"It's like this," I told my friend Bob, as I shook my chest in the booth at the gay bar.
I've come a long way since June.
Several months ago, I was at a crossroads. I loved modern and musical theatre dance classes, but I felt in a bit of a rut. Plus, I was frustrated with my writing and with other parts of my life.
I needed a new hobby. Preferably one that got me up and moving and feeling good.
At the same time, a friend of mine was getting into burlesque dancing, and her Facebook was full of stories of women with awesome names like Jeez Loueez and comments about something called "shimmying." Despite having danced for nearly twenty-six years of my life, I was a little unsure about what burlesque entailed. Even the word "striptease" was opaque to me.
Understood or not, I was patently aware that I didn't think I could do it myself.
As a former theatre major, I was well-informed of Gypsy Rose Lee. Not to mention I've been dancing (other, more clothed forms) for 26 years. But I couldn't do that. Sure, it was a far cry from licking the pole a la Nomi Malone, but still . . . baring it all in public? No way!
Plus, the non-body snarking feminist in me was hesitant. Could I really get behind an art form consisting of bumping, grinding, and clothing removal? Was that copasetic with the sisterhood?
There was only one way to find out.
I went to a burlesque show. Specifically, a showcase of advanced students at the studio where my friend took classes. I naively stepped into the bar that Sunday night, unsure of what to expect.
What I got? The dirtiest dance recital known to (wo)man.
At first, it was a little weird. I tried to muffle my nervous giggles as the first girl did her thing, shaking her tail and shucking it all off. But then something happened: I got into it. The ladies of all shapes and sizes. The silly puns and dirty jokes between dances. The fun, creative choices of music: everything from Bobby Darin to James Brown. The feathers and adorable shoes.
Then the head of the studio--Miss Exotic World 2005, and a finalist on the first America's Got Talent--did a fan dance like you wouldn't believe. She was wearing next to nothing, but it was downright elegant.
I wanted to do THAT.
So I signed up for a basic class at Studio L'Amour in Chicago. It's a friendly, funky little place (and no, they are not paying me to talk about them) where all girls who want to learn to shake it are welcomed with open (bare) arms. I went in person to sign up because I wanted to check out the vibe.
"Um, is it okay if I wear workout clothes?" I shyly asked the studio owner/head teacher.
"Sure, I'm wearing this for class," she replied, indicating her own workout clothes.
Five months later, I'm demonstrating my shimmy for my friends.
Mind you, I haven't shown any real skin: the studio emphasizes being comfortable with yourself, and you don't take anything off until the performance class, if you choose to go that far. But what I've learned is this: burlesque isn't just about skin. It's about having a sense of humor. Embracing those silly puns while bumping the hips your mama gave you. Getting your dance on while thinking, "damn, I look hot!" It's not about the boys. It's about the girls (innuendo intended).
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to practice tying a tie. So I can remove it from my person at next week's class.
Oh, and true burlesque or no, I am excited as hay-ell for this movie:
As a professional development facilitator and speaker, I coach my clients on how to improve their speaking skills. Lots of educational gems can be found all around us -- on TV or on the internet.
One of my favorite shows, The Office (U.K.), illustrates some of the, um, worst practices for public speaking. David Brent is the "entertaining" boss with a "cool vibe," who, sadly, doesn't really know a ton about effective presenting. Fortunately, I do, and I'll share some tips with you.
Below are some lessons I teach in my workshop. David Brent Illustrates the exact oppostite of what you should do to ensure success when you speak.
1.Always rehearse before you present. At a bare minimum, rehearse your opening.
2. Begin with a bang. No one likes to hear a boring opening. You know, "Hi, my name is Marianna and I'm going to talk about blah blah blah." Create a dramatic, interesting, or captivating opening. But not of the David Brent variety:
3. Start Strong; Finish Strong. Creative opening? Use a creative finish. Even if your talk is more subdued, you want to close with conviction. I always tell my students the worst way to end a presentation is with a flat finish like, "Well, that's it." Here's an even worse way:
Do the opposite of David Brent, and you'll be just fine when you give your next speech.
Marianna Swallow is a professional development facilitator, blogger, and writer. She's currently writing her how-to book on public speaking. See her in action at http://www.swallowconsulting.com/.
Wanna get your guest post on? Email me at maybeimamazed02(at)yahoo(dot)com.
