Warm Bodies: Read it or Watch it? BOTH

As a fan of zombies (shout-out to We're Alive- The Zombie Podcast) I'm pretty much qualified to tell you that this book is awesome, in it's own strange way. The movie is being marketed as a Zombieland meets Twilight teen romance but the book is black comedy all the way. 

What is Warm Bodies and why does it sound like a Harlequin novel? Basically, the novel is about a post zombie apocalypse world seen through the eyes of R, a zombie who is slowly becoming self aware. 

In the novel R is a twenty-something year old zombie shambling around post apocalyptic Manhattan wearing the same slacks and a tie he died in. Back-story on R is limited but the story clearly hints that he was, at some point ,a young professional on the up and up:

Before I became a zombie I must have been a businessman, a banker or broker or some young temp learning the ropes, because I’m wearing fairly nice clothes. Black slacks, grey shirt, red tie. M makes fun of me sometimes. He points at my tie and tries to laugh, a choked, gurgling rumble deep in his gut. His clothes are holey jeans and a plain white T-shirt. The shirt is looking pretty macabre by now. He should have picked a darker color... (Warm Bodies)

Mentally he's intelligent in that dry and witty way, but that stops when he opens his rotting mouth to speak. ZOMBIE BABEL! Anyway, R is just the kind of guy who'd be having an existential crises with or without the whole zombie apocalypse ordeal.   

The movie version of R has clearly been aged down a bit. In the trailer he's wearing typical teen angst getup: a hoodie and jeans. Julie's a teenager in both the novel and film so his teen makeover makes their creepy-as-hell romance acceptable...from a legal standpoint at least. I knew they'd have to age one of them up or down to get around this but I was hoping the movie would take a chance and make Julie a bit older instead. But alas, a supernatural romance MUST appeal to tweens and teenagers. Le sigh.

Other cool things about R that probably wont make it to the movie: He's "zombie married" (not to Julie) with 2 adopted zombie kids. I'm not even joking about this. This book is strange, I know.

In the novel, when zombies kill, they temporarily absorb their victim's thoughts and emotions, which is where Julie comes in. After killing Julie's boyfriend, R naturally develops an infatuation with Julie. Creepy, yes, but understandable considering the rules the story established.

Julie's attachment to R, on the other hand, made me uncomfortable. The novel does not give R the "Twilight treatment"; he is very much a decaying copse with limited motor and speech functions. Much of her emotional attachment to R comes from, ironically enough, her lack of human companionship. Which begs the question: who the hell has she been hanging out with? 

The last scraps of human kind live holed up inside of a giant compound under the control of a military dictator that happens to be Julie's father. From there the story really wants you to know that zombies are a metaphor for the death of human creativity, free will and love. And the inhabitants of the last human colony on earth are seriously lacking in all three.  

The minute R gets to this compound the story becomes a lame teen drama, and R, being a twenty something on the up and up, should know better! Pretty much the conflict is:

-She's like: Hey military leader and father, may I date your mortal enemy, the predator to our race?

-And he's like: Hell no, daughter. Now let's sound the drums of war Pocahontas style (I dare you not to read that like Gangnam Style)

The only thing that saves the story is the introduction of a 3rd enemy (no spoiler here). "The bonies" are the zombie version of the elderly and they control the zombie population. Since the novel doesn't say how long ago the zombie apocalypse happened, it's only natural to assume that "the bonies" are just older, more decayed, zombies, and the author does a good job of getting you to ignore them as background creepers for awhile. The more the story reveals about the nature of zombies, the more and more truly evil the skeletons seem until you realize, too late, that there is actually something more sinister going on with them.

Even at it's most predictable, I enjoyed reading every bit of it. I honestly don't think I've ever read or seen anything like it, except for maybe Fido. There's no necrophilia in it, thank God. BUT there's just enough creepy supernatural romance to keep the twilighters happy. Unlike twilight, however, Warm Bodies is pretty well written. I say, if you like will-he-or-won't-he-kill-me romances, dark comedy, horror/comedies and zombies give both the movie and novel a try.

Jamaica: Yam Country Day 1

It’s almost midnight here at what should be a quiet mountaintop in Wait-a-bit, Trelawney, known to the world as the yam growing hometown of Usain Bolt. But, as I lay here typing, the steady bass from a nearby dancehall invading my room is likely to last all night. Perhaps it’s the leftover nationalistic pride from Monday’s 50^th independence anniversary or the excitement from watching Shelly Ann grab her 2^nd medal in the 200 meter or maybe it’s just Wednesday.

Wait-a-bit, a town that should win a gold medal for its name alone, is a little farming community miles high up in the Jamaican mountains. Travelers are almost guaranteed to find religion before getting here; the 2 hour drive upwards along a winding, treacherously narrow road full of blind spots and cliff-edge turns without barricades will make an atheist find Jesus quick. Here in Wait-a-bit it’s harvesting season and the only thing anyone seems to have business with is the Olympics and yam. The world’s supply of Jamaican yam comes from right here, and since Usain credited it for his record breaking run in Beijing four years ago, it seems to be in high demand. Walk down the uneven winding roads and all you see is yam: donkeys carrying yam, people weighing yam, machetes chopping yam. And with all this yam you would think the town would be whipping around faster than NYC but no, things move maddeningly delightfully slow here.

Born and partially raised in Falmouth, Montego Bay, I can tell you that the mountains and the rest of Jamaica are as different as Manhattan is to Kentucky. The pace is slower here, we don’t eat the same foods; things like red beans and rice are rare thing to come by and you might be blessed to see rice on Sunday, the air is clean and cold here while the rest of Jamaica is muggy and hot and the patrois here is a mumble and a drawl opposed the quick sharp tongue of the city slickers down at sea level—but these are just my Americanized observations.

