Contemplating naval lint

I must admit, I like therapy. It's nice to have someone totally unjudgemental hear all your deepest worries and concerns. Someone who doesn't laugh when you mention your anxiety attack caused by a skirt that is a tad too tight.

It's hard to figure out what I'm riddled. I have no new stress. The part-time gig is great. My freelance gig is swinging. My health is actually top notch. The family is well-balanced and generally happy. What the hell is my problem?

My last attack was Friday when I woke in the middle of the night, frantic that my bottom lip was swelling in reaction to .... air? Who knows? It's not like I'd been eating at 2:30 a.m.

So I undertook a new, ridiculous, just-for-the-joy of it project.

As you may recall, I went through a post-adolescent love fest with the "Twilight" books. Last week, our local hometown newspaper launched a writing contest to continue the Twilight story. It's a 400 word job, it has to center around two characters and take place soon after the conclusion of the final book. Oh my mind, she is a-racing.

I've chosen Jasper and Alice. If you haven't read the books, please stop reading this post. I don't want you nay-saying to ruin my buzz.

I'd like to do something that centers on Alice's past, specifically her time in the assylum. Us crazies like to stick together.

I think I have the concept and storyline in place. I just need to add the pretty part. I'm still ambivilent about submitting. I'm afraid I'll be competing with a bunch of 16-year-olds, and will feel ashamed, but I should do things I enjoy, yes?

Yes! So I push forward, tap into my inner teen angst and see what comes out.

I might just need to see High School Musical 3 to help with the project. Teen drama research is required!

A slice above the rest

Why have you people not told me about the Other Boleyn Girl? I made an impulse purchase at the book store a few weeks ago and picked it up. I had heard it was good, a tad trashy. I know there was a movie in the making.

But I also felt it might be a moot point. Everyone knows what happened to Anne Boleyn: declared a treasonous adulterer and lost her head at the Tower green in the Tower of London.

I must say, well done to Philippa Gregory. She took a very well-known story and added in layers of intrigue marked with desire, deception and the ultimate quest for power and wrapped it into a delicious novel that took me a day to devour.

While I know it is a work of fiction, and the lives of these girls is lost into the swiss cheese accounts of history, but she did a damn fine job of using her reserach and her imagination.

I was caught up, to say the least. And the characters were so richly drawn that at one point, I railled at Anne's cutthroat, tireless quest for the throne that betrayed not only her sister but her own soul.

There is not much better than a magnificent book. I plan on renting the movie although I already expect disappointment. Only a handful of movies have ever matched the passion I felt for the books. But I crave just a few more hours of the beautiful Boleyn girls.

Beginnings

Literature and I are twins punched from the same ream of paper. I cannot live without it, and it taunts me.

I've been on a reading jag of children's literature, skimming through one teen drama after the next. Easy but fun reading. Highly enjoyable.

This week I picked up a more mature novel. The title compelled me: My Name is Will. A Novel of Sex, Drugs and Shakespeare.

From the first page, I was not disappointed.

Though he didn't know it, the mushroom's cap was exactly the size and shape of Queen Elizabeth I's left tit. Willie also didn't know that the guy sitting up front, near the driver was a narc. And he also didn't know quiet how he -- a graduate student in literature, and according to his mother, the next William Shakespeare -- had ended up as a drug runner. But he did know that the woman sitting next to him was giving him a boner.

I'd say that's among the most classic first lines of a novel, right next to "Call me Ishmael."

Chuck bo buck, banana fanana fo ...

I just finished the latest and greatest novel from Chuck Palahniuk, Rant.

Now I am a fan of Chuck. He's a clever sort of fellow. He wrote Fight Club, which is an excellent book. His take on a writers retreat also blew my mind. But what the fuck is the matter with this guy?

I've been a follower for a long time. I've seen him speak, and autograph copies of his book. There is love. But sometimes, you have to wonder, what happened to this guy to make him so damn twisted?

