So Long And Thanks For All The Fish - Douglas Adams

I've said (or maybe just thought) before, that a big part of the appeal of the Hitch-hiker's Guide To The Galaxy series is in finding the mundane amongst the extraordinary. Constantly undercutting otherwise magical worlds with bathos and banality, Arthur Dent has, at his best, been a vessel by which to find the disappointingly ordinary amongst the most extraordinary star systems. With So Long And Thanks For All The Fish, however, Arthur returns home to Earth, where, due to his adventures (and his relatively newly acquired knowledge of self-propelled flight), he is now the extraordinary one.

With this shift, the whole tone of the series changes. Instead of manically scrambling to acquire enough knowledge to get him through the day, Arthur returns to his day-to-day life back home, reversing (if not altogether removing) the usefulness of his character. Instead of having his bumbling incompetence help guide us through inexplicable worlds, we have a somewhat more cool and confident Arthur showing us more about his own character than the world around him. When he's in control of his own life, in a familiar-looking location, Arthur loses most of what makes him remarkable, leaving only flight and experience him to distinguish him from anyone else on Earth. So, to pass the time, we are introduced to new characters for Arthur to meet, each distinguishable thanks to some special trait Douglas Adams bestowed upon them.

One of these is the so-called "Rain God," who feels more like an idea the author couldn't keep off of the paper, rather than an actual character. He's a caricature whose reappearances demand an importance that never comes to fruition. By the end, he sort of becomes a way to criticize the businesses of news-making and science, but it's done in such a cut-and-dry, self-aware, satirical way that it hardly feels worth the effort of introducing him in the first place.

At one point, Adams jumps in to seemingly respond to the criticism he is anticipating. He questions whether or not the audience wants to be reading about Arthur's personal life, and suggests that anyone who is bored with the current passages should skip ahead to the end. There, he promises, you'll find out what has happened to some of the more colourful characters in the series. In this section, he implies that reader boredom would be due to not caring about Arthur Dent, thinking that readers are only interested in the fringe characters, seemingly challenging them to stick it out at risk of being considered too simple to understand the complexities of a real flesh-and-blood human character. What he fails to anticipate is that Arthur Dent is, and should be, a fairly unnotable man, and that by putting a boring man into a boring situation, he is encouraging us to celebrate the unremarkable circumstances of an unremarkable situation. Everymen are effective when trying to see how people would react in extraordinary circumstances. Otherwise, we might as well be reading about our own daily lives.

It's not until Arthur and his friends (one new) leave Earth that he regains his place in the Universe. It's odd, but to imagine Arthur Dent buying a postcard at the Grand Canyon seems commonplace, but to read about him, surrounded by gift shops on a planet that has turned "God's Last Message To His Creation" into a tourist trap, puts our own commercialization of nature into relief. Our own actions don't seem all that bizarre until we see others, in a slightly different context, doing exact same that. It's then that we say "Oh, how ridiculous," and soonthereafter follow it up with "Hey, wait a minute." Instead, So Long And Thanks For All The Fish depends on awkward dialogue and larger-than-life characters to stand out amidst Arthur rediscovered, ordinary home, a place where he brings little to our attention, and gets very little of it in return.

Forrest Griffin - Be Ready When The Sh*t Goes Down: A Survival Guide To The Apocalypse

Just... what? While a million typewriting monkeys could very well eventually write Shakespeare, I question whether any amount of monkeys, using whatever writing implements they desire, with an infinite supply of LSD could not come up with this title, this cover, or even this book. You've got a UFC Fighter, as famous for his clever silliness as he is for his exciting brain-punching fights, writing a book that has pushed his tongue so far into the cheek that it has broken through the skin, resulting in a tongue-out-of-cheek experience.

As unsure as we are exactly what this book is, Forrest Griffin (and co-author Erich Krauss who gets substantially more in-text credit than he did during their previous collaboration with Got Fight: The 50 Zen Principles of Hand-to-Face Combat) is all that much more confused. Sometimes he is just talking nonsense, being extremely candid about his self-conscious insistence that no one in their right mind should be reading anything he says. Other times, he is so earnest in his suggestions for how to survive the Apocalypse, that you wonder whether you too should be planning an escape route to a secret, remote cabin and/or bomb shelter, stashing ammo and non-perishable food items along the way. And later, toward the end, he even lets things get personal, talking about childhood events and a rediscovery of faith that have shaped the person and the narrator behind this messy mash-up of a survival guide.


