* °_°) <3 <3 <3
8===========D ~ ~ ~ (°o °; )

From what I’ve read of the book, I assumed emoticons would complement James’ literary sophistication.  I guess she wanted to challenge her storytelling prowess and decided to not employ another powerful literation aid.

In less than 3 full chapters, James swings the setting from Anastasia’s home, to Christian Grey’s corporate building, then to his office, back to Anastasia’s home, later at her work, again at her home, and then a return to Grey’s corporate building.  I’m sure I missed a lot more of the book’s teleportation.  It was difficult to follow.  I may be too prude because I’m not comfortable with any author’s rapid casual slutting of settings.  Every other page the story is in a new place with no distinction or reason.

My favorite part of the book was reading Christian Grey’s dialogue in the voice of Dr. Evil from Austin Powers.  James’ vague description of Grey’s office had just enough detail to trigger my memories of Dr. Evil’s lair.  And then when it came time for his introductory dialogue, I had the best laugh hearing the puny voice of Dr. Evil speaking into his pinky finger.  I’m sure the author had more sincere and serious intents, but the shoe fit perfectly.

I am not going to finish reading the miracle book Fifty Shades of Grey.  I won’t dare further taint the pages with my unworthy eyes.  Reading the phrase “I blush” or “I flush” a million freaking times in 30 pages is just not for me.  I will be earnest saying E. L. James deserves a sincere tip of the hat for the massive popularity of her trilogy.  I think the writing is poor, but she managed to captivate a new world of readers.  Anything that gets people to read is all good with me.

Popple in the Wind: An Innocence Lost

The 80s were a simple time. Bugs Bunny was still racist, neon was popular, inflatable airbags were in kids’ shoes instead of cars, and seat belts were merely a suggestion for children. Danger and ignorance was the culture. My childhood was great…for the most part.

The 80s were a simple time.  Bugs Bunny was still racist, neon was popular, inflatable airbags were in kids’ shoes instead of cars, and seat belts were merely a suggestion for children.  Danger and ignorance was the culture.  My childhood was great…for the most part.

I used to play with stuffed dolls just so I could join in with my older sisters.  Even though I was often too young to understand, I always followed their lead.  My eldest sister once grabbed a doll, placed it under her shirt, and jovially exclaimed “I’m pregnant!”  With a doe-eyed sibling idolization, I leapt for the nearest doll, jammed it on my belly, and cheered “Me too!”  She pummeled my endearing naivety with laughter.  I was probably 4 years old when I learned that boys weren’t allowed to be pregnant.

Having been raised by a busy single mother who spent all of her time earning food for our table, my sisters were my closest available role models.  They taught me multiplication and division when I was in the first grade, how to shave my face, and the quickest way to fetch them food and drinks from the kitchen.  Heck, just about all of the things I’ve come to not understand about women I pretty much learned from my two beautiful sisters.

Everything changed when I lost my Popple.

Prior to Alf crash-landing into mainstream culture, Popples were among the most popular children’s toys.  These dolls were flamboyant plush marsupials that looked like Frankenstein’s Care Bears stitched from a medley of highlighters.  Their charming novelty was that each one could tuck itself inside their pouch.  My sisters and I each had our own and loved flipping them into balls and then back into their freakish half-bear form.  We made our Popples dance, sing, and occasionally shut their dumb booger face because somebody was the youngest as well as the only boy of the three.

Our favorite place for Popple tomfoolery was inside the family Toyota Wonderwagon.  The tubular van was a staple of the decade’s flagrant disregard for safety standards.  It was made of tin, infamous for toppling over in beach winds, and had windows that opened wide enough for children to leap out of.  My mom often tested the sturdiness of the van’s engineering by reaming into cement dividers and smashing into fellow commuters.  Even today, she continues to perpetuate the stereotype that pediatricians can’t drive.  I don’t know how any of us survived.

We brought our Popples everywhere.  We especially made certain to bring them along for every arduous van ride to church.  One woeful Sunday, a brilliant idea enraptured my eldest sister.  What if we opened the windows on this bitch and dangled our Popples over the freeway?  With no hesitation, my sisters flung the windows open.  A torrent of high speed winds consumed the van.  They both jutted their Popples toward on-coming traffic and giggled in whole-hearted glee as the air violently thrashed about their dolls.  Their joy was infectious.  I needed to taste the fruits of such jubilant reckless abandon.

I stepped into the headwinds like a lemming approaching the cliff.  The wind thrust back my fine-chiseled 5 year old biceps, but my desire to be like my sisters awoke the determination of my inner crane-kicking Daniel Larusso.  I was getting out of Reseda with a rich blond girlfriend.  Bonzai.

My hand swept out the window and my Popple caught ferocious turbulence.  I tried to believe, though the going gets rough, but I couldn’t hang tough to make it.  I was losing.  Sirens blared.  The emergency doors blew open and oxygen masks were deployed.  The mission was failing faster than my attempts at swooning women.  My Popple went through rapid seizures due to the sudden change in cabin pressure as my grip grew frantic, desperate, and feeble.  I had never trained for a moment like this.  If only I had listened to my mom…  If only I had eaten more spinach…

All hope was lost.  My Popple shed a single tear and then let go.  No matter how much I tried to stretch my reach, I couldn’t go-go gadget it back into my arms.  I watched my childhood fly off into the depths of the highway.  It collided onto speeding windshields and vanished beneath the soot of busy tires.  The entire time, my Popple somehow bravely held its innocent grin.