The latest book follows the life of a young man, named Rant, who is wanted by the police for killing people by spreading rabies. That's right, rabies. But in Chuck's world, you don't just spread rabies by spitting on people's food, or in their eyes. No, in Chuck's world, it was through oral sex.

"To make time stand still -- what sand mandalas are to Buddhist Monks and embroidery is to Irene Casey -- eating pussy was to Rant. He'd stick his tongue into you and years could pass. Mountains erode. It almost didn't matter that his spit gave me rabies."

When I think of all the silly little stories I've written over the years, I realize that I cannot compete on Chuck's level. I can never be to pussy-spreading-rabies what Chuck is to twisted storytelling.

I'm almost too depressed to twitter myself now.

Away, away, my love

I've been to Utah and back with much to share. But in the meantime, while I was visiting I picked up a book that I actually had bought for my niece for Christmas this year.

I read a great interview with the author, Stephanie Meyer on the plane that made me curious about her books. She writes mainly for a teenage audience but her subject is vampires, specifically a human girl devoted to a vampire boy. I'm admittedly a huge fan of Anne Rice, so the vampire genre is one I'm passionate about in the first place. But the skeptic in me usually triggers when I hear "love story" and "teenagers."

I should also admit, I don't really like teenagers. I think they are ridiculous. I swear I never acted like that when I was a teenager, although I bet my mom would disagree. Still, if you can't speak one sentence without the word "like" then I can't stand near you for very long. Nails on a chalkboard, people.

However, this book was pretty good. I read it in one fell swoop between horrible flights on the way home. Thankfully the ball of fire was so exhausted he just laid in a puddle in the seat next to me.

And, to top it off, there's a movie in the making. Although in my mind, Edward was much hotter!

More on the trip to Utah, including the BOF peeing in the desert in the days to come.

Chick lit

I'm redoing my mis-used office that until now has been the dumping ground for all manner of paper, cords, ridiculous amounts of computer equipment and unused technical manuals. All will find solace in the arms of the trash man.

This room could be a hidden gem, I'm trying to uncover the grim and create a very pretty little guest room, perfect for a Utah-living sister who might come to visit me again. We'll see

In the meantime, I have two shelves that worked well in the room before so I'm repurposing for the pretty part. In my cleverness, I decided to pull out all my books by female authors.

Wow. When I was done, there were about six books left, all by Stephen King. Can you say "feminist tendencies?" I never realized how one-sided my collection has become.

I know I read male authors, but apparently I only keep the books by women writers. Very interesting. Toni Morrison, Sylvia Plath, J.K. Rowling, Ann Rice, Diana Gabaldon, Alice Walker,... all excellent selections. I actually have an autographed copy of The Color Purple among my prized possessions.

I trashed that idea and went with a shelf dedicated to two of my favorites: Margaret Atwood and Anita Shreve. The Time Traveler's Wife was thrown in for good measure as it is one of my all-time favorites.

Speaking of Ms. Atwood, I made another less-tumultuous trip to my local romance-lover's library. I actually found a book by her that I'd never read before, The Penelopiad: The Myth of Penelope and Odysseus. It's a clever little retelling of the Odyssey from Penelope's point of view, which was adapted for the stage last summer.

Of course, through Margaret Atwood's eyes, the story is less about the magnanimous and heroic Odysseus, which is what makes it so clever and delicious.

I picture the gods, diddling around on Olympus, wallowing in the nectar and ambrosia and the aroma of burning bones and fat, mischevieous as a pack of 10-year-olds with a sick cat to play with and a lot of time on their hands.

"Which prayer shall we answer today?" they ask one another. "Let's cast dice! Hope for this one, despair for that one, and while we're at it, let's destory the life of that woman over there by having sex with her in the form of a crayfish!"

Erotically denied

I realize I live in the middle of the Bible belt. But usually I have no issues sowing my liberal oats, having coffee with my liberal friends, arguing with my non-liberal husband on issues. I have ready access to liberal women’s organizations, highly inflammatory liberal reading material and even, yes, it’s true, vibrators.

