There was a test

Speaking of dating and tests, last year a friend from college called me out of the blue and said he wanted to hang out.

Not only had he divorced, but he was already out of his rebound relationship. I carried a torch for him through grad school and beyond.

He opened the door to his truck for me and I scrambled in. After he unlocked his door, he asked me if I ever saw A Bronx Tale. I said yes. We rode a few minutes in silence and I asked him why he asked me.

He reacquainted me with the part when the kid's mafia mentor tells him that if a girl gets in the car and reaches across the seat to unlock the door for him, that's a girl he should be with.

Shit. I didn't realize it was a test. The screwed-up thing is that I usually do unlock the door for the driver; I don't know why I forgot to do it.

I proceeded to flunk the potential-girlfriend test all through the night:

-I drank two big-ass Guinnesses at dinner
-I dripped a disgusting streak of ranch dressing on my arm
-I ate all my lasagna (I was very hungry and the lasagna was very good)
-I blew my nose at the table (the lasagna was also kind of spicy)

My hoped-for chance to be with him circled the drain and went in. He never said this was a tryout, but I knew. I've replayed the night many times since then, but I don't know if I would do anything differently.

He was later hospitalized for alcohol abuse and depression. I would've stuck by him in the bad times if only he had given me a chance.

Although sometimes I think there was something else at work that night and the whizzing sound was a bullet being dodged.

My first date with Henry Rollins

Love Henry Rollins- the man he was and the man he is now. It's amazing the lead singer of a punk band could grow into a humanitarian. That's growing up right.

In one of his concerts, he talks about the five questions he feels compelled to ask women on a first date. He doesn't like to do this, but can't help it.

For the longest time I wondered how I would answer him. There are two sets: what are the last five books you've read and what are the five CDs in your changer.

I can't be honest and still pass the test. I don't even have a five-CD changer.

I couldn't tell him I love the Harry Potter series because he has no respect for women who read children's books. Romances would have to stay a secret. I also couldn't mention that I'm sorely tempted to download a shitload of Britney Spears for reasons I can't explain.

Five books Henry would approve of (I've read them at some time in my life):

1. Chandler's The Big Sleep

2. Conrad's Heart of Darkness

3. Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors (Graveyard Book would be forbidden)

4. One of Shakespeare's histories, maybe a Henry (Hamlet and Macbeth might be too obvious)

5. Maybe a bio of a president. I have a feeling this one should be nonfiction and anything by Malcolm Gladwell would be scoffed at. I'll pick Andrew Jackson.

Five CDs:

1. The Mozart mix a friend burned for me

2. An early Bad Brains mix

3. PJ Harvey

4. Maybe Amanda Palmer could be mentioned. Everyone thinks she's cool.

5. Shit. I don't have Henry-approved taste in music. The latest things in my CD have been Metallica and Cheap Trick, both greatest hits because I don't want to spend the cash on buying the actual albums. Green Day wouldn't work...Maybe AC/DC or Scorpions?

He also wants a woman to tell him ten things he doesn't already know, but I think he's flexible on that one. Especially if she listens to him talk and can comment intelligently on what he says.

I know ours would be a doomed relationship. He doesn't like drinking and I'd be close to an anxiety-induced coma because of everything I couldn't say.

Still, a girl can dream...and prepare.

I can haz summer?

I wore long sleeves to work all last week, but I think the upcoming week is going to be a scorcher.

My winter clothes are tucked in the big bin, and my summer clothes are all in easy access.

I feel bad for the students when it's hot: they wilt like little flowers with their scrubby, sweaty faces miserable.

I love the heat. I'm the freak who gets a kick when I open the car and sit down in that bone-baking warmth.

It'll be nice to get into the short sleeves again.

Romance is a mouse that sits on the doorway

Tattoo Queen surprised me by saying I was a hard woman to buy for.

I disagree. Give me a giftcard to a bookstore and it's the perfect gift. Some complain it's too impersonal, but I love having one. I'll spend it a hundred times in my head before I finally settle down and decide what to buy. It gives me the chance to buy hardcovers (a premium indulgence) and all those books I talk myself out of buying when it's my cash.

That made me think about romance. I think the guys get the short end on this one. The riddle of what's romantic and what hoops need to be jumped through would drive me crazy. Not to mention if a guy asks a woman to tell him what she finds romantic, the stock response is "If I tell you, it's not romantic."

Flowers are an okay romantic gift, as long as they're not roses. I don't like how you have to wait around for them to die, which is why I'm not too fond of balloons either. Buy me perfume if you're rock hard certain the kind I wear. DON'T buy me clothes or lingerie.

What gets me in the gut or heart? Not gifts.

Tell me you were thinking about me when I wasn't there. Tell me how you found me irresistible and fodder for fantasy before we started going out. Say I look pretty from time to time, especially when I'm dressed up.

Watch me when I read, and if I look up, tell me you love me, as if in that moment I'm perfect. Put up with my craziness and bad moods, but don't let me get away with too much. Act interested when I tell you about teaching and writing.

Call me to say you can't wait to get your hands on me.

See? Not hard to buy for at all.

Where'd you get that kink?

As I was trolling through eighties videos and recollecting my heady adolescence, I started to wonder about the shape of my psyche.

My id to be more specific.

Eighties videos had a lot of bondage imagery and mild S/M. Take a thirteen year old and sit her in front of the TV for several hours a day and the whole thing takes on a cause and effect relationship.

The scratches on Simon LeBon's cheek in "Hungry Like a Wolf"? Hawt.