Got Fight worked as a memoir because it was a humourous recounting of Griffin's life, as well as a pseudo-how-to guide for manliness. There were also some legitimate self-defense and fighting tips. Even in these instructive sections, he would still go for toilet humour punchlines as soon as they presented themselves. In Be Ready When The Sh*t Goes Down, however, things are never quite so well-grounded. In one chapter, you're learning about how to best suit up your vehicle for a post-Apocalyptic environment, and before you know it, you're reading about fellating a giant wolf during Ragnarok. The book goes to some pretty weird places, and even Forrest and Erich seem unsure as to just how much of it you should be taking seriously.

More than laughing out loud at how funny the book is, you're laughing uncomfortably because you're wondering what's wrong (or possibly what's so incredibly right) with Forrest Griffin. As the quote on the back, attributed to Forrest's Mom states, "This book is an unholy abomination. It will make you dumber for having read it. Judging by the content you would think he grew up eating paint chips. I swear that wasn't the case." It wouldn't even occur to me to consider which animals could be milked should the cows run out once the world ends, but Forrest did, and we've got three or four pages of cost-benefit analysis of the different lactic offerings of various members of the animal kingdom. Going balls out like that, all the time, you're sometimes going to stumble upon some gems (like suggesting that the appropriate way to milk a giraffe is to ride a motorcycle underneath one, suckling at every opportunity) but you're also going to say some iffy stuff, like the general tone of borderline-homophobia, or the questionable, if not distasteful David Carradine jokes. More often than not, though, Griffin and Krauss are able to keep on the side of batshit ridiculous, rather than offensive.

Even after writing about it for the last hour, I'm still not sure how I feel about this book. It's strange, but funny, but twisted, but helpful. All I do know for sure is that once the bombs start falling, it'll be the first thing I grab.

Life, The Universe and Everything - Douglas Adams

I think I've figured out this whole love-meh relationship I have with the Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy series. There is no doubt in my mind that Douglas Adams is (was) a brilliant man who is (was) capable of putting clever, witty, and thought-provoking ideas down on paper. Where I think he loses me is in telling me a story.

Aside from the comedic one-or-two-shot characters, (and the better-in-small-doses Zaphod Beetlebrox) the series' cast is essentially interchangeable, with little other than small speech-pattern quirks differentiating them. And that's fine, as long as the focus of the book is firmly planted on those equally-balanced-between-logic-and-absurdity moments that Adams writes so well, but there's this pestering insistence on telling a story. And, to do so, he needs to have his characters doing stuff. When they're doing stuff, Adams stops talking, and starts narrating, which, as I mentioned, is where he loses me.

As a "for instance" for people who have read the book, here's what I'm talking about. Near the very beginning of the novel, Arthur Dent encounters an immortal being who, inspired by a desire to insult every living creature in the galaxy, shows up, cusses him out, and disappears on a spaceship. Both in concept and in execution, this passage is hy-larious.

Another great example of justified absurdity comes when Adams introduces the idea of flight. The trick, he writes, is to become distracted by something while falling and, simply forget to hit the ground. While mentioned as a passing joke, the idea maintains integrity. Then, protagonist Arthur Dent goes and does it. A lot. And suddenly, that great tidbit becomes tainted, as it were, by its transformation into a plot device.

I know I'm always breaking these books down into portions of greatness, and it's probably a stupid thing to do, but in the case of Life, The Universe and Everything, it's notable that more than the previous two books, the quality is of a more consistent level, particularly in the first 4/5ths of the novel. That last (give or take) 20% is devoted to that rushed narrative necessity known as a climax, and it's really a shame. Instead of just talking about concepts and funny hypotheticals, Adams forces his characters to interact with, and live within them, somehow making them seem less plausible for it.

I don't think that a novel is the best way to celebrate Douglas Adams' genius. Instead, I'm just going to pick out the best ideas and pretend that he and I made them up, just bouncing ideas off of each other at the pub.

Now I feel better.

The Restaurant At The End Of The Universe - Douglas Adams

The more I read about Douglas Adams, his environmental work and national respect, the more I like him, and the worse I feel about what I thought of this novel. As with The Hitch-hiker's Guide To the Galaxy, the sequel finds itself in a fit of misadventures, featuring the quirky crew of the spaceship The Heart Of Gold.

Even with just a year in between books, Adams seems to lose his knack for the ability to write a joke. Maybe it continues to be the impossibility of transferring vocal inflection into the written word, but most of the comedy lands a fair few light years away from its mark. Then again, this theory is dependent on the assumption that the original radio plays were hilarious. I understand that they're supposed to be, but not having heard them, it may turn out that they're just as flat as their novelizations.

Perhaps the problem actually lies in the split narratives that follow Arthur Dent and Zaphod Beeblebrox to different parts of the galaxy. Even as a whiny, flustered, no-one-wants-to-admit-that-he's-the-everyman everyman, Dent allows us to speculate and process what our reaction to the circumstances in the novel would be. Although, due to familiarity with the science fiction genre, we are willing to accept the incredible and the strange for what they are, Arthur Dent shows us how we would likely actually react. Beeblebrox, on the other hand, is a hip cat who knows the freakishness of the rest of the galaxy like the back of one of his heads. Following him around as he makes and resolves his own conflicts is like having Danny Zuko from Grease give you a tour of the Wonka Factory. He's so wrapped up in saying things like "I'm so hip, my thighs can't tan" (that one's actually mine, feel free to use it) that we explore the bizarreness of Adams' world with a selfish indifference. We resent Beelebrox's familiarity with his surroundings, his unflappable demeanour, and his assumption of the narrative line.

Then there's the spontaneous plot twists. Adams may or may not have been throwing word magnets at the fridge when it is unprecedentedly and spontaneously announced that ghosts are real. There has been no prior discussion of the afterlife, but suddenly, at a moment of sheer peril, out pops this phasma ex machina who saves the day. Then, naturally, we never talk about it again.

It isn't until much much later, when the crew meets up with The Man Who Rules The Universe, as well as humanity's real ancestors, that things start to get back on track. When he focuses on absurd speculative comedy, Adams is able to concoct clever and memorable species and dialogue. The problem is that it takes so very long to get there that the book, try as it may, can't crawl out of the hole it's dug for itself.

Darkly Dreaming Dexter - Jeff Lindsay

I, like 2 million other people, watched the first episode of the TV show Dexter. Having done so has completely changed the way I read this book. This may not be a novel (no pun intended) observation, but encountering the story in another medium makes it impossible to read the book as it was intended. Instead of absorbing the story as written, the process becomes about finding differences, and answering the ultimate question: "Was the book better than the show?". Usually this game gets played with movie adaptations, with the majority of the time the answer being "the book is better because there's more in it." In this case, Darkly Dreaming Dexter's 304 pages are better than the first season's 12 episodes because there's less in it.

Reading the book after watching the show makes it abundantly clear which elements have been added for the sake of making a more conventional TV series. In retrospect, the expanded character subplots, particularly the twisty romantic one, feel more tacked on when you know they're tacked on. After scraping them back away, you end up with a more concise, centrally-focused narrative that gets to spend more time establishing and maintaining the darkly funny tone that makes both the novel and its televised offspring so enjoyable.

So let's break it down, comparing the characters from both (since all I was doing in reading was comparing anyway) and seeing how this all works out.

Dexter Morgan: The book allows him to be darker and focuses less on his positive relationships (except for the one with Deborah/Debra). He is more (obviously) calloused, referring to Rita as his beard. Whereas a TV show comprised mostly of monologuey narration would likely flop, the constant honest insight in DDD's 1st person voice keeps the story grounded and the focus where it needs to be.
Winner: Book Dexter

Deborah/Debra Morgan: DDD's Deborah is described as looking more like a centrefold than a cop. Now I've got no problem with how Jennifer Carpenter looks, but I was intrigued enough with this description that I felt like I needed to mention it. It also brings a slightly different angle to the character, where she has to face more direct sexual discrimination, apparently needing to apologize for and overcome her more voluptuous figure. Despite this angle, the character ends up being just a touch more irritating than her TV counterpart. Furthermore, while on the show, Debra eventually does come into her own as a police officer, book Deborah is entirely at the mercy of Dexter's machinations. She is only able to gain insight into cases when he feeds it to her, at his discretion.
Winner: TV Debra

Rita Bennett: Barely present in the novel, Rita develops a lot further as a character on the small screen. During the first season she begins to come out of her shell and hasn't yet made her Season 3 transition into professional shrew. She's still overwhelmed, damaged, but awkwardly trying to move hers and Dexter's relationship toward kind of normalcy that he is with her to avoid. Book Rita is an afterthought whose jump to the foreground is an undesired distraction, whose presence we resent as much as Dexter does.
Winner: TV Rita

Migdia/Maria LaGuerta: Hateful, spiteful, silver-tongued Migdia of DDD makes for a much more compelling character than political-but-actually-a-pretty-good-cop-Maria. Migdia is deluded, Maria is comparitively boringly self-aware. No question here.
Winner: Book Migdia

Angel Batista: Shows up three times in the novel, always peering over someone's body. It's possible that he never actually speaks. That's about it. Compare this to seasoned cop TV Angel, whose friendly demeanour make him worth keeping around.
Winner: TV Angel

James Doakes: Present as a looming figure and eventual enemy, the book's Doakes shows potential that is much more elaborately, and entertainingly played out on TV. While TV Doakes' ante-romantic subplot does eat into valuable Dexter time, his accusatory interactions with Dexter are among the best things the show has to offer.
Winner: TV Doakes

Harry Morgan: With Dexter's adopted father, the book gets it right with a less-is-more philosophy. Rather than having a phantom daddy figure looming around whenever the show feels like going to soft-focus, DDD's Harry stays dead and is mentioned in reference or in flashbacks.
Winner: Book Harry

Brian Moser/Rudy Cooper: On the one hand, the show takes more time to elaborate on the identity of the Ice Truck Killer and his connection to other characters. Then again, it also forces an extra connection by way of a fairly transparent and convient romantic subplot. The book, on the other hand, has the killer remain a total mystery until the final chapters. We know there's a connection somewhere, but it shows up in frustrating dreams and visions. For a few chapters, there is potential for disappointment that the book may take a paranormal turn, leaving us to feel an even greater sense of relief and satisfaction when the answers are finally revealed. It's a close call but...
Winner: Book Brian

Vince Masuoka/Masuka: This one's tough. Whereas the show depicts Masuka as an honestly perverse sass-monkey, filled with delightful one-liners and an infinite patience for rejection, the book's Masuoka gains an invaluable depth when Dexter connects with him as a fellow non-human. While Masuoka does not appear to have any homocidal tendencies, the two relate to each others' artifice when it comes to their interactions with others. In terms of entertainment, the show takes the cake, but as a character who I'd like to see explored further, Masuoka is considerably more intriguing. Which wraps it all up to a...
Winner: Tie.

This means that our final score is...

Show: 5
Book: 5

Yeah, pretty big cop out, eh? So here's the deal. The show is great with some great (and some unnecessary characters), but when it comes to telling this particular story, you get it better from the book. So be like me and experience both, that way you're not missing anything.

The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy - Douglas Adams

That isn't actually the cover of the copy I read. Mine was the "A Trilogy in 5 Parts" anthology, but it seemed inappropriate to review five books in one go, considering they were written over the span of 13 years. I, for one, would hate to be judged by my actions 13 years ago. There I am in Mme Simard's grade 4 class, stupidly wearing yellow turtleneck fleece to gym class...

Back on track, The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy is hilarious in waves. At its best, Douglas Adams is able to write prose that makes us wish we were clever enough to write stuff this clever. When you laugh, you also get to couple your amusement with an elitist knowledge that not everyone is going to be laughing along with you. Whether or not this is true is debatable, but the fact that reading and enjoying THGTTG makes you feel smart isn't.

The best moments are the absolutely random ones that aren't trying too too hard. Whether it's the revelation of the thoughts of a sperm whale who has snapped into existence thousands of miles above a planet or the unexpected apocalyptic one-liners that Adams loves to finish chapters off with, the book is funny in a way that few others are. There's also a bit of "wouldn't it be quaint if..." kind of humour, but it's forgivable considering how good much of the rest gets.

