Anthony Schultz's Blog

Zack Love

Like birthdays and New Year’s, Valentine’s Day can make you feel a lot better or worse than you’re already feeling.

If you’re happily in love, Valentine’s encourages you and your lover to celebrate your joint bliss together. You might even secretly share a certain schadenfreude, if you happen to notice someone who’s alone. Seeing loneliness is a powerful reminder of how fortunate you are to have love. And on V-Day, you and your lover can shamelessly flaunt your happiness about being in love. The rest of the world — and its reaction to you — really doesn’t matter because you’re both ridiculously high on love crack.

But if you’re single, Valentine’s can take your emotions in very different directions. You might think about that person you should have been with on this day but for some tragedy, bad luck, or break-up. A prior V-Day that seemed infinitely happier may come to mind. You could reflect on that awkward but potentially romantic moment that you and someone else never explored, making you wonder what might have been. Or you might CELEBRATE the fact that you’re not stuck in some miserable relationship and forced to display a facade of joy for everyone.

If you’re single by choice, then you have one major dilemma (as with birthdays and New Year’s): WITH WHOM should you celebrate this occasion? You obviously don’t want to waste it on a first date. But what if your friends are all with their lovers and/or unavailable? Perhaps staying home is better than risking a bad first date on V-Day. But then you’re at home alone watching TV on Valentine’s Day, and that could be really depressing, unless Breaking Bad or Dexter is on, which might distract you for a bit. No easy answers. Maybe there’s a mobile app for that.

Now if you’re a guy, you’re dealing with various pressures and expenses that are entirely the fault of V-Day. More precisely, they’re the fault of the chocolate, greeting card, and flower businesses that depend on these pressures and have brainwashed women into thinking that if you don’t BUY SOMETHING for them on Valentine’s, then you don’t love them. This powerful brainwashing is akin to the kind used by the diamond industry (which has somehow convinced the world that if a man loves a woman, he will spend many thousands of dollars to buy her a diamond that she can show to her friends and family).

And even if you’re a guy who somehow found a woman who’s impervious to the brainwashing from billboards, magazines, pop culture, and social media, she will still have girlfriends who have been brainwashed. And so this exceedingly rare woman you found will probably be corrupted. Because there is one thing that you cannot avoid: she will communicate with her girlfriends, and they will compare notes. And that will be your downfall. So you need to budget for 2/14, or for several hours of quarreling that may or may not end with make-up sex. Best to plan ahead.

I’ve always wondered how chocolate became so important on V-Day. It’s actually a bit counter-intuitive on some level. I mean, I’m a total sucker for dark chocolate on any day of the year, but if Valentine’s is all about love, which normally involves sexual attraction, and excess chocolate tends to fatten people (which could make them less sexually attractive), then why are we encouraging chocolate on V-Day? I don’t get it. Maybe giving chocolate says: “I will love you even after making you fat.”

And what about flowers? OK, they smell nice. But then they shrivel up and die on you in a few days. What kind of love is that? Why not get plastic flowers that last forever? I guess they’d feel a bit fake and aren’t biodegradable, so nix that idea. Better plan: Bonsai trees. Those plants last a long time. True, they aren’t really fragrant, but which brain-washer decided that we need fragrance on V-Day? Can’t you just spray some perfume on the Bonsai and then you’ve solved that problem?



Zack Love is the author of the romantic comedy “Sex in the Title” and the much more serious contemporary romance “The Syrian Virgin.”

The Syrian Virgin by Zack Love

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Tackling sensitive, timely issues is daunting for any author. There is a certain kind of finesse required to openly discuss hot button topics that rarely transcends into the fictional narrative. However, it is not only imperative to the people that writers push the boundaries of the social and political climate, it is also necessary to do so in order to improve upon the human condition. This is the goal for any writer, but not all have such strength of technical skill and forethought to bring such a project to fruition.

Zack Love accomplishes this daunting task with his novel, “The Syrian Virgin.” By focusing on the treacherous path of his young protagonist, readers get to follow in the footsteps of a fascinating character that is not oft touched upon and experienced by western audiences. Bridging American culture with those abroad is imperative to the overall construct of “The Syrian Virgin.”

