If you ever want a show to scare the ever-living crap out of you and pique your interest all at the same time (I have to look but I don’t want to look but I have to look but I don’t want to look), Supernatural would be the show. Now, I watched The X-Files from start to finish, all seven (okay, nine, there I said it) seasons. At times, it did scare me. Once or twice, it freaked me out.

Already, Supernatural has gone far beyond that. I’ve watched four full episodes and am currently watching the fifth episode of the first season, and so far, every episode has scared the crap out of me. Some people might not be so susceptible to the kind of fear that the show plays to (Nathan, for instance, while he’s gotten jumpy, hasn’t gotten nearly as freaked as I have). Others, like the ones who were afraid of every monster and legend found in childhood, will find this show to be the grown-up version of All Their Fears Proven True.

So far, the first five episodes have dealt with—

• A stranger in the house that you don’t know is a stranger at first, followed by death by fire caused by possible demons
• Something (a Wendigo) killing people in the deep woods that you can’t see
• A “seriously pissed-off ghost” that you can’t see drowning people in a lake
• A demon that likes to crash airplanes (anyone have a fear of flying?)
• The myth of Bloody Mary

I will never be able to sleep alone again.

And this is all Olivia’s fault. I must give you a non-sarcastic thank you for your great recommendation.

There’s also a bunch of references to The X-Files, which I love. It’s also a highly amusing show, in addition to being a scare-the-crap out of you show. The soundtrack tends to be classic rock and 80’s metal. One episode included a reference to Metallica with Dean called himself “Dr. James Hetfield.” Bwahahaha.

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For book-lovers, these bins filled with old, worn books for only $1 a pop (for charity, no less!) are a black hole of book-luvin’-gravity. Our local Hannaford’s has one, and even if we’ve got ice cream melting away in our grocery bags, Nathan and I will have to stop and dig. Sometimes, it’s a brief dig, other times, it’s a longer, more calculated dig. As in, I had just found By the Shores of Silver Lake by Laura Ingalls Wilder, was struck by childhood memories, and wanted to see if the rest of those books were in the bin. (They were not.) Anyway, on our last trip, I found a book with a really intriguing title—The Man Who Folded Himself.

Now, what person with at least an average amount of curiosity (and perhaps at least a dash of impulsivity) can resist picking up the slim 200 page novel for a buck? Well, since I possess a dump-truck full more than the average amount of curiosity and have impulsivity that reads off-the-scale (if such a scale existed), of course I picked up the book. And, without bothering the read the back. In fact, it went much like this—

“Nathan! Look at this title! The Man Who Folded Himself! How cool is that?!” I hand the book to Nathan.

Nathan accepts the book, glances at cover, hands book back, tosses off a, “That’s interesting,” in a flat tone indicating otherwise, and resumes his own digging.

Meanwhile, I’ve carefully placed the curious treasure in one of the grocery bags.

For those of you who haven’t heard of the book, here’s the Wikipedia entry about it. It is a screwed-up book. Actually, that’s not a strong enough description. This book is a serious mind-fuck for both you as the reader, and the protagonist… And I mean it. But it’s a quick read, so if you’re in the mood for such a thing and don’t feel like watching Fight Club and prefer more sex than fifteen orgies, The Man Who Folded Himself is the right read for you. (No, the title doesn’t refer to any portion of the protagonist’s sexual prowess. I don’t think, anyway.)

And as a side note, this also reminded me of Olivia’s LJ entry about the title of a story a friend of hers wrote—The Man Who Ran Faster than Death. Another one I’d completely buy and read based on title alone.

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Transformers (2007 live-action version): Zero Watch Checks

Last night I had the opportunity to go see Transformers with Nathan and our mutual friend Eric. Before last night, I had never shouted at a character in a movie while in the movie theatre, because I’m generally acutely aware of being in a crowd of people.

But last night, I completely forgot. I became so involved in the movie that when the main human character (Sam Witwicky) is running around on the top of a building, flapping his arms wildly to get the attention of a helicopter, I found myself shouting the following:

“The flare, you idiot, the flare!”