So when I read a recent review of Sex in America: Politically Inspired Erotica by Stephen Elliott, I ran right out to my local book store to pick up a copy.

Only, they didn't carry it. Neither did the store in the mall or the bigger store across town. None of them carried it. In fact, the nice lady at the information desk informed me that it was considered objectionable content and they wouldn't order it. Of course it's objectionable, I retorted, it's about SEX, which will soon be illegal in this country!

I shouldn't have been pissy, it wasn't her fault, but what the hell? It's a book.

Considering that I couldn't buy it, well, now I had to have it. So I did what every good fan of erotic literature does: I ordered it from Amazon.com. I only hope it comes wrapped in a black wrapper because I just can't imagine what the neighbors would think!

Give it away, give it away now

A few years ago, I made it a New Year's Resolution to read all the Pulitzer Prize winning novels. I like award winners, it's a form of snobbery, I know, but I'm built that way. I also love the Booker Prize winners. In fact, the Bookers are usually better than the Pulitzers but that is my humble opinion, but I may be biased since my beloved Margaret Atwood has won the coveted prize.

So it pains me when the Pulitzer is given away, even to someone like Bob Dylan.

Dylan, the most acclaimed and influential songwriter of the past half century, who more than anyone brought rock from the streets to the lecture hall, received an honorary Pulitzer Prize on Monday, cited for his "profound impact on popular music and American culture, marked by lyrical compositions of extraordinary poetic power."

I can see the rationale behind this move, after all, no one writes about war, love or pie like Dylan.

Love that country pie
Raspberry, strawberry, lemon and lime
What do I care?
Blueberry, apple, cherry, pumpkin and plum
Call me for dinner, honey, I'll be there

Card-carrying literates

Being of a literary nature, I tend to assume everyone likes to read. I know what happens when you assume, but I can't help it. Everyone should read. Of course, I'm married to someone who stopped reading in the early 90s, but I still have hope.

So imagine my pain when the ball of fire flat our refused to go to the library.

In his defense, we're not usually library people. I tend to buy books and keep them, in my library, which has outgrown our space. But, we're on this great new money-saving venture to recoup our losses after thousands of dollars have been spent on medical bills. Yes, my fault, but whatever.

Like my co-blogger Jane, we don't believe in buying shit if we can't afford it and we always have money in the savings. But we've tapped the savings pretty hard this year, so off to the library we go.

I had my list. I picked up Gilead, a Pulitzer Prize winner that I didn't catch the first time I was reading Pulitzers. Then I went to check out the other books on the shelves. This library carries a shitload -- and I stress SHITLOAD -- of romance novels. What that says about the general readers in the area, I dare not assume. Because of the overwhelming abundance, I was forced to pick out a romance-esque novel. I know, if I had a friend who lived on a bridge... whatever.

Meanwhile, the ball of fire has gone crazy over in the kid's section. A pile of kids books were precariously swaying on the table as he ran around whispering to himself, "Oh my gosh, I have this book at home, but wait, I don't have THIS ONE!!"

There was no way we could take all of those home, but what the hell, we're at the library where reading is love, so why not let him look?

Then I caught the stare. You know that stare. The one that only a blue-haired, dried up librarian can give? Evil red eyes. Arms crossed over drooping bosom which is swaddled in a cardigan button up. Hip cocked. Sensible shoes. Poised to put an end to all fun.

That look.

I smiled in return. She nodded at the BOF. I scowled back at her, but collected my child with a whisper about going home and promised gum in exchange for his unprotesting acquiescence.

As we were checking out our meager six books, I overhear the Nazi bitch tell the other librarian that she needed to "straighten up the children's area as there were numerous books unshelved." I snorted.

Oh just you wait, friend. Next trip, we're chewing our gum before we arrive...

Word lust

I confess. I have a love affair of generous proportions. A lust that cannot be sated. A desire that extends beyond anything I could imagine. A need so great, it's visceral. I love a good book. I know I've confessed this addiction before, but when I've been getting a lot of good words lately, I feel the need to confess yet again.

