[November 18, 2010]

So, I took the GRE yesterday. And I don’t really want to talk about it. Thanks, though. I have medicated my pain with margaritas, beer, and a burrito the size of an obese chihuahua.

Still experiencing the after-effects of my Mexican fiesta-induced numbness later that evening, I sat in the reclining portion of the living room sofa, feet up and laptop in lap, working on some homework for class. It was shortly before midnight and I really relish those moments of peace when all of the occupants in my usually-bustling house are either out or have retired for the night.

I was marinating in the calmness and quiet and enjoying a rare burst of productivity. The room was dark save for a single lamp glowing beside a bookshelf to my left, a fact that made me vaguely apprehensive.

Since childhood, I’ve had a generous respect for darkness [1. Read: Stormy Cruz is afraid of the dark.]. This has been exacerbated as a result of my harrowing encounters with the vile creatures that lurk in it, as I have discussed previously [2. See: Horror Show, Part 1].

In fact, I’ve encountered them lurking often enough that I’ve experienced a shift in my sanity: at approximately dusk, as I sense the world darkening around me, I begin to channel that token, crazed old woman you see in horror movies. You know the one.

Her wild eyes evince a feverish paranoia, and I approach every lightless room with her morbid suspicions.  This misunderstood woman rarely speaks on film except perhaps to warn a protagonist in a gravelly hiss, “Don’t go in the attic. Mark my words, you will never get out alive,” or, “You take the back stairs, deary. But it will be your last time…”

The thing about her is that you think she’s nuts at first, but she’s nearly always right.  She knows the deranged, skin-slashing killer is waiting in the broom closet because she senses his presence, she smells his acrid breath the night air. And her paranoid terror is invariably validated when the horror ensues.

So is mine.

That night as I sat working, I heard a tiny noise on the bookshelf beside me. It was nearly imperceptible but my spider senses had been on full alert since sunset and I jerked my head in the direction of the sound, scouring the space for movement. Nothing.

Reluctantly, I went back to work. Then, not a minute later, I heard it again. It was the tiniest of sounds, the slightest of slight shufflings, but I feared the worst. I feared evil. And yet again, my visual inspection of the bookshelf was fruitless. Still wary, I continued on with my work.

…And then came the sound that makes my soul sob, that strikes such an intense, primal terror in my heart that it makes me temporarily [3. Long-term effects have not been verified but it doesn't look good.] psychotic: the sound of active roach wings. From the single light in the room, it came. AND IT WAS FLYING STRAIGHT FOR MY FACE.

I shrieked and collapsed to the floor, simultaneously trying place my laptop down as gingerly as possible while madly scrambling away from the couch like the devil himself was perched upon it. I tripped, sprawled, then crawled frantically to the opposite end of the room. The sound I made against the wooden floorboards was roughly like that of a pachyderm with Tourette’s tap-dancing on a tin roof. My boyfriend, who’d been asleep in the next room, appeared in the doorway to find me maniacally tearing off all my clothing [4. My mind reverted back to incident #1 and I was taking no chances] and flailing madly at my hair, fully convinced the vile creature was in it, all the while shrieking plaintively.  I have never known such terror.

♦

My passionate revulsion for these creatures is profound.  And my sensibilities have yet to fully recover from this most recent trauma.

We never found it. The wretched beast is still at large. If you see anything that looks remotely like a full-size American cockroach, smash the fucker just to be safe.  Even as I took a scalding, steaming shower long after the episode reached its unsatisfying conclusion, I delusionally expected the thing to manifest itself on my cranium and crawl out of from behind one of my ears. And so continues my paranoid transformation.

Update:  I had bruises on my knees for over a week and a half to vouch for the intensity of my getaway crawling. Until they healed, my legs looked like they’d played kick-the-can with the entire South African soccer team. And though the bruises to my flesh have faded, the scars on my soul have not yet healed, and may never [5. I think the source of my problem is that, deep down, I sincerely believe that cockroaches do not exist. Each experience with one then rattles me to the core and I'm left to repair the damage to my delicate psyche and slowly piece my reality back together.].  In the meantime, I can still be found glancing suspiciously at bookshelves after nightfall.

