SG’s advice columnist MissTruthHurts, a.k.a. Gotha Stewart, a.k.a. Carrie Borzillo-Vrenna, has the perfect animal treat for Halloween: Vampire Bloodsicles. In fact our furry friends love ’em so much, why save them for Halloween? Indeed MissTruthHurts whips them up every Wednesday for the delectation and delight of the residents of SoCal’s wild and exotic animal refuge, the Wildlife Waystation.

Here’s how they prepare them:

1. First get some run-off chicken or beef blood (your local butcher might be able to help you with this).




2. Pour the blood (if there isn't enough, add water or chicken stock) into small paper or plastic cups.




3. If you're in the mood for a little flesh, add some raw meat chunks to your Vampire Bloodsicles for a little extra protein and texture. Freeze.




4. After they are frozen, pop them out of the cup and feed to your feline or canine friend. Tip: Watch your fingers while you’re feeding –– animals can get over-excited about these treats.




5. Yummy! Paw-lickin’ good!




Help a fellow vampire out on Halloween! Make a donation to the Wildlife Waystation, and help keep Baxter the Bobcat, Miss Montana the Bear and Thibeault the Tiger in treats!


Health Warning: MissTruthHurts feeds her vampire bloodsicles to the Wildlife Waystation's non-domestic animals. You might want to check in with your vet to see if frozen blood is the right treat for your pet.

MissTruthHurts a.k.a. Carrie Borzillo-Vrenna is Suicide Girls' sex, love, and life advice columnist. She is an entertainment journalist, rock wife, and author of Cherry Bomb: The Ultimate Guide to Becoming a Better Flirt, a Tougher Chick, and a Hotter Girlfriend, and to Living Life Like a Rock Star and Eyewitness Nirvana: The Day-by-Day Chronicle.

If I were God -- and be thankful I’m not -- I’d be biblically pissed about the newest wave of biomedical researchers stealing my heavenly thunder: those smug scientific heathens, always ripping off my infinitely wise designs. One thing sure to draw the everlasting Wrath of God, which we’ve already discussed this week, is artificial life. But let’s face it: scientists have been copying His blessed ideas all along, what with their artificial organs, pacemakers, hip replacements, glass eyes, dentures, Cochlear implants, prosthetic limbs, fake tits, and so on.

Prepare yourselves, o wretched ones, for the world’s newest unnatural necessity: synthetic blood. Just like synthetic motor oil, laboratory produced blood, when perfected, may prove to be a suitable replacement for the always-in-demand real thing. There may even be additional benefits over donated blood, reports Discovery News:

Best of all, Twyman’s proposed synthetic blood would be made from plastic, which we all should know is made from oil, so Big Oil can also have a market share of what goes into our bodies as well as our cars.

Scientists have neglected to mention whether synthetic blood will taste half as good as it does from the vein, which will surely raise some questions within the vampire community. Creatures of the night aside, my only hope is that with the advent of better fake blood technology, Italian filmmakers can finally lay off the red paint:

People are always saying "I don't read books." Too often, the problem is reading too many of the wrong books, thus turning a potentially great experience into something they'd rather avoid. This is where _DictionaryGirl_ and PointBlank come in and let you borrow something awesome. Let's go to town and make some recommendations, shall we?

Last week, my internship at the West Coast branch of Writers House literary agency came to a close. I’ve spent every Tuesday and Thursday there for the past ten months, reading manuscripts, arranging postcard art, debating the importance of Ted Leo vs. Colin Meloy in the pretense-rock arena, and packing down delicious holiday food. It was the ten best work-related months I’ve had to date. So, in honor of the passing of such an era, I’m dedicating today’s Suicide Bookshelf to one of Writers House's biggest recent successes; it also happens to be my number-one, desert-island, top favorite book, as written by my number-one, desert-island, top favorite writer. Hell, you wouldn't believe the kind of unprecedented self-restraint it's taken to hold back from featuring this as long as I have. I should get a medal.

King Dork by Frank Portman

This is a book about a song.

See, much like the two in my last spotlight, this book has a very specific tie-in to music; only this time, instead of songs taken from books, this one goes the other way around. The song in question is the A-side to this little seven-inch split single by a little band called The Mr. T Experience. (The other side is by Gigantor, FYI, but they can get their own book spotlight.) The title of the song, shockingly enough, is also “King Dork.” Clocking in at a semi-brief two minutes and forty-two seconds, it’s a sweet and funny little song about a hopelessly nerdy guy trying to win a girl’s affection with comparisons to Monty Python and promises to keep their relationship a secret—so much the less embarrassment for her. I could argue that the book bleeds over in reference to several other earlier songs, but it would all be hearsay. The “King Dork” split-single is what counts.