Needless to say, it's been a great few weeks for me and the printed page. It all started with Stephen and his latest pleasure trip in the bizarre, Duma Key. I have a Pavlovian response to Stephen King. New book, must buy.

Admittedly, not all his novels are gems. Luckily this one was. Good writers have their own rhythm. I'm sure my editor, MK, can spot my belles-lettres a mile away. I have a tendency to eschew conjunctions, using a synchopated cadence that usually runs in threes, light, loving, lingering... Stephen has the his own tendencies: A book by Stephen King reads like a book from Stephen King.

I also picked up the debut novel from Jonathan Barnes, The Somnambulist. Good Lord, talk about cadence. This author does some amazing tricks with words. Thinly veiled as a mystery novel, it's a dip into the exotic and erotic underside of London.

But it's his mastery of language that impressed me most. I actually had to look up words. I haven't done that in years! The last time was for A Clockwork Orange, and you have to use the dictionary in the back of the book to actually understand what the characters are talking about.

It was truly a pleasure to follow the story and soak up the language in each perfect little page. If you're looking for something new, please give this one a try. I can't promise you'll find my same level of ecstasy, but it might thrill you a bit in the meantime.

I have long believed the city, the country, indeed the world at large to be run by precisely the wrong kind of people. From the government to the great financial institutions, the peerage to the police force, the venal, the rapacious and the undeservedly rich. How much more comfortable would it be if the rulers of the world were not the cognoscenti of the bank balance, the ballot box, the offshore account, but were drawn instead from the ranks of the everyday-- honest, kind stout-hearted, commonplace folk.

Slogging

Sometimes I work too hard to find a novel.

I believe good fiction should be effortless. You start at page one, maybe it takes a bit to get rolling, but once you're in the story -- living, breathing and in love with the characters -- the book will unroll before you like the mythical red carpet that only unfolds for the chosen few.

I know these novels exist. I've read others like it. The problem is finding them.

Currently I'm jolting my way through The Pillars ofthe Earth by Ken Follett. This was a safe pick. Follett is a published novelist, many times over. He usually writes mystery/thrillers but he branched out into historical fiction with this work. It was also on Oprah's bookclub list.

I'm afraid it's 973 pages of crapola.

I have to push myself to read. I don't want to push myself. I want to slip in between the covers and slide around like butter. I want delicious prose, complex relationships, sing-song sentences that thrill my writer's soul. In short, I want magic.

Follett tries so hard to sound intelligent, but has choosen the 12th century to set this story. No one is intelligent. For example, Tom, a central character, is a stone mason. In one chapter, he's discussing how his son and stepson fight all the time.

"Boys always fight. You could spend your whole life adjudicating their quarrels. Best to leave them to it."

I have been a professional writer for more than a decade and I had to look up adjudicating. I seriously doubt a barely-literate mason could pull that word out of his ass.

Unfortunately I have an obstinate nature. I'll push and pull my way through until the end. I'll bitch and bemoan my poor taste, my willingness to accept recommendations from a half-reliable source. But finish I will.

Next on my list, No Country For Old Men by Cormac McCarthy, recently adapted for film by the Coen brothers. I have high hopes.

Until then, I sneak paragraphs from some of my favorite novels as balm.

"The rest of the time she was both coquettish and coy, incredibly clever at parrying an attack, contriving never to lay herself open either to a word or gesture, or even a look which would allow the victor to coincide with the vanquished or give O to believe that it was all that simple to take possession of her mouth."

Red Rover, Red Rover, Send Michele Right Over

I've waited for this day for almost two years, and finally -- finally! -- it happened. I was tagged by Suzanne at CUSS and Other Rants with one of those ubiquitous blogger memes. And can you just guess the topic? Yes, boys and girls, it's about books!

Normally I'm not one to go along with the crowd. I don't forward things. I'll be damned if I will send back one of those annoying "10 things about me" e-mails. But since this one is about books, I am compelled to comply.

