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THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO by Stieg Larsson (#10, Fiction)
She’s gonna rock you, boy,
She’s a little temptress! (She’s a real temptress!)
With a drink in her hand,
Dancin’ in her black dress!
She leaves nothing to
Anyone’s imagination,
She’s always teasing
All across the nation!
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Like most Americans, every chance I get, I go on vacation. Unlike most Americans, however, my preferred mode of travel is via Greyhound. I know how that must make me look in your eyes.
And with good reason: Every Greyhound bus is basically an unemployment office on wheels, filled to capacity with the teeming lower classes that many of you walk by everyday on the street, desperately avoiding eye contact with for fear of either being asked for a quarter or being raped — your pick. It’s a dangerous, diseased form of travel. It’s also the only one that makes me feel alive and human again.
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I think about Hell. A lot. I know that, in our feel-good, no-consequences society, it’s no longer kosher to believe in God, let alone the idea of eternal punishment for infractions against Him, but, as I continually face my own mortality, I can’t help but to dwell on it, the idea and the reasonings behind it and the need for it to keep our society in check.
If there is a Hell, then what is it exactly? An endless sea of fire and brimstone and tormented souls? A desolate, lonely wasteland where your pleas for forgiveness from God fall on deaf ears? A horrific final hallucination as the brain dies? Or, even worse and more apropos, the life we’re living at this very moment?
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It’s hard to believe there was a time when a guy like Charles Bronson could be a headlining, name-above-the-title box-office draw — an action hero to the men and a heartthrob to the ladies. With his salt-and-pepper hair, weathered face and perpetual pissed-off squint, Bronson was the ultimate silent bad-ass, relying on pure brute force to take out anyone who done him or his loved ones wrong. In other words: he was no pussy.
Action films today are, for the most part, a sad, dismal affair. Peppered with pretty boys like Paul Walker who look like they just came fresh off the set of the latest Falcon Studios twink fuck-fest flick and mince around, barely able to carry a gun, you gotta sit back and ask yourself: What happened to actors of the Bronson mold? Where are the men?
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I love cocaine.
Well, let me rephrase that: I love the idea of cocaine. If pop culture has taught me anything about Sweet Lady Nose-Toot, it’s that it is always a great way to get any party started; a couple of quick lines off the floor of a rest-area toilet lid and in no time at all, you’ll be spinning an endless number of Giorgio Moroder 12-inch, white-label promos in assless leather chaps while a 12-year-old Thai lady-boy wearing only angel wings gets a nosebleed and passes out under Truman Capote’s ball sack.
And, even more tempting, don’t forget all that unwashed disco-trim you’ll be soaking in! Hedonistic honeys in humid hot pants will do the most unspeakable of sexual acts for just a little snort off of your flaccid shaft. Talk about a “blow” job!
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