I Wish I Knew How to Quit You: Abandon

Kevin Williamson is awesome.

Sure, he's had his missteps (I never even attempted Wasteland because of how awful I heard it was, and Vampire Diaries looks positively poopy), but Dawson's Creek provided a gigantic bonding experience for me and my roommates freshman and sophomore year of college.  And seeing Scream 4 at 12:01 last Friday, surrounded by a raucous crowd who wasn't above yelling at the screen, I was reminded how much FUN horror can be. Much as I enjoyed the morality-play aspect of the first Saw film--and to an extent, the second--I hate how quickly it denigrated into straight-up torture porn.  RiffTrax notwithstanding, where's the entertainment in that?

Of course, Kevin Williamson isn't perfect.  He is also largely responsible for introducing the world to Mrs. Tom Cruise, or as she was known pre-couch jump, Katie Holmes.

Because I am a nerd, after seeing Scream 4, I immediately visited IMDb for the film's trivia/fun facts.  This led me to look up the original Scream trilogy, which I haven't seen in ages.  And for some reason, I remembered a suspense-y piece of tripe I encountered on the university movie channel back in my law-school days.

Anyone else remember Abandon?

Kevin Williamson's not involved at all, but Katie Holmes sure as hell is. This KH vehicle was unleashed in 2002 when the Creek was still running and Hollywood's powers that be were trying to translate her little-girl voice and rolling eyes into full-fledged stardom.

Didn't really work.

Let me just say I'm a little prejudiced.  I never liked Joey Potter.  Yeah, she was from the wrong side of the tracks and her sister had the audacity to get knocked up by a non-white guy (one of the many, many things Joey bitched about), but my God, the girl never stopped whining.  Also, honey, your best friend/boyfriend/whatever's name is DAW-son, not DAH-son.  In contrast, Michelle Williams' Jen Lindley was just as misguided, but way more interesting.  I mean, she liked 70's rock and her best friends were her grandma and a gay guy.  WINNING.

Also, who has the more successful acting career now?  I rest my case.

Anyway, Abandon.

So Katie Holmes is Katie Burke, a senior at an unnamed super-chichi East Coast-looking school.  We know it is for smart people because a boy in Katie/Katie's group of friends wears glasses.  Katie/Katie's other pals include resident African-American and Bring It On alum Gabrielle Union, and Zooey Deschanel in her pre-hipster goddess days when she was typecast as the wacky friend.  Katie/Katie is NOT friends with the weird girl in the library, played by Melanie Lynskey in the lean post-Heavenly Creatures years before she had much of a career.

Katie/Katie has everyone drooling over her: she's one of two students on campus being pursued by the exclusive i-banking firm McKinsey.  Even the thesis she's struggling to finish sounds impressive.

But much like with Elizabeth Wakefield, I don't really see the appeal.  You see, Katie/Katie is sort of a robot.  A very pretty, apparently smart robot, but a robot nonetheless.  She has what I like to call Bella Swan Syndrome: where a young character is totally popular despite having practically no personality.  I have no idea what McKinsey sees in her--then again, I'm not an i-banker.

Anyway, this little robot has a secret.  When she was a sophomore she fell in love with senior Embry Larkin (Charlie Hunnam, who is now on Sons of Anarchy, which everyone says I should check out).  Shown in flashback form, Embry is a picture-perfect, spot-on trust fund brat desperate for street cred crossed with theatrical pretentious douchebag.  In other words, I would totally have wanted to do him in college.

At the end of Katie/Katie's sophomore year, Embry staged an elaborate theatre production which he introduced by essentially telling the audience to fuck off, and disappeared into a waiting vehicle, never to be seen again.

Two years later, Embry has no family to speak of, but his attorneys want him declared legally dead so they can donate all his riches to the family foundation or something, and recovering alcoholic cop Benjamin Bratt (when Hollywood was trying to make HIM happen because I think he was doing Julia Roberts at the time) is digging out his notepad and most serious expression to find out what happened.

