The Running Man by Richard Bachman
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Like most people, I saw the movie adaptation of this long, long ago, and like most (common-sense-possessing) people, I love it. So ridiculous, so good.
It turns out that the book has very little to do with the movie. Almost to the point that I’m not sure why they adapted the book, ended up with what they did, and still credited Richard Bachman. I feel like I should start taking credit for inspiring, I don’t know, CHUD2: Bud the CHUD.
Anyway, back to the book.
I loved it. So fast-paced, so entertaining. I feel like an idiot dork asshole because I’m running around saying how GREAT Stephen King is, and the entire world is (rightfully) like, “Yeah, no shit.” I’m so late to this party that it’s ridiculous. They’ve packed up the linens, the drunken uncle has already been fished out of the pool after he fell in with his suit on, and the cake has gone from exciting promise to a threat made by the hosts. “Take some cake home with you. TAKE! IT!”
I can tell how depressed I’m feeling in a given time because I go to this weird place: What if I die before reading a book that I would have really enjoyed? Or, What if I die before what would have been my favorite band comes on the scene?
When I’m feeling good, I think about that a lot, and I assume there’s so much good stuff out there I just haven’t gotten to yet.
When I’m feeling bad, it’s the opposite. I assume there’s nothing really great, nothing I’ll regret missing out on.
So, I guess I must be doing well! Good news, everyone! Stay tuned for the end of this manic phase and the beginning of the next depressive low.