And then I found myself surrounded by giggles.

Fantastic.

At least the kid lit the damn flare. And no, that’s not a spoiler, they light a lot of flares and there’s a lot of helicopter-attention-grabbing from buildings.

As for the rest of the movie, it’s awesome. It’s funny, it’s exciting, and it’s touching. The CGI is wonderfully done. Nathan and Eric never noticed that the characters were CGI, while I only had one moment where I remembered that it was CGI. Otherwise, I completely believed it.
When one of the Autobots is captured by humans, the audience can see him suffer. But we, as an audience, didn’t just see him suffering, we believed he was suffering. We wanted it to stop as much as Sam and all the Autobots.

With a fairly tight and very well-paced plot, the movie cruises along without even a thought of glancing at your watch. Nathan complained that the movie was too short until I told him that it was actually two hours and fifteen minutes long. He called me a liar. I called him something not-nice.

Now, I’m an 80’s kid. I grew up with the Transformers and, like every other 80’s Transformers fan, I coveted an Optimus Prime. I never got an Optimus Prime, though I did have a Starscream. I loved the Transformers and Optimus Prime was The Man. So when I found out they were making another Transformers movie, I was a bit unsure. I didn’t want another of my childhood experiences beat up in the parking lot outside thousands of theatres nationwide (à la Batman & Robin).

Not only did my beloved Transformers come out unscathed, they came out buffed and waxed and shining.

Go see this movie.

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From: Jamie [jamie @ohlookabutterfly.com]
Subject: BSG Season 3 Finale Cliffhanger
To: Ron Moore [ron_moore @ifuckinghateyousometimes.com]

Dear Ron,

2008?

Why can’t you write and/or produce a crappy show? I mean, if you did, sure, we’d all be denied compelling, fantastic storytelling, but then April through December of 2007 wouldn’t feel so long and shitty.

And I thought the summer between the Best of Both Worlds I and II was long.

2008.

Ron, I’m sorry to say, I fucking hate you sometimes.

Best Regards,
Jamie

P.S. At some point in 2008, I won’t hate you anymore.

Enclosed: One of a Kind Cylon Flipoff

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I finished reading Stephen King’s Cell yesterday. It had the makeup of something I would fantastically love—an apocalyptic zombie novel. Not only were there apocalyptic zombies, but the zombies are made by cell phones.

I fell instantly in love. Zombies! Apocalypse! Evil cell phones! (Even now, I’m very apprehensive about answer my cell phone. Not that I wasn’t apprehensive before, but now it’s gotten even worse. My friends now hate Stephen King).

I read. And I read and read and read, the book was really a page-turner (the sort of book that can wrangle my ADHD attention span for long lengths of time). It developed well, it was eerie, suspenseful. For me, it also had an added element of familiarity with the setting. That made it even more creepy (the creepiest moment for me in a King novel was when he once wrote something about going to the theatre in Conway, NH. Holy shit, I’ve been there!)

And so I loved it… all the way up until yesterday around 11:53 a.m.

You see, that’s when I got to the end. Only, it didn’t seem like the end. It seemed like a chapter end, yes. The kind of end where you say to yourself, “Self, let us continue on to the next chapter.”

And then you (and Self) notice that there’s his traditional tagline-ish endnote. You know the one (if you ever read any of his novels, which I do recommend) where he gives the date and place of where and when he finished the novel.

I felt lied to. “You are not done! I will turn the page and there will be another chapter!”

And there was another chapter… for another book. One of those previews of books to come.

But I will never know what happened with Clay and his son Johnny and their compatriots left in the northern unnamed counties of Maine. This makes me sad because I figured Cell to be a multi-time read. I’ve got several of novels that I’ve read multiple times—Ender’s Game, The Stand, An Unquiet Mind… the list honestly goes on and on. But Cell won’t be on that list because it’s promise is broken at the end. The story doesn’t finish. It ends in practically mid-sentence, as if your lover was shot in the middle of saying “I lo—”

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