Oh, I have some exciting news to share today everyone. Exciting, amazing, stupendous! I am now the proud owner of a Supergirl dvd. That’s right, Supergirl. Not Superman, but the little known, oft forgotten classic offshoot from the 80’s. It’s amazing. Helen Slater, Faye Dunaway--I can barely type for my excitement.

There I was at the grocery store, the place I didn’t want to go and had put off all day and I saw cheap movies. I thought hey, I’ll take a look. You never know. And there it was. A light shone down from the heavens and an unearthly choir sang in my ear (curtsey of my mp3 player) and I picked up the last copy. Oh yes, the only one they had. As if the universe created it for me right there, out of dust and clay so that I might take it home and enjoy it to my heart’s content.
I can tell you’re happy for me; I can feel your excitement from here. It’s okay, just let it out. We all know that Supergirl is a sacred experience only to be embarked upon by the most dedicated. It’s not easy to watch such momentous acting, and sit through such a powerful script. I mean, sometimes I find myself sitting there wondering why did I do this? How could I forget what this movie was like?

But on special nights when the moon is full and the wolves howl in the distance I know it’s time. It’s time for me to go to the kitchen and pop some popcorn. Melt butter to make it extra tastey. Get out a diet coke and assume the position on the couch. And then, as the stars align and Jupiter enters the house of Mercury I know I must press play or forever hold my peace. And now I can press play. I can press it every time.

Can you hear it on the wind? Listen closely…super girl…

Some days I love my life more than I thought possible. Bless all that is holy for bad 80’s movie. Without them the world would be a duller place indeed.

I am in shock and amazement. I just read a trashy romance novel…and they didn’t live happily ever after. It was a little bit The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. An old movie, Mrs. Muir, a widow, moves into a house haunted by its former denizen, the Ghost. Widow and Ghost fall in love, but he’s dead and she’s not so it ends up that she lives her life and finally, after death, her ghost and his walks off into the other world. This book I just finished revolved around a mortal woman who falls in love with Hades, a.k.a. the Devil. He ends up sacrificing for her his ability to visit the mortal plane so she gets to live her life, have his baby, and so on. It is assumed that when she dies they will be reunited, but you don’t even ever see that. Instead your left with him in the Underworld toasting his vision of her and her happiness. I ruin the ending because I don’t think any of you will ever read it.

I feel cheated that this book was sold in the romance section. Yes it’s a romance, they fall in love, but the happily-ever-after part is definitely up for debate. And I suppose eternity is okay after you die, but, hey call me selfish here, I’m not so much interested in living my life alone, a single mother, waiting for the end of my life to be reunited with my lover who is also the God of the Underworld.

I suppose the crux of my irritation is that all sorts of love stories happen all the time. People fall in love and someone dies early. People fall in love and fall out of love twenty years later. People live long, lonely, lives and fall in love at the end. I like those stories; I enjoy reading/watching those stories. But when I pick up a romance novel I have very specific expectations I want filled. Not necessarily the formula to exactness, but certainly the part where they fall in love and LIVE together.

There’s beauty in tragedy, in learning to move on. The human spirit is amazing in its capacity to grow and heal--to love again. But I read romance because I like to make believe sometimes that not everybody has it so very hard, so much of the time. I like to believe that for some people they have a partner to share the burden with. Someone to help with the mundane task of living; someone to be there when the baby is born. Someone to change diapers and get up in the middle of the night and take out the garbage and sit through recitals with.

I have nothing but admiration for someone who can do it on her own. That’s a virtue that is lacking in too many people. It’s a beautiful amazing thing to be happy despite all life throws at you. But when I read a romance story it’s to escape life, escape reality. It’s because I’m tired of real life and real problems and want to believe that for some people the good always outweighs the bad. That’s why it’s escapist.

And the worst part of it all, the part that really makes this unpalatable, is that the story wasn’t all that good. Like all writers who rely on wrenching moments of heartrending agony to make up for the lackluster prose throughout the rest of the story, this book just wasn’t that good. Her hero was left undeveloped, her heroine only marginally less so. Their relationship seems to happen overnight with no explanation of how or why. When tragedy strikes her heroine suddenly feels more than ever even hinted at before. There is a closeness of family that was decidedly lacking earlier on. And the hero’s “sacrifice” comes out of nowhere with no seeming reason. His character doesn’t so much arc as just completely change.

So now I’m left completely unsatisfied and slightly depressed. At least with The Time-Traveler’s Wife you felt like you were reading a profound statement on love and its ability to endure. It was painful, but worthwhile. With this it is simply, bad. Tragedy is an art, but I feel it takes just as much skill, perhaps more so at times, to write a story that is meaningful, moving, and happy. To make characters appear dynamic and full of life, with all of life’s hardships and baggage, and also make it believable that they have found happiness in each other--that’s impressive. As impressive as watching it happen in reality.

Anyone can write a crappy story with a bittersweet ending. But in the best bittersweet endings I think the bitter is the pain of the journey to find the sweet. And the sweet makes it all worthwhile. It shouldn’t just be heart wrenching sadness with the consolation prize of a baby. Kids are fantastic but they don’t hold you every night, or fight with you, or comfort you, or support you. And honestly, I’m tired of authors trying to convince me that children can make one parent stop missing the other. While kids are beautiful, I think there are many single parents who can hold their loneliness up as proof that they aren’t everything.

Stupid, bad, trashy romance novel.

I don’t really have any deeper meaning for tonight. Instead I am simply procrastinating the grading of my papers. I’ve graded some (I’m not completely hopeless) but as I stare at these last fifteen I’m just not sure I have anything else in me.

Well, I know I don’t have anything in me. That could be the problem.

Moving on--I thought I would regale you with my latest trashy romance disaster. I picked up a novel the other night (last night, in fact) where the hero, according the back of the novel, was Hades. I thought this sounded interesting. We all know my penchant for bad boys--I did like Satan more than God when reading Paradise Lost--and so this seemed right up my alley. But the hero isn’t just Hades, he’s the God of the Underworld, sometimes known as Hades, sometimes known as Satan, all around misunderstood immortal being. Unexpected, but I was prepared to roll with it. After all, he was still bad, still wounded, and still misunderstood. It’s the trifecta of my heart.

But the author got around the problems of dialogue by simply…not including it. At least not much of it. There would be one line or two and then “we talked the rest of the way.” That doesn’t work for me. There’s no bonding there that I’m a part of; there’s no heated moments that make me yearn for an encounter of similar passion. There is nothing, in fact, but dry, emotionless text. If I wanted that I would read some of the bestsellers in the Classics section.
So to add to my list of not hot things in romance books I present you with number 11: a report of dialogue without the presentation of dialogue. The point of a romance is to live vicariously through the characters, not spend my time with a book only to come away with “Hey, these two people I heard about fell in love. Cool.”