So the legend goes like this: the power and impressionability of a band like Mr. T Experience (pop-punk, not entirely dissimilar to super-early Green Day) seems to strike best during one’s tender teenage years; that's when they got me, anyway. But fans grow up as they are wont to do, and one fan had, by the time he met Frank Portman (still more well-known as Dr. Frank at that point), grown up to become a children-and-young-adult lit agent. So he was like, “Frank, you should really think about writing a book,” and Frank was like “ehhhhh…” and Steve (which is the super-agent in question's name, by the way) was like “no, really, I think your songs would translate really awesomely,” and in this fashion, neatly summarized for your consumption, the 344-page book version of a less-than-three-minute song was born.

And here’s the thing: it translates beautifully.

To summarize as much as possible, which is no small feat because this book is impossibly dense, the book revolves around one Thomas Charles Henderson, or Tom—also known as King Dork, Tom-Tom, Chi-Mo, Hender-fag, Sheepie, and any number of other nicknames of varying denigration—and his travails in the matters of rock and roll, weird family, and semi-hot girls within the scope of the small-time hell that is high school in late-1990s suburban California. As if that’s not enough, his entire life turns upside down when he uncovers a copy of The Catcher in the Rye that once belonged to his father, and imagines them to be clues to unlocking the mystery that shrouds his father’s death—and maybe unlocking the secrets of this one girl while we’re at it, because some otherworldly dad-advice never hurt. And then there’s the devil-head, and the Dud Chart, and the Festival of Lights, and his genius alphabetical-order best friend Sam Hellerman, and the most disturbing bumbling associate principal you could ever hope not to meet, and…

See, it’s actually extremely difficult to give a straight-up synopsis of King Dork, because there is so much going on (sometimes bordering precariously on the edge of too much, but never spilling over), story arcs all twisting and unraveling around each other simultaneously, involving wild subplots and 30 Days to a More Powerful Vocabulary (which is the greatest way to help you ace the SAT- or GRE-verbal since slipping words like “conflagration” and “surreptitious” into song lyrics). Also, one of the best parts about the book is its element of surprise, and it’s hard to really, really get into it without ruining something crucial. So instead, here are some things you need to know.

Probably the first thing you need to know is that there’s a very strong literary tradition of the geeky somewhat-loner misfit high school protagonist – the kind of shy kid who spends a lot of time thinking, perhaps too much for his own good, and yet somehow ends up winning the day at the end – and this one fits the mold. It’s a familiar theme because, well, who hasn’t felt like that at some point? The most obvious prototype of such a character is Holden Caulfield, everyone’s favorite catcher in the rye. This is about the moment when Tom would look up from whatever book he’s reading to give you the kind of weary and withering look that might say “....really?!” Our King Dork faces the inevitable comparisons head on, and lets the reader know at every possible juncture in the book that he is really, truly over Young Master Caulfield. Which is cute, in a dramatic irony sort of way, because he’s pretty Holden-y in spite of himself. Which, in the end, makes him an intensely likable narrator, because even through his cynicality he's one lost and confused kid who just wants to rock a little. Still, the matter of being forced to read it in nearly every class since the dawn of high school time is enough to drive anyone crazy, and the explanation he gives toward the end of the book – directed more at the phonies who revere the book than the book itself – is almost thoughtful to the point of some sort of transcendence.

That’s probably the second thing you need to know – the thoughtful parts. Portman’s transition from songs that speak deeply to high school kids into a book that speaks deeply of the high school experience is seamless, and one of the most important parts of that is the weaving in of somber reality. The high school trauma is all there to wild exaggerations, but more importantly, so is the tedium to balance it out. The ludicrous and mystifying world of Advanced Placement is explored with equal bewildered wonder and reverence (because it still beats the hell out of the “normal” classes).

But the comedy is interspersed with parental breakdowns, trips to a surprisingly understanding shrink, and awkward but noble and ultimately kind of tragic attempts to bring a family a little closer together. The book also makes no Revenge of the Nerds pretenses about every dork in the school banding together to overthrow the jocks – we are made aware of the daily humiliations faced by the other untouchables like Bobby Duboyce the Helmet Boy and the unfortunately-named Pierre Butterfly Cameroon, but as anyone in real life should know, even amongst the misfits there are cliques, there are factions, and there are limits.