Total number of books owned: I believe in the "love it and leave it" philosophy, so I tend to read and give away unless it's an earth-shattering find that I must keep. So I don't have more than 100 or so books at any given time. When I worked at a national insurance association, a friend who I called Focker (just for fun), introduced me to Bookcrossing.com. I traveled frequently for that company so I started leaving books in interesting places. I had one book that was picked up at Kansas City International Airport and ended up in Tailand. I was so proud!

Last book bought: The Very Busy Spider, as a present to my nephew. I would like to decorate a kid's room with prints from Eric Carle books.

Last book read: Predator by Patricia Cornwall -- a loaner from a co-worker. My friend JT loves Dr. Kay Scarpetta. It's easy to see why, she kicks ass!

Five Books that Mean a Lot to You: I wrote a post about my favorite books in 2005, in which I compared reading a good book to having a good lover. I think that comparison still stands today.

Best Five Books You Read in the Last Year: I had an interesting year with books. I seem to go through slumps where I'll pick up one crappy book after another. Other years are banner, such as the year I decided to read all the Pulitzer Prize Winners for Literature for my New Year's Resolution. This year, not too bad.

The Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon. I say the whole series because I read them in one continuous stream and was suprisingly swept away.
The Yiddish Policeman's Union by Micheal Chabon. Excellent book from a superb writer, but not an easy read. He requires his reader to do much research.
Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen. Who wouldn't love life under the big top?
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling. I am a big fan of children's literature. Once upon a time I fancied a career as a children's author -- then I realized I had to earn money with my degree. I was shattered.
Loving Frank by Nancy Horan. What can I say that I haven't already? Beautiful book.

I'm currently working on The Invention of Hugo Cabret, another children's book that tells the story both with copy and illustration using fabulous pencil sketches. I started reading it to the ball of fire but had to read ahead to find out what happens.

I would tag my friend Welshmeyer to write this same meme because she reads more than I. But alas, she doesn't have a blog and refuses to start one. Traitorous wench.

Well read is well loved

I know. I've been prattling on lately about my latest book. I apologize. I am a voracious reader and it just seeps out sometimes. Especially when I haven't had anything odd happen at home -- not so much as a nicked nippled -- in days.
Apology aside, I found this interesting article on CNN.com about the reading habits of Americans. Did you know that one in four Americans did not read even ONE book last year? Not even one. How is that possible? I think even the hubby accidentally read part of a book last month. It was my fault. I'd left it lying open on the table and his inability to look away made it inevitable.

There are demographic factors to this phenomena as well. For example: Democrats and liberals typically read slightly more books than Republicans and conservatives.

So I'm a pretty liberal Democrat, so I have to read more than normal. It's a function of fact.

Among those who said they had read books, the median figure -- with half reading more, half fewer -- was nine books for women and five for men. The figures also indicated that those with college degrees read the most, and people aged 50 and up read more than those who are younger.

These facts make me wonder, though, about the New York Time's Bestseller List. Let me state for the record that I think that list is a bit of a sham, much like the Grammys. Obviously it's based solely on sales, and pre-sales, and half-sales and other than dollar signs, it has no real bearing on whether the literature is good or not. It's simply made a lot of money. Some great books make the list, but some not. Currently, Dog the Bounty Hunter has a top-selling book.

And then you have guys like Tucker Max and his book. I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell. The blogger at CUSS and Other Rants did an interview with him recently and reminded me of his presence.

His book made the list. And I wondered who the hell was reading it? He is the epitome of everything I hated about frat boys in college, but he is pretty damn funny, and thoroughly willing to throw his pride out the window. Read his blog about buttsex and you get the general drift.

According to the article on CNN the most-well read choices include, Popular fiction, histories, biographies and mysteries were all cited by about half, while one in five read romance novels.

So who is reading the wise words of Dog the Bounty Hunter and exploring the delicate intricacies of buttsex with Tucker Max?

That must be another survey -- for Republicans..

A wrinkle in literature

Do you remember the first book you read that made you excited to read? That magic tome that sparked a love affair that would last for the rest of your life?