Thankfully I did buy 300 the other day at Best Buy so I happen to have itty bitty teeny weeney little tiny leather panties just waiting for the moment to console me. I figure I can just shut it off before they all die. It gives me a happy ending in Moulin Rouge, it can give me a happy ending in 300. See I know how to make myself happy--now if all the romance novelists in the world would take a cue and follow my list. Nothing would be better than that.

Maybe a hot cabana boy…or everlasting love with a wounded, misunderstood bad boy for all eternity. A rich bad boy. Who was hot and well-endowed. It’s my fantasy. I’m wishing as I type this and I see no reason not to cover all the bases.

Fine…I’ll go grade.

For anyone interested in checking out the story of someone fighting the good fight for civil rights go to www . michaelrighi . com. He was unlawfully arrested in a Circuit City parking lot. And yes he was being a pain, but do we want to live in a world where being difficult gets you arrested? Especially when you aren't breaking the law? Bravo.

I don’t know why I do this to myself, or to you for that matter, but here I go again. Apparently, on my own. What I’m about to say was prompted in part by the comment of a classmate and made worse by msn.com. At the end of class yesterday I was starving. It was 6:30, I hadn’t eaten since 12:00 and chowing down on someone’s arm was seeming like a good idea. After proclaiming my starving self to be getting food two other girls readily agreed with me that they too were starving. But one said “especially since I haven’t eaten anything today.” I, foolishly, asked, “you haven’t eaten anything?” “No,” she replied, “so that I could have a full sized dinner instead of an orange.” Oh, of course, what was I thinking? Naturally if you eat breakfast and lunch you can’t eat a full dinner! She had recently put on 5 lbs even though her eating habits hadn’t changed.

That is a brilliant reason to starve oneself. Great argument, obviously you’re correct.

And on msn you can click on a map of the United States where it tells you the percentage of people in your state that are obese. Then you can find out if your state is obese and what you can do about it. That’s right people, fat asses are a national epidemic and we all need to step up and do our part to take those fat people down a size. Who’s with me?!

I know I’ve been on the fat bus lots of time and told you all very loudly how I feel about this. But I’m probably going to keep going until the American people stop being stupid so you might as well get used to it. Once again, I do not think being obese is a good idea. I do not think fat people are physically more attractive than fit people. I do not relish the idea of not being able to fit in a normal sized chair. But if someone has a fat ass that is her, and only her, concern. If someone wears muumuus because nothing else fits--too bad for them. This is not a national crisis. And their health problems, never mind how much heart trouble is due to dieting over the years, might cost insurance companies more money. Aren’t insurance companies supposed to pay for medical bills? Isn’t that why you pay them a premium? It’s fantastic when you never have to use it because you’re always healthy, but I’m not feeling real sorry for the insurance companies--the same companies that price gouge and discriminate--have to dole out some change.

I do not feel our society should have the right to declare citizens’ worth based on how much they contribute. I am not a fucking cog in the fucking machine. Forgive my language but I feel extremely strong about this. If I am a tax-paying member of society I don’t owe anyone anything except to abide by society’s agreement, laws. The idea that my ass can adversely affect my neighbor is…horrendous! What? Like an unsightly bush it will bring down their property value? It will ruin their view? It will ruin their air (with my ass that might be true)? And if you pass a law based on my “health” what does that mean? Need I remind everyone that the basis for much of racism came from minorities lack of ability to be as smart, to feel as much, to be as productive to society.

So we know that fat people get more sick more often. Well then, obviously it should be illegal to be fat. You’re not as good of a worker as someone else; you will suck up more of society’s resources. It seems the obvious solution. Now, how to enforce it? We’ll control what food is available to the public! Okay, we’ve already started that--no trans fat in restaurants and no smoking inside in many states and cities. We’ll have mandatory weigh-ins. Some schools are sending home a “fitness” report card. We’ll penalize you for breaking the law. Deny you insurance benefits or charge you more, punish you in the work place, refuse to allow you in certain places. Yup, those things are going on too. But strangely, the obesity rates keep going up. Well, we just need crack down. Make it more dramatic. I know, monitor what food you buy at the supermarket--if you’re overweight you don’t need that ice cream. Here’s some broccoli. Make sure fast food restaurants don’t sell unhealthy choices--nobody really wants to eat a big mac, right? We’ll institute programs in school to make sure kids know what not to do. DARE has worked wonders with drugs so we’ll just include a chapter on fat people too. These are all really good ideas.

Or, here’s an idea I’m just throwing out there, we can just accept that nobody owes anyone, anything. If their fatness is unsightly, or unwieldy for the rest of us we can choose not to look. We could choose to just, I don’t know, be accepting? But that might be too much to ask for just yet. We could accept that it is not everybody’s job to be sexually appealing all the time and that if I don’t want to sleep with someone, that doesn’t mean there is something wrong with them. It does mean that I don’t want to sleep with them. Huh. We could accept that if someone doesn’t want to sleep with us, it doesn’t mean we have morally failed. Brilliant! That it isn’t my job to attract every guy that walks by, just in case Mr. Right happens to be among them.
You can tell me this about health. You can tell me this is about society and what’s best for our country. I will tell you that you’re full of shit, or just don’t have any idea how the world works. It’s about money and control. Insurance companies can’t deny coverage to obese people until everyone else is sufficiently against them enough to allow it. The citizens of this country are less likely to pay attention to a President that lies and a war on false premises, if their too busy worrying about their asses and their neighbors asses. If we all hate each other all the time, we can’t band together.

The best way to control people is sex and fear. We may crouch our terminology in things like “health” and “feeling better” but we mean, what everyone still means is “skinny” and “sexually appealing.” You might disagree with me, but first figure out why you are petrified of being fat and then present your argument. And you can’t say because you won’t be able to do anything--I can do lots of things. I can hike. I can swim. I can fit in airplane seats. I can ride my bike. I’m not in great shape, but neither am I bedridden. So why are you petrified to look like me? What is so scary about it? Being unappealing? Not being whistled at when you walk down the street? Having to shop in fat lady stores? No? What then?

Everyone has health concerns. Cholesterol, cancer, diabetes, whatever--you name it. Those don’t go away because you’re thin. Being healthy is more than losing weight and it certainly isn’t losing weight fast. It doesn’t happen through a pill and it doesn’t not happen because you aren’t on the weight chart. It’s something between a person and her doctor and has nothing to do with society or anyone else.

But we owe it to each other right? I need to watch out for your obesity and your smoking because maybe it’s contagious. Oh, wait, that’s gayness. Huh, there’s just so much to hate I don’t know where to start.

It’s taken me a minute to settle on what I want to write about tonight but I feel I finally have it. Tonight we discuss women’s fashions.