That perfect night it all began,
With the glistening ring on her left hand,
A symbol of their perfect love,
Eclipsing the moon and stars above.

After Italian and some nice blush wine,
He asked her to be his Valentine,
From that moment ‘till the sea ran dry,
The sun grew cold, and pigs could fly.

He told her she sparkled like the sun in June,
As a violin played a romantic tune,
And she knew that the tingle she felt in her heart,
Was the sweetest sting of cupid’s dart.

Their love just wouldn’t settle for less,
And it would all begin with the perfect dress.
It must be white, because she’s pure,
But all the better if it’s haute couture.

Although she’ll only wear it once,
And the cost could feed a small village for months,
It’ll be just as she’d dreamt as a little girl,
Down to the very last little white pearl.

She’d need something old, new, borrowed, and blue.
Why? Well, no one really one knew.
He’d wear a sharp tux and a snazzy bowtie,
And he’d try his darndest not to cry.

Plans had begun a year before,
The blushing bride stepped through that door.
But she finally appeared, like Princess Snowflake,
His very own frosted, alabaster cupcake.

The guests watch sniffling and wiping their noses,
As she walks very slowly on petals of roses,
Scattered by little twin cherub-faced girls,
With perfectly golden ringlet curls.

She reaches him, he lifts her veil,
And thus begins the fairy tale—
After a man, with some disdain,
Stops to adjust her 12-foot train.

The little boy who bore the rings,
Offered them up like sacred things.
And so they were; that 18-K,
Would always remind them not to stray.

With a man in a robe, some “repeat after me,”
And a candle to show their unity,
Surrounded by flowers and satin and lace,
The bride and groom finally got to first base.

After a shower of rice and a hundred blown kisses,
They were announced to the room as Mister and Missus,
Then they giggled and swayed to Olivia coo,
Their perfect song, “I Honestly Love You.”

The two shared a moment of dramatic affection,
By their towering display of pastry perfection,
Of which each guest savored all of two bites,
While in forced conversation with the other invites.

The two’d asked every soul they knew,
To join them on this day to view,
This expression of their perfect love,
Under the smiling eyes of God above.

And later that night in the wee hours,
A janitor swept up their wilting flowers,
Then paused as he very briefly took aim,
And puffed out the dwindling union flame.

Meanwhile the bride was whisked by her groom,
Through the threshold of their perfect room,
And on this perfect day, with that perfect kiss,
Began their perfect lives of perfect bliss.

[January 6, 2011]

I was inspired by this post which chronicles the misadventures of a housewife attempting to make a festive holiday beacon out of a pumpkin. I’m afraid it contains a good deal of misdirected anger toward Martha Stewart (the entrepreneur who provided the instructional foundation for this project), and her empire. It even goes so far as to suggest that Ms. Stewart “take a giant fucking leap off the nearest tall object.”

How very hostile.

These sentiments were fueled by angst, of course–the angst of a woman who chose to employ an electronic drill to bore holes into a pumpkin for fun. This is much like the case of the man who requested and received a tattoo on his chest of a clown having sex with a dolphin on a rollercoaster smoking a bong [1. Just to clarify, this dangling participle was intentional-- the rollercoaster was smoking the bong. You would too if there was a conjoined clown-dolphin couple on you.] and when he realized he may have made an error in judgment, curses the bitch who inked him.

In any case, I’d like to point out that Martha Stewart would not have an empire founded upon the finer points of festooning vegetables if people did not actually aspire to bedazzle pumpkins.

Now, if you were a scientist in a lab plagued by a clan of mischievous little leprechauns who thwarted your work by swapping labels on vials, tampering with the temperature crank on your Bunsen burner, and inking the lenses on your microscope, perhaps the level of vexation expressed in this post would be warranted. That is if your goal were, say, an antidote for anthrax or an organic hair serum that annihilates frizz [2. Someone, please?].

But, from where I sit, if you take a power tool to a vegetable to make. it. pretty, you instantly lose all credibility and allowance for complaint.