One of the first concerts I went to was Black Flag. My boyfriend left me to get in the pit and try to be someone. When he came back, his white T-shirt was ripped to shreds and he had a streak of blood on his sweaty chest. To my teenage mind he looked like a warrior returned from battle.

Sometimes I don't even have to wonder.

Here's the country- was that a bat?

The continuing saga of the grieving widow and the incarcerated con:

Penelope's suitor didn't send her a letter. He sent her a card saying he was her guardian angel in this trying time.

Turns out he's an innocent man cruelly set up by his scheming wife and the fallen minister she was having an affair with. They were in cahoots. The con took the fall for a robbery they orchestrated and now he's doing hard time, but he hasn't lost his faith in Jesus.

He's a regular Andy Dufresne, minus Tim Robbin's cute dimples and Morgan Freeman's mellifluous tones.

Enter my brother- a police officer who might as well have a huge S on his chest. His advice was to call the prison and explain the story. If they give her the brush off, he'll talk to some of his pals and put an end to this nonsense.

She's calling tomorrow.

Do you want to kiss or chew gum?

My first French kiss was with a bad boy who smoked. His mouth tasted like Marlboros and decadence, and damn if I didn't want to grow accustomed to the flavor.

I don't expect a person to taste minty fresh when we kiss. If a guy's been drinking beer, it stands to reason his kisses will taste like beer. That's fine with me.

If a guy's been working in the yard for a few hours, he's going to taste salty. Doesn't matter a'tall.

A lot of kissing and sex relies on getting used to or over different sights, tastes, and smells.

My kiss might not taste like toothpaste. Even if it does, I can guarantee my neck, shoulders, and other places will not have a minty flavor. If they did, it would be weird.

There's a world of happy medium between hermetically clean and absolute rank. I don't mind if the kissage and other stuff falls in the middle. I think it relieves much of the stress if no one cares how they smell or taste.

If someone wants to be with me, they need to return the favor.

Fangirl says squee

The pictures Gaiman has on his blog today hurt my heart in a good way.

I'm trying not to be envious of Amanda Palmer because she was nice enough to accompany me on the ride home from school, full blast.

Fresh ink

I was thinking of getting a new tattoo.

Perhaps something like this.

I'm hoping the "Perks" on the top of the stack isn't Perks of Being a Wallflower. As engaging as the story is, it has no busy being on top of 1984 and Brave New World.

Still not the dumbest tattoo I've seen. The runner up for that honor would be the ghastly portrait of Bob Barker I saw on some guy's chest in New Orleans.

The winner would be a charming little number that featured Lucy giving Linus a BJ.

We're in bat country

The family friend whose husband died has a worthless sister.

Not counting the screwed-up behavior of her youth- because that can be forgiven- she's a total psycho mess. The type of sister who makes me look at my sisters and realize how much I lucked out.

This poor excuse sent in the obituary to the local paper and included the street address of the family.

Today the friend received a letter in the mail from the state prison.

Holy shit, the universe tilted to the absolute surreal.

My sister told me this on the phone and said the friend promised to show her the letter when they hung out later tonight.

I can't wait to know what a prisoner would have to say to a grieving widow.

If this was a book, the first letter would be kind of sweet. The second and third would be the ones to make your skin jump off your body and skitter under the bed.

Call him Big Poppa

Joe Hill opened himself up to questions on his blog.

Some of the questions in the comments are pretty ridiculous, but I'm hoping he answers the ones about his father.

I hate my pea brain and gossipy inclination, but I'm curious about what he has to say. I can't imagine having Stephen King as a father, but Joe Hill probably can't imagine having my dad either, so it's a wash.

Not really. Hill's not curious about my father.

Stephen King, James Lee Burke, and Anne Rice have kids who write. Comments from all three of them show a supportive and warm parental pride in their offsprings' success. The kind of pride that every child should experience.

I wish a worthy question would pop into my brain, but looking over the thread on his blog, seems like all of the good ones are taken.

Ain't that always the case.

On the radio

Heading home today I heard the following three songs in a row:

"Carry On, My Wayward Son" (always provides the emotional cocktail of gritty determination and sadness ever since that Supernatural episode)

"Don't Stop (thinking about tomorrow)"

"Don't Stop Believing" (thanks to the new TV show this song is now inescapable)

If my radio tells me to keep on keeping on, who am I to argue?

Teachers I wish I had

Socrates is one of my favorite teachers. I like to think I would've taken to him, but I'm sure at least once I would've said, "What's with all the questions? You're freaking me out, man."

Two teachers I wish I had and would even settle for hearing second- or thirdhand accounts about life in their classrooms are Stephen King and Sting.

I want to know what assignments they gave and if they had pets and if they returned work in a timely fashion or dumped it uncorrected in the bin on the last day of school.

I think I would pay money for these accounts.

What's on your background?

Today I put RDJ as the background for my school computer.

He's a tad distracting when I finish writing up an assignment and close Windows. He takes me by surprise.

But damn if I don't smile every time I see him.

I'd rather be angry

I threw out my back today and had a faculty meeting. Guess which one induces more pain?

I just wanted to scream, "Can't we have some academic standards? When most of the country has a massive resentment for the teaching profession, can't we at least keep some integrity in case we need to point at it?"

I was not wearing my poker face and one of my colleagues had to resort to the "Breathe, Kaye." Which always work.

I don't know why my department head is taking such an anti-intellectual stance and following the fuckwad in the department's advice.

My department head- squeeze him and he meows.