Two weeks in wine yam country visiting my grandma. What’s a buji Americanized girl to do? Eat and blog! I’ve decided to do what everyone else not occupied with yam is doing, drink my time away at a rum bar and keep up with the races. Jamaican rum bars are everywhere. You can’t throw a stone in Jamaica without hitting a little shack with a red stripe sign on the door. So today I decided to “go up a shop,” or walk to my uncles rum bar, to rub elbows with the locals, catch some Olympic events, and polish up my rusting patrois.

The rum bar campaign was a success. I quickly turned from patron to bartender, churning out the moonshine rum with a flourish and a smile, rum so strong it practically eats a hole through the counter when you spill it. It was easy to get into the rhythm of bartending; the patrons mainly asked for moonshine, a cigarette, or a phone card (probably to call a ‘wurl of girls’ as the billboard suggests). I may have gotten a little bit ahead of myself by asking for tips. The idea of tipping a bartender hasn’t reached Wait-a-bit  yet. But, after getting a few sharp (woman I’ll kill you) looks, a few of the patrons got into the spirit and I left with $200 Jamaican in tips tonight…too bad that can only buy me a red stripe and pack of gum, but hey, baby steps. Tomorrow I’ll make enough to call a "wurl of girls" for sure. ;) 

Alright sleep for me! The hamsters churning the internet wheel are getting tired and so am I.

I leave you with the best damn Jamaican commercial I’ve seen so far:

Enjoy

5 Reasons You Should be Watching Downton Abbey

Set during the last days of Belle Epoque and Victorian grandeur, Downton Abbey takes us into the drawing-rooms of the English elite, to the scullery of the help, to the rallies in the streets. The aristocrats are running on fumes, the working class is getting all "We are the 99%" and you get the feeling that the women have worn their last ankle lengh skirt. Oh and England is about to get the crumpets bombed out of it, because it's the eve of WWI.

I understand reservations when it comes to Masterpiece Classics--all that Cranford and those Antique Roadshow ads that make you feel like you aught to be 80 years old and knitting your grandson a sweater. Though, none of that has ever kept me away. Cranford, however, this is not.! Downton Abbey is an incredibly acted, no dime spared-produced series that honestly, if you're not watching, you should be!

5 reasons you should get into it:
1. Somehow Masterpiece always pulls the finest actors in the business. Everybody is pulling an award worthy performance out of their hat. I mean really; even the one-eyed, toothless barkeep is gunning for an Emmy. (There is no one-eyed toothless barkeep--yet)
2. A protagonist you love to hate. Mary has got to be the most frigid, self absorbed, gold digging, heartless, manipulative, backstabbing bitch on TV since...Blair Waldorf! And I love it. Part of me wants her to get her comeuppance. The tinier part loves the different shades she brings to her character and can't wait to see what she does next.
3. Sex, Lies, and Politics. Enough said!
4. A colorful supporting cast of maids, cooks and footmen that steal the show...and the brandy!
5. The clothes! The Hair! The Setpieces! This show is absolute eye candy down to smallest broach. The amount of detail that goes into every scene from the jewelry to the silverware makes this such a visual treat.

And of course no history buff should miss it. Sunday's at 10. PBS.

Good Books & Mayan Artifacts

Yep, my bookshelf is pretty awesome. Excuse the Dune dvd...terrible...

Art?

But is it art?

Living in a Hipster’s Paradise (Miami Art Walk and a brief interview with Rocky Grimes)

Since returning to the US, my new mission has been to appreciate all the art and culture available to me, here in South Florida. So, yesterday, a couple of girlfriends and I decided to check out the art scene in the Wynwood Art District, down in Miami.

The Wynwood Art Walk consists of several blocks of galleries, exhibiting various artists’ collections, all the while ladling out mixed drinks and electro beats. Yeah, it’s basically a hipster’s paradise. If the free drinks and music inside the galleries aren’t enough, there are dozens of food and liquor trucks outside, serving treats that should certainly be illegal. Against my better judgment, I had 3 deep fried cupcakes and 1 buttered hamburger. I’m not sure why anyone would slather butter on a hamburger or charge 8 dollars for it, but may I tell you, it was worth every cent and calorie. So were the cupcakes. They sell them in 3’s with a choice of vanilla, chocolate, and red velvet, and for investigative purposes, I was forced to sample all three. How I suffer for my blog!

The art exhibits were a mixed bag depending on what you like: photography, pop-art, and classic oil on canvas. Some galleries were exhibiting “art” I like to call, “pretentious, self indulgent, Banksy-wannabe, hipster, crap”. You know what I mean; we all saw “Exit through the Gift Shop”. Mr. Brainwash --remember him? Picture walking through galleries of that recycled, uninspired, pop-art, nonsense –And it wasn’t glorious nonsense either! Sorry, Warhol enthusiasts.

BUT, if that’s your thing, I found that one of these exhibits was a cut above the rest. Rocky Grimes’ exhibit, I absolutely loved. I’m not an art critic, but I’d like to think I know art from crap when I see it. His art was definitely pop-art without the pop. His prints are colorful combinations of different photo cutouts, combined with splashes of neon, and assembled together to convey meaning.

So, of course, I whipped out my notebook and went to tell Mr. Grimes exactly what I thought, and he was so kind as to let me quiz him for a sec. It went a little like this: