A Full Time Internet

Book #88 of 2026:

Wake Up and Open Your Eyes by Clay McLeod Chapman

I have any number of issues with this story, but let me start with the most basic and subjective, which is that I simply don’t like it. This is essentially splatterpunk — the transgressive celebration of gore for its own sake — and that’s never been my favorite approach to horror. It represents the genre at its most nihilistic, with few heroes to realistically root for, only victims to watch suffer for a bit. In mainstream Stephen King terms, I’m reminded of titles like The Regulators or The Tommyknockers that I wouldn’t hold up as his best, where ordinary folks steadily succumb to madness and graphic violence before ultimately expiring in a variety of gruesome ways.

Even for readers who enjoy that sort of thing, however, this seems like a weaker effort. The fundamental premise involves a signal going out that brainwashes people into becoming paranoid maniacs, and the opening section at least manages a trenchant political critique in centering that around a right-wing news broadcast affecting the protagonist’s elderly parents. It’s an allegory that works well for how such sensationalized misinformation on gender transition, the great replacement conspiracy theory, and the like can gradually transform loved ones into monsters, which is why it’s baffling that the novel then abandons that plot after the first chapter. The bulk of the text instead shifts to focus on the initial hero’s brother and his family, who are being exposed to the same corruptive influence from wellness gurus and social media / screentime in general, which feels a lot more aimless and generic to me. The original couple obviously opened the door to the evil with their choices beforehand, whereas there’s no comparable sin apparent for why their son, daughter-in-law, and teenage grandson swiftly fall prey to it in turn.

What we do get is a relentless stream of stomach-churning shock moments involving incest and sexual assault, self-harm including auto-cannibalism, and beyond. Several characters go on violent sprees at local schools. Another kills, cooks, and eats the family dog. All of these are elements that I could potentially tolerate in a different kind of narrative in service to a greater point, but here it just reads as empty torment and doesn’t build to an especially satisfying conclusion. The nebulous villains — who may or may not be literal demons — don’t even have any clear aim besides the mayhem itself, and although the book establishes that this is a widespread terror happening all over the country if not the world, we remain mostly locked within a single household, with no real insights into the full ramifications of that wider scope. Overall it’s a poor execution of an idea that I admittedly wouldn’t love even if it had been carried out better than this.

★★☆☆☆

Book #87 of 2026:

Foster Dade Explores the Cosmos by Nash Jenkins

Like its characters, this 2023 coming-of-age novel grows on me as it winds along, although I’m still not totally satisfied with the framing conceit that it’s the result of a relative stranger piecing together the fractured evidence to reconstruct the events in question. The narrative goes into uncomfortable levels of detail about private thoughts and personal matters like teenage masturbation sessions, which to me breaks the central illusion of how the story has supposedly reached us.

But to the extent that a reader can set all that aside, it’s an engagingly immersive tale of the titular protagonist’s sophomore and junior year at a fictional boarding school in New Jersey, as he struggles with love and somewhat bemusedly finds himself at the center of an opioid distribution ring. (This is another place where the book falters for me — for all his introspection, it’s not entirely clear why Foster falls into dealing drugs; his best effort at explaining himself near the end is that it made him happy to feel useful in delivering the pills to his classmates who insisted they needed them for various studying, partying, or mood-altering reasons.)

The primary triumph here is the immediacy of the setting, as manifested through the slice-of-life, plot-minimal storytelling. Debut author Nash Jenkins nails so many small details that ground us in the specific time period of fall 2008 to spring 2010, which comes back to me in vivid color while reading this. I was in college then, five years older than this particular cohort, but the depiction of music playlists and blogs and digital cameras and Facebook messages and such — the ways in which technology was just starting to heavily mediate our social lives in those halcyon pre-smartphone days — feels breathtakingly familiar. There’s a certain degree of power in any work about adolescence and the fumbling steps of people coming to understand themselves and their nearest peers, but it’s especially potent in so richly recognizable an era.

That pervasive atmosphere of historical fiction done right deepens throughout and easily carries the text past the inevitable immaturities of its cast and the long, alternatively endearing and frustrating dance that the hero does around the close friend that he likes, whom we sense would probably date him if he could ever get far enough out of his head to ask her. She in turn is more nuanced a creation than the stock manic-pixie-dream-girl type one might expect, and there’s a real tragedy in the way their fates never quite align.

Overall I’ve enjoyed this piece more than I initially thought that I would, and I’m sorry to hear that Hulu has apparently passed on the pilot treatment they had previously ordered for an adaptation.

[Content warning for homophobia, hazing / bullying, drug addiction and abuse, incest, suicide, and rape.]

★★★★☆

Book #86 of 2026:

The Princess and the Goblin by George MacDonald (Princess Irene and Curdie #1)

Surprisingly readable for a fantasy novel first published in 1872, with a warm tone reminiscent of genre successors like J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, or Diana Wynne Jones. The plot is kind of a mess by modern standards, though, and I’m particularly dissatisfied with the character of the child heroine’s magical great-grandmother, who’s maddeningly inscrutable in how she acts and why. Don’t expect nuance in the two warring races, either — the humans are all clever and honorable victims, while the goblins are uniformly wicked and ugly. It’s still an interesting text to approach through a historical lens of how fairy tales and grand mythical epics evolved into the storytelling traditions more common today, but in its own right I wouldn’t especially recommend it. I doubt I’ll bother with the sequel.

[Content warning for racist and ableist slurs.]

★★★☆☆

Movie #27 of 2026:

Chasing Amy (1997)

There’s a central tension in Kevin Smith’s third film, especially considered critically several decades on, which I think boils down to how much the audience is supposed to identify / agree with its main character. This is, after all, the tale of a man who confesses his love to a self-professed lesbian, is rewarded with her agreeing to date him anyway, and then prudishly pushes her away after learning more about her sexual history (namely that she’d had other male partners before him, including two high school classmates at the same time). That has the makings of a good drama, and it’s certainly a universal experience to fall for a person who seems unattainable, but it feels significantly cheaper if we assume we’re meant to take his side over it all.

The cultural conversation around sex and sexuality has continued to evolve since 1997, and there’s a general recognition of the fluidity of such labels now that didn’t exist back then — or at least, not to the extent that a random twenty-something dude from New Jersey could have been its best messenger. There are plenty of real people like Alyssa who prefer one gender but not exclusively, and/or whose understandings of their preferences change naturally over time. It shouldn’t be juicy or scandalous that she winds up reciprocating Holden’s feelings, nor should it be a moment of triumph for him that he’s able to win someone from the so-called ‘other team.’

But that’s more or less how it plays out here, unfortunately, and it’s particularly hard not to see our everyman protagonist as an intended audience-identification figure when Smith appears in his Silent Bob guise to literally tell him he reminds him of himself. Returning viewers will likely remember how the hero in Clerks had hangups about his girlfriend’s past experiences as well, which really makes the whole thing feel distinctly autobiographical. Alyssa is more of an object for Holden to obsess about than a character with her own interiority and personal arc, and neither she nor anyone else dares mention the word bisexual. Nor is there any consideration through a trans lens of decoupling genitalia from presentation or attraction, despite all the discussion of intercourse mechanics 101.

The one saving grace here — besides reminding ourselves that this was the 90s, and refreshing for the era in even broaching queer themes at all — is that the guy doesn’t get the girl in the end. While it may strain credulity for him to land her in the first place, she does call him out for his entitled attitude (and his ludicrous suggestion that they have a threesome with his friend he diagnoses as having a closeted crush on him), and his ultimate happy ending is limited to the fact that he’s able to turn the events into an independent comic book. If Holden is Smith and by extension somebody we’re all supposed to see ourselves in, at least his opinions are challenged by the text, rather than uncritically reified.

But I can’t help feeling that a stronger story would have centered its leading lady more throughout. It also could have eased up on the edgy sophomoric humor about bestiality and child molestation and the like, although Jason Lee’s sardonic slacker sidekick is at least more tolerable than his previous role in Mallrats or Randal in Clerks, who feel like minor variations of a common type. The writer-director’s gift for snappy dialogue and nerdish pop-culture observations is likewise honed to perfection here — the first time I’ve felt like the cast could uniformly handle one of his scripts — and he wisely limits the always-outrageous Jay and Silent Bob to a single scene that’s overall pretty effective. These are the sorts of elements that I wish could have been built into a better version of this movie, instead of the problematic one that actually exists for us today.

[Content warning for gun violence, racism, and homophobia including slurs.]

★★★☆☆

Book #85 of 2026:

Daredevil: Born Again by Frank Miller and David Mazzucchelli

I don’t read a lot of actual comic books, but I bought this in the airport on a recent whim, having heard how classic and influential it’s considered in such circles. (It’s also in part the basis for certain arcs on Marvel’s Daredevil show — although ironically not the Disney+ revival that actually shares its name.) And I am indeed impressed! I’m by no means an aficionado of these things, but Frank Miller’s writing is probably the strongest I’ve seen in this medium outside of Watchmen. The story is great too, telling a fairly self-contained plot in which the villainous Kingpin, learning that his superhero nemesis Daredevil is secretly the lawyer Matt Murdock, proceeds to use every subtle influence and piece of blackmail in his vast criminal network to ruin the man’s life. His career falls apart, his friends abandon him, his assets are frozen, and his house is destroyed, all without the antagonist openly revealing his schemes.

That tale originally played out over the serialized pages of Daredevil issues #227 – #233, 1985 – 1986, as a collaboration between Miller and artist David Mazzucchelli, each of whom had previously contributed to the series independently with different collaborators. (This bound 2025 edition includes their first team-up as well, the standalone #226 that directly preceded the Born Again run, although it’s confusingly presented at the end of the volume instead of the start.) The result here is pretty powerful, bringing the hero to his absolute lowest point before allowing him to build himself back up again and find a degree of triumph.

If I’m being nitpicky, not everything wraps up neatly in the end, which is partly why I tend to steer clear of this world. There’s no immediate follow-through to developments like Matt discovering his mother’s identity, even if some author presumably did something more with that concept eventually, and the status quo at the close is remarkably similar to where we begin. It’s also funny as a non-reader to remember how interconnected this continuity is, even beyond the Marvel Cinematic Universe adaptations that I’m more familiar with. Captain America pops up for some late assistance against the henchman Nuke, for example, and reporter Ben Urich’s editor is J. Jonah Jameson, whom I only knew as a Spider-Man character before this. Their inclusion lands somewhere between a distraction and a fun cameo, at least for me.

This hasn’t necessarily converted me to reading further in this line — though I might need to rewatch the old Netflix program now — but it’s been a good time regardless, and I could see myself checking out more of Miller’s work specifically at some point later on.

[Content warning for drug abuse and gun violence.]

★★★★☆

Book #84 of 2026:

Smash or Pass by Birdie Schae

This YA romance is cute, but relatively lightweight — it’s a pretty quick read anyway, and it’s not until the last quarter of the text that the heroine finally realizes she isn’t straight and has been crushing on her new best friend at summer volleyball camp. The stronger element is the representation of her autism, which manifests in part as private rules she’s set for herself on how to fit in and feign normalcy in social settings. Relatable! She’s only there in the program because she thinks it might help her win back the ex-boyfriend everyone expects her to date, and her whole arc is about befriending the other campers and realizing she can be her full authentic self instead.

It’s a message of warm acceptance that’s lovely for younger readers to get to hear — the characters are rising high school seniors, and despite the double entendre of the title, there’s nothing raunchier than kissing throughout — but also one of those stories where everybody bluntly shares their various identity groups without much nuance. I could have done without the standard romcom miscommunication device as well, and I especially would have liked a firmer sense of place to the Florida setting. I used to be a Floridian teen myself, but all that location really amounts to in this book is the fact that they’re playing the beach version of the sport and that it’s very hot outside. (Are the queer kids particularly worried about intolerance in a southern state that’s trending more and more conservative? What’s the local culture like? Are there any notable landmarks, or any specificity in the surrounding flora and fauna to otherwise drive home where this is supposed to be set? Give me something here, please!)

Three stars because this isn’t totally bad, and I did even consider rounding that up a degree, since it feels so specifically aimed at a less discerning teenage audience. But it just doesn’t deliver everything I’d ideally want from it, in the end.

★★★☆☆

TV #27 of 2026:

Bob’s Burgers, season 16

I don’t have much to say about this animated sitcom that I haven’t said many times before, because Bob’s Burgers as a show is basically stuck in a longtime comfortable rut. It’s reliably funny enough to keep watching, and I especially like the initial episode of this year, “Grand Pre-Pre-Pre-Opening,” which explores Bob and Linda first buying the restaurant 14 years ago, when she was pregnant with Tina. That’s the kind of story that clearly knows its characters inside and out, and lovingly finds ways to showcase how they were different back then, yet recognizably on a journey towards their old familiar selves. (Of course, as ever, you do have to accept the cartoon logic there and set aside the fact that we’ve been following these people for even longer than the supposed flashback timeframe now, while they don’t really age at all.)

Nothing else this season quite hits those same heights for me, and at this point, I’m looking for signs of emotional growth or new recurring guest stars or running jokes or structural flourishes or the like to prove the series still has some surprises left. Absent that, this is a string of acceptable outputs from a trusted comedy formula, but not terribly exciting.

★★★☆☆

Book #83 of 2026:

The Original by Nell Stevens

I’m unfortunately a bit underwhelmed by this historical fiction novel, which has a few interesting components that never really cohere together for me. The best part is the heroine’s overall struggle to live as a closeted queer woman in turn-of-the-century London, but it doesn’t have much of a surrounding plot to bracket it. She’s practicing her skills at painting forgeries in the hopes of being able to support herself independently someday, and the entire household is navigating the arrival of a man who may or may not be her long-lost cousin, but there’s seldom any forward momentum on either front. I also would have liked her faceblindness to play more of a role in the story, as it’s probably her most distinctive character trait.

What will stick with me is the book’s depiction of how that protagonist subtly signals and reciprocates her interest in other women with a glance, a gesture, or a plaintive, “Are you like me?” But the sporadically-paced larger narrative gets in the way of all that, and isn’t entirely satisfying in the end.

[Content warning for ableism, homophobia, drug abuse, incest, suicide, and gore.]

★★★☆☆

Book #82 of 2026:

The Precipice by Ben Bova (The Asteroid Wars #1)

This 2001 novel marks the start of a new sub-series within author Ben Bova’s Grand Tour saga, but it also represents the culmination of several previous titles that provide valuable context for returning readers. It’s chronologically the last of his stories to feature tech CEO Dan Randolph as the hero (although the prequel Powersat would be published afterwards), and finds that former billionaire now older and poorer, scrambling to prove the viability of the asteroid-belt mining industry before his remaining assets can be seized. His womanizing and action-adventure antics have thankfully both been toned down in his later years, and what emerges offers a nice balance between the corporate intrigues and the more immediate perils of deep space exploration. Our protagonist is on a humanitarian mission to save the planet from the disastrous effects of climate change by showing how distant celestial bodies can yield the necessary resources for all recovery efforts, while likewise maneuvering to fend off a cutthroat rival only interested in the fortune to be made from such a venture.

It’s a fun crossover as well, connecting back to characters like Doug Stavenger from Moonrise and Moonwar, who wind up integral to the plot. There are even references to Sam Gunn, a recurring figure from the writer’s short fiction whose pulp escapades don’t really fit within the more grounded sci-fi of the Grand Tour but are funny to imagine that they do. (In other franchise terms, this is kind of like how the Guardians of the Galaxy technically share a common continuity with Marvel’s Daredevil, or Iris Wildthyme being canonical to Doctor Who. As in those cases, it more or less works if you don’t think too hard about it, but the cognitive dissonance is admittedly amusing.)

Overall the book functions as a neat passing-of-the-mantle moment to a new generation of heroes who will follow in Dan’s wake, and I’m excited to see what that looks like in the volumes ahead.

★★★★☆