I've decided to make it my goddamn mission not to let this shit bother me. I'm pissed that the lower grades send me students who haven't reached proficiency in basic skills, but they have them when they leave my class.

I must be doing something right and that has to count.

I'm going to keep doing my job to the best of my ability and continue to change and adapt my instruction to fit the students' needs.

I won't hold the fact that they spent junior year making goddamn dioramas instead of reaching academic standards. It's not their fault.

I have an ice cold Sam Adams for my back and I'm home with no papers to grade. That's the good stuff I'll focus on.

Ducks in winter

You know how sometimes you type logins or passwords in the wrong spot and nothing happens?

Where do the words go?

There must be a mountain of unused words somewhere- a jumble of letters and numbers all adding up to mistakes.

Maybe if they set for a millenium, they'll randomly take the form of the works of Shakespeare.

More about chowder

The family recipe for chowder (clear broth) comes from an old friend who was held in high regard in our little town. Even at the age of six I recognized he was kind of an asshole.

When he became too old to make it, my mother, for some reason lost in history, became the designated chowder maker.

I can't tell you how much shit she took for it. When he was alive, he would make cutting remarks about the chowder or damn it with faint praise.

After he kicked, my cousins would get their digs in: "Nice chowder...But don't you wish Joshua was around to make it? Remember Joshua's chowder?"

If it were me, I'd be giving my cousins the special clams.

The recipe hasn't changed in Lo these many years. The one time we deviated resulted in the Great Chowder Fiasco of '04. My mom wanted to cut the potatoes small to thicken the broth and by fate or coincidence the chowder pot decided to melt onto the burner.

The smoke turned thick and black as it dawned on us that this wasn't normal spillage on the burner.

By a stroke of luck, the clams had not been added yet, which would've been a huge waste of money.

You might ask how a person disposes of scalding, burnt clamless chowder on the fly...Quickly and carefully. The trail of scorched potatoes and onions as I raced to the outside garbage can made a brown patch that lasted for years.

We don't get creative anymore in order to keep the chowder gods happy.

An early Memorial Day

I'm grateful my brother and brother-in-law here with us instead of distant shores.

My mom decided to have her Memorial Day picnic early. Too many of us need to go to bed early on work nights.

The morning was soggy, but now the day has a just been washed, lush feel to it. I'm counting down to 12:01 so I can crack open a beer.

Picnics always involve a massive amount of grunt work. The Memorial Day picnic is the first time we make the family chowder. Between that and the potato salad, twenty pounds of potatoes need to be peeled and cut up.

The chowder is a big old pain in the ass to make. The massive potato peeling and the slicing of the clams, which feel like chunks of snot.

I don't have to go over and help her make it, but really- am I going to let her do the grunt work on her own?

A couple years ago I tried to talk her out of making it for every summer picnic. Then my brother showed up and said in a voice reserved for the happiest moments, "I love coming here when the chowder's on."

A bit of grunt work in exchange for that? No contest.

What to do when you're feeling blue

Might I suggest Prince Caspian and "Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption"?

Accompanied by cinnamon toast and cocoa.

I liked Prince Caspian better than the first installment. The battle scene was hardcore, and when I think about the fact that every fantasy battle has Lord of the Rings to measure up to, I realize any scene where I'm feeling impressed has done its job.

I wish the kids in the movie had bigger reactions. It's not that they look bored; they just don't look bowled over.

The chemistry between Caspian and Susan was cute...My sympathy for Susan has increased ever since I read Gaiman's "The Trouble with Susan" and I feel bad that her interest in nylons, lipsticks, and (according to the movie) boys is the reason she's cut off from Narnia.

That female sexuality, she's a creature to be feared.

My favorite dom

Physical BDSM? That's the fun shit. It's when I play master and servant in my own head that things get all wonky.

I dumped a truckload of crazy on Tattoo Queen during our weekly chat. I was disgusted by the fact that I need to drag razors across my arms. Strictly metaphorical. If I started cutting for real, the emo kids might think I was a poser.

My name is Kaye and I'll be playing both sadist and masochist in my head. No, there are no cocktails served on this trip.

TQ was full of patience and common sense as I unfolded my sordid little tale: I went to Myspace and looked up the profile of Major Ex and another ex who was the relationship equivalent of a black hole.

This activity does me no good. I start thinking of how I'm deluding myself when I think I'm a different person from ten years ago. How I'll never amount to anything.

And on and on until I'm stuck in a morass of mental quicksand. And I'm the one who put myself there.

Somehow rolling in pain is better than trying to claw my way out.

See, whole lot of crazy.

TQ's great. She was dealing with her own batch of insanity this week and reasoned that our psyches miss no opportunity to fuck ourselves over. The minute we have the thought that we are happy, satisfied, or successful in our own corner, the subconscious serves up a plate of shit: "You thought you were over this? Silly Rabbit!"

Someday I'll put an end to this S&M relationship I have with myself. The break up might be hard, but it'll be worth it.

Someone should pave over memory lane

I spent a chunk of free time during the week in two major wastes: trolling youtube for eighties videos and cyberstalking in a shameful, masochistic way.

I don't know why I felt as if I had to watch all the favorite videos of my youth, the ones that I used to tell my brothers and sisters to call me for if they came on.

MTV used to be my favorite timesink. Hours in front of the tube knowing that after the umpteenth showing of "Burning Down the House" or "Billy Jean", a worthwhile video might come on.

Maybe something sexy by Duran Duran.

