A charismatic couple

Neil Gaiman did an interview on the Colbert Report.

Gaiman's father died recently and the suit Neil's wearing on the show is the one he brought for the funeral.

I always think when someone loses their father that now they're part of the Dead Father's Club. That might sound unfeeling, but I don't mean it that way. It seems that people who lost their fathers tend to understand what it's like to lose a father better than those who haven't. It's a club no one wants to belong to, but the members I've met tend to have an insight into this particular grief.

What's also sad is reading all the previous interviews and reports about Gaiman that proclaim 2009 as his lucky year because he keeps getting well-deserved success after success.

It sounds like he has a great support system of family and friends, which is always a boon in hard times.

I do have to say that I hope the asshole who wrote the observation about his suit (he published it on his site) feels like shit.

Even millionaire rockers sometimes get the blues

Metalsludge has a three part interview with Steven Adler, former drummer for Guns and Roses.

It pretty much broke my heart. You can tell he loves music and loved the band and expected that even though he was kicked out, he'd be playing with them again.

Of course, the largest check he ever received (and this was an actual paper-in-hand check) was for 2 million and change, which kind of made me lose a little sympathy for him. Blame my middle class roots: I believe money can make a person happy, despite knowing that there are plenty of miserable rich people inhabiting the earth.

It's amazing a guy so talented can be so foolish. He talks about doing rock (not the good kind) and loving the effect it has on his libido.

Call me naive, but that ain't good.

I do feel bad for him. This man in perpetual adolescence who lost his best childhood friend and misses his old band mates terribly. The type of guy who shoots off his mouth and says too much in order to make the interviewer laugh and keep talking to him.

The interview killed me and kind of made me wish I stuck to the penis chart.

What'd you do on the web today?

I've just spent an unholy amount of time on the metalsludge website.

They have a penis chart that describes the sex habits of different rockers. Can I get a HELL YEAH?!

The closest I've ever been to a groupie is that a friend of mine once gave Metallica's roadie (or security guy) a handjob to get backstage. And I love the movie ALMOST FAMOUS.

The list is made up of fascinating tidbits and I found myself wishing that I had friends who were groupies (or Band-aids) and that the site included more types of musicians.

The number of guys who didn't do anything in the sack because of their ego was no surprise, but the number who loved giving oral sex was. It's nice to picture all these gods of music as unselfish lovers.

Warms my heart, it does. Makes me want to write a story about a musician with an indecent skill at going down.

Maybe in a parallel universe I'm a groupie. Even reading the descriptions put me in another world. I never thought that women would want to hang out with the guy afterwards or even want to spend the entire night.

Now if someone would only make that type of list for authors and movie stars, the gossip whore inside me would be sated.

Zihuatanejo

I was at the grocery store the other day and picked up STEPHEN KING GOES TO THE MOVIES. It features stories that were made into movies: "1408", "The Mangler", "Low Men in Yellow Raincoats", "Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption", and "Children of the Corn". It also includes a short commentary for each movie.

Of all the many things I owe to my sister Ella, the fact that she introduced me to King and Tolkien makes me indebted for life.

I love "1408" because he started it as an exercise for ON WRITING, then finished it. A very successful and creepy story. I love "Children of the Corn" because it's so much better than I remembered and begins with a lot of dialogue.

But the best one without a doubt is "Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption". When I was sitting in the meeting yesterday, I cheered myself up by thinking that as bad as the situation was, at least there weren't any Sisters after me.

King put his top ten movies based from his books, and I was a little bummed that I didn't agree with them. And also bummed because he didn't explain his choices (I'm a greedy, greedy reader). SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION and STAND BY ME are numbers 8 and 9 respectively. I would've put them at the top of the list. His number 1 and 2 are APT PUPIL and CUJO.

I like the movie version of CUJO and I like the movie ending a hell of a lot better than the book's. I always wonder if he would've written the same ending if he hadn't been going through a rough time.

We both agree in our opinion about THE SHINING. Kubrick is completely overrated, and the world needs to wake up and recognize that fact.