Mine was A Wrinkle in Time.

Love and loss

I am smitten with my latest book, Loving Frank. I admit I took a brief detour with Stephen King's Cell before I finally dove in, but it was worth the wait.

The author has done a beautiful job of creating a novel out of diary entries, yellow-journalism articles and heresay. It's the story of love, but at a very high cost.

While reading, I found myself searching for more information on Martha, or Mamah, Borthwick Cheney, the woman for whom loving Frank was both her joy and her burden. She was an exceptional woman for her time, but she was also rash and left two young children at home to be raised by a father and his fill-in wife. I don't think there's any way I could ever do that, but I'm not Martha.

Yesterday I made the grave error of hitting a wikipedia link on Martha. I wish I hadn't. In fact, I was pissed as hell at myself. If you plan on reading this book, go no further because I will spill the details.

I assumed that Martha and Frank drifted apart. Or married later. Better yet, died in each other's arms. Oh no, dear reader, that is not the case. In fact, she was brutally murdered (with an ax people!) as were her two children, by someone who was enraged at Frank for not paying his bills.

So all the shit they go through to be together and she's the fucking victim of dumb revenge vendetta.

As I was reading that Wiki note, I was totally disheartened about finishing the book. I know the sad conclusion, is it worth the tease to read further?

But finish I must. I am not one to leave a murder victim's untold tale lying in the heap under my bed. Although I'm still pissed.

Post script: I stand corrected. I finished Loving Frank just this morning. She was not killed for money, but possibly religious fervor. By her cook. The author deduced that the perceived sinful nature of Mamah and Frank's relationship may have driven him. Or the fact that he was released from employ by her and not Frank. No one will ever know.

Great love, like great genius, can never be a duty: both are life's gracious gifts to the elect. There can be no other standard of morality for him who loves more than once than for him who loves only one: that of the enhancement of life.

Annecdotal depression

I have made several attempts to read the popular, made-into-a-movie Running With Scissors. I can never get past the chapter in which the mother willingly signs away custody of her youngest child to her warped shrink.

This weekend, I sat down, made a concerted effort and finished it. I cannot say my outlook has improved all that much. In fact, as I was telling my mom (who lent me the book, along with Barack Obama's The Audacity of Hope) it depressed the hell out of me!

I don't know whether it was the dysfunctional family matrix, the repeated statutory rape or the graphic discussions of the filthyness of the house, but I cannot stand this book.

It was compared -- favorably -- with David Sedaris's Naked, which is infinitely more entertaining. Sedaris is a gifted writer and has an ear for creative fiction. I'm a big fan of his sister as well. She's just fucked-up funny, and there is nothing wrong with that.

My next book on the chopping block is Loving Frank, a fictional depiction of the real-life love affair of Frank Lloyd Wright and his long-time mistress.

I found out about this book through a happenstance e-mail from Borders Bookstore, which has this little online book club. Apparently the book club had its collective panties in a wad over the discussion that a woman's happiness in life was just important as her family's. If that meant leaving a family to be with the love of her life, then so be it.

It has to be more interesting than a 13-year old being forced to give a blow job.

At least, we can hope.

Temporary insanity

I apologize for my absence, but it is easily explained in two words: Harry Potter. Delivered to my doorstep on Saturday, it has not readily left my hands since. I know it's the popular thing to do right now, but in my defense, I was a fan long before the hype. I bought (and read) the first book for my nephew shortly after it was published and much before it was discovered. Therefore, I win.

Now bugger off, I'm reading!

Love connection

In a totally unrelated conversation today, I was talking about the movie "The Little Princess," which was directed by Alfonso Cuaron, who I think is a wonderful cinamatographer. He also directed my favorite Harry Potter movie to date, "Harry Potter and the Prizoner of Azkaban." The fact that Gary Oldman is in that movie only enhances it for me. Vampire, drug addict, werewolf -- damn, that man can act.