Meanwhile, Katie/Katie is having a very boring nervous breakdown: she can't sleep, can't finish her thesis, and despite the McKinsey guy showing up at her dorm room (which I'm imagining breaks all sorts of rules and codes of appropriateness) and Detective Bratt creaming his jeans over her, she's seeing Embry everywhere she goes.

What is Katie/Katie hiding?  Is Embry really back?  Will Det. Bratt start drinking again?

All I know is Zooey's wisecracking all the way!

I don't get it.  Why did I gravitate towards this film?  And by "gravitate" I mean "stalk relentlessly."  Back in 2006, when I couldn't catch the whole damn thing on the university movie channel, I went to no less than 2 or 3 video stores trying to track it down.  And yesterday, I looked at my local video place and at the library, plus Netflix streaming and Amazon, before I may or may not have illegally streamed it from some Japanese website where I think they're trying to sell me sex shoes made of chicken.

In other words, it's a big ole case of This Movie Sucks And I Can't Stop Watching And I Totally Hate Myself.

I think in the old days, I could relate to Katie/Katie's general stress and weirdness surrounding her upcoming graduation, job interviews, and remembering an ex best left un-remembered.  The end of school is a strange time and I thought the film actually did an okay job of conveying that (would have done a better job with a more convincing actress, just saying).  In the now...hm, I dunno.  Maybe it's nostalgia.  Maybe I really like it when Zooey plays the wacky friend (aw hell, I love her as the hipster goddess too).  Maybe I find Embry totally hot and who am I kidding, I'd probably still hit that.  I'd just tape his mouth shut first.

Either way...I might still buy the DVD.

Or one of my readers could buy it for me (hint, hint).  I'd even take it as a present from Katie, if Tom lets her out of the Scientology basement.

Do you have any inexplicable favorites?  Along the same lines, what movie do you think desperately needs a RiffTrax?

'Cause for me, the answer to both those questions starts with A and ends with -bandon.

Son of a bitch.

A Love Letter to My Nook

Dear Nook,

I never thought we would get this far.

I swore I would always be a paper girl.  I love the smell of books, the feel of them in my hands, the pretty covers.  I love popping into a bookstore and flipping through several tomes before deciding which lucky one will be going home with me that evening.  For me, books are a quick, fairly cheap (especially when I have a coupon!) pick-me-up: better for me than ice cream, and way more lasting.  I can revisit them again and again.  And thanks to an awesome city library system, I can borrow almost anything I want for free!

Then two things happened.

One, my neighborhood Borders closed, as did most of the locations in Chicago.  I was devastated.  Sure, there are independent and used bookstores in my 'hood (one of the advantages to living here), but they don't have nearly as good a selection, plus one of the used bookstores is run by a real asshole who always yells at me to turn off my cell phone.  Even when my cell phone is tucked away in my purse.  Plus, no coupons.

Two, I started planning my move.  Granted, I'm staying in the same neighborhood, but even a trek seven blocks east requires packing, which necessitates a purge.  And I realized: while I love my three full bookcases, they are very, very full.  I've loved discovering the romance genre, and I was about YA way before Twilight was even a sparkly germ in Stephenie Meyer's mind, but the thing about genre fiction?  IT PILES UP.  Like crazy.  Because YA and romance reads tend to be fairly fast (and I'm a fast reader anyway), I have a ton of them.  Sure, many are worth rereading and revisiting (for example, I always turn to Jennifer Crusie's Bet Me on a bad day), but some I haven't looked at since the first read.  Also?  Usually all of my holds from the library come in at once, which makes for a very heavy bag at the end of the day.

There's a Barnes & Noble near my office, where I like to write and have hot chocolate on lunch breaks.  And like the nerdy best friend in an 80's movie, you, Nook, were always hanging around, at your little kiosk, surrounded by attractive covers and accessories.  But I always ignored you.

Until one day, like the nerdy best friend in an 80's movie who gets a makeover, I stopped for a second look.