Blindly idolizing my sisters left me hollow.  I cried for months, delved into a soulless Berenstain Bears addiction, and drowned my sorrows in root beer.  My sisters did their best to console me, while gratefully clutching their own Popples that continued to tirelessly return from the trenches of battle unscathed.

Our family traveled the same highway for years.  And every time we approached the scene, the three of us would gaze out the windows in silence with a tinge of hope that we might find my Popple like a missing Mousekewitz.  But, my story has no happy ending.  I am now an old popless man forever pained with the thought of my beloved being found by another and betraying me in the embrace of some paup’n homeless child.


Fun with Faye

Faye may have an innocent face, but I swear she’s dastardly. I have the scars to prove it. Her sweetest moments are the interrupting naps between me and my keyboard. At least my dog lets me ignore her.

Faye may have an innocent face, but I swear she’s dastardly.  I have the scars to prove it.  Her sweetest moments are the interrupting naps between me and my keyboard.  At least my dog lets me ignore her.

I bought a bucket of toys to keep her distracted.  Still, I’m her favorite prey.  I can’t put on my socks in the morning without Faye gnawing and dangling at my toes.  There are new holes in all of my clothes and my precious pale skin is riddled with scabs.  I’m living in fear…cute, cuddly, fear.

Pet stores stock everything imaginable for dogs.  The cat aisle’s only got two choices – it’s either a laser pointer or some catnip.  I could give Faye one groovy psychedelic trip by purchasing both, but I’ve got ethical problems with drugging a kitten.  Anyways, I’m not really a fan of trance music or dubstep.

I love to write.  My mom insists I would be successful with drafting stories about cats.  But what the hell does she know?  She’s only a doctor.  My writing skills have waned from lack of practice over the years.  A pen is clearly worth more between Faye’s paws than my mitts.

I have no interest in a career with cats.  Faye’s my only orphan.  I’m not raising a middle-aged woman’s platoon.  The furthest I’ll go involving felines is putting one in a sock, then in my shoe, snap a high definition picture, and later share it publicly along a corresponding video contained in a blog entry like a normal person.

Whatever the future holds, I’m happy with just one young pussy.  ~teehee

Everyone needs the occasional break.  The freedom to separate at times is healthy for any relationship.  To help Faye learn some independence, I let her doze off while listening to her favorite song.  I feel like it helps her fantasize through her murderous instincts rather than act out on them.

It’s My Grand Re-Opening!

Let’s break a fine bottle of champagne on my forehead! I’m finally ready to show off my new website design! =)

Let’s break a fine bottle of champagne on my forehead!  I’m finally ready to show off my new website design!  =)

I spent the last couple months designing and coding a new layout for my website.  Your pupils be blessed.

It’s not the prettiest design.  This new website will have its bugs.  Even though I’m far from a professional, I designed and coded the entire thing all by myself.  I might be flaunting an ugly baby, but I’m proud to have built this house of cards with my own two hands.

There’s a lot more content coming around!  I’m looking forward to bringing you stuff on a more regular basis.  Feel free to subscribe to any link at the sidebar on the right.  ===>


My Guilty Pleasure…Maybe

I’ve got to admit, Carly Rae Jepsen’s song Call Me Maybe is very enjoyable. It makes me want to ovulate and write Mr. John Beckinsale everywhere inside a notebook. I’m going to shave with a steak knife to feel like a man again.

I’ve got to admit, Carly Rae Jepsen’s song “Call Me Maybe” is very enjoyable.  It makes me want to ovulate and write “Mr. John Beckinsale” everywhere inside a notebook.  I’m going to shave with a steak knife to feel like a man again.

How can you not like this song?  I once read of a psychological study where participants were given a list of movies to watch.  The list of movies consisted of some light stories (e.g. something fun like “The Avengers”) and some heavy stories (e.g. a little “Schindler’s List”).  Nearly all of the participants started with the light movies and held off on the heavy stuff until the end of the study.  People prefer to start with the things that are easy.  It’s a lot less of a commitment to sit through anything that is certainly going to be easier to digest.

The amount of satisfaction a person gets from enjoying deeply emotional and thought-provoking art could be much greater than breezing through something bubblegum pop.  I totally go d-bag hipster for some Heart of Darkness.  Art can demand that you open up, dig deep, and journey your way up to a new perspective.

But most of the time, I’m honestly not in the mood for a life changing.  I want orange soda, not whiskey.  Did I ask you to make me cry?  Not today Clapton.  Jerk.

My previous guilty pleasure was Katy Perry’s “Firework.”  She doesn’t have a voice I particularly care for…but she’s got boobies.  Seriously, the song is simply fun.  No one pontificates about the lyrics or the notes that are played.  The only thing that demands to be appreciated is the sight of fireworks igniting out of Katy Perry’s boobage.  I can sit through that.