Anita Blake, Clue Hunter
Stumbled across this little nugget of fail on the internet: Laurell K. Hamilton, bestselling author and purveyor of vampire fucking, honors the passing of a giant in the art world.
Jason Pollock passed away, as most of you already know. He was a giant of art in this country and in the world. He helped define the modern era. But he was someone I admired from a distance. There is power in his art, but it captured my mind, not my heart. Art touches you in different ways. Some of it goes for your emotions, for me Pollack’s art hit my head, not my heart, but you couldn’t look at his art and not have it impact you somewhere. His passing, seems to diminish things.
Now you may be thinking “Who what now?” Is she talking about Jackson Pollock? If so, indeed, most of us already know that he passed away, being it happened over fifty years ago. However, it would appear that she’s confusing him with Sydney Pollack, who indeed is far more recently deceased. One wonders if Hamilton is also operating under the delusion that Cameron Diaz directed Titanic, or that Dylan Thomas sang ‘Like a Rolling Stone.’
This would be much more amusing if not for the fact that Hamilton, who, given her blog, seems to have a high school level at best grasp on spelling, grammar and sentence structure, is currently one of the most successful mass market fiction writers in the country. She’s released an astonishing 22 novels since 1993, all of them softcore vampire and fairy (or rather, “faerie”) paranormal/romance stories. While visiting a friend a few years back, I found myself with a couple hours to kill by myself, and began reading his copy of Seduced by Moonlight, the third book in the wildly popular Merry Gentry faerie detective series. I got about fifty pages in before putting it aside, not having much interest in reading endless, mind-numbing, poorly written sex scenes. It didn’t even make for good masturbation material.
Hamilton’s detractors are a vocal bunch, and few of her novels rate more than an average of three stars on Amazon, so it leads one to wonder: who is buying this shit? I have to believe that it’s people who get it strictly for the kitsch value, like those who bought Kevin Federline’s single from iTunes. Hipsters have a certain sort of affection for “so bad it’s good, but not really” irony, but seem to forget that, whatever the reason you purchase a book or a record, the person who’s responsible for it still makes money. So thanks, jackasses, for making an author whose idea of a profound sentence is “Art touches you in different ways” a fucking millionaire, thanks a lot. May the ghost of Jason Pollock haunt you till the end of your days, whoever the hell he is.