You were light and easy to use.  You use "e-ink" and not backlighting, so as not to hurt my eyes.  You could store a bajillion titles AND fit into my purse.  Many of these titles were cheaper than their paper brothers and sisters.  For a girl who panics if she finishes a book in transit and has nothing else to read, this was like discovering Nutella for the first time.  And best of all, you could store e-books from the library.

But I took my time.  I asked around about your reputation.  I did online research, I grilled my fellow bookworms.  I listened to my sister when she said, "you read so much, you're actually a great candidate for an e-reader!"  I'd never thought of it that way, but she was right.

I know there are risks.  For example, I don't essentially own any material stored in your lovely self--essentially, I'm "renting" it.  A zombie apocalypse could happen any day--or you could just massively upgrade--and I'd lose all of that.  But my paper books, they would remain.

I get it, though.  Falling in love always, always comes with risks.  And sometimes you have to just jump in.

So I bit the bullet, Nook.  I picked you out, along with two pretty covers.  I learned how to do a search, how to load library books on you, how to make "shelves" to sort my growing collection (my shelves are named Noodle Stories, Bitches Be Crazy, Teen Girl Squad, and Do Not Watch That No No Channel).  I'm still growing accustomed to all your little quirks.

And I don't think I'll ever fully outgrow the print format.  Some books I do want to own, to hold in my hands, to display on my bookcases.

But on the whole, Nook, I think you and are going to be very happy together.

Love,
Unpro

New Addictions: All About Aubrey

Spring has almost sprung.  Thank God, because I'm so sick of tights, boots and shivering.  Especially shivering.  And with spring comes sunshine, change, me smirking at couples PDA's (oh hell, I do that all year)...and best of all, new reality TV shows I scoff at in public but Hulu in the privacy of my apartment.

Such as...All About Aubrey.

Remember Aubrey O'Day?  I do!  When I was a depressed law student, you couldn't pry my ass away from my crappy tiny TV on Making the Band night.  My overweight, sad self envied the hell out of the tight-bellied beauties competing for fame and fortune, not by making sex tapes or peeing in clubs, but by singing and dancing their spray-tanned hearts out.  I was on the edge of my desk chair when Diddy announced (gasp!) there would be no band, though he invited back a few girls to compete with a whole new crop of wannabes.  I was on the edge of my desk chair during the next season, where Danity Kane was formed.

And in the midst of it all, was Aubrey O'Day, pretty much a lock for the group since day one.  She wasn't the cutest.  At least half the girls could outsing her.  And fellow competitor Shannon could kick her ass all over the dance floor.

But Aubrey knew how to play the game.  That's not to say she wasn't talented--she had a great voice and was an excellent dancer.  Above all, however, she was the competitor you loved to watch.  She didn't try to buddy-buddy the other girls, but she had enough friends in the house that you knew she wasn't a bitch.  She had an instinct for when Diddy wanted sassy, when he wanted diva, and when he wanted workhorse.  She may have sported the cleavage-baring workout ensembles and janky highlights, but girl was whip-smart when it came to standing out.  And when she was the first "winner" announced, no one was surprised.

I didn't really follow Danity Kane during the following seasons of Making the Band, as by that point I'd graduated and was making a lot of major life changes.  I vaguely remember that Aubrey was fired, at least one girl quit in protest, and Diddy disbanded the very band he had made.  In fact, I forgot all about Miss Aubrey, until a recent commercial for her new reality show.

Since I don't get Oxygen, I went Hulu.  And one episode in, I'm all about Aubrey all over again.

Sure, some of it is totally staged and ridiculous.  I mean, who the hell dyes their dogs' fur and has their hairstylists jerk them off so she can freeze their sperm?  Aubrey, that's who (as the folks at The Soup thank whatever gods and goddesses they worship).  I could do without the "finding a man" storyline (come on, she's interesting enough without it!).  Her speaking voice is Kardashian-level whiny.  And sweetie?  It's really okay to cover up your tummy every once in a while. 