"So you have creative aspirations, huh? Well, DON'T."
At least, that's what Laura Miller of Salon.com would like you to believe.
A friend linked this article on her Facebook page this morning. Basically, Ms. Miller takes it upon herself to deride all participants in National Novel Writing Month as delusional time-wasters who believe that penning a first draft makes them J.K. Rowling.
You know what, Laura?
Kiss my NaNoWriMo'ing ass.
Below is the (very polite, for me) devil's advocate comment I posted on my friend's page:
Wow. That's a lot of vitriol. Just to play devil's advocate, I did do NaNo last year, and am doing it again. I'm stil rewriting my project from last year, and will keep doing so until I feel it's good enough to submit to agents (which, initially, I did earlier this year, but not without editing and rewriting first). Like I did last year, I outlined this year's project, did character sketches and plot summaries, and spent months thinking about my plot and characters (all of which are allowed within NaNo guidelines).
Before NaNo, I had written two novel-length manuscripts. I have a blog and write for a film website. I've also spent time at an arts colony, an opportunity that was very competitive to get. I read constantly, and I've never understood so called "writers" who say they don't read. Writers read, that's that.
However, I also have a full-time-plus job, and before I did NaNo, my last manuscript's first draft took eight months to complete. As it happens, November is also when things slow down a bit at my workplace, so it gives me more time and energy into getting out a first draft, which I will subsequently rewrite, and rewrite, and rewrite.
The point of a first draft is to exist. It should never be submitted to someone for representation or publication as is. There will always be people who don't understand that. However, there are plenty of us who do, and who will keep working on our novels for months to come.
The author of this column has a right to her opinion, of course, and it's true that this writing approach is not for everyone. I just feel it generalized a bit, as not everyone has all the time in the world to write, and it CAN be productive to churn something out in a month and work from there.
Plus, if someone's going to plunk out a crappy novel instead of watching a million hours of TV, why not let them?
Now, here's where I let shit get real:
Really, Laura Miller? Really? You're going to take a ton of people the world over--serious writers with our eye on publishing, folks who want to give writing a shot, lit lovers all--and tell us NOT to take part in an activity we choose to do on our own, that no one's forcing YOUR uppity ass into? Really?
Because it's soooo bad for someone to think outside the box. God forbid they like to read and want to take a stab at making something of their own. No way should anyone who feels a little bored or unfulfilled or depressed channel their negative energy into something positive. Never should someone use their typing fingers for anything other than operating a remote control.
Three and a half years ago, I distinctly remember saying to my mother: "I'm a 27-year-old temp. Who cares what I think about anything?"
Then I went with a friend to our alma mater's production of Cinderella. It wasn't great. But it made me remember an idea I'd had years ago. About the backstage drama at a community theatre production of that very show.
The next morning, I woke up and reached for my laptop. I wrote a seven-page story, that eventually became a 120-page novel. Several months later I showed it to Bob, aka The Friend Who Doesn't Tell You What You Want to Hear, But What You Need to Hear.
He said, "It's good. You should keep writing."
A year and a half later, I took my first long-term fiction writing class. Maybe two or three of us wanted to publish eventually. The rest were there because (cover your ears, Laura), they liked reading and writing. They thought it was FUN. And you know what? We all read and wrote and listened and gave feedback and laughed and made friends and generally had an awesome time. And we learned stuff.
I know, I know: such a waste of time! Think of all the shitty TV I DIDN'T watch!
In between 2007 and now, I've written three manuscripts. I started a blog. I've been an artist in residence. I've also made a ton of friends, real and virtual, that have made me laugh and made me learn.
I'm still trying to get published. I don't have an agent yet. My NaNo from last year is still a work in progress. Will I ever get that elusive book deal? I don't know.
Will I ever regret writing?
NEVER.
To get the bad taste of Ms. Miller's article out of your mouth, I offer you a quote from the filmmakers of Up, which won big at the Oscars earlier this year:
"You want to be creative? Get out there and do it! It's not a waste of time."
That's what I'm talking about.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have two angsty 70's music-loving teenagers in my head, who need my attention.
So you may have noticed October was a bit quiet around the ol' Unpro. Basically, I've been dealing with some personal stuff, work has been insanely busy, and I really miss creative writing so I'm about to dive into National Novel Writing Month for the second year in a row of 50,000 words in 30 days. The next couple weeks will consist of guest posts, and I'll be popping up in the comments to add my two cents (because I always have at least two cents, or four, or fifty-three).
