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    Barbie Wilde’s “THE VENUS COMPLEX” (Book Review)

    Serial killers are assholes, by and large. But that doesn’t mean they’re stupid. Intelligence is no defense against psychosis, after all. It just makes them potentially more interesting to listen to, as their minds yammer endlessly inside their brains.

    And so it goes with Michael Friday, the none-too-humble narrator of Barbie Wilde’s alarming first novel, The Venus Complex. The guy’s a total dick, and we’re stuck in his head. But the deeper we go, the more gripping it gets.

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    “VIDEO NIGHT” (Book Review)

    I’m gonna venture a little prediction here:Adam Cesare is a Fango superstar in the making. Of all the new writers busting out on the scene — and there are some great ones, without a doubt — Cesare’s the young guy with the greatest encyclopedic gorehound know-how, blistering cinematic pace, unquenchable love of both fiction and film, and hell-bent will to entertain.

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    Well, the Oscars came and went once again: mainstream Hollywood’s annual jillion-dollar celebration of itself. Like the Super Bowl and the Presidential election, it’s something we’re all supposed to care about deeply.

    As to we whether we do or not, that’s a purely personal thing.

    I’m always torn, when it comes to awards. And the Oscars are top of the line for that. I love movies almost more than life itself, but my favorites are rarely in the running (I’m lookin’ at YOU, LOOPER and THE CABIN IN THE WOODS). And when they are, they rarely win (BEASTS OF THE SOUTHERN WILD was my actual 2012 fave, and I’m thrilled it was up there, but it didn’t stand a chance).

    So I had the festivities playing downstairs, in the kitchen, and found myself wandering in and out towards the end, while feeding the dogs and waiting for THE WALKING DEAD.

    But I gotta tell ya: I’m really glad I was there when Quentin Fucking Tarantino picked up Best Original Screenplay.

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