Yes, I do own all collections of the stories included in GOES TO THE MOVIES, why do you ask? Didn't I say they had added commentary?

It's really real

Who cares about bullshit meetings with irate parents and administrators who like to see me in a state of panic?

I want to talk about my book.

1. The back cover blurb made me want to buy my book. It distilled the essence of the story into a few sentences and made it sound good.

2. My editor asked me for excerpts for Samhain's website and the back of other books. Holy shit! People are going to finish up a very satisfying read and then turn the page and read a little sizzle from my book. Then they'll feel compelled to buy it and we'll all live happily ever after.

3. The real kicker: my editor sent me the cover...I love it! I think it's hot and inviting and they got Dean right. I keep looking at it- the initial quiver of excitement hasn't subsided a bit. I find myself grinning like an idiot as I stare at it.

I would paper the walls with it if that didn't make me crazy. Right now, I'm thinking of blowing it up to poster size and hanging it by my bed.

I'm so happy right now.

Change in weather and questions

The snow is gone, gone, gone. Puts a lightness in my heart and a song in my step.

I have some questions for my hypothetical explainer (friend or android):

1. Please tell me how THE HOUSE ON THE LEFT ends. I don't want to see it myself, but I'm curious if the family wins.

2. Is Flo Rida's song "Right Round" about oral sex or stripping or something else entirely?

3. What was the final episode for season 1 of SUPERNATURAL?

4. Why did Kathy Griffin and Apple Steve break up?

This material could be covered in a quick phone chat with enough time left over to find out how my explainer's week went.

Ask me again why I love writing

The final edits for my book arrived last week. A FLE (and don't you know I pronounce that "flea" in my head) read the story and provided the last comments.

Truly, this was the bestest flea that ever was or will be. I agreed with the comments and breathed a sigh of relief that the flea caught an error that would've been a source of embarrassment.

The edits came at a time when I needed to be out of my head. The stress of school and the week's events had turned my spine brittle and put a need for alcohol in my mouth and gut. But I was able to settle down on the couch with a movie playing (DOUBLE JEOPARDY- New Orleans, Ashley Judd, and Tommy Lee Jones) and with the computer on the little table in front of me.

The edits saved my poor head. Here were my editor and this wonderful flea, whose purpose was to improve my writing. Solace, comfort, and a much needed ego boost in one blow.

I consider the luck of the timing and wondered what I would do, how I would fill up that space, if I didn't have writing.

You wanna play hardball?

A much despised element of teaching occurs when I have to eat shit. The administration, parents, or an odious combination of the two find something wrong with my style or instruction, and instead of being allowed to respond in a human way, I have to dig out a spoon.

Can I just say how much I hate that part of the job?

A mother called me to say I was being unfair to her daughter. This came on the heels of the nasty letter I received earlier in the week, and because my actions in reprimanding the student were justified, I made up my mind to play "Tough Teacher".

Wasn't going to back down. Wasn't going to condone the behavior of her offspring. Wasn't going relax my standards.

The conversation between us started off on a prickly note. She was defensive and I was hella defensive. A decided clash of wills.

Then she told me about the shitstorm that was her life. She was dealing with wave after wave of BS, and in the middle of her explanation, I caved. I couldn't add another element of chaos. I needed to give her a break because it was the right thing to do and it was what I needed. I'm a strong believer in giving others what I'm in search of.

She didn't start crying until after I knocked down the wall of my stubbornness. And like so many parts of teaching, what started out shitty turned into a meeting of the minds.

What bothers me is that I didn't extend the latitude before her disclosure. I should've picked up the phone with an open mind and been ready from the onset to listen to her.

There's a happy medium between "Let me find my spoon" and "No thanks, I'll pass on the shit sandwich." Damned if I can find it immediately.

Late nights and great Sundays

I stayed up until 4am last night. Whenever I have this particular wakefulness, I always think I need to run the battery down. It's damn inconvenient on a school night, but can be delicious on a Friday or Saturday.

My first year of teaching, insomnia plagued me. I didn't realize how pervasive it was until another teacher told me a lot of us are insomniacs. That was great news.