The protagonist, Anissa, and her family are caught in the midst of tragedy and war in the Middle East. She resides within the Christian minority of the region and is thrust into an emotional and physical journey to New York where she meets two sharply different men with assorted backstories of their own. The characters and setting are depicted realistically and readers get to see this growth from the first chapter, resulting in a quick-paced, engaged writing style.

Love’s novel does a superb job of rounding out a cast of believable villains and heroes by bait and switching readers between a deep sense of likability and outright persecution. I use “villains” and “heroes” loosely, because most of the characters reside in the gray, like all individuals do. It is not juxtaposed or contrarian in the slightest, because it hits on what it means to be human. We are all flawed creatures and it is expressed through desire, love, and hate. Zack paints a picture that other similarly calibered writer’s would find difficult finishing.

From a technical aspect, “A Syrian’s Virgin” is solidly constructed. Transitions and character growth are natural, while some of the contextual information is a bit hasty. Love’s strong suit is definitely in his character building. The cast is diverse, personality-wise, which keeps readers guessing and alters the dynamic of the tale on the fly with minimum jarring to the reader.

“The Syrian Virgin” is more than a worthwhile read— It is enlightening and sheds light on sensitive topics that others might not feel comfortable writing or reading about. As previously iterated, we need more novels of this stature. The concept of other cultures, a better future, sexual awakening, and personal discovery need to be written about. The world would be a better place for it.

I highly recommend picking up Zack Love’s “The Syrian Virgin,” because you won’t be disappointed by the words nestled betwixt its covers.

For more news and information concerning Zack Love’s work, his website can be viewed and perused by clicking here.

View all my reviews

Check out Blair on DeviantArt! — http://psithyrus.deviantart.com> (Courtesy of Weird Tales Magazine on Facebook)

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

[image error]

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 7,400 times in 2014. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 6 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

He stood atop his ivory tower with a grin and swagger unbefitting for his age.  He had become callous, twisted, the very villain that he had once despised.  He fit the role perfectly.  His cloak billowed out into the fading light, folding and shifting, mimicking silken spectres caught in the twilight.

He had once been told:

Those who are not honest are more-truthful in the night.  It brings a certain gravitas to conversations that can rarely be replicated in the day’s light.  It’s our devout understanding of humanism, that drives us to bleed into others…but, only in the dark.

Why look into the eyes of your tormentor?

Flashes of gold and scarlet, beg pedanticism, but hardly do we relish in candor during God’s hours.  We want the truth when He’s away, and rightfully so.  Our sins are our own, once shared.

Evergreens spread into the valley like Ross’ happy trees, and not only did he not notice or care, he desired to burn them.  He needed the crackle and the heat to ignite that missing spark—  The one that had been missing, but ‘oh-so’ yearned for.  His scruff hung, like a dangling preposition, casting shadows upon his cheekbones—  Filling in the lines that had been scratched over.  His should-be blue eyes remained perpetually grey now.  They couldn’t shine for what they couldn’t see.  They could only show what they felt.

It began to rain.  The moon had risen—high and tight—blossoming into fruition, desperately calling to forgotten astronauts and lonesome bees.  It was impregnated by a lost spouse.  One that she had never met.  One that she wanted to know, but never would.

The man in the cloak stood, defying a God that he refused to believe in.  It poured.  Lightning cascaded through the sheets of rain like a wayward speedster looking for the reverse to be true—  Caught between the heavens and the ground it finally struck in a boom and a flash.  The Evergreen laid broken and split, smoldering like a corpse.  It gasped its last breath and then escaped into the cold, cold rain.

He remained.  Watching.  Ever-present.  Assuming the role of villain; making sure that the world still turned, or rather…

…burned.

Ivory Tower by TSONLINE via DeviantArt

He sat uncomfortably.  The stool had a leg shorter than the others and his spine creaked in protest every time it wobbled.  He was lonely, hence the bottle of rum in his midst.  It was a ‘not-so’ sleepy night in December.  The city and bar were abuzz with celebration and happiness—  After all, it was the holidays!

Johnny wasn’t one with the city in this way.  He had already lived through his highs (or so he thought) and was now experiencing his lows.  The city flexed with him as he flexed back into the shadows.

His head hurt, his heart ached.

“Fuck off.”

“What did you say to me?”

