If you don’t like any of those things, you should still click and give the eBook five stars. Come on. We all need stars. Really. Even me.

Here is it is!

• Exodus is here.
• The Census Bureau and Space Whales II: Sister Shiv are here!

The technicians cleared away from the cocoon in the center of the room. That’s what the techs had taken to calling it. They’d inserted a fully grown but heavily modified human being into stasis chair and over the weeks rebuilt him. His eyes were mostly flesh, or at least pods of protein jelly, like they were at his “birth” (uncorking), but millions photoreceptors had been built in the place of retinas by swarms of nanotech viruses. The nanites were injected through any intravenous port and swarm like salmon upstream, up the blood stream, to their destination to create and then die; broken apart by the subjects existing augmented white blood cells. What they left behind was then patched into an ever growing lattice of subcutaneous neural networks, data highways, also paved by nanoscopic engineers.

Outside the laboratory, Janet Hilden twisted a cigarette in her fingers. She sat in front three monitors, each feeding her graphic representations of data she could have rattled off while sleeping. Her work with synthetic tissue growth and nanite reconstruction was nothing short of miraculous.

But that was all child’s play compared to what she was about to do. She knew it would work, of course, or she never would have attempted it. The process was simple – translation of human thought, that is, chemo-electrical signals to electrical signals, base machine code that could be run through any one of her numerous peripheral processors. The Subject would control machines with thought. As the designated moment became clearer and closer, she continued manipulating the cigarette.

“Going to light it?” asked Paul.  She turned her pale green eyes to regard him, spinning her body slowly in her chair with a deft motion of her foot.

“Paul, do you have any idea what’s about to happen in the next room.”

“Some.” He shrugged. She despised him when he played stupid. He was handpicked from a catalogue of researchers, grad students, mumbling PhDs, and god-knows-who-else. The experiment in the room next him was as much his baby as it was hers.

“So, you’ve nothing witty to say when we break down the last barrier and free humanity from the greatest bottle-neck of traffic we’ve ever seen and will ever know?”

“You’re referring to the ability to interface with computers as fast as thought.”

“Obviously.” She sighed, rolling her eyes. She spun the smoke one last time and lit it.

“I’ve some thoughts, I suppose.” He said, waving the smoke from his face.

“Well, Pauly, care to share?”

“Yeah. Um… Maybe we shouldn’t?”

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So the author’s use of space… is awkward. Each and every scene seems to occur in a vacuum, only the briefest attention given to the details of the location. Settings become rough layouts of rooms with noticeable obstacles. The fine details that we would expect our narrator to present to us through the magnificently observant eyes of young Ender Wiggan don’t occur.

It is possible the author intentionally left the settings sparse for mood and out of logical reason; space is cold and empty, extra clutter is dangerous and Ender lives in a cold and empty world. But that’s cheating.

Ender is not cold and empty, thus even though the world he lives in might be immaculate or sparse, Ender’s perceptions should have colored it a multitude of hues, from a tiny spittle of rust on a seldom used access hatch, to a flicker or twitch in the eyes of his arch-nemesis, Bonzo.

Further, Ender’s insight came from nowhere. The more I ponder this the more troubling it becomes. The character saved the world – but how? His magical intellect grew from what seem to be two very average parents. In the beginning of the book, some pretense is made towards the monitoring and selection of special children. This is fine in the beginning, but as the world’s hopes come to rest squarely on Ender, his abilities outstrip even the most senior of military commanders. As readers we need more. We need some assurance of plausibility; some reason that this is all possible. The author fails to deliver.

The last time I was urged to read the book, I was given a little biography of Orson Scott Card. Having, as most artists, writers and creative-types do, mostly liberal friends, Card’s political and social views were brought up immediately.

“Great book,” they all said “but he hates homosexuals.”

Intrigued, I went right to the bookstore and picked up a copy of Ender’s Game. It was good. I took issue with some of the pacing, but just when I was frustrated enough, the scene shifted and we the readers were propelled forward in time to a more interesting and active moment in the hero’s tale.

As I read, however, I noticed distinct moment of strangely potent homo-eroticism. The hero, a boy named Ender, is sent to live in a co-ed battle school, where he will be transformed into the ultimate soldier. He is barely eight, but has an intellect and maturity level rivaling most adults. By the time he is twelve, he has killed two other boys (though he doesn’t know it) and defeated every enemy he’s ever encountered.  While at the Battle School, Ender is constantly removing his clothes, wrestling and fighting in the nude and ignoring the nudity of any present (of which there was only one) females.

The Author goes so far as to make sure we all know that some of the other students (boys) are sleeping in the nude. In one touching and strangely disturbing scene, Ender offers to share his bed with a young student who is too young to find his way “back to the barracks.”

Orson Scott Card is perhaps one of the armchair military philosophers who believe in the Ancient Greek Military Discipline, where young boys were “tutored” by older soldiers. This was not, of course homosexuality. It was in fact, the most masculine way to be a pederast.

After discussing the book and this bevy of very Ancient Greek fraternity described in it, one of my compatriots suggested of Card, “Perhaps he doth protest too much?”

Regardless the book was a good story. It was well written by an author with a good understanding of developmental psychology and… fear. All that said, I feel guilty for purchasing the book and however indirectly, giving financial support to such a radical and fundamentalist worldview. Looking at Orson Scott Card’s bibliography, it seems there is a bevy of great stories that I’ll never read.