At its worst, the book struggles to overcome its original incarnation as a radio play. Some of dialoguier sections, in particular, get lost in literary translation. At least, I assume that this is the problem. Having a spaceship's computer say something, then having a robot say something sad, then having another character yell at them both to "shut up!" may be funny when you get to play around with inflection and timing, but the written word struggles to keep up the funny. The ending suffers much the same fate. Rather than wrapping up any kind of consistent narrative, the book ends knowing full well that it will have a follow-up, because there were more radio stories to be written into a book. Nothing's resolved and the last words you read are simply a character uttering the name of the next one.

If you break it down, the book works out to about 24% funny, 51% silly, and 25% tedious. Some of it gets a little taxing, and it sometimes feels like Adams is just cruising on autopilot, assuming that whatever he writes is gold, but without a doubt, the good stuff is great enough to make it through.

Why I Fight: The Belt Is Just An Accessory - BJ Penn w/ David Weintraub

Truly great literature will change the way you think about the world. Good literature may cause a stutter in your perceptions, resulting in a slight shift or affirmation towards existing ideas. Why I Fight will change the way you think about BJ Penn and little else.

Starting as far back as BJ can remember, the book thoroughly, although sometimes clumsily, gives an insider perspective into the life of "The Prodigy." From his early youth growing up in Hawaii (which he describes in a way that sounds like he would have gotten along well with Disney's Pocahontas) up to his decision to pursue jiu-jitsu as a career, the books tells the story of a life that we only really care about because we recognize the guy who's picture is on the cover.

Once we get further into the brazilian jiu-jitsu and into the MMA stuff, names and events that are recognizable to the more casual fan make the experience more familiar and rewarding. As fun as it is to hear about BJ in Hawaii fighting in the streets, fighting on his porch, fighting his friends, and fighting guys bigger than him (repeated ad nauseum, pretending it's the first time it's been said, insisting that it's normal behaviour) we really want to hear about the title fights and the controversy.

The last third of the book seems to be leading up to the inevitable discussion of the circumstances surrounding UFC 94: St-Pierre vs. Penn 2, during which St-Pierre's team allegedly applied some kind of slippery substance (possibly Vasline) to his skin, effectively neutralizing any submissions that Penn could have attempted. Even though I watched the fight, I only became aware of the scandal afterward, mainly by hearsay, and later through MMA websites. I was minorly aware of the appeal that Penn filed to have the fight ruled a No-Contest and, like most people (particularly those, like me, exuding nationalist pride for St-Pierre), assumed that Penn was just a sore loser. Surprisingly, it doesn't take much to sway sympathy toward Penn's side of things.

The book effectively paints Penn as a quiet guy with enough integrity to endure the politics and abuse that come with his job, so that he can take part in a sport that is fulfilling and gives him self worth. By the time you close the book, you find yourself believing that Dana White is more of a douche than you thought, that Kenny Florian is a weasel, that Georges St-Pierre is a lubed-up traitor, and the BJ Penn is the moral core upon whom the entirety of MMA's sportsmanship and integrity rests.

Only time will tell how long this perception shift will last. Not 10 minutes ago I read on BJ's Wikipedia that someone from his camp claims he only lost his title to Frankie Edgar becaus of a sinus infection and being on antibiotics. My old self shook my head, tired of the excuses, but there was, at least, a new voice that felt sympathetic, feeling like I have a new understanding of BJ.

Regardless, this is a book that passes the time and provides uniquely interesting insight into Penn's head (particularly in hearing what was going through his mind during his fights), but it's still well into the shadow of Forrest Griffin's substantially better Got Fight: The 50 Zen Principles of Hand-To-Face Combat.

Rating: 3.0 stars

I'm Next - Bill Goldberg & Steve Goldberg

As something of a joke, my future brother-in-law picked this book up for me at a second-hand store. As I am oft to do, I took the joke too far and actually read it. It was a weird experience. By no means is this a good book, and I only finished it out of a desire to prove to myself that I could. I haven't actually finished a book since about halfway through my last semester at university

Side note: Should the word "university" be capitalized? I like the look of University better, and it makes me feel like I actually accomplished something by going there, but it also makes me look like a snob... which I am... but then I turn around and write a review of a pro wrestling "autobiography." I am envious of Americans who can simply say "my last semester at college" because you can just skip the whole capitalization thing and have it mean the same thing. As opposed to here in Canada, where Universities and Colleges are two different things. The difference is that people who graduate from University insist on using the word "University" because it makes them feel better about themselves, despite the fact that the people who "just" went to "College" are now making about twelve times as much as they are because they actually learned how to do something. But enough about my education frustrations, the point is, even when I was in school, I was notorious for writing essays about books I didn't know the ending of. So, it would appear that "I'm Next" is what was going to break the Goldberg-esque streak.