“I said fuck off.  Who do you think you are ‘Fast Eddie’?  The blonde with big tits doesn’t want you to keep ogling her with those Neanderthal eyes of yours.  You get it, buddy?”

CRACK

Johnny’s head and stool hit the dirty barroom floor.

“You sonuva—,” his low ball hit the prick’s head full force and broke into a million little shards that reflected the neon signs and the street lights of Division.  The wheel spun in the background as girls laughed hysterically—  Obviously oblivious to the fight breaking out in the background.  The tables were full, but like all bars the patrons’ heads were elsewhere.

In a moment, the two were in tussle of feet, fists, and fury.  By the scruff and his assailant’s chest two bouncers split ‘em before too much blood was spilt.

Johnny hit the pavement with a dull thud.  His ‘friend’ landed beside him and stayed there.  Johnny brushed himself off, gave the “prick” a swift kick, and staggered off into the night.  Traffic was light—but constant—on Division as it led patrons to their northern homes.

“Fuck you,” he mumbled as he flipped off the bar in his last act of defiance.

He had somehow ended up with a bottle of rum on his way out, but his card was still in the bar.  He’d have to settle up tomorrow.  He didn’t really care.  It wasn’t like he needed it anyways.  He had his ol’ friend Bacardi right here in his hand.  He smiled and took a swig.

Johnny didn’t care much about anything any more.  Johnny was Johnny.

He lived in Browne’s, so his place wasn’t too far.  Hopefully he’d make it, but even that sentiment was lost in the sweat and blood soaked clothes of Jonathan.  Ugh, his mother used to call him that.  He hated it.

He remained stunted and stumbling.  He wasn’t really paying attention—after all attention had never provided a pound when he had thrown it a penny—and he inevitably got sidetracked.  Instead of heading straight up to Sprague and cutting over into Browne’s, he drifted downward, and ended up in Spokane’s park of parks.

He sat.  The bench was cool, lightly misted.  His eyes closed, open, and then more slowly.

“Hey!  Hey, mister…wake-up!”

He jolted awake and clutched his own arm.

“You alright?”

“Yeah…yeah, I’m fine.  Who are you?  And, what are you doing out here so late?  Am I being mugged…by a child?”

At that last part, he decided to get a better look.  The boy was not really a boy at all.  He was young, but not…not human.  He was a fuckin’ bat!  A flying, talking…bat!

Johnny was drunk.  Johnny bolted.  Johnny was quick.  Johnny didn’t see the tree.

THUD

His skull (yet again) cracked into something hard and he toppled.  Stars swirled, but amidst the metaphor he could see a black bat swirling with them.

“Mister, mister wake-up!”

Johnny scrambled, but could only prop himself up.  This night had been unusually unkind to Johnny.

Wondering aloud, “How much have I had to drink?”

“Not enough from the looks of it, mister—  No offense, but I’m on a time crunch here, Morgan gets mad if I’m late, so I’ll get to the nitty gritty:  You are a drunk asshole who pities himself, I am the ‘ghost’ of Christmas past, Bacardi!  Pleased to meet you.”

“Bacardi…the bat?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fuck, I never thought I’d die in a park.”

“You’re not dying, but you might as well be dead.  Let’s go.”

“Go wh—“

In a flash…everything was gone.  He was at Mizuna’s downtown.  He was with her, but she was gone now…she couldn’t be.  Why was she here?  Where was he?

He returned to the table—  Dapper, younger, more-confident than now.

“This is the night I proposed…”

“It is,” Bacardi whispered.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because you were whispering.”

“Oh…”

“This is you…years ago.  This is that moment that you will always cherish, because to you…she is December.  She is your warmth in the cold.”

“I love her…”

“We all know.”

Flash.  They were gone.  They were on a balcony overlooking downtown, just a scant distance away from  Mizuna’s.  He was kneeling.  She had tears forming in the corner of her beautiful blue eyes.  His heart was mended in that moment.  It was the dance studio where they met and he had finally taken her back to that spot to propose.  It was one of the few moments that he hadn’t been drunk…or needed to be.

Flash.  He was back slumped against the park tree—  Water spraying upwards in the distance and the carousel where his great-grandfather had worked to the right.  The river was black and silent…as silent as Johnny.

“I am but the first.  You will be visited by three ghosts— I the first, the other two…to come.”