I'm not quite sure how I felt watching the songs. I was happy, but not completely happy. I felt regret and I don't know the reason.

Was I trying to recapture my youth? Trying to figure how things went awry? Both of those go against my personal philosophy and reality. Work with teenagers and you're old. There's no escaping it.

I did think about my teenage self. Back then all she wanted was to be able to dye her hair and have a pair of leather pants to call her own. I wish she'd been happier.

The littlest cat burglar

My sister called to tell me the newest of my little nephew's misbehaviors.

My brother-in-law was playing in their backyard with my nephew. He has a tendency to wander into the neighbors' yards- my nephew, not my sister's husband.

In a moment of "I only took my eyes off him for a second" (which has been the inspiration for many a Lifetime movie), my brother-in-law noticed the little scamp was gone.

The back door to the neighbor's house was ajar. It hadn't been opened before.

In a desperation born of a missing kid, my brother-in-law went into the neighbor's house, where he heard my nephew laughing somewhere upstairs.

He went upstairs and found his son in the room of the neighbor's little girl, hiding in the closet amid the rows of dresses.

I hereby christen my nephew "Le Chat". I plan on getting him a lo-jack or an invisible fence for his birthday.

At age two, his shenanigans are funny. At age twenty, a felony.

I'm hoping he reforms soon.

Whatya looking at?

I loved my apartment in Portland. Cheap, cozy, and near downtown. Everything worth going to was within walking or Max-ing distance.

But the location had its drawbacks.

When I lived there, Portland's finest had pushed the hookers off the main drag onto the side streets.

What did that mean for an upstanding girl like me?

I couldn't stand in front of the apartment building without being mistaken for a prostitute.

It didn't matter if I was dressed up or dressed down. The cars would circle the block; the drivers sure I was looking for a date.

I tried avoiding eye contact, but I could look at my feet for only so long. The minute I raised my head, I'd be staring into the eyes of some eager and desperate man.

It wasn't rare to see me on the corner, screaming my fool head off: "What the fuck do you want? Do I look like a hooker?"

If there was any romance or fairy tale in those moments, it went right over my head. Not one of those wankers looked like Richard Gere.

Put it in my mouth

I have a fetish for French kissing.

This fetish has been a part of my psyche since before I was allowed to watch R-rated movies.

It's all about the tongue. I'm not talking creepy lizard tongue a la Tom Cruise in Top Gun or Nicholas Cage in Face Off. Speaking of which, Cage was supposed to make your skin crawl in that scene; Tom Cruise's creepage was an unfortunate side effect.

When I was younger, I loved watching actors kiss and the moment I could see the person's tongue slide into the other person's mouth. To my preteen mind, it was the sexiest sight.

In the "Hungry Like a Wolf" video, there's a split second when the woman's tongue licks Roger Taylor's lip.

In Dead Man's Chest, there's a instant when Elizabeth pulls away slightly and as her betrayal dawns on Captain Jack, his tongue can be seen, which means it had been in her mouth.

I used to live for those moments. For me, there wasn't much time between hearing about snogging and going from "Why would I do that?" to "When can I do that?"

A really good kiss on the big screen can be better than a sex scene. I might not live for those moments quite as much, but they do my heart good when I happen on them.

Make no mistake, I still check out the kiss for a little tongue action. Old habits are persistent.

The game's afoot!

This made me very happy.

I'm praying Guy Ritchie didn't go overboard on the slo-mo, but I gotta say Holmes and Watson have never been such a pretty couple.

The sight of RDJ in handcuffs warms my heart, and the setting made me want to go out and write Victorian sex or steampunk.

Christmas seems so very, very far away.

My boyfriend wears eyeliner

Standing in the hallway during passing time, my teacher friend commented on the fact that high school girls always have a passion for nonthreatening, androgynous men.

I immediately disagreed. I've always loved them big, burly, hairy, threatening...

Wait a sec.

Maybe it's developmental.

Tis the season

Prom season is here and every time I see a poster advertising the proms, I'm reminded that I live in a John Hughes' movie.

The impulse to blurt out "What about prom, Blaine?" is strong. I've managed to suppress it for the past two years, but man, it's a hard thing to bite back.

The winner of the "Oh my God, you spent how much for a prom dress?" award goes to one of my seniors: $1500.00

Can I get a Holy Shit?

One of my students gave me a term for the inevitable sturm and drang that occurs at the festivities: Proma. Like prom and drama all rolled up into one gooey emo ball.

The winner of the heartbreak award goes to one of my seniors. A fine and decent young man, he was helping this girl in Anatomy and asked her to go two months ago. She said yes. Last week they had the last major test of the year and she waited one stinking day before telling him she was going with someone else.

He has a heart of gold and a huge amount of decency to him. He would've continued to help her even if she'd been honest and turned him down in the first place.

He's going with a group of friends. I could tell he was hurt, but damn if I don't admire him for deciding to enjoy the ritual.

I hope he has a magic night.

Reason #537 why I love my family

I'm the type of person who thinks everything is fine until I stumble over a thought and commence with the self-flagellation.

I'm a failure. I can't do anything right. All I amount to is a huge amount of suckage.

These are the times when someone in my family will call and give me a boost.

I'm not a failure. I am able. I am worthwhile.

Then they make me laugh.

If I didn't have my family, I think the devil would own me. And not in a positive, I'm a kickass urban fantasy heroine way.

When giants fall

The Borders near my house is dying a slow death.

Nobody's straightening the shelves anymore, they don't have enough people on, and the two books I wanted that should've been in stock weren't.

