This Exists.

Yep, it's what you think it is. And it's also $500.

Real Reviews

I'm willing to admit that my standards are a bit high when it comes to literature, and therefore my reviews may be slightly biased toward the negative.

So, to better understand the common people, and to get a feeling for the public's reception of Burning Wild, I took to the streets and tracked down a few volunteers who happily agreed to contribute their opinions on the book for the sake of science.
 
Here, actual Walmart customers review Christine Feehan's Burning Wild, with varying sentiments:

A Study in the Mating Habits of Panthera Pardus Sapiens, or Christine Feehan's Burning Wild

*First off, I’d like to preface this entire post by letting you all know that Burning Wild was almost 450 pages. Yes, 450. That’s four hundreds and a half, which is about four times the length this book should’ve been. I understand that there’s probably a huge market for lengthy bestiality novels, considering the fact that most people find both animals and long-winded works of literature arousing, but damn. Now excuse me while I go spend some quality 'alone time' with Ulysses.

The cover of Christine Feehan's Burning Wild boasts "a great read guaranteed!" and, in smaller text, a caveat stating that the offer ends on July 5, 2009. I'm not sure on the details of said offer, but it's now October, so I'm going to assume that the expiration of this guarantee was a contributing factor to why my experience with Burning Wild was so bad. Maybe I'm just taking it on after its prime date of consumption, after it's had time to congeal and fester into something that no longer really qualifies as a book.

Burning Wild centers around the saga of Jake Bannaconni and Emma Reynolds, polar opposites in terms of personality (because, you know, opposites attract and all that romantic tripe, blahblahblah).  Emma is sweet and soft-spoken, humble, gentle to a fault and as fragile as glass - so the perfect woman, if we're living by Victorian standards. And Jake, the brooding, misunderstood leopard shape-shifter with a tragic past and impossibly wealthy parents, combines the two things all women love most: billionaires and cats. Did I mention that they both have kids?

If it weren't obvious to the casual observer upon first picking up the novel, after reading the following description of Jake, it’s not difficult to figure out that Feehan’s target demographic is women who live alone and who spend their nights whispering sweet nothings to their kitties - sorry, furbabies:

    Jake Bannaconni was elite. He had superior intelligence, strength, vision, and sense of smell. Muscles rippled beneath his skin. He was one of the youngest billionaires ever reported by Forbes, and he wielded vast political power. He had the savage, animalistic magnetism of his species and the ruthless logic required to strategize and plan boardroom battles. He could attract and seduce the most beautiful women in the world, and frequently he did so; but he could not  make them love him.

Really? Do people still use the verb 'ripple' in application to muscles? Does that appeal to anyone? Because it just makes me think of men without skin. In theory it might sound all right, but if I ever saw a guy rippling his way down the street or just hanging out and rippling casually, I think I would be extraordinarily grossed out.

On the other hand, a superior sense of smell and the ability to plan boardroom battles are two qualities I find absolutely irresistible in a dude, so perhaps Feehan isn't missing the mark entirely.

 

Artist's interpretation of the ideal man. 

After Jake saves a pregnant Emma from certain death by pulling her from a burning car wreck (conveniently leaving her fiancé to die), he becomes obsessed with her, and in a move reminiscent of Buffalo Bill (so dreamy!), forces her to move on to his Texas estate, where the two live in relative isolation.  From there, they ultimately fall in love and have pages and pages worth of drawn-out sexual encounters. I'm not exaggerating when I say that what this book lacks in terms of interesting characters and plot development, it makes up for in its multitude of sex scenes.

If there's one thing Christine Feehan can do, it's write long and disagreeable descriptions of intercourse. There were several from which to choose an example, but here's one of the best: "He gripped her hips, tilted her just that much more and slammed home again and again, while her body rippled [ugh] and fought." Regardless of the use of the word ripple - which still offends me - this sentence is laughable in its unappetizing take on sex. There's nothing quite like the idea of slamming and correct angle positioning to get you in the mood - except, perhaps, something that's actually sexually appealing.

If there is anyone out there reading this strange erotic behemoth for a reason other than to gain a disturbing glimpse into America’s psyche, why? Almost 450 pages of passionate leopard sex should be more than enough to sate any shape-shifting enthusiast. It was definitely adequate in its ability to ruin any semblance of a sex drive I had before reading the book.

Burning Wild touched me in places I never wanted to be touched, and I'm pretty sure I'm set for life in terms of manleopard/catwoman romance. My eyes are now opened, my mind expanded, and I'm ready to take on the world.

Burning Wild's Overall Stats

Ability to Intimidate By Sheer Length: 100%.

Devotion to Overused Character Tropes: 85%.

Ridiculosity: 60% (the idea of shape-shifters isn't very new, but I'll give her a little credit for the whole business-magnate-beaten-by-his-parents spin).

Development of Unique Characters: -40%.

Sex/Plot Ratio: 80/10.