I spent my weekend on the strip and I saw all number of fashion choices there--clothes that covered, clothes that didn’t and everything in between. But what I really noticed was the proclivity of baby-doll dresses. There is also an abundance of baby-doll tops in department stores. My point is this: what is so appealing about a fashion choice made to simulate both a baby, and a doll?

Along with the push to turn women more into men, there is a simultaneous push to turn women into a prepubescent form of themselves. A baby-doll dress lends itself to a hint of innocence while showing a sufficient amount of skin to declare the wearer fully mature. If you’re lucky enough your date will shave all her pubic hair and then she can look like she’s twelve both clothed and naked. I don’t understand. The shaving, sure--I get that pubic hair can be a bitch. Certainly it’s never been my most favorite thing to get at things through hair, but that’s part of the body. People grow up; people get hair. Seems to me that when you already have someone’s bodily fluids in your mouth getting picky over a few hairs is a mute point. But. maybe I’m just not that picky.

But why is the baby-doll dress a choice that men approve? Are women everywhere wrong? Is it something men don’t even notice? Why do women find it such a good decision? When I get up in the morning and get dressed, or change my clothes for a night on the town it does not go through my mind--I want to look like a naughty little girl. In fact, if my boyfriend were to ask me to look like a naughty little girl I might kick him out of my bed and out my life. A schoolgirl fantasy that revolves around the high school days of yore is one thing, wanting me to look as young and nubile as possible is entirely different.

I’ve never pulled off innocent particularly well. I’ve certainly never put out the vibe that I needed some strong man to help me, even when I did. But I’m not sorry about that. In fact, I’m not sorry about anything that has led me to be as I am today. I refuse to feel guilty over the attractiveness or lack thereof, of my vagina. It’s clean--seems to me like that’s all I need to worry about. I refuse to dress myself in such a way that I seem pure, innocent, but still sexual. I’m just me and sometimes that’s freaky, and sometimes it’s not.

I have my preferences in what I look for in men--while I would go out with anyone once there are some guys I just won’t ever be attracted to. That’s okay. There are guys that won’t ever be attracted to me. That’s okay too. But I know why I find the things attractive that I do. And I certainly am aware of some of my darker fantasies and why it is important that they never see the light of day. Everybody’s got some freaky stuff inside, but some of it is not okay to foist on another person.

Wearing a baby doll-dress, or dressing your vagina to a partner’s standards seem like small things. But why is it truly being asked? Why is a woman actually engaging in it? Does your partner like the look of you as young and innocent? Doesn’t that seem a little wrong--I think so. Does he refuse to give oral sex if you aren’t completely clean shaven because he just doesn’t like the hair? Even if you demand the same of him I wouldn’t call that healthy. The body is the body and to demand that someone change theirs…that’s not love in my opinion, or even good manners.

I don’t offer any drama and I don’t play games. That’s awfully boring to some people. I keep my body to my own standards and will not turn its management over to anyone else. That’s off-putting to some men. But at this point in my life, if you’re going to sleep with me you’re going to have to care about me, and you don’t get to pick and choose what you care about and what you don’t. You don’t get to say I like you a lot, but only these parts. It’s all or nothing, and I’m way too old to filter for someone’s comfort in a relationship setting.

There’s a really good chance I’m never getting laid again, but I’ll be damned if I sacrifice myself on the alter of show-me-I’m-worth-something one more time. And I will not be someone’s little girl fantasy. If you don’t like all the things that make a woman a woman…maybe you should look into that.

So an Iowa County Judge has ruled that the gay-marriage ban is unconstitutional. I have little doubt that the wonderful state of Iowa will appeal it and make sure to stick to their conservative roots, but I am touched and uplifted that someone in the Midwest has the good sense not to be a bigot.

There is a large, very, very large difference between what churches may consider marriage and what the government needs to rule. The only reason for marriage being defined as between a man and a woman is that the word in our culture has been used solely in conjunction with the church and the church states it must be between a man and a woman. Marry, coming from the Latin maritare means only to wed, marry, to give in marriage. I’m not seeing much talk about a man and a woman there. Now I haven’t checked the OED and some of my professors would find fault with that, but I’m not going to do that right now. I’ll get back to you.

Churches get to be restrictive--they do, after all, have a very strict set of beliefs. Those beliefs don’t include equality for all. But our government, our wonderful, corrupted government isn’t supposed to pick and choose who gets what benefits in our society. We did it with minorities, and we did it with women. Somehow the country has survived all of that. What is so damned threatening about allowing two people to marry? Why is it such a scary thought to give spouses, no matter their gender, equal privileges across the board?

I’m curious, honestly. I would like to know, why the government shouldn’t allow gay marriage. I would like to know why it is so scary that there should be a constitutional ban. And I would really like to know the reasoning behind all of those answers.

And at the end of the day when our country is done doing its best to keep happiness and equality from its citizens I would really like to know what is gained from sitting around and hating people. People that aren’t committing hate crimes. People that aren’t engaging in heinous illegal activities. When AIDS was discovered people stood up and said it was punishment from God. When Katrina hit those same people said it was the wrath of God. Well, I don’t want any part of that God. And I have to ask you--if consensual sex is so offensive that he murders millions of people and denies them earthly love and happiness, why do you? Maybe it’s time for some people in this country to rethink their religion and their hate.

Oh the pain, oh the agony! No, not really, I’m just being dramatic. But, I do now have two half-dollar size blisters on the bottom of my feet. Even though it didn’t rain today I decided to switch flip-flops, you know, try to avoid falling on my ass. It worked--I didn’t fall down. But my other flip-flops gave me blisters.

I like going to school here, I really, honestly do. But I just don’t understand why everything is so bloody difficult! They tell the Ph.D. students that we will be given offices in the same building as the English faculty. They never tell us that we have to go pick them ourselves. And how the hell am I supposed to know what to pick? I just look for a desk that isn’t covered in stuff and claimed by somebody, but what if it is? What if I steal someone’s space? Nobody seems worried about it--nobody cares at all. But it’s like it doesn’t occur to anyone that this is my first year. That I might now know what’s going on. I mean really people.

Then there is the wondering for forty days and forty nights in the desert (a little bit literally actually) as I try to find my way from one building to the next and get to my classes on time. Are all the English classes in the same building? No, my first one is at one end of campus, my next one is at the other. Meanwhile I’m in jeans and uncomfortable flip-flops hiking my ass in 110 degree weather all the way.

And finally I come to school only to realize that my afternoon class is at 4, not 1 and I now have three hours to kill and nothing to do it with. So I came home and wrote you all this delightful blog. I’m resting my tootsies in the marvelous air conditioning and hoping that next week perks up. There can only be one first week right?