Bacardi began to flutter away.

“Wait!  How will I know?”

He looked back, “You’ll know.”

He didn’t know how he got home, but somehow he ended up on his couch.  The cushions were rough, but they were home to him, though.  He was a block away from a pub—  The same one that they had celebrated at.  He never went there anymore…

He dozed, yet again.

He was cold.  He must have forgotten to turn on the heater.  Wait…why was he wet?  He was soaking.  He was freezing.

“Ahoy!  What have we here?  A landlubber?”

His voice boomed.  Johnny opened an eye.  He was flat against ‘not-his’ couch.  He was on the deck of ship, and above stood a man…no a Captain.  Foot on barrel and cloak blowing in the sea breeze.

“Captain Morgan!?”

“Aye.”

Johnny stammered, “Are you a ghost?”

“No, just your ghost—  Now, lets get down to business.  Yer a right down sad sack, but you have the opportunity to find a new bearing.”

“Bearing?”

“Yes.  Your biggest crime is that you felt something more than most men feel in their entire lives and now that it is gone you think that you will never feel properly again.”

Flash.  This time Johnny threw-up.

“Sea sickness?”

Swiping a salty cuff against lips, “No, too much…well, you.”

Captain Morgan grinned.

“Where are we?”

“We are here.”

Johnny looked around taking in more than just the blurry concrete that he had vomited on.

“I don’t want to be here.”

“Neither do I.  Smith is a horrible first mate and can’t run a ship to save his life.  If Bacardi hadn’t been so slow to get you here we might have been able to see this on my time.”

“How?…why?” Johnny screamed from the waiting room.

Johnny could feel the tears running down his cheek from that day and the gut-retching sorrow that still permeated Johnny’s life.

“She had aneurysm.  There was nearly no chance of survival.  We did everything that we could.”

She had died.

“Unfortunately, we have more to see.”

“No, I see the ‘more’ every time I close my eyes.”

Flash.  They were there.  One more thing that Johnny wanted to forget.  They were at the funeral.  The casket had already been lowered.  This was the place where his family had been buried and now he was burying his wife.  Johnny was 26.  Snow dusted the gravestones.  Johnny sat on his knees and cried.  He cried till the tears couldn’t flow anymore.

Morgan put his hand on his shoulder, “You’ll never forget.  You’re not supposed to.  That doesn’t make you a bad person, son.”

Gasping.  He awoke with the strike of thunder and rain.  He was on his couch.  The blue screen of the TV possessed a clock and it read, “2:00a.m.”

He cried, like he did that day all the months ago.  He cried till his tears dried.  He was still cold, but he found his way to the kitchen and took another shot—  It warmed his throat and his belly.  He—once again— staggered off to his bedroom…their bedroom.  He collapsed onto a pile of sheets and pillows.

“Hey!”

“Bacardi…not right now.”

“I’m not the silly bat.  Get yer ass up, Jonathan.  We’ve got the future to see.”

Tasting pillows was all Johnny wanted.

“Fuck off.”

“I may be just a sailor and not a fancy-pants Captain like that asshole Morgan, but if forced I’ll kick yer ass and tattoo a pair of testicles on your face if you don’t git yer sorry ass outta that.”

“Jerry…?”

“You’ve heard of me!  Good, because I’m purposefully going to make this unpleasant and I want you to know it was Sailor Jerry doin’ the dolin’.”

Flash.  Fuck, fuck…fuck!  It stung like a million little needles piercing his skin.

“You done skirmin’? At least your stomach is empty from guttin’ all over that hospital floor.”

“Fuck off, Jerry.”

“Back atcha, handsome.  Now look.”

Johnny finally gained his footing.  He was at a house he didn’t recognized.  Bay windows lit up the kitchen and he could hear murmurings from the next room.

“Is this where future Jerry shows me my own death to get me to not be depressed and an alcoholic?”

“No, this is present Jerry showing you that you’re an idiot and that this is the future you’ll miss out on if you don’t figure yer self out before you die of depression and alcoholism.”

At the moment, the murmur stopped and a pair of little feet could be heard running down the hallway.  A man chased after him while they both laughed.  The man scooped the boy up, kissing him all over, till the boy giggled to tears.

“That’s…that’s me?  Is that my son?”