Thanks for understanding, and this week, please to enjoy an awesome post from Meg, who's shown up on this blog to comment on Things TV Taught Us and White Girl Problems, and now has her very own blog, Questionable Taste! Rock on with Meg as she explores her favorite cable television treasure and be sure to let her know what you think!
Everything is bigger in Texas.
The hair, the sequins, the oil rigs, and, of course, the football. I kind of have a fascination with Texas - it's like a different world. I love big and sparkly things, and I think maybe I was a Texan in another life. Because of this, I’m going to share with you the best-kept secret on basic cable: Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team. I realize I have questionable taste in everything, but before you laugh at your computer screen, hear me out.
The concept is pretty simple: cameras follow young hopefuls as they shake, kick, and jump-split their way to a spot on the Dallas Cowboys’ famed cheerleading squad. In charge of choosing the ladies are DCC director Kelli Finglass and choreographer Judy Trammell (both former cheerleaders themselves) who demand excellence not only in dance ability, but also personality, handling public appearances and “looking good in the uniform" (read: not having any extra weight).
Kelli and Judy are tired of your shit.
The aspiring cheerleaders go through several rounds of auditions, with a select few making it to the squad’s training camp, where they’ll learn routines and the fine art of "sexy walking," get sized up by the audition judges on Cowboys Stadium's 60-yard flat-screen TV, and endure boot-camp-style workouts. From training camp, several more ladies are cut from the squad, being called into Kelli's office and informed that "Tonaht will be your fahnal naht." (That's my typing impression of a Southern accent there.) Tears and heartbreak ensue. So why do hundreds of girls try out for 36 spots each year? And why can I not stop watching this show?
Because Kelli and Judy are damn good at what they do. Kelli knows how to put a squad together, and Judy comes up with dance routines that are fun and sexy without being over-the-top. They’re no-nonsense big-haired Southern belles and they know exactly what they’re looking for. Show up late to a uniform fitting? Stumble in the kickline? Kelli and Judy won’t have it. Being a DCC is about more than just being hot and shaking poms. Part of what I like about the squad is that the cheerleaders have to actually be able to dance, and not everyone can do high kicks and jump in the air and land in the splits. And if you can’t hack it, you’re out.
And as someone who’s been involved with dance and theater most of her life (and on the poms squad in high school), I know the crazy and emotional ride that is the audition process. So much can be at stake, and in the end, it’s a situation over which you have no control, and the show doesn’t sugarcoat this fact. Some of the ladies auditioning are back for the third, fourth, or fifth time, often making it to final auditions but ultimately falling short. It may seem like it's just about doing booty-shaking and high kicks and cheering on Miles Austin, but it’s not as easy as it looks.
Despite its intensity, though, I totally want to be a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. I took poms and dance and love sparkles and can tease my hair and could probably eventually do high kicks if I worked on it. But I think Kelli and Judy would probably kick me off the squad - not sure I have what it takes.
But I really want a pair of those cowboy boots.
Are YOU guest bloggy-rific? If you'd like to contribute to The Unprofessional Critic, email me at maybeimamazed02[at]yahoo[dot]com!
Sometimes you just need to look at Josh Duhamel in his underwear, chasing a baby.
I've been thinking a lot about comfort. This past week, a close friend unexpectedly lost a parent. This is a first for me--in some ways, it's kind of a miracle I've made thirty years without witnessing it yet. I don't want to make this all about me, but it's affected me. A lot.
It's never easy to watch a loved one grieve. To know that they're dealing with such a devastating life change. To realize that you most likely will bury your parents, and that day may come sooner rather than later. That your friends, too, won't be around forever.
Life as you know it, is fleeting.
Though I'm about to enter the most intense workweek of the year, I decided on Friday to visit my parents. It would involve several hours of travel in the span of about forty-eight hours, but . . . I just needed to see them.
On the train home, I tried not to think about work. I didn't stress. I took a nap, wrote some notes for my NaNo project, listened to a mix I made for Bob, revisited a really good book, thought about the amazing ballet performance I'd seen the night before. I tried my damndest to surround myself with the little things that make life comforting.
And then I went to a Katherine Heigl movie.