In fact, I sincerely hope that if I am one day possessed by the force of Martha Stewart and I sprain my wrist making seasonal pincushions out of persimmons or stain my carpet whilst decorating my dust ruffle for the summer solstice, or superglue my fingers together while applying tiny sequins to my zippy little recipe cards, I will not elicit an ounce of sympathy from anyone.

Just to be clear, I’m all for arts and crafts. These sorts of endeavors are the basis for occupational therapy and are used in many (psychiatric and other) facilities to soothe troubled minds. But may I suggest simpler, less power tool-intensive activities like macaroni necklaces and fingerpainting and play-doh.

I’d also like to suggest that pumpkin pie is delicious. The next time you encounter an unused pumpkin, consider eating it [3. Pumpkins are also nutritious, packed with fiber, Vitamin A, Vitamin C, and Potassium among other nutrients.].

And when it comes to beacons, frankly, I prefer winter watermelons–soaked in lighter fluid, burning on a festive torch to symbolize the warmth of the holiday season. If you’re on a budget [4. And you may not be on a budget if you're willing to invest in glitter and glue and drills and tiny lights for the sake of an ornament], it’s also kinder on the electric bill.

All in all, my concern here is less for Martha, who I’m sure will be just fine, and more for the innocent pumpkins exploited in the execution of this project.

I can just imagine her now: Paula, pumpkin, and proud mother of four. She is widowed. Her husband was sacrificed to become the head of a scarecrow, proudly protecting an acre of wheat from devastation by marauding birds. Her eldest son, Jack, was the center of a holiday tradition at the Smith house down the street. His grinning face brought much joy to the neighborhood children. The twins, Mark and Maria, became a hearty pumpkin pie and spiced pumpkin bread. But her youngest one, John. Oh, Paula may never recover from the shock of hearing what had become of John. He was covered in glue, coated in glitter, drilled full of holes and lit up from the inside out by tiny little battery-operated lights. Oh, the horror.

If you’re reading this, I already want to hug you. Because that means, despite my absurdly long silence, you managed to hold out a flicker of hope that I would come back to enlighten you with my trademark profundity and sophistication. And aren’t you the lucky one? Here I am!

For what it’s worth, I’ve missed you all fiercely. And since I’m sure you’re all wondering, I’ve been a busy Cuban. Since my last post, I have:

• studied for and successfully completed the GRE.
• been ferociously attacked by a flying roach (but more on that later).
• fallen down the stairs at my parents’ house, creating the most ridiculous looking bruise on my ass in the process.
• completed and submitted my graduate school applications. (Well, most of them.) It was a whore. Personal statement essays are basically “this is why I’m awesome” essays. I kept resisting the urge to just send them a link to my “Essentials” page. That’s all anyone needs to know about me anyway.
• composed and submitted a conference proposal.
• invented a new game: when waiting for a prescription at the drugstore, head for the nearest display of romance novels with a friend. On the count of three, start flipping through. First one to locate a throbbing body part wins. (If you’re waiting alone, ask a stranger to join you. But you may have to resort to time trials. My record is 5.7 seconds. Try me.)
• (accidentally) drowned my iPhone in my friend’s pool.
• polished my resume.
• made a fucking amazing raw, dark chocolate cake.
• went to Mons Venus in Tampa where I met a stripper with the most unbelievable ass I have ever seen. And told her so. God, it was perfection. Oh, to have a statue of that ass in my garden.

I also got a comment from Rod Evans, the author of a book I mentioned a while back called The Gilded Tongue. (The subtitle is “Overly Eloquent Words for Everyday Things” and the cover is purple velvet and embossed in gold. I swear, it’s like he wrote it just for me.)

So, while I was busy being an achiever, what have you all been up to?

In the coming weeks, I plan to post various pieces I’d begun and never got around to posting. I may even back-date them to give you the time-travel effect. Maybe then when you come back to the present, you’ll feel like I was with you all along. There’s also a special Valentine’s Day poem waiting for publication when the time is right. (I wanted to post it just in time to counteract all the red carnations and heart-shaped idiocy. Wait for it.) I will also be making a few small updates to IB (housekeeping for the most part, don’t worry) and generally getting my life in order. I hope to re-establish the WoW soon as well. Much love to all of you. Stay tuned!