It's like visiting a sick relative at a nursing home.

I love this Borders. When I finished my grad degree and listened to everyone telling me there were no jobs for teachers, I applied. The woman who did the interview was great. We started talking about books and then started talking about the Romanovs. I can't remember the last time I talked about them.

She called me the day after my school offered me a position. When I told her, she sounded sincerely happy for me.

I don't know when the store will finally close its doors. Going there is spooky, and I'm selfish enough to admit that it's not a great book-buying experience anymore.

I'm going to miss it.

1984 Facebook Edition

I admit it: I totally ripped off the idea from the McSweeney's Hamlet.

1984 Facebook:

Winston and Big Brother are no longer friends.
Winston became a fan of journal writing.
Winston wonders about the past and thinks O’Brien might have the same interests.
The Parsons’ children joined the group Junior Spies.
Syme joined the group Newspeak Supporters Too Intelligent for Their Own Good.
Winston thinks Julia’s a spy and wants to poke her.
Winston and Julia are now friends.
Winston poked Julia.
Julia poked Winston back.
Julia has added “wearing make up” to her interests.
Winston took the Where You Should Live quiz and the result is the Golden Country.
Winston thinks rats are scary.
Winston wonders about the lines to a nursery rhyme involving churchbells.
Charrington rents Winston a room above the antique shop.
Winston and Charrington are now friends.
Syme is no longer online.
Winston and Julia joined the group The Brotherhood.
Charrington has posted an event: The arrest of Winston and Julia and BTW I’m thoughtpolice.
Winston commented on the arrest: “My paperweight is broken!”
Winston has added Miniluv to the Places I’ve Been Application.
Mr. Parsons has added Miniluv to the Places I’ve Been Application.
Mr. Parsons joined the group Proud and Deluded Parents.
Winston has added Room 101 to the Places I’ve Been Application.
O’Brien sent Winston a rat.
Winston has blocked Julia.
Julia has blocked Winston.
Winston and Big Brother are now friends.

Stop me if I told you this before

There are two Steinbecks on the curriculum: The Red Pony and The Black Pearl.

Both of them suck beyond any measure of sucking, especially considering that Steinbeck has a ton of quality work.

One saving grace in the wreckage that is The Red Pony- no, not the vulture- is the part with the grandfather. He's an old fool everyone's tired of, but when he says that he tells his stories over again because they're important enough to be retold...Damn if he's not revealing a universal.

One more check to see if you're a good listener: Do you let people tell you stories you've already heard?

You can't acquire years without acquiring a few choice stories. It would stink if you could only tell them once to the people around you. Why would you get only one shot to tell the one about your close brush with death or the time you did something that seemed out of character, but was actually the you who doesn't come out to play too often?

I don't mind the retell. Stories are important. Every time people repeat a story, they're solidifying a piece of themselves.

I'd be a bitch to deny them the opportunity.

It hurts when someone stops me and says, "Yeah, I've heard this before." The tale goes flat and dead on the tongue.

When my teacher friend did this to me a couple months ago (yes, I bear grudges like a Texan bears sunburned arms), I could've punched him.

I cannot say how much he repeats himself. As much as I'm all for the listening to twice-told tales, the man tests my limits. He'll tell the same story at least fifteen times a year.

He has about twenty stories. I've known him for several years. The math makes me want stuff tacks in my ears until something breaks with a painful pop and then the rest is silence.

As I've said before- let me say it again- I'm a good listener...But there are limits to my masochism.

At a crossover

I always keep my eyes open for crossovers. They might not be as tasty as turnovers, but they have emotional filling.

The biggest Buffy crossover is either Bye Bye Love or Can't Hardly Wait.

One of the most puzzling crossovers is the Oz/Law and Order. I don't understand why it exists.

But now I have one that makes the aforesaid look as innocuous as a kitten crossed with a bunny...

The mysterious Deadwood/LOST crossover.

So far Trixie, Joanie, Calamity Jane, and Silas have shown up on LOST.

Why is this happening? Is the casting for the show subtly reminding the viewer of the quality TV available on DVD?

If Al shows up and stays for awhile, I'll take back every nasty thought or word I ever expressed about the show.

LOST season finale (spoilage)

At 10:04 last night I realized the atrocity that was the LOST finale wasn't going to end at a decent time.

At 10:26 it occurred to me that I was hoping the last season would tie up loose ends and leave me satisfied, but that the chances were good that those fucking writers- having made their tons of money and network bones- would probably not even care how the series ended.

It reminds me of that scene in Last Tango in Paris...without the courtesy of butter.

First off we get to see the mysterious and powerful Jacob who also happens to be the dead ex-junky, ex-abusive husband from Dexter. Bad move LOST, reminding the viewers of a better series.

The writing was clumsy. The suspense was cheap. And would someone please tell those fucking writers that revealing an open box at an angle so the audience can't see isn't slick. It's a rookie move.

Jack wants to set things right because he loves Kate.

Juliet backstabs Sawyer once again because he looked at Kate.

Gosh, the writers loves them some triangle.

I'm trying to think of my favorite horrendous part from last night. Was it when our heroes decided that while killing a kid who grows up to be a murderous psychopath is wrong, killing the poor Dharma redshirts who were doing their jobs was fine and dandy?

Was it when we learned where Hurley got his stupid guitar case? Everyone I know was chomping at the proverbial for the writers to explain that one.

Was it when Ben turned into a broken little woobie because the writers are trying to make him sympathetic?