When I need to run the battery down, a line from a perfect short story pops up in my head: "Rainsford could not quiet his brain with the opiate of sleep."

I first read the story when I was twelve and that line has been with me for twenty-eight years.

The story has stayed with me as well. "The Most Dangerous Game" is perfection. I wanted to make sure the above line was right and searched for it online. Of course, I had to stop and read the story from start to end.

I think short stories lend themselves to perfection more often than novels. The structure is unforgiving, but a writer can pull off flawlessness more readily in a shorter work.

I haven't read many perfect novels, but the number of perfect short stories is legion.

I read a comment about "The Most Dangerous Game," which opined that the ending was ambiguous: it wasn't crystal clear about the outcome of the fight.

Yeah right. There's deconstruction and there's pure assholery...you can't change the meaning of a work just because your analysis makes you wet.

Because I like thinking about them, here's a list of what I consider to be perfect short stories (in no particular order): "The Most Dangerous Game"; "The Lottery"; "Gift of the Magi"; "The Final Problem"; "Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption"; "Thus I Refute Thee, Beelzy"; "Study in Emerald"; and "Pop Art".

There are many more stories I should put on the list...but I can't be here forever.

Parent can be a four-letter word

My week got off to a craptastic start with a letter from an irate parent.

It completely blindsided me since the student's grade is in the B-C range and he's pretty quiet in class. Little did I know his quietness is due to my tyrannical teaching practices.

The letter was a nasty piece of work- an unfair and personal attack from a stranger. The Pollyanna in me chirped up with the notion that maybe the mother fired it off in anger. If I sent off every letter I wrote when I was mad, I probably wouldn't have many friends or family members speaking to me.

She might have sent it after chasing the worm in a big old bottle of tequila.

My immediate reaction was that I wanted to go home and sack out on the couch with netflix and chocolate cake. I didn't because I had a job to do and I'm not five years old.

I put the anger and hurt in a compartment and got on with the day. When I was a server, it was easier to put feelings away. My interactions with customers were limited and repetitive. Teaching is a different story. Teachers have to be on during their classes, and there was no way I'd let the students know my heart was bleeding.

I got through the day and the week. The meeting with the parent is scheduled for Tuesday and when I think about it, the anxiety and anger eat my stomach. I can't wait for it to be over.

Prelude to a Kiss

One of the best things about getting older is the accumulation of experience. Even a sheltered life will yield some incredible events after 40 years.

With that in mind, I recount my top four kisses with strangers. A stranger in this context is someone I knew for only minutes before his tongue was in my mouth or vice versa.

In no particular order:

1. The gay boy at the club back in 1990-something. I got a tongue ring while it was still a rare occurrence and he asked me if he could try it out. This was one of the best pick-up lines in the 90s and works just as well on nipple rings and Prince Alberts. The kiss was excellent and we ended it soon enough to leave us wondering and wanting more.

2. The bad boy at an all ages gig back in high school. My friend- who was the first unapologetic slut I met- and I were talking about kissing. She decided to demonstrate on this guy and told me that I should too. I did. As I was kissing him, he put his hands on my ass and pulled me to him in one of the sexiest guy-maneuvers I'd experienced at that time. The capper was that he told her I kissed better than her.

3. The bad boy at a coffee shop my friends owned back in the late 90s. We played a very short game of chess because he made a beginning move that accidentally screwed his queen. When he left, he said, "How about a kiss?" He kissed me in front of the entire coffee shop and my eyes were still closed when he drew back. I never saw him again.

4. A different guy at the above coffee shop at Halloween. He was wearing a cloth mask; I was dressed as a slutty witch. I ran into him literally when I came out of the bathroom and since I was in his arms already, I thought I should kiss him. It was weird kissing through the thin fabric, but incredibly hot. We became friends, but never slept together because he had one of the smallest dicks I ever felt. He was a good friend though.

Alcohol played a part in only one of those instances.

The Glass is Half-Broken

I broke a glass in the sink today, which was fortuitous breakage, and remembered the last time I broke a glass.

On Christmas Eve- actually 2am on Christmas morning- before I left for New Orleans on what would be one of my greatest vacations, I decided to make the holiday potatoes for my family.