One of the best passages not-already-on-the-internet I could think of as an example that doesn’t also give away too much is in the first chapter, and it belies the fact that when you live in the suburbs, tedium doesn’t just attack your school life, but kind of punctuates everything, because there is absolutely nothing else to do. It’s where we are first introduced to obsessive fantasy-band documentation: an activity to which, to say Tom and his best friend Sam Hellerman (always Sam Hellerman, never just Sam, which somehow says something about them both) are both partial, would be an understatement. There is a certain amount of exhaustive meticulousness, but if you’ve ever rocked the suburbs high school style (especially before you actually own instruments), then you’ve had this conversation before. Or at least something similar.

At the back of the book, there is a comprehensive list of band names, members (real and imagined), and first album titles spanning the August to December over which the book takes place. The transformations are really kind of magical, especially when they place an important plot point at the crux of the whole shebang. There are also scattered song lyrics, as written by Tom and Sam Hellerman, which are all pretty fantastic.

The only real point of contention with King Dork, I have to say, is the ending. It’s much more open-ended than one would expect for what is at least partly a mystery story – frustratingly so. Especially for a mystery story that even sarcastically references two different Agatha Christie detectives. Tom spends a lot of time trying to wind every mystery in his young life together into one perfect spool of conclusion, as though the answer to one might unlock the answer to all; when it inevitably doesn’t, it breaks your heart a little because you knew that it wouldn’t, but still, you find yourself invested all the same. But hey, not everything has a tidy ending. Even in books. The way I like to think of it is, it definitely leaves you wanting more, and there is always room for a sequel.

For me, the fact that the book takes place in the late 1990s is one of the most interesting points, because I actually didn’t catch the part where it’s said explicitly until my second read-through, even though it might have been obvious just from the fact that that’s when the single was released. There’s this way in which Portman avoids specific technologies, the kind that can date a book faster than an iPod model goes obsolete, which gives the book a certain degree of timelessness without turning it into a period piece. No one really needs a cell phone, and Tom and Sam listen to music on vinyl because it’s cooler in that special pretentious sort of way. Still, in spite of being a girl and having two parents both alive, I felt so close to Tom that I couldn’t have imagined the story taking place at any other point in time than when I was in tenth grade myself, and when it turned out to be the actual case, I wondered if the effect of the book was somehow less strong for anyone from a different era. Then, the other day, I got a text message from my 16-year-old cousin. I had gotten him the book for Christmas, even though I was a little worried because he’s your standard emo-goth and goths are certainly not above Tom’s critical eye. The text message inquired as to whether or not I was aware that the movie rights to King Dork had been purchased, and I said you bet your sweet Elvis Costello glasses I did, and then he wrote back, exclaiming:

So I’m not entirely sure, but I think, in his own mid-2000s way, he’s trying to tell me that the effect is not diminished at all. Which makes me happy. Barring war and the threat thereof (the contrast of which, as it happens, does not go undiscussed), high school is easily the most terrifying and confusing place a product of suburban America will ever have to face, and that’s real no matter when you grew up. For maybe 5% of the population, it’s an unmarred haze of halcyon days, and if that’s your deal – if you call high school “the best days of your life,” for example – then this book might not be for you. But for everyone else, even you playful quasi-hip drama club dolphins, it was pretty much abject hell, punctuated by those golden moments of triumph that make life worth living, be it your first electric guitar or your first third-base experience. (Whichever one’s the more special, I’ll leave up to you. Both are covered here.) And it's you -- well, us, I guess -- that King Dork aims to salute. And salute, it does. A better one on the topic, I've yet to see.

King Dork (in case you forgot the title because I maybe haven't said it enough) is available through Little Type, and is coming out in paperback and in UK stores real soon. Get on it!

Recommended Viewing: Here is Frank reading an Advanced French segment from King Dork -- sounds a lot like AP Spanish 7/8, where Señora Woods-Petties laughed at me when I inquired as to whether I should spend my money on attempting the actual AP test. Yet, I still got a B+. Ah, high school!




The "King Dork" split-7" is the only Mr. T Experience recording on vinyl that _DictionaryGirl_ does not own. Isn't that sad?! Oh, irony! She is also very sorry that this is being posted a little late; it took twice as long to write as anticipated, is twice as long as she expected it to be, and even now she's going crazy-paranoid that she left things out. Stay tuned next week for something MUCH less angsty from PointBlank! It'll be a blast!