I haven’t shared all that much about my personal life here on IB and you should know that’s less about wanting to be mysterious and more because my personal life is far less exciting than the shit I make up.  Don’t get excited; that hasn’t changed.  But I’ve been busy enough lately that I haven’t been able to post half as much as I’d like.

You see, aside from work these days, I’m in the process of applying to graduate schools (researching programs, creating writing samples, getting recommendation letters, etc.), cramming for the GRE, and also writing an extensive book report and a hefty term paper for a graduate class I’m taking.  So if you hear from me only sparingly in the coming weeks, you’ll know why.  I’ll have to put the Words of the Week on hold briefly.  It’s dreadful.  I miss all you beautiful people.

But, like I said, I have not forsaken you.  They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions.  This is horseshit, of course, because good deeds will get you into heaven and all good deeds start off as good intentions.  (Suck it, Satan.)  To prove my devotion to you, the following is a teaser of several of my own good intentions in the form of posts currently sitting in my “Drafts” folder:

• A post entitled “For the Love of Snoop Dogg”
• A surprisingly educational post about rip currents
• A new Sorry, Darwin post
• A stack of book posts
• Coming soon: “An Open Letter to Those Who Bedazzle Pumpkins.”

Stay tuned.

Also, since I’m sharing, for those of you who missed my musings on Twitter regarding my recent stay at the Ritz Carlton [1. Seriously, when I own a first class hotel, I'll call it the Ritz Cruz, and there will be a 1/4-lb slab of dark chocolate on every pillow.  The crap we got wouldn't have satisfied a Lilliputian.]:

6:22–Checked in.  #459 is about to be my lucky number.

6:29–First class my ass.  The toilet doesn’t have a single diamond on it.

6:31–Ugh.  The champagne in that bidet is totally flat.

7:30–I’ve been waiting like an hour for the men to come carry me to the dining room on one of those satin pillows.  I’m going to be late.

7:42–Made my boyfriend do it.

8:14–Ordered the ambrosia at dinner and the server said they were all out.  What a crock.

9:12–Chocolate cake almost made up for that.

10:48–Mattress is exceptionally firm.  Sheets, not silk.

In the meantime, in the spirit of my last post, Farmville kills babies.  (This is sadly not a joke.)

And in celebration of today’s holiday, here’s a link to the scariest fucking thing I’ve seen in a long time (it will haunt your dreams): It’s happening.

Happy Halloween, everyone.  I’m off to take my Rottweiler-Pitbull mix, Daisy, for a walk in search of chicks dressed as Lady Gaga in the meat dress

I once signed in to Facebook only to be visually accosted by a picture of a clump of something an acquaintance had removed from her cat’s asshole. [1. True story.] That sort of sums up how I feel about Facebook. Of course, the privacy issues are an abomination and also, I’d rather count the dust particles on my laptop screen (and then catalog them by color, texture, size, and taste) than plow a field on Farmville.

I randomly signed in to my account the other day and found I had a forwarded message in my inbox from a girl I swam with in high school (and haven’t seen or spoken to since). She was an incredible freestyler and could easily have gotten a scholarship to swim for almost any university in the country. It appears that instead, she smokes several packs a day, drinks excessively, cares for her infant son, and spends an inordinate amount of time on Facebook. (Carpe diem.)

Anyway, this was the message:

Okay ladies, here is another game, like the bra color game which was a total success and we had men wondering for days what was with the colors and it made it to the news. Well, this game has to do with your handbag, where we put our handbag the moment we get home…for example “I like it on the couch”, “I like it on the kitchen counter”, “I like it on the dresser”, well you get the idea. Just put your answer as your status with nothing more than that and cut n paste this message and forward to all your FB female friends to their inbox. The bra game made it to the news. Lets see how powerful we women really are!!!!! REMEMBER DO NOT PUT YOUR ANSWER AS A REPLY TO THIS MESSAGE, SIMPLY PUT YOUR ANSWER AS YOUR STATUS, THEN FORWARD THIS MESSAGE TO YOUR FRIENDS

Temporarily blinded by the run-on sentences and exclamation mark/Caps-Lock abuse, I had to read it twice. I honestly thought it was a joke. But I should’ve known better.

