Ganesha the Viking
I walked Kat to work this morning at 5:30, as I did yesterday, because I don't suffer enough anymore (no sarcasm here! I'm bored with sleeping in because of my new job). It's also a nice way to make sure I 1) go for a walk and 2) have enough time in the day for all that gripping stuff I'm sure I do and just don't remember to tell anyone (or myself) about.

On my way home, I noticed a hilariously puffed-up tom turkey trying to get the attention of a group of less-than-impressed neighboring females who seemed intent only on not looking in his direction. Turkeys have a strange, brush-like thing on their chest that usually hangs limply down but, when they display, sticks out. I could look up the name to provide and pretend I knew it all along, but for now I'll just leave that embedded image where it is to help out with my less-than-scientific knowledge of turkey anatomy. I'll also point out that the first thing to occur to me about said brush-like protrusion of hair was "if Thomas Harris were writing this scene, he would have just described it as being like a penis dangling off the bird's chest".

Who is Thomas Harris and why would I make that sort of internal comment? Why am I asking rhetorical questions? I'm glad you asked! See, I needed a good lead-in to why I'm about to tear apart the author of one of the most iconic villains of recent years, Hannibal Lecter. (What do you mean, the 90s aren't recent anymore?)

Let's get this party started, and remember all opinions are my own and I wouldn't be bothering with writing this in the first place if it weren't for my strange, feverish love of the Lecter character.

And in the world of real literary critics, a tear was sniffed proudly back as an amateur angrily mashed keys as if her word were law )

Whoo! Two hours later and I feel much better, and actually less frustrated about a certain author's style. Watching The Cinema Snob has really helped develop my lack of appreciation for "professional critics", and this is my first time ever putting down a creator of anything with such vigor (well, on the internet - in real life I can rant or rave for hours about books I read). As with all things in life though, experience is the best teacher, and hopefully that was as cathartic for me to write as it might be interesting for someone to look through (this is unlikely). In summary: Thomas Harris is a strange, fetish-fueled man who nonetheless inspired me with his description of a serial killer's Memory Palace (when he wasn't making me squirm with his description of taxed buttons on a large police woman's uniform, mind).