I was bummed at missing Christmas and wanted to be there in starchy spirit.

Holiday potatoes are a step up from the normal mash and need to be made the night before and thrown in the oven the day of.

The hurly burly of Christmas Eve was over and my mom, brother, and sister were in the living room enjoying the quiet. I was enjoying the sound of their conversation, but most intent on making the best potatoes.

Incidentally, the potatoes used to be named after my evil sister-in-law, but got newly christened by my sister Ella in order to remove any bad mojo from She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.

I was beating the potatoes in the huge silver bowl my mother has and stopped to get a drink- mashing is thirsty work. I opened the cupboard and a glass made a dash for freedom and shattered on the counter, exploding like a little landmine.

None of the pieces landed in the potatoes.

As much as I griped when I cleaned up the shards, I did realize it could've been a whole lot worse.

Would you be my friend?

Last week I spent too much time watching TV shows online. I watched three episodes of The L Word and wished I knew enough about the backstory to fully understand what was going on.

Is Jenny always a psycho or is that a storyline? Is Shane sympathetic or not? What's the deal between Marlee Matlin's character and Jennifer Beales's character?

That was when I realized I need a new friend- or an android. I want an explainer, someone who knows everything I don't and has the patience and personality to fill in the gaps in my knowledge.

I know the information could be found on the internet, but sometimes I don't want to slog through the marshes of fan websites in search of what might not even be there.

This person- or robot- could explain TV shows and recount the plots of horror movies I'm too scared to see. I'm a willing listener when someone tells me an entire movie as long as it's one I wanted to see. If it's not, I get resentful.

The explainer would be able to see the difference and know immediately when s/he should stop explaining because I had enough.

I wouldn't abuse this capacity by treating the person like my own magic 8 ball. I'd restrict my questions to TV, movies, books, and pop culture.

I'm sure I'd have something to offer the explainer in return.

Vampires and Werewolves Forever

I read a comment recently in which the writer stated she was tired of paranormals with vampires, werewolves, angels, demons, and ghosts.

My unwritten response was that she was kind of classing herself out of the genre. Don't those elements make up the bulk of paranormal by definition? Writers do come up with paranormals that have nary a mention of the aforesaid creatures, but it'd be wrong to say that they shouldn't be featured in books anymore.

I'm one of those readers who will never tire of vampires, werewolves, angels, demons, and ghosts just as I will never tire of romances set in New Orleans or in Gothic southern mansions.

What tires me out is when the elements are not done well, which is a hazard any reader of a certain genre faces.

But I love when everyone declares a certain genre done and dead, and then some years pass and all of a sudden some new book gives a spark to the corpse and the cycle begins again.

Circle of life, baby. Don't blame me if I prefer to hold off on declaring the time of death in favor of believing in the powers of recuperation.

The Watchmen (spoilage)

The Watchmen was everything I wanted in that particular movie. Did it bring the images in the book to the screen? Yes. Did it stay true to the spirit of the book? Yes.

I loved it. The fight scenes were graphic and cartoony at the same time, and it was epic and sprawling in good ways. I'm not such a diehard fangirl that I care much if changes are made to the original material as long as the movie stays true to the everloving spirit of the book.

The boys did better than the girls. Haley's Rorschach was absolutely perfect and Cruddup's Dr. Manhattan handled that speech on Mars ("Your mother loved a man she had every reason to hate...") with an aplomb that made the sentiment better than the book (gasp!). I didn't buy it on the page, but up there on the screen, the whole "he sees Laurie as a miracle" really came across as profound. Isn't that what every lover should feel- that their loved one is a random miracle?

The girls were limited by the material, but I wish they had transcended it. There are tons of examples of actors giving that something extra to their two-dimensional characters- it's what they're supposed to do. Laurie and Silk Spectre came off as decidedly wooden in places when I wanted to sympathize with them. I wish casting had done a little more searching.

Dr. Manhattan's penis looked very pretty. C'mon, everyone must've given it at least one look. I did wonder about the team who was assigned to giving color and motion to the CGI of his cock.