My first bone of contention was with the book's subtitle. The cover actually reads I'm Next: The Strange Journey of America's Most Unlikely Superhero. To me, this sounds like a challenge to come up with more preposterous superheroes than a Jewish-in-name-only former football player who becomes a professional wrestler. So far, I've come up with
1) "The Platypus Kid," who after a freak accident has the ability to lay eggs, survive underwater, and whose tail contains a poisonous barb.
2) "The Creeper," whose superpowers include the ability to be pathetic enough to get invited to big parties, but latches onto individuals, engaging them in fiercely awkward conversation, and immediately comes to believe that you are best friends.
3) "Captain Prejudice," an incredibly adept crime-solver, but who always wraps up cases by uttering ethnic slurs. "Book em, Dago."
See? And that only took twenty minutes. Most unlikely superhero, my ass.

Moving forward, I also didn't really appreciate hearing as much as I did in the early chapters about Goldberg's penis. He even includes what appears to be an actual doctor's report on the state of his groin, including the junk, after a football injury. Thanks for the overshare.

To be honest, I've read a lot of wrestling books. Most of the time, the story of a wrestler starts with being inspired by wrestler a, getting trained by hard-ass wrestler b, before hitting it big and winning all sorts of accolades. For me, the most enjoyable part is when the "autobiographer" starts meeting people whose names I recognize, giving us a glimpse of the real personalities behind our favourite characters. Instead, I'm Next tells the story of a guy who only got into wrestling because he couldn't play football no more on account of him being hurt. Instead of falling in love with the theatrics or athleticism of wrestling, he falls into it because he feels bad mooching off of his brothers, and has the inclination to get back into the work force.

Rather than stories of hardcore training, we get the inside scoop on Goldberg's cookie-cutter training at the WCW Power Plant. There, he develops a "unique" character, which even he admits, is quite similar to other pro wrestlers. He concedes that there are similarities to "Stone Cold" Steve Austin, Ken Shamrock, and Dean Malenko, but, that it's okay because it wasn't intentional. Throughout the book, Goldberg tries to have it both ways, saying that there's nothing worse than stealing someone else's gimmick, but thrives on the unoriginal concepts that make up his own. It's like he's oblivious to the fact that the rules apply to him too. It's kind of like when Chuck Klosterman asked Britney Spears about "Slave 4 U" and she said that it wasn't about sex.

From there, he talks about his rise to the top, without any real mention of how he got there. He briefly mentions who he likes and who he doesn't, but it's pretty clear that he's only really doing this gig because football didn't pan out. Pro wrestling has been a way for him to get a steady paycheck, and allowed him to meet all sorts of famous people. He even devotes a chapter of the book to a series of name-drops of people he has met since becoming famous himself.

About the last half of the book is dedicated to talking about his football career. Not having ever really followed professional (to say nothing of college) football, I started to care even less. The name-dropping continues as we hear about playing with this person and this person and this person, and coached by this person, and played against this person and, and, and how he's even more famous than all of them. I hadn't heard of any of them before, so I was particularly impressed.

Something the book makes a huge deal about is Goldberg's status as a Jewish hero. He admits himself that he hasn't attended any kind of ceremony since his Bar Mitzvah, and that he doesn't really practice any kind of faith. I'm not saying that he doesn't deserve to be someone's hero (although the fact that he proudly recounts the story of peeing in someone's milk before hitting them with a frying pan makes me a little suspicious), but does the fact that he was raised in a particular religion make him a fixture of that community? I'm probably splitting hairs here, but I don't think that having a hero who happens to be Jewish is the same as admiring someone whose faith is a crucial part of their personal experience.

At the end of the day, this book was probably just a cash-grab, capitalizing on the success of other wrestling "autobiographies", like The Rock Says or Mick Foley's Have A Nice Day. All you learn from it is that Goldberg's actually kind of a dick, but that he likes animals, so it all kind of comes out in the wash. If you're still curious, you can have mine, or you can buy it on Amazon for a penny.

Rating: 1.0 star