“It is.  You never forget your first love, but—“

“Who is that?”

She was beautiful.  She was different, but his heart leapt anyway.  She grabbed the man…him…and their son.  She kissed them both.  Him and her touched heads and closed their eyes; the boy giggled.

Flash.  Johnny reached for what he wanted as it all disappeared.

“You loved her and she loved you, but she wouldn’t want you to die alone of alcoholism.”

Sailor Jerry was gone.  He awoke coughing into his own pillows.  It was morning.  He was still mourning.  Golden streaks of sunlight stung through the half-cocked blinds.

Knock, knock, knock.

Someone was at his door.  He was fucked.  His clothes were in tatters, he smelled of rum, and he felt that he could drink an entire reservoir and then some.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” he half-heartedly shouted.

He hit the door mid-knock and whipped open the door to see the same beautiful woman that he had seen in his dreams.

His heart leapt…again.

She smiled despite his appearance, “Coffee?”

The boy giggled.

The mood was devilishly sour, which matched my Whiskey Sour in a Reeves’ ‘most-excellent’ manner.  I’m prone to alcoholism, but I forget often.  Something with how the world hazes over when you’re properly inebriated…it makes life seem more real.  A moment of clarity in a world that is bent on capitalizing on broken, lovestruck people like myself.  I arched my back to desperately try and pop the ache, but like most things of late…I failed miserably.  I finished off the whiskey, ordered a shot of ironic Skyy, drank that, and ordered a Sex on the Beach.  It was a bit out of character, but (hey) you only live a blurry once.  Someone brushes my shoulder and taps it twice in quick secession—   Quick, but light.  I turned.  Amidst the cliché club lights and the deep boom of the bass I saw a beautiful brunette with long curly locks staring back into my grey eyes.  We embraced—our lips touching gently (at first) and then exploded into something more…  Suddenly the Skyy seemed not so ironic, nor the Sex on the Beach.  We parted, she tipsied, and I caught her by the small of her back.  We leaned in close—  One of the beauties of cliché nightclubs.

“Where are John and Greg?”

“Who?”

“Who?” I owled.

She firmly grasped my hand and led us through a haze of smoke and hips.  Dreams, wet and dry alike, were being forged between all of the lonesome souls that we cascaded through—  Emotions compounding upon emotions, ad infinitum.  We weaved and parried between those looking for love in all the wrong places, or those looking to forget all together.  Eventually, we arrived back at our nice nook nestled within the cranny of sin. We slumped together in loud whispers.  Chiding each other for not being close enough—  Asking superficial questions just to pass the time between stolen kisses.  As my hands inched closer and closer to the prize…my thoughts…my drunken thoughts…wafted to yet another brunette.  This one was tearing off her ring in muted frustration and driving…driving away.  The music suddenly shifted, and those that were dancing scuttled as those that weren’t filled the newly created void like flotsam washing upon the dance floor.  A quick peck snapped me back to the moment…and to Diana.

“Do you want another drink?”

“Is that rhetorical?”

“Is that?” she smirked.

I watched her as she walked and weaved back into the sea of people.  My best friend John—and Diana’s friend Greg—slid into the booth beside me.  Greg seemed to be an introspective, giant of a man who had never gained the courage to tell Diana his true feelings.  John and I had only met him tonight, but even with just a few brief comments we both saw how Greg felt.  Diana was either clueless or never had the heart to let him down properly.

I heavily bet on the latter, while John the former.

John was a different beast all together.  John is a stocky Irishman who pounded drinks to drown his own recent and equitable sorrow.  Who knew that fucking a married woman, who was engaged to yet another man, would end so badly?  Clambering out of low-hung windows in the dead of night and sprinting across Cheney farm fields was never what our old Track & Field coach had in mind, but John used what he was taught and he did it well.

I swear when John chased the worm the worm ran.

For whatever reason, there was an electricity that clung in the air about us that evening.  It hovered and crackled with intensity.  John and Greg lamented, while my sorrow extended elsewhere.  Whether it be sex, sorrow, or sex to mask sorrow we all found our reprieve that night.

“Where’d you guys head off to?” I shouted above the music.

“Outside.  We both needed some air.”

“You okay to drive?”

“No, not yet— man.  I need to sober up a bit.”