Nope. I nominate the following scene: Sawyer asked Jack if they can talk for five minutes. Jack replied, "No...My close friend Sayid is bleeding from a gutshot and I should at least apply pressure and pretend to be a doctor."

Jack's reply was in my fevered imagination. His real response was to agree. Then the two of them proceeded to kick the shit out of each other in a really ineffectual fight scene. The writers loves them some torture porn.

Sad to say, the only moment Juliet and Sawyer generated any chemistry in their entire run as a couple was in the moments at the well. Which was a total ripoff of Cliffhanger or Ace Ventura- take your everloving pick.

One positive was I finally remembered where that chick who captured Sayid was from. Hello, Gaia of Rome. Bad move, LOST, reminding me of a better series.

What say the powers that be yank the last season of LOST and reward it to the makers of Rome?

How long should a series be?

I recently read a book in a series from an author I no longer buy. As I checked out the book from the library, I ruefully remembered the time I used to buy her in hardcover.

The book was a pleasant surprise. The author tied up loose ends and her writing reminded me of how much I used to love reading her. She even gave a couple playful "Take thats!" to her disgruntled readers, which upped my respect for her because the nods weren't vindictive.

I finished the book fully satisfied that she had shut the door on the series in a great way. I really admired that she would end a bestselling series.

I was mistaken.

The series will go on and on and on.

That makes me sad. I firmly believe in leave 'em wanting more, but my philosophy hasn't been tested.

I don't know what I would do in the situation.

I now have a newfound respect for all the writers who know when to walk away from the characters they know and love and the paychecks they could have if they kept milking that cow.

To what do they owe?

It's a mistake to picture Neil Gaiman as a cute, mussy-haired genius who takes no nourishment beyond long draughts from the milk of human kindness.

He and Joe Hill have some stories that show their edge. I know that.

But his response on the blog today cracked me up. A reader wrote that he was resentful of George RR Martin's too long delay in publishing the next installment of a series.

Gaiman's reply: George RR Martin is not your bitch.

See, even the rehash makes me snicker.

I've been wondering about the contract between writer and reader. Many people say there's none; however, a bunch of readers have been vocal about what they're owed.

I have to confess that on a recent Powell's trawl- readying a list for my unrepentant, gluttonous orgy of beginning of summer books- I was delighted to see that James Lee Burke is coming out with a new book, but felt disappointed in that it wasn't a Dave Robicheaux.

I shouldn't feel that way. I've never been disappointed in the series and if Burke decided to end it, which might be the case, I'd be able to accept that fact.

After many nights on a soggy pillow.

I also wonder if authors owe it to their fandom to say when they've made a change in style. I've witnessed many a betrayed fan's outrage at what is perceived as a bait and switch. I've been burned once or twice myself.

Poppy Z Brite made her switch in styles absolutely clear. If people went into the Liquor series expecting the supernatural or vampires, they willfully ignored numerous blog postings as well as blurbs and back covers.

With little effort, her readers were informed.

Did she have to inform her readers? That's the question.

I'd like to think if my writing drastically changed (yeah, I don't picture getting tired of writing romance and sex), I'd take pains to make sure the readers were aware.

But that don't make me anyone's bitch.

Separated at birth

I wonder if Jonathan M. Woodward curses his rotten luck at being born too early to play Edward Cullen.

I was going to post a picture of him, but I couldn't find one that fits my needs as well as a typical episode of Angel. Plus my cold is wreaking havoc on my patience. Woodward plays Knox, who is one of my favorite tropes: the likable, fumbling sociopath.

He could've been Edward. I'm as serious as a heart attack.

I can't stop thinking about my nose

I'm dealing with a summer cold. Part of me wants to rip off my nose and throw it at the wall. My lungs are making a strange sound at every inhale. My students have been asking me if it's swine flu.

I guess I could be grateful that the cold is hitting me now, as opposed to during summer vacation.

Real life fairy tales- without the darkness

Tattoo Queen fell in love a couple months back.

I could listen to the whole story about her romance at least once a month. It makes me happy. TQ has been doing hard time on the romantic scene. Her attempts at dating made for much hilarity, but little staying power.

Her last longterm boyfriend was a total asshole. Ignorant. Roided out. Angry. Possessive. Unfaithful.

Dear Lord, I'm glad he's gone far far away.

Back to her new romance. In November, a trusted employee at her shop turned out to be a drug dealing scumbag who took off with $1500 she loaned him and her entire Angel series DVDs.

The horror.

She's feeling betrayed and shorthanded. Enter Tee- brother to one of her employees. He fills in and turns out to be one of the greatest guys she has ever known. She feels a tension between them, but is hesitant to voice her thoughts. One fateful night, she screws up her courage and tells him. He responds in the perfect way by telling her that he feels the same way.

He likes to talk about his feelings (but not too much), enjoys playing Guitar Hero, and doesn't mind doing yardwork, which happens to be the bane of TQ's existence. The girl is allergic to the sun.

They've been going strong ever since.

Walking a tight trope

I came across a trope I used while I was dicking around TV Tropes.

TV Tropes is one of my favorite timesinks. I keep reminding myself that tropes aren't cliches and the only way they fail is when they're done poorly.

There are certain tropes I love. The reunited lovers or the heroine's return to her hometown make me happy. I don't mind when the villain launches into monologue instead of killing a protagonist. I'm a sucker for a rousing speech (We few, we lucky few, we band of brothers...).