But you know what?  Under her blank and possibly plastic-surgeried exterior, Aubrey's still pretty savvy.  She's going for a comeback, using connections she made while in Danity Kane.  She's doing a reality show chronicling said comeback--automatic PR.  And she's owning up to some of the things she did that weren't so smart: namely, becoming a tabloid whore when that paid the bills and "artistry" did not.  Something else I didn't know but could have guessed from Making the Band: she's been singing, dancing and acting her ass off since childhood.  Even if I'm not always about sugary pop music, I respect people who want to be stars and actually, you know, WORK for it.

Also, she's gained some weight.  I don't think it looks bad on her--we should all be so fat.  And besides, Aubrey was several years younger when she first auditioned for Making the Band.  Her metabolism has changed as metabolisms do.  However, she's going to have to lose the weight because the industry's a bitch and double standards run amok.  During a dance rehearsal in the first episode, Aubrey had a little breakdown about this.  She's a stress eater and has never felt like she could enjoy food.  Either she's a hell of an actress or that was all true, because the whole scene felt real to me.  I'm not a pop tart, but I could relate, as many women can. 

When it comes to reality shows, Jersey Shore doesn't do it for me and never has.  No matter how hard I try, I just don't get the appeal of watching unattractive people be nasty to one another.  If I want to see that, I can go to a Wrigleyville bar.  And Teen Mom just makes me depressed that my gay friends can't get married in most states, yet THESE awful girls who never got a decent education in birth control (or a decent education, period) become famous simply for not using a condom.

But a show about someone who, despite her ditsy exterior, genuinely wants to get ahead in the music industry and lives in a pretty Hollywood house?

That I like!

All About Aubrey airs Monday nights on Oxygen, is available on Hulu, and re-runs on E!

And just because I can't get this friggin' song out of my head:

Happythankyoumoreplease, or My Life As an Indie Movie

On Friday, I saw Happythankyoumoreplease, which was basically Josh Radnor of How I Met Your Mother fame's attempt to be Woody Allen.  It kind of worked, in no small part because Radnor--who also played the lead--is quite adorable.  (Not that Woody Allen's adorable, unless your name is Soon-Yi, but you get my drift.)  And for once Malin Akerman, aka The Worst Working Actress in Hollywood, didn't annoy me too much, even though it was obvious she thought she was sooo deep for playing a hippie chick with alopecia.  However, the AV Club (who I would kill puppies to write for) made a good point: if Radnor weren't an established TV actor on a popular series, this movie probably wouldn't have gotten past the screenplay stage. 

Why?  Because it is full of Indie Movie Cliches.

And because I am a sucker for Indie Movie Cliches, roll my eyes at them as I am buying my ticket to whatever twee attempt at capturing the Stuff White People Like experience, I began to wonder.

What would my life be like if I existed in an indie movie?

Here goes:

1.  I would have long hair.  With bangs.  Unless I was the manic and/or perpetually horny and/or E-popping club-hopping friend/foil of the male protagonist.  Then I could keep my short hair.

2.  I would either play the guitar or have a charming yet sultry singing voice, which would only be used for folk songs, ironic covers of 80's hits, or Kander & Ebb showtunes that outline my life's overarching themes or the lesson I am supposed to learn that day.

3.  Speaking of music, I would have a ton of it.  Whenever I had sex, created something meaningful, saw someone on the street who would eventually play a huge part in my life, came to a major decision, or just sat and pondered my life, there would be gentle guitars and gravelly male tunefulness or uber-feminine warbling right on cue. 

4.  Jeff Daniels would be my dad.  Or my sad sack love interest.  Either way, Jeff Daniels would be involved.

5.  If my love interest weren't Jeff Daniels, he would be a mopey, vest-wearing, Smiths-loving gent with a quirky day job that still stifles his natural artistic instincts to pen navel-gazing prose, draw loser-turned-superhero comics or design arty buildings.  OR he would be a nerdy stalker who takes photos without my knowledge which he later shows to me to prove how beautiful I don't know I am, and instead of calling the police for a Temporary Restraining Order, I am totally charmed.