“No worries.  I’m in no hurry.”

Diana slid in close next me.  She sipped both drinks before passing me one.

“What is it?”

“Just drink it,” she smiled.

I took a large swig, which finished half the cup, “It’s got bite.”

“That’s because it’s 151 and Coke.”

“Nice!  If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were trying to get me drunk?”

“Nah, just loose.”

“I’m already loose.”

“Cool, your jets turbo.”

I grinned, “You started it.”

She returned my grin, and kissed me yet again.  By this time Greg and John and begun instinctively conversing to avoid the awkwardness that would have come at a table filled with more-sober company.  However, no one noticed the intimacy building between Diana and I…save for perhaps Greg, but even he was distracted with light-hearted conversation.

John leaned over to me and shouted once more, “I think we’re going to go outside, again.”

“You alright?”

“Yeah, I just don’t feel so hot.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I just need a couple of minutes.”

“Ok…we’ll be out in a bit.”

Again, the two stumbled off to get some air, and I stayed to get selfishly closer to Diana.  She wasn’t the one, but she was for this evening.  We talked and drank for a while more, and eventually we followed in the footsteps of John and Greg, and headed for the exit.   The cold November air stung like a hard dose of reality.  Diana and I were both drunk enough to be able to ignore it, but John and Greg sat side-by-side along the curb entrenched within the harshness of it.  Together they had cried and swapped stories.

Diana and I gave them their privacy and sauntered off towards our own sort of recovery, but I’ll never forget the tearstained cheeks of Greg…nor my best friend, John’s.

That was a lie.  It was in the moment that a looked back into Diana’s eyes.  My sadness ebbed and my drunken heart punched out, whether Greg was there or not.

Tonight was a night of nights.

The Martian by Andy Weir

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I am a vivacious reader, but very rarely am I truly surprised by a book. I spend most of my time reading books to edit for others, ARCs and galleys to review, or graphic novels and comic books for pleasure and review. Like all writers and readers, I have my tastes. Science fiction, fantasy, and action-adventure are some of my favorite genres, but because I critically analyze these genres, and I read an immense of content, I don’t often stumble upon a novel that captivates my attention by providing a high-quality read with the excitement of a new creativity. “The Martian” by Andy Weird delivers. It is riveting and fresh. It is reminiscent of highbrow science fiction films, but layered with nuance that only a novel can achieve.

I received “The Martian” as a galley via Crown Publishing Group—which is an imprint of Random House—and I chose “The Martian” based solely on its synopsis:

“Six days ago, astronaut Mark Watney became one of the first people to walk on Mars.

Now, he’s sure he’ll be the first person to die there.

After a dust storm nearly kills him and forces his crew to evacuate while thinking him dead, Mark finds himself stranded and completely alone with no way to even signal Earth that he’s alive—and even if he could get word out, his supplies would be gone long before a rescue could arrive.

Chances are, though, he won’t have time to starve to death. The damaged machinery, unforgiving environment, or plain-old “human error” are much more likely to kill him first.

But Mark isn’t ready to give up yet. Drawing on his ingenuity, his engineering skills—and a relentless, dogged refusal to quit—he steadfastly confronts one seemingly insurmountable obstacle after the next. Will his resourcefulness be enough to overcome the impossible odds against him?”

It plucked at my sensibilities in an abstract and I immediately requested it. It arrived a scant week later. I was graced with an ornate hardcover, a beautiful smell, and a gorgeous slipcover with an astronaut caught in Martian sandstorm. The colors are vibrant— Orange and red with a hint of a white spacesuit caught in the throws of survival.

In a word: Exquisite

“The Martian” follows NASA astronaut Mark Watney, a botanist and a mechanical engineer, on the third manned mission to Mars, Ares 3. The novel begins with a bang. Readers are not privy to the mission setup, crew members, landing, and the circumstances to Watney’s predicament. Without ruining the suspense and discovery, Watney is presumed dead and left on Mars (when in fact he is not) and is forced to survive on Mars without any means of communication till interplanetary comms can be reestablished or the next Ares mission arrives…four-years in the future.