Then again, there are plenty of tropes that fly up my nose. I'm not a fan of Scrappy Doos or protagonists who are always right even when they're hell to the wrong. I've run into a bunch of "If you kill him, you're no better than him" instances recently (hello, Wolverine). That plot device doesn't get any more endearing or convincing upon repetition.

Which is why I have words of advice for the melty goodness that is Sayid: Your heart was in the right place, but next time? Double tap to the forehead, Darling.

There's no escaping tropes in literature. Every story has been told; everything's derivative. Remove the tropes from writing and you've got no characters, no plot events, no story.

I thought I didn't like the secret baby trope, but then I remembered Moses and Harry Potter. If the hidden baby is a subset of the secret baby then it works in the hands of the able.

The next question is how a writer can write something new when there is nothing new.

Angel season five (spoilage)

Season four of Angel isn't my favorite; I only accept it because it's a transitional season. I thought they could've picked a better Connor and the Cordelia/Connor relationship is made of too much squick to ignore. I thought the ickiness wouldn't hit me as hard, but it did.

Season five, though, that's a different story. Connor's likable, Fred's likable (especially after she dies), and the season shows the best and worst of the series.

The good: Spike returns and Wesley fully emerges as a tragic hero in his own right, thus completing one hell of a character arc that started in Season three of Buffy. The funny: Puppet Angel. The sad: Cordelia and "That'll do nicely."

The horrible: the cluster that is the half-assed Buffy crossovers, which manage to screw the continuity of both shows. If Buffy hooks up with any vampire that wiggles a fang, it diminishes her character and love. In my expert opinion, the episode of them in Rome is apocrypha. It didn't happen.

I'm watching this with bittersweet-colored glasses. I know the inevitable end is coming and I'm not in a hurry to see it.

snikkt! (spoilage)

Nothing says Mother's Day like adamantium beefcake.

Emma, my mother, and I went to see Wolverine today. I've been trying to get my mother in touch with her inner hack-and-slash. That started when I took her to see Kill Bill vol. one many years ago.

Wolverine was fun. Not as satisfying as Iron Man or the first X-Men, but no one can be too miffed when Hugh Jackman never looked so good.

Sidenote: See, movies can get away with having the hero in a wifebeater, but the minute you dress him in a wifebeater in a book is the minute the reader screams, "Redneck!" T'aint fair.

The story is incredibly predictable even for the uninitiated, but the fight scenes are over the top. I was glad to see Gambit- one of my faves from the pages. Although he loses a little bit with no Rogue and only Logan to flirt with.

Can't say I'm fond of the liberties recent comic book movies take. SPOILER

Wolverine and Sabretooth ARE NOT brothers. No way, no how. How stupid does the writer or director have to be to need a manufactured reason for the two guys to hate each other? The comic book didn't need that crutch.

One of my favorite scenes from the book is when Logan is looking over the side of a boat and Sabretooth erupts from the water. The next panel has Logan saying how hard it is to heal a torn-out throat.

I don't think Wolverine needs to be seen on the big screen, not like The Watchmen. I don't know how long my loyalty to the comic book- it was one of my firsts- will express itself in shelling out the big bucks to see the movies in the theater.

Hugh Jackman, however, almost made it worth the cash.

Moments of high geekness

The combination of earnestness and passion when you're talking about what you love usually comes out sounding dorky.

I love this. It's hard to sound cool, even if you are cool, when you're relating anything close to your heart. The Metallica documentary drove this home when the boys were discussing the merits of the new bassist.

Other times, the reveal just can't be helped. Which is fine. I'm all for hoisting the old geek flag and I'm damn proud to do it.

Moments of geekiness:

1. When the first episode of Angel season five aired, Mercedes McNab's name showed up in the opening credits. I immediately clapped my hands and shouted, "They're bringing back Harmony!" My friends gave me strange looks, which was slightly hypocritical of them.

2. When my teacher friend boasted that he had watched three whole episodes of TNG at one time, my first thought (unvoiced) was a dismissive "Rookie. Come back when you're diehard enough to watch a whole season in 24 hours. Then we'll talk."

3. During a conversation at a bar after school, a teacher responded to a comment with "Where there's a whip, there's a way." I immediately pointed at him and said, "You're such a dork." Thus revealing my geek in that I knew the source of his statement.

Karma sometimes has four wheels

One of my nephews is the sweetest kid in the world. Not the fake or cloying kind, but a good nature that makes me fear for him when he goes out into the real world.

In the first semester this year, he started to say he was too sick to go to school. This was weird because he took pride in his attendance. My sister asked him what was up and he told her some jerk in his gym class was bullying him. Had been for at least a year.

There were parent meetings and teacher meetings, and maybe the bullying died down. My nephew said it did, but you can never tell if a kid is telling the truth or just wants the attention to stop.

It was one of the times in my life when I felt absolutely helpless. I got angry, but there was no one to put my anger on. I hated that kid. Hated the parents who let the little spawn torment my beautiful nephew.

Everyone in the family felt this way.

A month after the meetings, the bully was crossing the street against the light. A car hit him.

Ask me how many tears my family shed.

TV what rots your brain

I don't know what got into me, but I watched Oprah and Dr. Phil yesterday.

Oprah was about bullying. Two mothers were on; their sons had committed suicide because of bullying. That peels my heart. Middle school students shouldn't even know the definition of suicide.

The one part that flew up my nose was the psychologist who blamed the teachers. Teachers spend all their class time teaching to the test and don't acknowledge the torture going on in front of them.

That's right. The entire period in my class is spent bubbling in scantrons. I ignore any bullying as long as they fill in the bubbles correctly.