Evidently, the age of technology has brought feminism to staggering new heights. I was not privy to “the bra color game” which apparently threw men everywhere into a blinding fog and left the poor darlings bewildered and in general turmoil. But perhaps posting thinly-veiled sexual innuendo about our accessories on a social media site really will to bring the hateful patriarchy to its knees.

The original author of this “crossyourheartandhopetodie you won’t tell the boys!” message, no doubt updating her status hourly from her bedazzled Blackberry, seems to think it’ll go something like this:

And yet I can’t shake the suspicion that it’s bound to go something a little more like this:

[New? Check out the Word of the Week Intro here.]

Pronounced “bleet,” it’s a noun and (transitive and intransitive) verb that rhymes with “skeet” and “feet” and “teat.” Definitions as follows:

Noun:

1. The characteristic cry of a goat or sheep; a similar sound.
2. A whining, feeble complaint; a protest.

Intransitive verb:

3. To utter the characteristic cry of a goat or sheep.
4. To utter a sound similar to this cry, especially a whine, to talk complainingly, to blather.

Transitive verb:

5. To utter in a whining way.

I enjoy this word because its applications are endless and I think it’s practically onomatopoeia.

To illustrate, I’d like to call upon the assistance of my friend new friend, Bob:

Young Bob often felt defeated,
And when he was, he bleated.

As a child, he wept when his locks
got into a bit of a tangle,
and he cried some more when his diaper,
hung at a less-than-convenient angle.

He wailed at the age of eight
when his bangs would not hang straight.
And he’d blather on as a teen
at any upset in his routine.

In the middle of mass one Sunday,
Bob let out a blood-curdling wail,
causing a tremendous commotion,
all because of a small hangnail.

At thirty, he whimpered a week
when his best friend called him a freak.
Bob seemed to whine all the more with age.
So all were shocked when he was engaged.

He let out a passionate bleat
Then stared at his feet, avoiding her eye,
As his wife proclaimed on their wedding day,
she’d always wanted a sensitive guy.

[New? Check out the Word of the Week Intro here.]

I’d like to dedicate this week’s WoW post to a man who once said, “His 2-foot scrotum feels like the tongue of God on my thigh” to help illustrate an elderly couple’s lovemaking session.

He was a genius–a brilliant comic, witty bastard, and generally awesome guy.  Greg Giraldo passed away last Wednesday, September 29th.  He was 44 years old.

Remanence is a noun (pronounced like it looks, “REM-uh-nunts”), and it indicates the residual magnetic flux that remains in a substance (particularly a magnetic circuit) after the magnetizing force has been withdrawn.

But it has also come to mean: The state or quality of being remanent; continuance; permanence.

Some people in this world make it a better place by leaving it.  (And thank God for them because they provided this man endless material for his comedy.)  On the contrary, Greg leaves behind a lot of laughter. [1. This is an audio clip of a couple of my favorite Greg Giraldo bits.  Enjoy.]  He was one of the good ones.

R.I.P., Greg.  You will be missed.

[New? Check out the Word of the Week Intro here.]

Despite suffering from a near-crippling bout of writer’s block characterized by sitting in front of a computer screen, telling myself that if I just write something things will get better, then doing so, then reading what I wrote and jabbing myself in the eye with spork, I came across a word that is too awesome not to share so I’ll do my best: omphaloskepsis.

Pronounced, “OM-fuh-loh-skep-sis,” it is a noun with its etymological origins in the Greek word, “omphalos,” which means “navel.” Omphaloskepsis means…(wait for it): the contemplation of one’s navel as part of a mystical exercise or meditation.

I know. I’ve already taught it to my iPhone’s predictive text.  The more I say it, the more I want to contort myself into a SarcMark and see if it gets my juices [1. Creative juices, you perv.] flowing.  This post originally had the following short story (with the omphaloskepsis artfully [2. Not artfully at all.] worked in).  I’ve since decided it’s not nearly as omphaloskepsis-centric as it really should be though, so I wrote another story.  Feel free to skip this one.  I probably I would.

He glanced at the time on his phone again. 8:42.  Should I call her?  Maybe something happened.