Oh yeah, and I almost got ran over in the parking garage. This crazy, CRAZY woman come flying around the corner, squeals to a stop in front of my hip, and after I walk past, barely past her car mind you, she squeals her tires as she speeds away. I’m assuming she was suffering from a really intense case of explosive diarrhea and was just doing her best to make it home. That really seems to me the only reason why someone would drive like a COMPLETE ASSHOLE. Well, that or she was just stupid.

I have over used my quotient of capital letters and I apologize. It’s just that I don’t know how else to get across the severity of craziness in that parking garage. I hope you all will forgive me, but I don’t really care. I accepted that I was a bad person long, long ago.

And finally, I feel it worth mentioning that I have landed back into Fraternity/Sorority Hell. Yes, in fact the campus is crawling with members of everyone’s favorite Greek Organizations. The amazing thing is that while I haven’t really been around it since I graduated from Western five years ago all the frat boys still act the same and even look the same. Frosted hair, carrying little to no books, choker-hemp necklaces and spiffy sunglasses. I try not to sterotype, but I’m prejudiced towards Frat Boys. I am, I admit it. I hate them until given a reason not to. It’s wrong, it’s childish and I should certainly know better, but my hate is unreasonable. Well, it might be very reasonable if you knew some of the guys I’ve known in my life. But regardless fraternities do not make boys into bad men. Not really. Even though it seems that way. Even though most learn a lot of bad habits from it. We can’t blame the frat. And I’m not. I promise. Honest.

Ugh. I love Vegas. But I’m kind of hoping it doesn’t take me four years to graduate.

I have an interesting topic to discuss today. At what point is the government entitled to use any means necessary to catch a criminal, and at what point do we say something is an unethical use of power?

I’m thinking of traffic cameras, and lie detector tests, and the use of MRI machines to scan the brains of criminals. I’m also thinking of Microsoft Vista and Windows Media Player 11 and how it checks to make sure you have paid for the rights to listen to music and haven’t burned it more than once. Should it be against the law to speed and run read lights and lie to cops? Sure. Those are all bad ideas (well, most of the time anyway). It should also be against the law to make private copies of songs and sell them for personal profit. But at what point is my privacy negated because of a corporations fear that all the fees aren’t getting paid?

It seems like, if the police have a warrant for my computer and they discover I’ve been breaking copyright laws then I deserve what I get. But the fact that my personal laptop, my home computer is watching my activities to make sure I don’t break certain laws really upsets me. Who is Microsoft to program safeguards into my programs without my permission? If I’m savvy enough to get ahold of pirated music, or just want to play the music I burned off a friend’s cd, where’s the line there?

There are some, many perhaps, who would say if it’s against the law that’s the end of it. You can’t do it and those who police you are allowed to use any means necessary to prevent you. I can see why that argument appeals. In general, our laws are good--usually they are there for a reason and, when going after a serial killer for example, it’s a good idea to catch him however possible. But here’s the deal with absolutes--if I say it’s never okay to break the law and the law may always use whatever means possible to catch me, I’ve just given up any context that might affect the situation.

Not all of our laws are good ones you see. Most people know that, even acknowledge that things like Slavery and Jim Crow were a bad idea. It was a good thing that people broke those laws, but we aren’t like that today. Our laws are good today. But are they? How do you know? What is your gauge to evaluate the ethicality or lack there of of our modern laws? If you speed and a traffic camera takes a picture of your license plate and sends you a ticket in the mail a week later, why does that give you an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of your stomach? Even those of you who shake your heads and say, “well then don’t speed” can’t tell me you really like the idea of that. Who is that camera helping I ask you? What does the ticket in the mail accomplish? You are punished for your bad behavior. Great. Why do you need to be punished? Did you hurt someone? Run over someone? Were you reckless? A danger? Why was your speeding bad? Because the law said so? Did you feel out of control while you were driving? Tell me, I want to know. Why does the government get to punish me? Is the government my parent? Should it have absolute power over my behaviors and the right to punish me without qualm?

What if you were speeding because your wife was in labor? Or your mother was dying and you needed to get there as soon as possible? Or because your child, sibling, friend had gotten into trouble and needed you to come pick them up? Are those good reasons to speed? What if you’ve never had a traffic accident in your life, and even though you were speeding you were doing so safely? What if you’re a complete wreck on the road and are constantly getting tickets for one thing or another, but weren’t misbehaving that night, except for the speeding of course. Should that make a difference?

Context. The problem with people is that everybody’s got a story. Everybody’s got a reason for why they are the way they are. Not all of them are good reasons--sometimes they’re pretty shitty ones, but everybody’s got something. So what do you gain by enforcing laws with machines instead of people? You’ll probably catch more “criminals.” Probably keep more cds and dvds from being burned. Maybe even people will speed less. But you give up context. A lot of people don’t think that matters; context is something criminals hide behind after they’ve broken the law. Maybe you’re right, but if you give up context now what happens when you need it further down the line? Or your kid? Or your grandkid? Or your friend? Why is it so damn important to enforce all those little laws all the time? What is gained by that?

Before you answer that go read 1984. And then read Brave New World. And then watch V for Vendetta. They all gave up context too. You look at the societies in those stories and tell me how we can give up context but not turn out the same. People were miserable in 1984, but blissfully happy in Brave New World. And they were all completely “safe” as long as they followed the law. But is it really better to be “safe” from the world when you’re under constant threat from your government? That’s what happens when you give up context, and I would love to understand how, and why, that’s such a good thing.

So I thought I should totally share the story of the best worst day ever. I feel I should start this story by setting the stage. I’m in Las Vegas, you know, the desert? Right, so it doesn’t rain all that often in the desert. And yet, since moving here all of two weeks ago it has rained three times, two of those times were substantial. Last night I woke up to thunder and lightning, the sort of thunder storm I expect in Illinois, but not so much in the desert. Cause it’s a desert.

So I get up, I get dressed, I’m running a little late but I should have plenty of time to make it to school. I decide to avoid the I-15 because it is doubtless backed up. My roommate supported me in this decision. Little did I know, though, just how wrong I was. Everything was going a little slow and everyone was driving cautiously, but I didn’t realize that cautiously in Vegas means not driving at all. That’s right, we all just inched our way to and through every stoplight at 5 mph. I understand it’s slick people, you crazy folks put oil in all your streets, sidewalks, what have you, and when it rains the oil makes things slick. I get that. But perhaps driving 5 mph when it isn’t quite that wet is being over cautious? I, therefore, found myself fifteen minutes late for my first class. It’s my first day, teaching my first class at UNLV, and I’m late. Exceptionally so. I hate my life.