Let me explain. I don't have the vitriol for ole KH the way some bloggers do. Yes, I think she shouldn't bite the hand that feeds her quite so much, and if she's so concerned about making female-empowerment films, why the hell did she back and star in The Ugly Truth? However, I don't actively seek out her movies that don't involve Judd Apatow or making fun of bridesmaid dresses.
But the movie selection in my parents' town is considerably more limited than Chicago. Mom had already agreed to see a movie with a coworker. And quite frankly, even if I'd been in my home city last night, I didn't feel like watching anything dark and depressing, no matter how cool it would make me sound on Monday.
This is how I ended up at LIfe As We Know It.
Sure, the plot's predictable: schubby dude meets woman with stick up her ass. They hate each other on sight, but are forced to get along when their recently departed friends' will stipulates that they not only raise departed friends' baby, but live in departed friends' house (all of this done without departed friends discussing this with schubby dude and stick-up-her-ass lady before their untimely death). "Life as we know it" changes forever, montages ensue, wacky neighbors come out of the woodwork, and arguments become kisses become airport runs (just when I think screenwriters have finally discarded the airport run, here we go again).
And yet . . . I enjoyed it.
Not just because I coveted Christina Hendricks' purple ruffled cardigan. (And her hair. And her lips. And just . . . can I look like her in my next life? I promise not to flip off crazy drivers anymore).
Because it was comforting.
Because sometimes you just need to sit in the dark, passing the popcorn bag in between your parents, and listen to your sister tell you that Josh Duhamel was upset that the poster features a shot of him in tighty-whities, even though there are FULL FRONTAL pictures from his modeling days that you can find online. (My family: always good for the odd movie tidbit or obscure John Hughes quote.) Because babies are cute and the pop music score is fun to listen to. Because Katherine Heigl wears pretty outfits.
Because as much as I lament the decline of the movie industry and the fact that yet another remake of an 80's series has been greenlighted when a movie about Allen Ginsburg only came out in like five cities, sometimes I just need to dive headfirst into a predictable romcom.
Life As We Know It will never make it into my top ten. Katherine Heigl can be annoying. Apparently, Josh Duhamel is a pantsless hypocrite. And I don't want babies, inherited or otherwise.
But on a Saturday night after a rough, sad week, it was exactly what I needed.
And speaking of fluffly treacle, here's my favorite duet from last week's Glee:
Here's what you need to know: I grew up hating football.
Hey, nothing wrong with organized sports. They're good for kids, breed team spirit, help people bond, blah blah blah. And the entertainment industry spawns just as many assholes. However, you couldn't convince teenage Unpro. See, I came of age in a teeny tiny farm town where sportliness was next to Godliness. And I was a reader/dancer/aspiring actress. When I chose to attend college in Chicago, going the furthest away of anyone in my graduating class (of 34), exactly no one was surprised.
Though I do have a weakness for certain sports movies--A League of Their Own is what made me a feminist, and The Mighty Ducks had cuuuute hockey boys, plus Gordon Bombay is just really, really fun to say--I'm more a fan of uplifting montages with music cues so I can understand who's hitting what into where. I guess I like the idea of sports, but not sports themselves. So when NBC premiered a TV series based on the film Friday Night Lights (a good 'un, but not in my top five fave sports flicks), I was less than interested.
Fast forward almost one year: end of summer 2007. Bob was on the verge of moving to L.A., but in between packing (him) and preparing to relocate seven blocks (me), he made a trip to Best Buy and blind purchased season 1 of Friday Night Lights. Over cheeseburgers and coffee that night, we plopped down on the living room floor, fired up the DVD player, and waited to be entertained.
Four episodes and several Kleenex later, we were hooked.
See, Friday Night Lights is all about football, and it isn't. In the fictional town of Dillon, Texas (based on the real-life town of Odessa, as chronicled in the book Friday Night Lights, written by H.G. Bissenger, cousin of Peter Berg, who directed the film and adapted the book for TV), high school football is essentially the cherry on top of a shit sundae. The Dillon Panthers are the town's great hope--and for some players, it's the peak of their lives. Many will escape the tiny town--often with the help of football scholarships, making the stakes even higher--but most will not, proudly sporting their championship rings into gray and paunchy adulthood as they work at car dealerships and/or live vicariously through their athletic offspring and younger siblings. At the helm of the program is new coach Eric Taylor, who gets For Sale signs on his lawn when the Panthers lose and plays surrogate father to several kids who've had less-than-ideal upbringings. And when a star player suffers a life-changing injury during the season opener, well, it's a whole new ball game.