Euphemisms for Penis Used: 10.
Euphemisms for Vagina Used: 12 ("sensitive wall" being my favorite).

Hours Spent Reading: too many.

Ultimate Conclusion: I want to go to bed tonight and forget that this book exists. Burning Wild was basically a long, sexualized episode of Animorphs, only less interesting. I can't think of anyone to whom I would recommend this book, except for maybe someone intent upon spending the rest of their life erasing several graphic passages describing mating leopard-people from their head. If that sounds like you, then you can pick up your very own version of Burning Wild right here.

If my foray into the bowels of literature could end with Burning Wild, I think I could die happy, enlightened by my new worldview as a shape-shifter sympathizer. As it is, I've got to prepare myself for yet another lackluster experience next week, this time in the form of Patricia Briggs' Hunting Ground.

So it goes. Wish me luck, people. I'm doing this for you.

Book Review Forthcoming...

In the immortal words of R. Kelly,"it's the freaking weekend, baby," and I'm off to the great white north for a while - going to explore Montréal's seedy underbelly to see if I can find any reading material up there. I can't imagine that Canadian romance novels are very sexé (that's French for 'sexy'), but I figured I'd keep my eyes open anyway.

I'm thinking lumberjacks covered in maple syrup...or possibly some historical fiction regarding Samuel de Champlain and his forbidden love affair with an Algonquian princess. I can't decide which I'd prefer, so I suppose I'll wait and see which is available. Hopefully both.

Burning Wild - a Preview

I really stumbled across the mother lode in terms of bad novels with Christine Feehan's Burning Wild. In passing, I mentioned the book to my friend (who, for some reason, was interested enough to remember the title). He, in turn, googled it, and we came across a treasure trove of information. Among it was this shining gem:

That's right, this book has a trailer. And it's not a televised trailer, either, because that's amateur level, and Christine Feehan doesn't play that way. Naw, she's got a Youtube trailer. She's clearly plateaued in her level of professionalism and, frankly, I'm jealous.

"omg tht was such an amazing book!!!!" writes one user; I'm convinced. Need more be said? Can't wait to break this baby open - I'm looking forward to it being one of the best reads of my young life.

No One Wins

In anticipation of the fantastic new additions which will soon be added to my library, I went to Walmart (duh) and bought a bookcase. Two weeks later and, appropriately, it's still sitting in the box, leaning ominously against the door to my room, a testament to my poor time-management skills.

Even before I bought it, I knew it would likely fail to live up to expectations, which is probably why I kept progress on its assembly at an even 0% for almost the entire time it's been here. Walmart never fails to deliver in the department of sub-par merchandise. But I couldn't avoid the inevitable disappointment forever, and I think I knew that. So, this weekend, I was feeling particularly ambitious, and I set about the momentous task of getting someone else to assemble this monster. It was difficult to avoid succumbing to the urge to put it together myself, but I fought valiantly against that desire, and after multiple volunteers "forgetting about" and "getting too drunk to focus on" my project , I finally found someone up to the challenge.

This anonymous soldier - so brave, so admirable - went as far as to open the box and to empty it of all parts before we came across a problem: integral pieces of the bookcase were broken. Like, the entire side, which normally would act as the supporting feature of a bookcase, was straight up cracked. It's clear, at this point, that this is Walmart's error. As much as I try, I have yet to harm something by avoiding it entirely.

So, typically Walmartesque in their existence, the pieces of broken wood lay scattered on the floor, unusable. This pissed me off on more than one level - now, after weeks of summoning the effort it took to get started on this thing, I'm going to have to exert myself again to take it back. In actuality, it'll probably sit in the hallway for the rest of the semester looking pathetic. For the moment, anyway, this failure of a bookcase has given me reason to postpone reading any slop, since I simply can not compel myself to read when not in the presence of proper book furniture.

I'm sorry, Walmart, but that's not okay. You're forcing me to spend money on depressingly strange, mind-numbing romance novels for the sake of sparing others the pain, and you can't even allow me the pleasure of having a decent place to store them? Even now, as they sit on top of my dresser, flanked by superior literature (and yes, I did arrange those books specifically for that picture), they just don't look right. Everything about them is wrong: the font on the spines, the titles, even the height of the individual books seems off. The fact that these books have been published makes me upset, and thinking about the fact that I purchased them is giving me good reason to go all existential crisis about the state of the world.

I'm a glutton for punishment, so I'm going to take a minute to consider the chain of people who had to look at these books and think "yeah, okay, let's go ahead and do this." Publishers, editors, writers...why? This means at least three different people had to think a book about sex with dragons was a good idea. They had to be confident that enough people would be interested in this book to make it worth mass-producing.

By purchasing Alchemy's Hot Kiss, or whatever this particular book is called, I contributed to that. I reassured them that yes, there is a market out there for human/beast/magician erotica.

And that's why I don't sleep well at night.