Letting his book fall shut on the table, he slouched into his seat.  I’ve been here since 7:30, just where I said I’d be.  I couldn’t have missed her.

He flipped open his phone.  No missed calls, nothing.  His gaze drifted down to his abdomen and he let his eyes blur their focus there as he puzzled over the events of the evening.  Then it dawned on him.  The petite brunette with the short hair.  She’d come in just before 8. That must’ve been her–she looked right at me, and then she left.

He sat up as the realization sank in.  I’ll be damned.

He threw $7.50 on the table to cover his skim, half-caf, toffee mocha latte and a precise 15% tip.  She was kind of fat anyway.  He stood up.  What a bitch.

Reaching for his book, he paused to trace the worn cover photo with his fingers for a moment.  New Moon, the second in the Twilight series.  Thank God for good literature.  He slipped the volume under his arm.

The lamplight in the coffee shop was just enough to reflect the glitter in his body lotion and he smiled to himself.  He looked smugly past the other customers as he headed for the door amid their stares.

Outside, he paused and let the night air caress his skin.  “One day, I’ll find my Bella,” he vowed.  Then he let his head fall back, his spine following in full arch, and howled at the moon.

Completely unrelated replacement story with a slightly better omphaloskepsis:

She was greeted by the familiar stench of old urine in the parking garage stairwell.  Linda struggled with the door and finally managed to ease through sideways, holding a cardboard box with one arm and a briefcase in the other.  Eight years of loyal service to Reynolds, Reynold, & Garp, and the only memento she left with was the personalized coffee mug they’d gifted her on her first Secretary Appreciation Day.

She told herself it was fitting, that it should be easy to walk away.  But it stung.  Especially when she learned the leggy redhead they’d met with last week would be her replacement.  She’d seen the girl’s résumé.  It was pink for God’s sake.  I’m just glad I don’t have to train her, Linda thought.  That would be too much.

Slightly out of breath from the climb, she fumbled with the knob and shouldered open the door to the 3rd level.

Bob had called her into his office at 4:00 and told her.  “I’m afraid we’ll have to have security escort you out,” he’d said, with a paper-thin attempt at sympathy Linda found nauseating.  “Nothing personal.  Just policy.” And so they’d paged Barry.  Good old Barry.  He watched as she cleaned out her desk, then gave her a reassuring pat on the back before walking her to the door.  He’d held her box of belongings and shyly stared at his shoes as she donned her coat, scarf, and gloves.

Bob’s empty condolences and platitudes had irritated Linda, but the look of genuine sympathy on Barry’s face as she waved good-bye was almost too much to bear.

She pulled open her trunk and placed the box inside, pausing to remove the single picture frame from the small pile of knickknacks.  She gazed at it as she opened the driver door and slid inside.  The familiar face smiling up at her from behind the glass was one she looked forward to coming home to every day.  Murphy was a white Scottish terrier she’d adopted from the pound 12 years ago, a perennially happy, feisty little animal who never failed to brighten her day.  That was until he died in his sleep last month.  It would be a long winter without him.

Linda slipped the key into the ignition and cranked up the heat.  As it warmed her, the tears came.  She’d been fighting them longer than she realized and now she submitted as the sobs overwhelmed her.

But Linda was wary of the tantalizing pool of self pity, and after several long minutes, she put an end to the brief indulgence.  “Get a hold on yourself, Linda,” she said aloud to herself.

And with that command, she relaxed her neck and allowed her head to fall forward, initiating the personal mediation ritual that had gotten her through many stressful moments in the past.  Focusing on her navel, she took a long, deep breath in as she mentally counted to 6, then exhaled as she counted back down to 1.

Her breathing was still ragged as she began, but soon became more rhythmic.  At the start of her fourth breath, she recognized the beginning strains of Snoop Dogg’s Lodi Dodi on the radio and smiled as she recognized the familiar, soothing voice of the other dog in her life.  Leaning back in her seat, Linda closed her eyes and let it all soak in.  And within moments, she knew everything would be all right.

♦

Hopefully things will be better next week.  Maybe not, though.