Speaking of sex, loved how Nite Owl went from everyday schlub to looking damn good in his costume (if you like that sort of thing, which is a theme of the book and movie). Milquetoast to butch in one wardrobe change- sort of like Cinderella on steroids.

Director Snyder got rid of two sore spots- the squid and the fucking kiss on the picture for which my gratitude knows no bounds.

I wondered if what Moore did in his graphic novel could be done in romance. He turned the hero archetype on its head, but is that possible to do in romance? Could a writer do an antithesis of romance and still have it be a romance?

I'm glad the powers that be decided to make it a movie, glad they picked Snyder, and overjoyed I got to experience a chunk of my twenties again. My teacher friend went with me to the show (because everything's been copacetic between us) and he said the best thing when we walked to the car: "I would've never gone to see this if it weren't for you and I loved it."

What more could a fangirl want?

Weather redux

Did I say the weather was a cockblock? I was wrong.

The weather is that cellmate at the end of BOOGIE NIGHTS who smacks the shit out of Colonel James, making you completely sympathize with the guy until you remember he's a fucking pedophile and deserves every bit of asskicking he gets.

I don't think the snow will melt in time for May. In fact, I think it's going to last until June. There's a five foot mound at the end of my driveway that's still pretty solid.

Gender bias and the weather

It's bitter outside and I was going to say that the weather is a bitch. Not wanting to be obvious in my sexism, I decided to go for the other gender.

The weather's a total cockblock. Me and spring, we were nearly there, about to start a little something- uh huh, uh huh- and the weather completely cockblocked me.

Damn.

I think it's going to be a snow day tomorrow (so the last day of school should fall somewhere around July 4) and since I sent off my new story today, I might be able to start a new book or story.

Or I might spend too many hours on Wil Wheaton's blog. Damn you, Wil Wheaton with your highly addictive entries and interesting links!

Another break up story

I was going to write about sexy things that guys do, but my brain gave me only two and I'm pretty sure there's more. So I decided to write about a break up.

I was going out with this guy in Portland and the relationship looked perfect from the outside: similar interests, no drama, an affection for one another.

Then November came. I wanted to visit my family for Thanksgiving, had to because it'd been years since I saw the whole clan and the homesickness was digging a hole in my heart.

Being a broke waitress, I didn't have a credit card or the internet. I made my plane reservation by phone and was told they accepted debit cards.

My boyfriend drove me to the airport (I didn't have a car) and when I got there, the stupid machine declined my card.

There have been times in my life when my bank account has been sorely ailing, but that wasn't one of them. I knew I had the money in there.

Since it's Thanksgiving, I'm picturing all the seats being snatched up and I start to freak out. I take out the $400 maximum from the ATM, but the ticket's $450 and I don't really know why I took out the money except I wasn't in my right mind. The tears are running down my face as the image of another holiday far, far away scrolls in my head. I hold out the receipt to show my boyfriend I do have the money in a pathetic little Oliver Twist gesture.

His answer? Let's go and you can take care of this tomorrow.

We went back to my apartment, he wanted to snuggle, and I pleaded a headache, which wasn't far from the truth because I did have cry-head coming on. He left after many subtle and not so subtle hints from me.

I broke up with him the next day.

I don't hate Wesley; I never did

I've spent a god awful amount of this weekend reading Wil Wheaton's blog. Not only his blog, but also his TNG reviews on TV Squad.

Currently I'm working my way through his everlasting archives, preparing myself for the time I meet myself when I started reading him.

I like him so much I can sort of overlook the jabs he takes at teachers. In fact, it's made me almost rethink the whole "get over it" attitude I have when people complain about being scarred for life by their high school experience. Then again, if I started thinking everything I did as a teacher could potentially scar someone for life, I'd never be able to teach and would give coloring projects and automatic A's (not unlike a couple of my colleagues).

I think I knew I loved him when he wrote about a running car joke he plays with his son: if he sees a truck with hay in it, he'll shout, "Hey!"

I thought I was the only person in the world to do that. I have two running car jokes- the aforesaid and when I pass a cow, I say, "Moooooo. Cow." I've been known to do this even when there's no passengers in my car.

