I’ve perhaps never felt more out of touch culturally than when every magazine and newspaper I picked up over the course of several days last month suddenly had huge features on the ultra-mega phenomenon ofStephenie (not-sic) Meyer’sTwilightseries. The books were flying off shelves at near-historic rates, her signings were mobbed, stores were holding midnight releases for the latest installment. What? When did allthathappen? Don’t get me wrong: I loved thedelicious ironyof a suburban mother nonchalantly having an idea for a vampire novel and it inexplicably turning into the biggest thing in the world, especially while MFA creative writing types simultaneously sat in cafes across the nationtalking andmopingabout writing. There’s a degree of purity and justice to that I find irresistible, even if my ignorance of the result proves how disconnected from the zeitgeist I truly am.
Do I care enough to connect? AfterThe Da Vinci Code, alas, probably not. And thanks to Tegan Millspaw, I don’t have to. She’sreviewed the first volume. Best line: “Call me crazy, but I don’t think there’s ever been a time in my life where I’ve wished men were obsessed with the scent of my blood.” Oh, and there’s also this rule-of-thumb hardly anyone could disagree with:
“As far as rocking her like a father would, that’s only sweet when 1. It’s REALLY your father and not your boyfriend who is struggling not to devour your blood and 2. you’re a little kid. I think I’d find it pretty creepy if my dad picked me up and rocked me like an infant….because, you know. I’m an adult.”
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