Cuaron also collaborated on the beautifully tragic, but wickedly compelling, "Pan's Labyrinth." But he's probably most well-known for his coming-of-age story, "Y Tu Mama Tambien," which I also highly recommend.

So in the course of discussing Alfonso and his previous works, I stumbled on the fact that he's in pre-production on a movie version of The History of Love.

This is a beautiful and fabulous book. If you've never read it, I recommend it. It's authored by a young woman, but it's the story of old men. I've always thought that was so amazing, how a young person can write about being old. The imagination that must take. To be a fiction writer, you must have a sense of your characters. If you've never been in love, how can you write about the gut-wrenching loss of heartbreak? How can you describe the twisted anguish of desire that rips your mind in two? It takes a talent that many wish for, but only few enjoy.

What must a life be like when it's nearing the finish, worrying about who and when someone will find your old, used up self, dead in your old, used up apartment.

"When they write my obituary. Tomorrow. Or the next day. It will say, LEO GURSKEY IS SURVIVED BY AN APARTMENT FULL OF SHIT. I'm surprised I haven't been buried alive. The place isn't big. I have to struggle to keep a path clear between bed and toilet, toilet and kitchen table, kitchen table and front door. If I want to get from the toilet to the front door, impossible, I have to go by way of the kitchent table. I like to imagine the bed as home plate, the toilet as first, the kitchen table as second, the front door as third: should the doorbell ring while I am lying in bed, I have to round the toilet and the kitchen table in order to arrive at the door."

I just hope it's as beautifully directed.

Intrigue wins again

As you might have guessed from past posts, I'm a big fan of the online publication Salon. I think it has some fantastic stories on it and I am particularly fond of the columnists. Please note the link to Garrison Keillor's latest column under my "Read along" section. He insists on calling President Bush the Current Occupant, which just cracks me up to no end.

Today I was checking out the latest headlines and there is a story about the JFK assasination. Like any good story lover, I am a sucker for consipiracy theories. And this one, well, it seems to be the granddaddy of conspiracies.

It also leaves me with that slightly sick feeling in my stomach. We have no idea exactly how devious our government has become. We only get glimpses here and there. I'm afraid if we knew all the details, we'd have to question the very foundation upon which we are grounded.

Bloody hell

I have made a serious error in judgement.

I am not one to admit my mistakes lightly. I like to be right. But in this case, I goofed. For a few weeks I have been trying to find the Outlander novels. I have read some great reviews and I am a fan of science fiction so I assumed they would be a good choice. Here is where things went to hell.

I didn't find it in the sci-fi, the fiction, the horror or the historical fiction sections. I was beginning to give up when I put my pride aside and asked for some help. The portly fellow at Borders led me straight to (gasp!) romance.

I don't really like romance novels. They are trite and predictable and how many times can the suave nobleman tame the fiery temptress with the piercing blue eyes and red locks? Seriously? I read a few in college when I was so bowled over with homework that I didn't have time to invest in a good, deep novel. My mom calls them head candy and that's about it.

I almost, almost didn't buy Outlander because of its section. But alas I did. And I consumed it. And then I bought the next one, and have mercy.

I cannot fully explain why I love these books so much. It has a tinge of romance, but not in the traditional sense. There historical retelling is fabulous, but that's not really it either. I read a review of the book on Salon that probably describes it best: It has to be the "realness" of the main characters.

How can a fictional man can love a woman so deep that when they are at the moment of climax, he asks her to open his eyes so they can fall into it together. And at that moment, both she and you are broken.

My error in judgement came when I assumed I could put the book aside and do other things, like eat. It didn't happen that way. In fact, after I finished the second book, the hubby asked me not to run out and buy the third. He's tired of having pizza for dinner. Selfish bastard.

But finished I did and now I wait for the continuing saga. He promised to buy me the third (and fourth...please?) for Valentine's Day, and I promised to move off the couch and shower. It's a fair compromise.

Until then, I wait.

"Then let amorous kisses dwell
On our lips, begin and tell
A Thousand and a Hundred score
A Hundred and a Thousand more."