6.  I wouldn't have any gay male friends.  I would, however, know a lesbian or two who wanted to adopt or get turkey bastered.

7.  If there were any children in my orbit, they would draw meaningful pictures and spout innocent wisdom causing me to question my values and possibly get pregnant.

8.  I would--only once--get drunk and sleep with my ex, and feel quietly empty and regretful the next day.  And possibly get pregnant.

9.  My apartment building would have a stoop to sit on with my friends while we drank bottled beer and wondered "where is my home?"  That's more than an Indie Movie Cliche.  That is an Indie Movie Law.

And finally...

10.  As a woman, I would only exist as the sarcastibitch sister who swears a lot, the friend/foil who listens supportively between E-popping and club-hopping, or the long-haired pixie musician who captivates the whiny manboy protagonist simply by making eye contact with him on the sidewalk while sporting an Anthropologie sundress.  If I were one of the first two, I might get a subplot where I acquire a nerdy stalker or impregnate myself via ex or turkey baster.

Hey, I love indie movies.  If I didn't, I wouldn't be familiar with all these cliches.  However, just FOR ONCE can there be an indie movie with a smart, funny young female protagonist?  With someone who has a corporate job and is happy about it?  With gay characters who are real people?

I know they're all out there, but there are not enough.

Script Frenzy is coming up.  I don't know shit from apple butter about writing a screenplay, but I'm a little tempted to give it a shot.

Revisiting My Girl (And Young Unpro)

This post was originally published on The Film Yap.


When you're 11 years old, all you want is to be understood.


No matter how loved and cherished you are, it's not enough. You want someone to get you. Forget about adults: They have their own lives, which you're starting to realize seem largely mundane and petty. That leaves your peers, but if you're in any way unusual or unique, they tend to ridicule rather than accept.


One friend's all you need.


In one of "My Girl's" opening scenes, preteen Vada Sultenfuss (Chicagoan Anna Chlumsky, more recently seen in "In the Loop" and on TV's "30 Rock") holds court on the steps of her home, which doubles as a funeral parlor. When she offers to show a group of neighborhood boys a dead body, one of them opts out and is called out as a wuss. Before he heads home, the boy and Vada exchange a look.  That's all it takes to establish Thomas J. Sennett (Macaulay Culkin at his floppy-haired cutest) as Vada's best — and only — pal.


Vada's not only shunned for her funeral-home family, headed by her distant father Harry (a portly Dan Aykroyd). She likes climbing trees and doesn't wear dresses. Vada's convinced she killed her mother — who died in childbirth — and that she herself is dying as well. Her grandmother, with whom Vada had been very close, is now largely uncommunicative. It's enough to make any kid feel weird. And when free-spirited makeup artist Shelly DeVoto (Jamie Lee Curtis, sporting an enviable collection of mini-dresses) takes a job at the funeral home and falls for Harry, Vada's life gets even weirder.


But she's taking a writing class, taught by her crush, Mr. Bixler (Griffin Dunne). So what if it's for adults and she paid for it by stealing money from Shelly? And there's always Thomas J., who may be allergic to everything but is always up for an adventure. Vada doesn't make it easy for him, once calling him a "pacifist" and "bedwetter" in one breath. But compare her easy meanness to Thomas J. with her behavior around her father, which vacillates between desperate good girl and crying out for attention by declaring she has prostate cancer at the dinner table. Vada can insult Thomas J. because she's comfortable around him. She knows he won't leave her.


Until one day he does.


When "My Girl" was released in 1991, I was 11, the same age as Vada and Thomas J. I had a mad crush on Macaulay Culkin and couldn't believe — gasp! — he was going to die in the movie. I was mildly intrigued as well that the protagonist of the film was not only exactly my age, but a girl. Outside of the Disney Channel, this was practically unheard of. Oh, and there was a kiss. Sold.