In case you missed it, the first installment of IB‘s new “Books” section under the sexy new tab of the same name above. Enjoy!

I’m always suspicious of “bestselling” books and on the odd occasion I read one, I remember why. The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo was an international best-selling and award-winning novel and it was no exception.

Six hundred and forty-four pages later, it’s hard to say whether I’d even want to meet the protagonist, Mikael Blomvkist, for a drink. I know he’s a pretty solid investigative journalist, he smokes cigarettes when he’s feeling pensive, and he seems to enjoy various types of sandwiches. One could’ve gleaned more intimate information from his match.com profile.

Lisbeth Salander is Blomvkist’s trusty sidekick.  A brooding, socially stunted, punky, tech-genius with a mysteriously troubled past, she is the single potentially likeable character in the book. Unfortunately, like every other character, she is as lifeless as a tire iron.

The book’s title is a reference to Salander, though the dragon tattoo on her left shoulder blade adds approximately nothing to the plot of the story. I’d assume other titles on the short list were, “The Girl Who Sometimes Rides a Motorcycle,” “The Girl With the Irregularly-Shaped Mole,” and, “The Girl With a Wisp of Hair In Her Eyes.”

The plot of the story revolves around Mikael Blomvkist, who is hired to investigate the suspicious disappearance of Harriet Vanger of the wealthy and well-to-do Vanger family. He is hired by Harriet’s aging uncle, Henrik. Former CEO of the Vanger Corporation and still filthy rich, the old man has been obsessing over the disappearance of his niece for over forty years.

In the course of filling in the back-story of this cold case, the events surrounding it, and the soap opera-like saga that is the Vanger family tree, the reader is introduced to approximately 4,687 members of the family in short order. Each of these is subsequently referenced repeatedly by first name, which adds a stimulating element of Memory to the reading experience.

The story is punctuated by several subplots, [1. {spoiler alert} In one of these, Lisbeth Salander encounters a twisted man in a position of power who sexually assaults her repeatedly. She resists, he fights back, then, mid-way through the book, she retaliates in such a shocking and brutal fashion, (so unrealistic that it has the effect of a dream sequence) one assumes it a pivotal element in the plot of the story. Yet it turns out to be singular, isolated incident. The man subsequently vanishes from the story.] none of which add anything notable to the storyline, and several of which speak to Blomvkist’s apparent sexual magnetism. (The man inexplicably arouses the lust of nearly every female character he encounters. A couple have even reported that he’s “not bad” in bed. (Wink wink.))

I’m sure much of this has to do with a sub-par translation, but the prose is sorely lacking and reads like a dry, second-hand account. By page 400, I was sure that if I read one more simple, declarative sentence, I’d impale myself with a tent stake to put myself out of my misery.

And not all of it was the fault of the translation. The lackluster prose is punctuated by groan-worthy dialogue,

“Are you glad you came back?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was a mistake.”

“Lisbeth, can you define the word friendship for me?”

“It’s when you like somebody.”

cringe-worthy romantic moments,

“I like you, Mikael. I like your company.”

“I like you too.”

She pulled him back to the bed and took off the shirt he had just put on. He stayed for one more hour.

mind-numbing descriptions,

She realized that she was cold, so she reached for a blanket, which she wrapped around herself.

and painfully cliché attempts at suspense:

Blomvkist turned the page and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It was as if a cold gust of wind passed through the room.

In one scene, Salander goes out to add to her tattoo assortment and the tattoo artists at the shop actually says to her before he begins, “You already have loads of tattoos. Are you sure you want another one?”

This, of course, is tantamount to a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon asking an aging star clinging to her youth, “You’ve already had loads of Botox. Are you sure you want more Botox?”

Overall, the plot of this book is creative and intricate, and that remains its single redeeming feature. There’s a certain decadence in getting wrapped up in a thriller every once in a while. Had it been executed effectively, this may have been a readable one.

In short, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo had potential…and little else. That it was an international bestseller isn’t entirely shocking; it was largely mindless and its most salient qualities were sex, gore, and general intrigue.

Books like these are like bad pizza or bad sex. There’s some minor level of satisfaction in the indulgence, but when you’re through, you mostly just feel dirty.