I call BS. Teachers and students might occupy the same space and interact, but we exist in separate realities. I try my hardest, but knowing the true dynamics of a situation eludes me.

So I have incredibly strict classroom rules: no touching, no calling names, and no using insults even in jest. Yet I know bullying goes on and it kills me.

I'm lucky to teach in high school; bullying is worse in middle school and a number of my students have said that people are nicer in the higher grades.

There's bullying at my school, but I know to lay blame on the teacher is wrong.

In praise of the C student

All year you've worked. There are a couple assignments you blew off, but you always turned in the major papers.

Your writing shows proficiency and that's about it. English isn't your specialty or interest, and once you get past the general education requirements of college, you won't write or read academically again.

Despite the inevitable crescent moon on the top of the test (sometimes with a cross, sometimes a tail), you never grade-grub; it's beneath you.

Your sense of humor is one of your strongest traits. You make me laugh in class and I tell my friends and family about your jokes when they're especially funny. And your politeness. Before class, it's a smile and a "Good Morning, Ms. Sykes"; after class, a smile and "Have a good day."

You sweat over some papers, struggling to put those cream-slippery ideas on the screen. Knowing the printed words aren't nearly as pretty as those in your head, right out of reach.

Your diligence and tenacity touch me. Sometimes your grade reflects that effort. I don't usually give credit for the hard work that goes into an assignment, but damn if you don't convince me.

You're the person I want to work alongside of. You're the boss I'd like to have. You're the one I'd want my son or daughter to marry. The friend I want my nephews to keep their whole lives.

I don't care that you tend to summarize and generalize. Or that they're, there, and their are interchangeable. Or that every book and story might slip from your head after you move your tassel.

You are one of my favorites.

Why are your darlings huddled in the corner?

Every veteran writer offers up the advice that novice writers should kill their darlings.

It's not a bad suggestion. LM Montgomery has both Anne and Emily getting this type of advice. The characters even make comments that a piece of writing that strikes them as particularly fine often loses all of its luster upon rereading.

The trouble is knowing who my darlings are. Sometimes I feel a twinge after I write a passage that seems brilliant at the time because I know I'll probably end up highlighting it and hitting delete.

But the hidden darlings are what drive me crazy. They're wily little buggers who can blend into the walls. Hell, they can masquerade as load-bearing walls; they have the hiding refined to an art.

Those darlings aren't the writerly passages. They're the sections that are essential to plot, character, and theme...Or so they want me to think. I can't get rid of them without ruining the page, chapter, and- God forbid- book. Their subtle mind control convinces me to overlook them.

I can't kill them. They're too important...besides, they look so cute all scared and sweaty.

It's just a book

I was reading a heartfelt review of a book that featured a main character killed in a horrible way. The reviewer was sad at the death and incredibly angry at the author.

A number of commenters in the thread offered this observation: "It's fiction."

What tremendous insight! I'm sure the reviewer forgot she was holding a book and this handy little reminder saved her days of heartache.

Please.

I hate reductionist arguments. It's hard to choose among the "It's fiction", "Writers are liars", and "If you don't like the author, don't buy his/her books".

Who reads a book with the idea that it's fiction? There's nothing like the sweet purity of being absorbed into a story- the jumble of words somehow create a reality or really convincing show in your head.

It's not fiction. I go into books willing to have my heart broken, to fall in love, and/or to be wracked with terror. I'm happy to put myself in the hands of an able author.

I feel sorry for the reader who has "It's fiction" in their heads. They're missing out.

By any other name

I've been thinking about eponyms- words that come from people's names.

Quisling. Sadism. Gargantuan. Machiavellian.

What I really want to say to someone is that they better cut it out or I'll buckingham their ass.

That entails looking at them with painful longing and singing with barely suppressed rage.

It's a very heavy feather

I'm writing this in the hopes that catharsis will magically cure my insomnia.

A family friend's husband died in a freak accident this week. It was horrible and sudden and all my reactions are wrong and selfish.

I'm angry...have been angry all week, but I didn't let the students know- they don't need that shit.

Life is unfair and random and anytime I forget that is an illusion. But now I want to get back to the self-deception and denial. I don't want the rage under my skin. See, it's all about me and how I feel.

The friend is a sunny person. There's two children who need her and I can't imagine how sharp life will be for her now.

I'm glad she has a huge support system, although that's a poor comfort or unrecognizable comfort when something like this happens. My sister Emma and her friends have been constants at her house, trying to take on some pain when I don't even know if it's possible.

One of my favorite memories of her is when she acted out the "Charlie bit my finger" clip from youtube.

One of my other favorite memories is when she and Emma came down to New Orleans for a visit. We were sitting on the balcony and the guy on the balcony across the way yelled out, "Three blondes! You're gonna take over the city tonight."

On Bourbon, a man with an obscene amount of beads asked her to flash. She demurred and yanked a nice fat strand over his head and wore them for the entire night and morning.

We three had a lot of girl talk during the visit. She was worried that her then-boyfriend would never want to settle down and marry her. My sister and I didn't offer much advice, but listened to her. She did marry him.

And eleven years later she's a widow.

The abject grief on her face at the calling hours is still with me. I picture her walking the halls of their new house and I want the image out of my head.

She didn't deserve this. Her kids didn't deserve this. Everyone says that about these types of tragedies, but this time it's true.

I want my denial back. I want to go to sleep. I want her to have peace.

Those aren't in order of importance, but my selfishness has a loud voice.