Being something of a mythology researcher, I’ve found no mention in Christian Biblical Lore about angels becoming mortal when they cut off their wings. In fact, this is an invention of the writer/director Kevin Smith. So, right off the bat, the basis for the film Legion is something Kevin Smith coughed up between bong hits.

The rest of the plot is a mish-mash stolen from films like The Prophecy, revolving about the classic “Hold-Out-And-Run” template. Aliens, 30 Days of Night, Dawn of the Dead (remake), The Mist and about a thousand other films of the genre share the same “story” arc; the characters are presented with an impossible challenge, one steels their wills to survive and they fortify until they realize they must move to stay alive. This decision invariably costs the characters that which they sought so hard to preserve – each other.

An ensemble piece, the cast of characters were there merely to add to the body count. Their deaths however, were nothing less than ignoble, usually getting chewed up by some file-toothed “angel” who has inhabited a human body.

The details of the plot are inconsequential – God wants to kill humans, but the Archangel Michael disagrees. Gabriel flies down after an hour of forced character development and begins to kick ass.

As a writer, you are obligated not to assault your audience’s sense of plausibility. Many will argue the “suspension of disbelief” is elastic and should be stretched – if I can accept that angels are real, I should be able to accept that angels would swoop down and enact God’s will.

However, this film left so many loop holes, even the most devout may begin to question their faith. The only new elements added to the archangels arsenal were bladed, bullet proof wings (stolen, if I remember correctly, from a Marvel Comics character named Archangel) and of course, a mace straight from the MI6 labs – a bludgeoning weapon that whirred and twisted and changes shape, extended and transformed, though likely too heave for even the new James Bond to heft, he was no doubt drooling over the versatility of this ridiculous weapon.

To spoil an already predictable plot, the good guys win and Michael gets his wings back, having taught the omniscient and omnipotent God a lesson in mercy. Gabriel flies off, beaten and the main characters, a trailer-park hussy/new mother and a bumpkin named Jeep (whose only heroic act was to machine-gun a child possessed by an angel) drive off into the post apocalypse desert to rebuild humanity, enacting a sloppy Joseph and Mary/Post Flood analog.

Overall, a  forgettable film.

The plot centers around a vampire who doesn’t like being a vampire (what, eternal youth, power and indestructibility not as much fun as you thought they’d be?), who by chance encounters the dwindling human resistance.  Proving himself a  friend to sheeple everywhere, the bipedal cattle bring this hematologist in on their plan to cure the vampiric infection.

The film is filled with those clever little gimmicks, like “daylight” driving windows, tinted 100% opaque, and a warren of underground tunnels that allows the leeches to travel during daylight hours. Willem Dafoe plays a blue-collar vampire who accidentally cured himself, and with the help of Ethan Hawke, intends to help cure all of humanity. Meanwhile, the blood supply is out, and the vampires are tearing off their neckties and degenerating into the nosferatu-esque and savage true vampiric form. Gross.

Half-developed characters stumble through subplots, while the audience is treated to constant barrage of surreal gore, squishing noises and vampires that are so starved, they turn on one another.

The films true weakness comes in the form of the cure – a shake and bake solution requiring neither hematologist nor faith nor garlic/silver oxide solution to achieve. Not impressed.

True vampire fans will enjoy this classic tale of moderate redemption wrapped in Big Business Dystopia, but those demanding substance will find the film without much of a bite.

Some hardcore film folk will suggest this is the down fall of cinema, the day the actor and director no longer interface is that day we’re all watching cartoons written my mad children.

And I would tend to agree. Jar-Jar Binks is my primary evidence.

But Avatar, all three hours of it, was something special. The plot itself was simple – to quote my uncle “a child could have written it,” and that’s okay. Most of the best stories are those that we all understand on a primal level. This film was nothing more complicated than Dances With Wolves in space. Which is okay too, since Alien was Jaws in Space and Attack of the Clones was just Star Wars in space (that last one was a joke).

The plot, essentially runs like this – Marine agent goes native. Saves people. Aside from the spectacular setting, there was nothing new or interesting about the story itself. Ancient as the plot may have been, it resonates with audiences because of some very simple and all too human elements: loss.

A sub-textual critique of the plight of Native American peoples can easily be read into Cameron’s somewhat heavy-handed action flick, but the secondary plot thread is entirely unnecessary.

I was disappointed to see that Cameron’s treat of space marines has changed little since the days of Aliens – the jarheads are mostly without conscience and still even talk the same. “Get some!” seems to be a common phrase in all centuries of Jim Cameron’s military vision. While I find his view of our own warrior caste somewhat two dimensional, I must applaud is continued use of powered armor.

Plausibility was kept at an all time high for a sci-fi action flick, and lord in heaven, this was a beautiful film. Simply gorgeous to look at.

I won’t comment on the acting. Sigourney Weaver is a professional who simply cannot deliver a poor performance. Our hero did most of his work in voice over mode, as well as the love interest. Michele Rodriguez (of Resident Evil fame) is sassy and sharp, but her character was a combination of Vasquez and Ferro from Aliens (can Jim never leave LV-426 behind?)