Yeah, I know. Pretty standard sports-movie stuff: coach as father figure, second stringer turned reluctant rising star, fans who at first glance just need to get a life and stop obsessively following teenagers.
So how the hell did Friday Night Lights wrestle laughter, tears, and "touchdown, goddammit!"s from two urban theatrephiles who successfully escaped their athlete-centered farm towns?
Again, it's about football. But it isn't.
It's about families: balancing a career that both fulfills and pays the bills, with spending time with those you're supporting in the first place. It's about relationships: falling for someone whose values are the exact opposite of yours, and maintaining love and respect for the ones who've stood by you for years. It's about a community: zeroing in on the stifling aspects that have some yearning to leave, as well as the comfort that keeps many around. It's about playing a sport because everyone else does; finding yourself challenged, revered and suspected all at once; caring for a grandparent afflicted with Alzheimer's; having a parent in Iraq and hoping he's safe but knowing life is easier when he's not around; wanting nothing more than to please Coach while also finding his daughter really cute.
And that last sentence? Is just ONE CHARACTER.
Thanks to the stellar writing and acting of Friday Night Lights, even the most minor characters are everything and nothing they appear to be. Just as you the viewer root for someone or write them off, one word or gesture changes your whole opinion. The biggest stereotype evolves into the most complex. And it's not all gloom and doom. Every episode is a jewel: funny, intense, nuanced. Kind of like life.
Seriously. Even if Remember the Titans and Major League make you want to retch your cornflakes, give Friday Night Lights a whirl. Netflix, iTunes, Hulu, whatever you need to do, track this show down. Dive in, watch it, love it.
And for now, enjoy the exquisite opening credits music (four seasons in, and I still don't fast forward past it).
*slams head against desk for subjecting readers to such a bad joke*
In short, y'all, I'm sorry for the lack of posting lately. Life has been, well, happening. I also haven't been reading and commenting on my fave blogs as much (Sadako and Nikki, I still love you!). Hopefully I'm well on the way to getting my groove back, and bloggy absence will be no more.
Anyway, I HAVE had a little time to read lately--in fact, I've made it a point to at least skim a few pages daily. My library books have been piling up, to the point where I've started putting them on my floor rather than my nightstand, to avoid them toppling onto my cat. And speaking of nightstands, one of my favorite features on Entertainment Weekly's Popwatch blog is "Nightstand Watch," where the blogger, then the commenters, share what they're currently reading. This week, I come to you with a little Nightstand Watch of my own. Here are four books I've read recently, and the one I'm currently reading, in no particular order:
1. Good Enough to Eat (Stacey Ballis)
I met fellow Chicagoan Stacey Ballis on the same night I met Jen Lancaster, at a reading/signing for Stacey's book The Spinster Sisters. I've really enjoyed all four of Ms. Ballis' previous novels: her female characters are empowered by their imperfections, extremely intelligent, and have a great sense of fun. Plus, her love for the Windy City shines through in every word, and there's just something about authors and auteurs who get Chicago locations exactly right, as opposed to just throwing in "Sears Tower" and "Marshall Fields" (or, ahem, "Willis Tower" and "Macy's," BOO) every other sentence.
With this in mind, I really wanted to like her latest, Good Enough to Eat. I even bought it as opposed to borrowing, because I like to support my fave writers who aren't New York Times-bestsellers (yet). And the concept had so much potential: an overweight lawyer goes to cooking school, opens her own organic food business, loses half her body weight, and THEN loses her husband to a woman twice her new size. I love anything to do with food (which is why I'm still watching Top Chef Just Desserts even though I HATE Seth and his whiny mommy fixation), and exploring a woman's complex relationship with it sounded even better. And yet . . . I was disappointed. The writing felt a little lazy, the characters were cliches (hi, sassy yet supportive gay friend! howyadoin, wise African American soul food chef! what's happenin', flaky Manic Pixie Dream Girl with pink hair?), and I thought the straight men (MPDG's boyfriend in particular) got away with so much shit without consequence. While I did enjoy the narrator's voice, the food descriptions, and the cool low-fat and full-fat recipes, most of Good Enough to Eat left me hungry. Try Ms. Ballis' first four books, particularly Inappropriate Men and The Spinster Sisters, before you pick up this one.