At five minutes till I call the composition department to let them know I’m stuck in traffic. I figure they can send someone over to tell the kids or something. Thankfully when I got there everyone was still sitting I the classroom. Bless those freshmen. No one had come over to explain the situation to them so they were just sitting there dutifully waiting for me. Sometimes I love how much like sheep they all are. Due to running so late I didn’t have time to pick up my syllabus for the first class so I’m sans syllabus. Not to be deterred I wrote my name and email on the board, handed out the essay prompts and played it off like a pro. One crisis averted.
After that class I walked across campus, picked up my syllabus and began a trek back across campus to the, next class I was teaching. I had ten minutes. Plenty of time. Little did I know that when the sidewalks were wet my flip-flops would turn into frictionless traps of death! I don’t know how many times I slipped, but it was a lot. I never went down, thank goodness, but I did slip and slide my way across UNLV. It was a really long, annoying walk. By the time I got to my second class they are all standing outside the open door because “the Professor [wasn’t] there yet.” While the first class sat quietly, these guys couldn’t’ walk in and turn the light on with out me. I see it’s going to be a special sort of year.

I had a syllabus for those guys, though; I felt that made up for the fact that I was dripping sweat due to my exertion of trying not to fall on my ass all the way across campus. And, it was humid. That’s right. The only thing that makes the desert bearable is that it isn’t humid. It’s 100 degrees but you don’t care because it isn’t stifling. Today, however, it is somewhere around 85 or 90 degrees as I walk to class and very humid. I was sweating balls by the time I walked in. Nothing like making a truly memorable first impression.
So I now sit in Starbucks killing time until my first graduate course. The class I didn’t realize I had today and so don’t have the book for. It really is the best worst day ever.

Oh yeah, and I have gas. Viva Las Vegas baby. Viva, Las Vegas.

I am just a posting fiend! Actually I think it has to do with my loads of free time this week. Until school starts next week I’ve got naught to entertain me but myself and my toys. Wait…that sounds dirty. Wait…it is.

Anyway, I thought I would take this opportunity to share with you my dream last night. In fact, it is a reoccurring dream/nightmare that has been going on for some time now. I don’t remember the first time it happened, but I do know that how scared I am seems to vary with each individual dream. What is this dream you ask? What happens over and over again that could possibly stay locked in my psyche?

I’m being chased by Godzilla.

Now, you laugh. And perhaps you should. Goodness knows even I sometimes have a hard time keeping a straight face in said dream, but generally I’m so worried about staying alive that it isn’t too much of a problem. Last night’s dream is noteworthy specifically because I was trying to keep everyone around me alive and while I managed to save a room full of people one woman, who seemed strangely evangelical, refused to duck down and shut off the lights. Godzilla dutifully broke out the window and nailed her with a radiation blast that caused her head to explode all over the rest of us. Feel free to deconstruct that one.

The other thing about these dreams is that I’m always around the same two buildings, both skyscrapers and both office/apartment buildings. And for some reason at some point in the dream I have to leave the safety of one building to run to the other one. Usually that is when Godzilla starts coming towards the building and perhaps, to eat me. Unlike my snake dreams, though (which I hope to never relate and never have another one) Godzilla is not out to specifically kill me--instead, he is just walking around town destroying stuff being, you know, Godzilla. I know that if I die it is because I couldn’t get out of the way, not because the monster is evil. That makes it an odd combination of more terrifying and less terrifying all at once--if such a duality could exist. Perhaps I should say that the types of terror in the dream are more varied in sensation and intensity than any other nightmarish experience I’ve had.

I don’t know what prompts these strange dreams. While I am a Godzilla aficionado I haven’t watched any monster movies in quite awhile. I don’t generally have scary dreams at all. But, for whatever reason, I am on occasion chased by Godzilla. So long as it’s not Mothra I figure I’ll be okay. After all, nobody can escape the evil clutches of Mothrrrrrra.

Yes, that was sarcasm. Yes, I am aware it doesn’t translate well in type. That’s why I told you.

Some funny stories for you all. First, while sitting in this spiffy computer chair I’ve been granted I noticed that the two male Dobermans I now live with were camped out on the floor behind me. Hearing a strange sound I turned around and saw…both dogs licking their respective balls. If that isn’t somehow a poetic picture of males everywhere I don’t know what is. Later that night after enjoying a marvelous dinner of pasta with cheese I headed of to Barnes and Noble for some book shopping fun. No sooner had I walked through the door than I had to go to the bathroom, which is normal for B & N for some unknown reason, but I knew what was going to happen in the bathroom wasn’t going to be normal so I abstained. Shopping quickly and irritably (it is so hard to concentrate on trashy romance when one’s bowels are grumbling) I made my purchases and booked it home. I did not crap my pants but as I ran into said restroom with new purchase in hand I flipped on the vent and felt compelled to pray. Before I knew what was happening I found myself whispering “may everyone please forgive me for what I am about to do.” Indeed, what I did does need forgiveness and so I feel my instincts led me right in this instance.

Now, back to the B & N experience for a moment…there are no good trashy romances out right now that I haven’t read. At least not of the authors I like to read. I’m hopeful about the two I picked up tonight on expert advice, but I am still frustrated by the shelves and shelves of absolute crap in the romance world. Really, I might read Heather and Velvet and other such nonsense but I do it with a sense of irony. But books upon books like Taken, or A Viscount in her Bedroom. I mean honestly people! Isn’t A Viscount in her Bedroom and obvious thing? If you’re reading a book from the romance section it should be assumed he will be in her bedroom or at least a bedroom. A little more creativity please.

And what is with the proclivity of erotica these days? I’m not knocking it; it has its place, but when I’m looking for happily ever after and get something pulsating and leaking and engorged…well, you can understand my upset. Sex is a time honored tradition of trashy romance novels and we all love it, but erotica is not romance. For example, my true love, the one that I want, my soul mate for all eternity--not hot when he wants to share me with his cousins. Girl meets cowboy in Vegas? Has great possibilities there for obvious reasons (you know, I’m a girl in Vegas and I like cowboys) but two chapters in she’s come to his ranch--that he doesn’t actually know how to run because he’s not actually a cowboy--to spend the weekend and see if their farcical marriage can work and he’s smacking her ass before telling her to clean out the chicken coops. Again, not hot. In fact, I feel this is an excellent time for my list of things that are not hot. This might be ongoing but let’s at least get her started, eh?