Ten Things You Should Be Reading

As the ultimate voice of reason in this blog, it should be my place to share with you my vast knowledge in the form of a suggested reading list. I've told you what you shouldn't read (namely, anything being sold at Walmart), so now I'll let you know what sort of literature I suppose would be acceptable. This here is a list of books and authors to which and whom I'm rather partial, for various reasons. Not all of these are literary titans, not all are considered classic works, but they're all united by the fact that I think they are excellent, and my opinion is really the only one that matters anyway.

If you haven't read some or all of these books and would like to take my advice to do so, I've provided links to the cheapest copies for sale. Buy them, read them, love them, and then love me because I recommended them.

1. Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita
This is my favorite book. Coincidentally, it can passably be called erotic literature (although it isn't)! Humbert Humbert is one of the most well-written fictional characters ever; he also ranks pretty high on my "Favorite Pedophiles" list (which, naturally, is extensive). I know this is going to sound unprofessional, but I can't explain why I love this book so much. The prose itself is beautifully flambouyant, and the narrator is perfect, but I couldn't tell you what exactly makes it so extraordinary. I'm going to go ahead and suggest that you read it and get back to me on this.

2. Charles Bukowski's Factotum / Women / Love Is a Dog From Hell
A lot of Bukowski's fiction is semi-autobiographical, Factotum included. Henry Chinaski plays the author's alter-ego, and he appears in the majority of Bukowski's novels/short stories. If you are a woman, you'll probably hate both yourself and Chinaski after reading Women. Or maybe you won't, but I did - the entire novel is practically a catalog of things that are wrong with Chinaski's many lady acquaintances. Despite that little hurdle, it's an interesting read, and if you're open to being made suspicious of men for the rest of your life, I totally recommend it. As for Love Is a Dog From Hell, Bukowski isn't the greatest poet, but a few of his poems are very pleasant, if sort of trite ("Bluebird" is a good example of this). As an aside, I recently discovered this lovely tribute to Bukowski's writing style, which may be even more entertaining than his original work (just kidding, Charlie, I love you).

3. John Kennedy Toole's A Confederacy of Dunces
This book is both hilarious and extremely depressing. The former because it was written as a comedy, and the latter because I can't help but see my future self reflected in Ignatius J. Reilly, world's biggest douchebag. He's slovenly, obese, philosophical, agoraphobic, and I wish he were real so that we could date.

4. Richard Dawkins' The God Delusion
I'm afraid if I elaborate upon my feelings for this book too much, my mother won't love me anymore. So, just in case she reads this blog, I'm going to preface this little description by saying that I think that the idea of god(s) is pretty neat. I'd imagine it's pretty comforting to be able to have faith enough to believe in the existence of a higher power. But the operative word there is faith, and that's an attribute for which I'm apparently left wanting. Dawkins suggests that we take refuge in the beauty of the world as its own entity, but I think we all know that science won't be responding to your prayers for a while. Anyway, if you're having an existential crisis, this book could either be a good or bad thing. It'll leave you feeling empty and well-educated.

5. Daniel Keyes' Flowers for Algernon
I know this is generally required reading in high school, and that fact somehow qualifies Flowers for Algernon as lame, but I still think it's a fantastic book. I'll be the first to admit that I'm not the biggest fan of the mentally incapable - I think natural selection should've taken care of them a while ago, but since things don't look good in that department, I sit with it. This book made me rethink my stance on inferior beings, if only for a short period of time. If you want to feel a little better about your questionable morals re: substandard intelligence, pick this one up. It's like a guilt trip, but enjoyable.

6. Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves
This book is a trip. Impressive both in content and form, which is really difficult for most writers to achieve. Initially I was a little pissed that I paid almost $30 for a book that's composed of 50% blank pages, but it was so worth it.

7. Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha
This one is a link to the full text online, so you have no excuse not to read it. It's a lovely allegorical novel about Siddhartha's struggles on his path to enlightenment. Read it, find your inner being/spirit animal/superhero, and take from it what you will.

8. Antoine de Saint-Exupery's The Little Prince
I laughed, I cried, I got a tattoo. Just kidding, this book didn't make me laugh. I do love it, though. Enough to get one of the characters permanently emblazoned on myself. Hopefully it'll have the same effect for you.

9. Carl Sagan's The Demon-Haunted World
I didn't expect Carl Sagan to become a recurring theme in this blog, but I guess I was mistaken. Maybe he's just influencing me from beyond the grave. Whatever the explanation, Sagan's The Demon-Haunted World crushes every myth you might've hoped to believe in. Take comfort in the idea that Nessie's out there? Looking for a Yeti? Like astrology? Sorry, you're totally wrong, and you're also ruining society by believing in that bullshit. Or, you know, so said Sagan.

10. J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter (series)
I think there is something fundamentally wrong with people who can't enjoy Harry Potter or are ashamed to admit that they do. So here you go, Harry Potter, you've won yourself a coveted spot on some anonymous blog's recommended reading list. This, clearly, is the apex of your fame. Reach for the stars!