2. A Little Bit Wicked: Life, Love and Faith in Stages (Kristin Chenoweth)
So I used to haaaaaate Kristin Chenoweth. To the point where when her name was mentioned, I'd go to the bathroom and fake vomiting sounds, attempt to asphyxiate myself with a pink pillow, or just yell, "ARRRGH I WANNA KICK PUPPIES." I mean, she's just so tiny! And adorable! And squeaky! And uber-Christian!
And genuinely talented and (if her book is to be believed) hardworking.
Goddammit.
Therefore, recommending Chenoweth's autobiography is the bloggy equivalent of me eating crow. Big, fat, juicy, feathery crow. What can I say? She's totally got the wrong voice for the lead female in the Promises, Promises revival, but pulls it off anyway. She won me over on Glee by singing a seductive cover of Bruce Springsteen's "Fire" with hottie patottie Matthew Morrison while twirling around a skating rink. Most of all, the lady seems to be a genuine Christian, in that she's actually nice to people. The fact that she regrets her 700 Club appearance and spoke up loudly on Sean Hayes' behalf (he plays a straight dude in Promises, Promises), well, I kinda dig that a lot. So sing on, Ms. Chenoweth. I've put out my white flag, then replaced it with a pink glittery one that would make Glinda proud.
3. Hard and Fast (Erin McCarthy)
Yup, I'm still into romance novels. After the most stressful of days, there's nothing quite like some sexy escapism in 350 pages or less. Just like I thought I'd never be in to romance novels, I REALLY thought I'd never be into romance novels featuring race car drivers. I mean, I poke fun at my dad's NASCAR-viewing habit on a daily basis, and Talladega Nights on TBS never fails to crack me up ("I am a NASCAR wife, Ricky! I do not work!"). But thanks to the ladies at Smart Bitches, Trashy Books, I was introduced to Erin McCarthy's series where Sundays are king, cars are life and sex is really, really hot. Also, the good ole boys who drive find themselves attracted to women who are talented, smart and have really great dialogue. In Hard and Fast, dyslexic driver Ty falls for grad student Imogen and Shakespearean sparks fly. Yes, there is Shakespeare and race car driving in the same book. And it totally works. Who knew?
4. The Kid (Dan Savage)
Despite idly reading his explicitly frank advice column for years, and enjoying the hell out of The Commitment, his book on relationships, I consider myself a recent Dan Savage convert. The dude is a dirty, fetish-y god, and I would totally stalk him in Seattle if he were into vaginas. Don't believe me? Check out his inspirational It Gets Better project on YouTube, or subscribe to his fantastic Savage Love podcast, where he doles out wisdom on everything from boobs to bondage with the vocal acumen of Wolfman Jack. Or read The Kid, his 1999 memoir about adopting a child with his boyfriend Terry. I have no desire whatsoever for spawn, but I was alternately cracking up and choking up the whole time. Dan, on the .00001% chance you're reading this, I heart you from the depths of my Catholic-girl soul, and can't wait to hear you speak at the Chicago Humanities Festival next month. Can I have a hug?
5. Last Night at Chateau Marmont (Lauren Weisberger)
I've always thought Lauren Weisberger got a bad rap. Granted, she's probably laughing all the way to the bank, after her first book The Devil Wears Prada was adapted into a fairly successful and pretty funny movie, but critics seem to haaaate her. Look, not everything can be War and Peace. And you know what? Her characters may come off shallow and entitled at times, but the woman worked for Anna fucking Wintour, for God's sake. She probably STILL has scars and eating issues! When it comes to protagonists, however, I think nutritionist Brooke of Last Night at Chateau Marmont is my favorite. Brooke is sweet, hardworking, and believably struggling to adjust to the fact that her husband, whose musical dreams she has financially and emotionally supported for years, is now an overnight sensation. Brooke doesn't feel entitled to anything, just respect and equal support from her rock-star spouse. This is a fun, fast read (I'm almost at the end and I just started yesterday), probably not worth the hardcover price, but definitely worth a good ol' fashioned borrow.
Because I STILL feel guilty about not posting lately, here's a fun video for thy pains:
What are YOU reading right now? Any recommendations/stay-the-hell-away-from-this-book(s)? On a sorta-related thought, anyone doing NaNoWriMo this year? Anyone out there? Leave a comment!
