About nine months ago, our local Borders bookstore was one of the first locations of the company to close during their attempt to restructure after filing for bankruptcy protection. Another business finally took over the building a few weeks ago, an enormous discount liquor store. The only remaining “big box” bookseller in the area, Barnes & Noble, is a bit more of a hike for us, but still not too bad of a drive. We visited that store last weekend.
Jaye and I spent our first three years together in a cramped little apartment in the congested, rundown city of Fall River, Massachusetts. Although accused ax murderess Lizzy Borden having lived less than a mile away back in 1892 had originally been an interesting topic for conversation, the less-than-perfect conditions of the city weighed increasingly on our annoyance level as time passed. Loud neighbors, constant traffic, and frequent police sirens all contributed to us ultimately making the decision to find a new place to live. Convinced we were destined to spend the rest of our lives together, we decided to leave Fall River behind us in pursuit of the American dream.
Welcome, baseball fans/scary movie buffs!
Anyone who followed this past Boston Red Sox baseball season will understand the correlation. For those who don’t know/don’t care—it was ugly, brutal and bloody, but there’s always next year. We in the Northeast are nothing if not hopeful for the future.
Blocking out any thoughts of baseball for the time being, here is my Top 13 Scariest Movies In The History Of Ever List, presented to you in no particular order of scariness, in one-dimensional blurbs that would’ve no doubt doomed these films to failure upon release. I would have posted trailer videos to accompany these blurbs, but that would be cheating.
This, my friends, should sufficiently demonstrate why Reno writes our book blurbs and I don’t.
If this isn't scary, I don't know what is . . . .
Jaye: Okay, let’s jump right into this, Reno. Why do you like writing paranormal characters? Vampires, demons, therianthropes?
Reno: You took the easy route asking me first!
Jaye: I have to edit afterward. Cut me a break here!
Call me Imelda Marcos, call me Marie Antoinette, but please don’t call me late for a shoe sale.
I’m crazy about shoes in general—colorful sneakers, boots of all lengths and styles, sandals, moccasins, even flip-flops—but I’m totally obsessed with high heels, specifically stilettos.
There, I said it.
Before you start laughing, let’s take a trip in my top-secret time machine that will be provided by CERN at some point in the future (if they didn’t, it would cause a world-ending paradox but I don’t have time to explain that right now—just trust me on this one) to see where this enduring fashion trend originated.
When the smoke clears and the doors open, we step out of the time machine to find the person largely responsible for my footwear obsession. And guess what?
IT’S A GUY.
Acid-washed jeans strategically ripped at the knees. Perfectly distressed bomber jacket left open to reveal a plain white T-shirt. A diamond stud in my lone pierced ear (the right ear, naturally). My hair-metal mullet expertly coiffed and held in place with half a can of Aqua Net.
Welcome to 1989.
It doesn’t seem so long ago, but boy, how the world has changed since then. Aside from the notoriously bad fashion trends, 1989 is noteworthy as the year when the Internet began to transition from being a tool for scientists and academicians to a way of life for the rest of us regular folk. Today, we take for granted the fact that we can jump on the Internet at any time of day, chat with people who live on the other side of the planet, and purchase goods we may not have easy (or any) access to otherwise.
My life became a whole lot more interesting and far less stressful as the Internet grew, particularly regarding my libido-related habits.
With a cold beer in one hand and the television remote in the other, I had just planted my ass on my comfortable sofa after a tiring week that had lasted a day longer than normal. The phone rang before I could turn the TV on. Shit.
The inordinately chipper voice on the other end of the line needed no introduction. “I’ve finally decided to take the plunge,” Kristin said. “Aren’t you excited?”
I took a long swig of beer. “And what plunge would that be? Bungee jumping? Your neckline? Getting rid of your lava lamp?”
“I want to go out with you tonight. Stress on the word out.”
“I’m not going out tonight.” I turned on the TV and took another sip of beer, firm in my resolve to remain a practicing couch potato for the rest of the night barring a nuclear blast, a house fire, or Andrej Pejic showing up at my front door naked with a cat-can’t-scratch-it boner.
Andrej Pejic. RAWRRRRRR.