He's this decent guy who can write and happens to have an interesting past that colors most of what he discusses.

I kind of regret the hours devoted to his archives, but they weren't a waste of time.

Find somebody to love

I love the clerk at the convenience store. I don't want him; ours is a strictly one-sided platonic sort of love.

Usually our interaction is limited to the "I'll take ________" "That'll be ________" "Have a good night." "You too."

But the times he breaches the service relationship is when he's pissed at his co-workers. I love hearing him bitch. They didn't empty the garbage, didn't do the slicing, or forgot to stock the cooler.

I empathize, I sympathize and can offer only the lame "I hope your night goes better."

I hope he never quits because that'll break my heart.

Edits are done (for now)

I completed the second round of edits for TEACHER'S GUIDE TO WILDLIFE and now await the final check from the kindly powers that be from Samhain.

There are some authors who choose not to have people edit their work, and I can't imagine it. I can't even imagine a time when I'll feel my writing is so excellent that no one could be the judge of it except me. I don't think it will happen.

Right now I'm incredibly grateful for the skill of my editor (which sounds terribly territorial, but fuck it). When I think about some of the mistakes that might have been seen, it makes me blush and shudder and feel vaguely ill.

With each draft the book gets shinier. I figure by the third round, it'll be positively blinding.

It's coming

I work in a germ factory. The fact that I'm not afflicted with some sort of sickness every week is a source of gratitude.

But now that the workload has eased and I'm caught up with all aspects of my life, I can feel a cold just waiting to swoop down. Germs have uncanny timing.

My throat is a little sore, my sinuses hurt a little bit, and everything I eat tastes weird.

So now what had looked like an easy week is going to be difficult.

No one cares if you have a cold. No one pats you on the back for downing some Dayquil and soldiering on.

This might be my last night of an unstuffed nose for a while. I think I'll go smell some coffee.

Up to my neck

This week was full of unadulterated crappiness. The administration thought it was a good idea to pile as many meetings and forms on us as possible, completely forgetting that grades are due.

Every new task needed my attention immediately and I went home most nights with at least three things I needed to do the next morning. I ended up e-mailing myself copious amounts of reminders.

Students were turning in work late as if I was honor bound to accept it because they worked hard, which is bullshit. Nine out of ten, the late work is some half-assed attempt to salvage their grade.

My lower back was the recipient of my collected stress and I felt that if I moved the wrong way, it might break.

I went home on Friday wanting nothing more than to polish off a bottle of wine, which is why I didn't drink at all.

Instead, I put on some music and tried to make myself cry. I had a ball of tears in my throat and it needed to melt.

My catharsis finally came while I was listening to Shooter Jennings' "4TH of July". I had listened to Kid Rock's "All Summer Long" but it wasn't doing it. Almost, but not quite. Then Shooter came on and the tears started to flow and I had myself a good cry.

Why those songs? Because they talk about a past I never had, but still get homesick for. I think there were times when I approached the joy they're talking about- a close circle of friends, a love I thought would last forever, and a summer ripe with good times. It's all better in retrospect. The amber tint of memory hides the anxiety, pettiness, or dissatisfaction.

And I'm allowed to think there was a time when I was innocent and all I needed to save myself was a good song.

Someone's always ahead of you

There's a place on the highway before my exit that is the perfect spot for road rage. The right lane ends and the temptation exists to jockey for position with the driver who ignored the three warning signs of lane ending.

I'm thinking the residual road rage from every car probably turned the place into a nexus point.

In my efforts to be a better person, I try to let the person ahead of me. I succeed most of the time, but if I'm in a crappy mood it's harder to do.

To talk myself into it, I imagine the person might have had the worst day of their life with catastrophic events coming to full collision.

This works more than I think it would. But sometimes I don't like thinking about bad things happening to people, and it's enough to say to myself that this person needs someone to cut them a break. They ignored the signs for whatever reason and just
as I would like people to forgive my ignorance or idiocy, they would like it too.

So I put on the brakes, let them get ahead, and try not to be irritated that they didn't wave their thank you.