1. Anything that leaks--as in she saw one drop leak from his tip. I just threw up in my mouth. Toilets leak. Not hot.
2. Anything pulsating, especially members. Have you seen Aliens? Things pulsate in Aliens before they burst open to reveal a slimy acid-drooling monster that kills you. Again, not hot.
3. Having my vagina described as any sort of foliage or landscape. I.e. flowering petals, blooming bud, parting slick folds, etc. I am neither flower nor mountain; nothing is blooming and nobody needs to be looking for the mountain pass, as it were. If it’s that hard let me draw a diagram.
4. Weeping. She saw him weep one single tear at her touch. Hint, not from his eye. Crying? Not hot.
5. Male hero that goes crazy causing bodily harm and/or impairment. Think throwing her to the ground, against the bed, locking her in a tower, forcing her to clean until she can’t move. I don’t care if he locks her up to protect her from himself; I don’t care if he is only mean to her because he can’t admit he loves her. Physical abuse…not hot.
6. Male hero that constantly questions the heroines virtue and is only contrite after “taking” her virginity. What I don’t need is a lover that calls me a whore or easy every time we talk and only believes I’m trustworthy upon making me bleed, literally.
7. Virginity as a “gift”. My hymen was not a pretty thing. Nobody wants to unwrap that for Christmas. And since when did a piece of skin become a gift? How about next time I sunburn and peel I just save an extra big chunk for him and give him that instead. Does that work? See what I mean? Not hot.
8. An extended metaphor. I do not want a man that talks about loving me like the sun on the plains, or how my love warms him like the sun on the plains--those are both similes but you get the idea. How about our love was the canyon in noontime, bright, warm and beautiful. Yeah, you extend the metaphor on me, especially after three-hundred pages or so and I’m out. At that point I’ll do anything just to escape the metaphor/simile that will never end.
9. Anything engorged. Pimples are engorged. Penis’ that are engorged…not hot.
10. Salty tear--usually accompanies weeping. But honestly I don’t want to lick up or have licked up any salty tears anywhere near me. If you’re licking actual tears than your licking my cheeks, not hot. If you’re licking other tears than it’s being described as a salty tear and we’re back to the crying as not hot again.

I think 10 is a good number to stop at for now. I’ll try and add on as things strike me. Feel free to make your own additions. I feel it imperative that this list be made and released to the world. For better romance everywhere!

I just can't deal with it any longer. What is it, you ask? Excellent question. It, is the way English composition is being taught all around the U.S. Now, some will be apt to point out that my grammar is faulty and I should not, therefore, criticize those that wish to improve the grammar of students. I say this with all due respect, but go screw yourself.

Language is a living thing and for that reason is constantly changing. Some rules are important; some rules are necessary for legibility. I agree; I even strive to make my students more than legible. But shoving helpful exercises down their throats about active vs. passive voice, dangling modifiers and the like. Good writing involves knowledge of grammatical rules, absolutely—good writing involves the writer both wielding those rules knowledgeably and breaking them knowledgeably. But we don't tell our students about breaking them, or how scholars, respected, venerated scholars break them all the time for fear that they won't first learn the right way. They won't understand what they are doing; they won't be a knowledgeable enough writer to make those sorts of decisions. They'll just hear, oh it's okay, and run off to wreak havoc on the literary culture of America.

To them I say have a little faith in humanity please. And if you are just to wounded, bitter, jaded, whatever, to have faith than stop writing manuals on how to write and let me do my job. I will have the faith for you. Those that use good grammar use it because they've managed to internalize it. It sounds right to them and they can, therefore, remember the rules. People that have no idea what academic sounds like learn nothing by completing exercises. Instead they participate in wrote memorization that falls completely by the wayside when trying to write something the least bit difficult.

So what is the answer? Well first you enable students to wield their own thoughts (regardless if those thoughts agree with you are what you know) with authority and power, and then you help them shape it into something academic. It is much easier to transfer from discourse to discourse after recognizing one's place in their own discourse first. But just throwing exercises at them and then punishing them for neglecting to perform correctly is akin to teaching a kid the C major scale and then yelling at them for not immediately playing all scales quickly and cleanly. Knowledge of similarity does not mean knowledge of all. Understanding that grammar makes your writing more legible, more correct, more powerful even, does not help you to say what you mean more clearly, correctly, or powerfully. And it also doesn't mean you're stupid! It just means someone threw a book at you (like the one I have to teach from right now) and made you recognize the nouns, verbs, and direct objects in your sentences than required that you research the state of minorities in American society and gave you a D for not making sense. Kids write incredibly incorrectly to their friends via text messaging and email, but they don't make any of the same mistakes they make in classroom writing. Figure that one out.

Why don't teachers recognize that raising the bar throughout the semester does more good than hitting them with rules and exercises devoid of context and expecting them to understand? Oddly enough, most English majors wrote reasonably naturally, so why on Earth do we expect our students to learn the same way we did? That's the most idiotic thinking I've ever encountered. At least outside Texas.

I would like to start this post with a possibly egocentric statement: I really love me. I know, I know, what a thing to say right? Isn’t it obvious that I really love me? And if I do or don’t why is that worth writing about? Well to all you people of the world no, it is not always obvious that I really love me--at least not as obvious as it is to me in this moment. And it’s worth talking about because I think we, as a people, forget that we can really love ourselves. I’m mean really and truly. I find it amazing that people across the globe can accept another person, faults and all, but still has things about themselves they are disturbed by.

This doesn’t mean one shouldn’t constantly be striving for self-improvement, on the contrary I feel self-improvement should be a daily goal of everyone in the perfect world, but it does mean that acknowledging your faults doesn’t have to lesson your love of yourself. I, for example, sometimes drool. In all honesty it might be one of my hotter moments, but I hope to not drool all over the gorgeous man I hope to someday share my bed. However, should it happen I will not feel like an idiot, or unsexy, or any silly such nonsense. I will simply be say sorry, drool happens.

I’m also extremely self-assured (as if there as any doubt following the “I love me” statement). But having watched many men I love and respect in my life lose their heads over women with a hint of self-doubt and intriguing naiveté I’ve come to accept that my don’t-touch-me-I’ll-take-care-of-myself attitude can be off putting. Hence why I’m still waiting for a man that says shut up, sit down, and don’t fight me while I take care of this.

So why does any of this matter you ask? Excellent question. I think sometimes that society as a whole imagines anyone who says they love themselves to be lying. Especially if there is something obviously wrong, or nothing obviously wrong. If the person is good looking and rich, s/he is obviously stupid or spoiled or hasn’t had to experience much of the world. If a person is ugly in any way than it is inconceivable that s/he likes him or herself when s/he is so obviously repulsive. If said person persists with his or her I love me attitude the world mocks them for clinging to it because s/he can’t just accept his or her ugliness.

And so I say to you, whomever it is that reads this someday, that I state for the world that I really love me. And I do it, without guise or defense mechanism because I feel it important that someone who is aware of her physical lackings, possible health risks, and sometimes dubious moral behavior, to admit to liking herself, honestly and truly, through and through. What I hope to communicate with this statement is that if I can you can. Perhaps a bit touchy feely for some of you, but I don’t really care. It’s my blog and if you can’t get a warm fuzzy feeling from my happiness and my wish for your own than you obviously need to give yourself some move self-love. Start with the kind you know and work out from there. It gets easier; I promise.