The rest of the novel focuses primarily on Watney and his survival. Through the use of his mechanical and botany background, Watney comes up with some pretty ingenious ways to prolong his rations, Oxygen, water, and transportation. The narrative is primarily composed of Watney leaving logs for himself (or as a testament to his journey and untimely death), so the technical side to his endeavors are filtered through his warm and charming personality, which lightens what could be an overly scientific text— Changing a potential negative into a strong positive. Weir deftly avoids a common issue among science fiction writers with clever character development and use of perception.

The rest of the novel proceeds like Alfonso Curacao’s Gravity. It is deeply individualistic, but symbolic. The writing isn’t stretched by only focusing on a single character, because as the novel goes on it begins to layer in Watney’s support team on Earth. It provides a wonderful message of hope due to the global cooperation that is required to bring home an astronaut stranded on another world. “The Martian” doesn’t pull any punches or use its arsenal before the tale is done, either. It continuously builds upon the tension set by Watney’s survival till its climax. Its ending is extremely satisfying— One of the best that I’ve read in years.

After reading Andy Weir’s “The Martian” I was awed by the level of detail, character development, and sheer quality of the narrative. It is one of the best science fiction written and should be considered along the likes of Isaac Asimov and Arthur C. Clarke. If you get a chance try and read “The Martian” before the Ridley Scott-Matt Damon film adaptation, which is set to release in November of 2015— It is sure to be hit.

View all my reviews

Gotham’s “The Balloonman” takes a much different tone than prior episodes—  You can almost see the visible growing pains as it flexes, to find its footing within the market of genres.  It is almost as-if the bloat of Gotham is weighing heavily upon the FOX’s executives’ and producers’ shoulders.  It is solidly placed, but they are still beginning to show signs of television fatigue.  That careful balance between cop show and comic book show still hasn’t been fleshed out properly by Gotham, but it stretches to get closer still with “The Balloonman.”

“The Balloonman” is the first episode to hit home on the episodic nature that Gotham needs to get into.  Like I’ve mentioned before, Gotham is struggling to appease comic book fans and television goers and—for granted—Batman is a force to reckoned with.  The iconic Caped Crusader has spawned countless successful media properties over the course of several decades and comic book-wise it continues to reach the top of the charts in terms of sales and accolades.  However, how do you make a series about Batman not be about Batman, and still keep fans coming back for more each and every week?  You make it a cop show centered-around the GCPD.

Gotham begins to hit its cop show stride with “The Balloonman.”  It begins to break away—albeit just for a moment—from the disjointed campiness of past installments, “The Balloonman” tries to shake its identity crisis by picking a formula and sticking to it.  Focusing on a criminal that is (you guessed it) attaching balloons to ‘legitimate’ criminals and sending them sky high to their deaths is more-interesting than past villains, merely because Jada Pinkett Smith’s overacted portrayal of Fish Mooney isn’t involved…anything without her is better.

However, even with the inclusion of a minor criminal that draw the attention of GCPD for just a moment is better than before, but it is still…well…Balloonman.  The episode tries to embrace a cop drama, but it is still executed rather poorly.  I praise the effort, but for Gotham to survive it needs to take a creative cue from similar supernatural cop dramas such as ABC’s Forever.  Forever takes a cliche premise, but back it up with a clever slant and an episodic quality that draws audience members for an hour-long, twisty and clever journey through the investigative process.

This is what Gotham needs to be.

The writing for “The Balloonman” is fairly straight-forward and there isn’t even an attempt at providing a feint or a ‘food for thought’ moment for the audience  The writing belittles fans in its simplicity, and if you are up to date on your actors and their respective appearances it will be quite easy for you to immediately spot the non sequitur…and thus the Balloonman.

Even though the writing is lackluster, I do appreciate the angle that they are trying to take, more-so than a superhero epic that is forced to exclude Batman due to the premise.  In my opinion, for Gotham to survive and be a multiple spanning series it desperately needs to become a ‘cop show.’  It needs to invest in providing in depth investigations with surprises and unusualness, all the while focusing on the character growth and camaraderie of Detective James Gordon and Harvey Bullock.

Unfortunately, at this juncture, television shows such as Arrow, The Flash, and Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. are doing it better.  If you’re inclined to catch a superhero show to fill in the time between the films, check out the aforementioned shows, because Gotham isn’t cutting it…yet.

(SOURCE: Episode recap: Gotham S.1, Ep. 3 — The Balloonman)