So, it's my first blog from Vegas. It's been a month and I was feel so very bad about not having written in so long, but looking back a month might be one of the smallest of my “big” gaps. I'm in a new city and as I considered what to say there were any number of news stories to chose from. All of them, however, would take considerable emotional effort from me, not to mention I haven't given them the sort of thought they deserve. For that reason I will instead talk a little bit about my new home.

To begin with, people in Vegas cannot drive. Now, when I say cannot I don't mean aren't physically able, but I do mean aren't mentally able. I know everyone likes to complain that Boston is the worst city in the world to drive in, but really that is only true if you don't know how the city drives. It is perhaps one of the least frustrating cities I've ever driven in. Vegas, however, is a study in annoyance. People are trying to get to the casinos or their hotel or whatever. Fine, grand, wonderful, but when there is obviously no parking lot entrance in sight why drive 20 mph? Just in case? Maybe you'll miss the GIANORMOUS NEON SIGN? Come on people! Other than that it is the easiest city I've ever driven in.

The school is pretty sweet. It's big; it's flashy. I like that. I like the people, I like the teachers. Unfortunately I don't always agree with the composition pedagogy. For instance, you can walk into an English 101 class and say I'm going to teach these kids what they need to know to make in life and if they don't get it that's their problem. Or, and I'm just throwing this out there, you can walk in and say hey, why don't I first see what you know, help you learn how to say it, and then improve both your thinking and writing skills. I don't know, it's just an idea. There are skills young adults need to learn to have a successful professional career, but can't I provide those skills in conjunction with focusing on helping them sharpen their minds and thought processes? People who learn to think and express themselves learn to write better by default. The two go hand-in-hand. I feel that if I approach my class with the attitude of them failing to learn what I provide as their problem I've already failed to a certain degree. People will rise to the standard you set for them.

So that's my little rant. I'll keep you updated on how the semester goes. I know, I'm just a youngin' in the teaching world and don't know everything yet. But I still feel, more strongly than anything else, that it is a priority to first teach students how to formulate thought before criticizing them for an inability to express it.

So it’s been awhile. I apologize for that. I also put a counter up on this badboy, I haven’t decided if I’m going to apologize for that either. On the one hand, I like the mystery of thinking the five of you that read this are actually five-hundred, but on the other hand I am curious just who still looks at this explosion of my thoughts.

There’s a whole lot to talk about, and I still don’t know what it is exactly I want to say. I’m moving to Vegas, I’m starting a PhD program, I saw Transformers and Harry Potter 5, and I have no idea which of these topics deserves to be discussed. The first two I feel we can gloss over—it doesn’t really matter what the details are there. At least not right now. The second two I don’t want to give away any plot points, but I would like to say go see them both. They aren’t perfect, but they’re fun, and that’s something.

Overall, however, I’m feeling a little let down by this summer’s movies. This should have been the single greatest summer for movies EVER. Instead, Spiderman 3 blew balls, Shrek 3 was good, but not awe-inspiring, Pirates 3 was okay, Transformers was fun but not addictive, Harry Potter 5 was great, but not all I hoped…in fact I think Oceans 13 was the only one I felt lived up to itself. I have to ask, I have a bachelor’s in English with a minor in Creative Writing and even I know how to avoid some of the plot holes that these movies sport. Why can’t Hollywood manage to write a decent script? Why doesn’t someone look at these stories and say, hey, why don’t we fix that ginormous plot hole right there! I find it incredibly annoying. I just feel like screenwriting, more often than not, has gotten lazy. Either they don’t expect people to notice, or they don’t care. Either way it’s a waste of my money and a betrayal of service. I feel like, if you work in the fine arts, writing, music, art, whatever, you can do it for yourself, but you owe something to your audience. At least unless it has been clearly stated that the product breaks from convention. I haven’t thought this through yet. We’ll have to see what I come up with later.

Perhaps the biggest problem is that I’m going to begin menstruating at some point in the coming week and that’s never a good thing for my state of mind. Life just doesn’t seem the same to me during these times. I’m a little apathetic and a little aggressive, figure that one out.

I think I pin it all down to my ongoing need to see Optimus Prime walking away from a fight with Megatron after completely and utterly, kicking Megatron’s ass. That is what I need to say my life is complete.

But I did see itty, bitty, teeny, tiny, little leather panties. That’s worth something.

So I’m sitting here watching Animal Planet, some survivors attack stories and I have to say I don’t have sympathy for some of these people. There is the fellow in Florida who went swimming in the pond behind his house. Why is this silly you ask? Because he was attacked by a gator! In Florida! I’m not surprised by this. You couldn’t pay me enough money to swim in a pond in Florida. If a baby were drowning I might just say so long kid. There are gators everywhere in Florida; who goes swimming there?

And then there is the surfer in South Africa who was attacked by not one, but two great white sharks simultaneously. Where was he surfing? Not in Michigan where there are no sharks, not even in, oh, Ireland where there aren’t any sharks, but off a known reef where great whites hang out and feed constantly. Where seven surfers have died from shark attacks already. I have a hard time finding sympathy for this fellow who felt surfing here was a good idea. Who still surfs there.

Sometimes I stand at the lip of a volcano and look over at the liquid, hot, magma and decide it is not a good idea to go swimming. I feel good about that decision. So I have to ask myself, why do other people seem so immune to good sense?

Luckily for the surfer, two sharks attacked him at the same time and this perhaps saved his life. Now that qualifies as irony. I am flabbergasted by the people on the Animal Planet. Flabbergasted!

I’ll tell you who I have sympathy for. I feel bad for the man who was mauled by a hippo. That guy was just kayaking in Africa and some feisty hippo took offense. I feel bad for that guy. There’s no accounting for a hippo’s temperament. And when was the last time anyone was hunted by a hippo? No one expects that. He didn’t deserve to be shown up by a hippo.

My roommate just brought up an interesting scenario, though. Crocodile versus the Great White. I’m feeling that the croc has a significant advantage over the shark myself—the shark only has the one set of teeth and they’re really disadvantaged by the oversized nose. The croc on the other hand can just take bites out of the shark and have at it. Now, it should be remembered that the shark is feisty and won’t go down easy. It is entirely possible the shark would just toss the croc up in the air and start taking bites out of the underbelly. We’ll have to conceive of that showdown in more detail later.

Last I leave you with this thought. The odds might be in your favor, animals might only attack 1 out of every 100 people, but it doesn’t matter if you are the 1. And if you see the shark giving you the eye and decide to go swim with it anyway, I feel no sorrow for you when it takes a nibble that just happens to be your arm.

So I was totally going to whine about why I am unloved and unloveable, but then I read on msnbc that the two-headed, eight year old snake “We” died today. Go here http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/19334041/?GT1=10056 to read more about it. I think talking about the two-headed snake is much more useful.

First off, it had both male and female genitalia; they had tried unsuccessfully to breed it with another two-headed snake previously and were going to try again this summer. Which genitals do you use? Both? Alternating? How does one decide? Flip a coin? Most importantly, however, is the fact that this snake is two-headed. Bleh! Because one head isn’t bad enough it needs to have two? Granted, the picture isn’t all that intimidating and because it was reported to “try to slither in two directions at once” I think I would most likely point and laugh as opposed to shudder, but the principle remains. Two heads on one body equates with a phobia and a half. I have a shudder just thinking about it.

And I have to wonder what it is about snakes that bothers me so? I watched a special on the History channel long, long ago describing snake phobia in our culture as being extremely high—they conjectured it had something to do with the religious symbolism of snakes in our predominately Christian culture. I figure that might have something to do with it, but I would place my bet more on the sheer…difference of snakes from people. When I was little and my family would go to the Children’s Museum in Indianapolis there was usually a python you could pet in one of the rooms. Every year I would make myself touch it and every year I seemed okay. As soon as it wasn’t there for me to touch I remember my fear nearly overtaking me. I have an easier time walking by rabid, barking dogs than I do a snake sunning itself on a rock. Isn’t irrational fear grand?

But on the flip side, while I am petrified of snakes I’m also incredibly fascinated by them. I can’t look away—I seek them out in movies and educational specials. Joy Harjo talks about having a vision one night where a giant Cobra appears to her and she isn’t scared because she recognizes it as the spirit animal of her sacred feminine. When I read that I remember thinking my sacred feminine is screwed because I would so freak out and possibly urinate on myself. But maybe not—what if a snake is the representation of my feminine half and on some level I know it? Does that mean I am fascinated because of it but repulsed by the reality that is a snake? Or does it mean I’m at war with my feminine side?

Sorry, didn’t mean to take this conversation there exactly—that’s a whole other blog that would take significant thought and space to talk through. In a nutshell I would admit it’s both, but I’m not going to clarify just yet. In the end I have neither an answer to why snakes fascinate and repulse me nor why no one wants to make sweet, sweet love to me. I have contemplations I think I will engage in concerning female culture and male culture but those too belong in another blog. In the meantime I go to Maine soon and then Vegas. If someone did love me I wouldn’t be around long enough to enjoy it anyway so I suppose it’s just as well.

I still have hope, though, that tomorrow I will wake up Catwoman with Batman by my side. Hey, a girl’s gotta dream.

So I have figured it out! I now know where my obsession with the bad boy, psycho-killer comes from. Care Bears II! It all goes back to Darkheart baby. That’s right. He’s oh so bad, oh so evil, but in the end he cares. He cares and then he’s good and then he loves! Yeah for the good guys!!

It’s been awhile since I wrote anything up here and I felt the discovery of Darkheart as my first love worthy of sharing. I’m not proud of it, but I feel I should own up to it. Oh yeah, and he wears a red jumpsuit for most of the movie (when he’s not an animal) so I blame Darkheart for all my sketchy tastes and possible issues with bestiality. Just kidding, honest!

So my other thought I wanted to share stems from the proclivity of “universal” positions. Specifically, there’s a Master of the Universe, and a Defender of the Universe, but what about the Groundskeeper of the Universe? Or the Janitor of the Universe? Why isn’t there a cartoon about that guy? Do you think you get a flashy sword, a hip theme song and to shape-change if you’re a groundskeeper or janitor too? I think you should. It’s a thankless job and the least you could ask for is a flashy sword and a hip theme song.

These are my thoughts for you all right now. It’s not much I grant you, but I invite any of your thoughts concerning the Janitor of the Universe and possible theme songs.

I care!

Whose afraid of the big bad wolf? Not I. Why you ask? Because he has officially joined the list of murders, hitman, and psychopaths that I’ve fallen in love with. First there was the Phantom from Phantom of the Opera. Then there was Anakin Skywalker (before he loses all the parts that are necessary for my sort of love to go on). Slevin from Lucky Number Slevin. I know I’m missing some, but regardless, I now feel strong, undying love for Bigby Wolf, a.k.a. the Big Bad Wolf of yore.

I’ve been reading a graphic novel series known as Fables. I highly recommend it to anyone who enjoys a good story—it reimagines the world(s) of fairy tales and the characters in them. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant, and the best part is, it’s intensely detective noir. Bigby Wolf is the underdog sheriff of Fabletown with the hots (unacknowledged of course) for Snow White and the perpetual hate of most of the community. Him having been said wolf prior to the founding of Fabletown he did try to eat a number of the inhabitants. I won’t ruin it for you wasting time explaining how the story unfolds, but needless to say, the big bad wolf is hot.

And all of these musings have led me to conclude that I obviously need to marry a werewolf. I mean, doesn’t every girl want a husband that growls at her on occasion? Just a little bit? No? Well, maybe it’s just me. I’m so not into bestiality, but my werewolf obsession (combined with my somewhat sketchy attraction to the devil in Legend) does make a person wonder sometimes…I think it’s the animalistic thing. Hot, wild, unfettered sex—and if said hot, wild, unfettered sex happens with a werewolf detective then you know it’s going to be good. After all, it’s his job to solve the mystery and you just became the mystery. I think I could stand to be solved.

But aside from the hot, wild, unfettered sex the truth of the situation is that Bigby Wolf, the Phantom, Anakin Skywalker, even Slevin…they all just love so much. Yeah I know, it’s a let down for me to go all sappy here at the end, but hear me out. They are everything a girl could want (minus the mass murdering thing, but nobody’s perfect). It’s never just about sex with them, but they are completely not bothered by the Madonna/Whore complex. They love you just like you are and they love you so much! Sometimes like a plastic bag over your face, but never half-heartedly. It’s never luke-warm with these guys. They’re wounded and broken, but still yearning for a woman who will heal them. They’re losers, but only because they wouldn’t compromise their integrity. And they are always so very, very manly. I mean, come on ladies—sure some of them kill/eat/maim/assassinate people on occasion. Sure one of them is a wolf some of the time, one of them is mostly robotic and covered in burn scars, and one of them has a disfigured face. But these are all surface issues. Just think about the passion roiling under the surface! Granted, said passion might lead to your untimely death when they kill you in a rage, but it would be a hell of a good time up until then.

And the big bad wolf would never kill you in a rage which is why he is my current favorite.

It’s not about who they are, but what they are. I could totally be happy married to an accountant or a teacher or a janitor. But only if he’s got a whole lot of wolf in him, and just enough man to keep it in check.