I remember seeing the movie with my dad and talking about it afterward. He said to me, "I like that movie. It's about things you can't change, and even though they happen, they are not your fault." First, my dad and I rarely did things one-on-one; there were two other kids in the family. And as I was still reeling from Thomas J.'s untimely fate in the moments after the movie, this simple explanation offered me a whole new outlook.


When I was 16 and a week away from going on my first real date, I rewatched "My Girl" at my cousin's house. What stuck out to me that time wasn't my childhood crush's character's death, but Shelly's quote to Harry: "You can be in a room with a hundred men and not like any of them. But you can be in a room with one man, and he's exactly the one you want." "Wow!" I thought. "That went right over my head when I was 11, but now I totally get it!"


I'm now 30.  Just a couple of weeks ago, a fellow critic and I were discussing "My Girl." He remembered Macaulay Culkin's whimper before he met his untimely fate. I remembered how the movie took the young girl's problems seriously and how I could identify with them. I then wondered if "My Girl" would hold up; as we all know, not every childhood pop-culture favorite stands the test of time.


"My Girl" does.


Sure, there are a couple of moments where the kids' interactions seem forced or the score borders on treacly. But as a nostalgia piece, it works well — like 1995's "Now and Then," "My Girl" employs a groovy '70's soundtrack and sun-dappled shots of bike rides to evoke a simpler pre-video game era. And as a believable coming-of-age story, it works even better. Aykroyd journeys from gruff to openhearted, Curtis is fun and flamboyant without resorting to a manic pixie dream girl stereotype. Culkin wasn't always great as a child actor, but here he brings a subtle sweetness to Thomas J.  And Chlumsky is excellent — adorable without the pageant-esque shine common to so many young stars today and able to hold her own with her more experienced costars.


I wonder if "My Girl" could be made today. It's neither icky-sweet nor forcibly gritty. It isn't slow, but moves at its own pace, stretching out leisurely like childhood summer. It's a low-key dramedy that wasn't going for millions of box office dollars or scads of critical acclaim. It just is. Watching it as an adult, I recalled that time in my life when, like Vada, all I wanted was to be understood — and as I grew up, I found people who got me.

An Open Dear John Letter to Glee

Dear Glee,

I won't beat around the bush: we're breaking up.

I was so excited for you in the beginning.  I first met you in spring of 2008, I read a script of the pilot courtesy of my friend Bob.  Believe it or not, Sue Sylvester wasn't even a character in it!  Even when Bob didn't get the role, we were still awaiting you with bated breath.  "This show is going to be huge," I said.

And you were.  Despite some decidedly silly plotlines which shall remain nameless (*cough* fakepregnancy *cough*), to paraphrase Damn Yankees, you had heart.  Miles and miles and miles o' heart.  And some things you were hitting on the mark.  A nerdy, insecure girl who wasn't nerdy and insecure because she had glasses and liked math (like every other nerd cliche), but an obsession with musical theatre and a whole lot of other issues.  Two friends of the same sex who admitted they experimented sexually with one another, as many real teens do.  A gay kid struggling with coming out, but not with his rough-around-the-edges father, who loved and accepted him all along.  I'm STILL getting tears in  my eyes thinking about it!

Also, the talent!  Lea Michele and Matthew Morrison, two performers I'd enjoyed for years thanks to OBC's (Original Broadway Cast recordings for the cooler-than-I) and YouTube, finally getting their due in exposure and paychecks way better than the stage could provide.  Dianna Agron, able to handle a difficult pregnancy storyline while always looking gorgeous.  Heather Morris, funny with one-liners and fierce with choreography.  And Mike O'Malley, who'd been languishing in dumb sitcoms, in a dramatic and emotional turn that always, always felt real.

And then season 2 happened.

True to my prediction, you DID become huge, Glee.  Huger than I ever expected, blowing up iTunes, selling DVD's like hotcakes, and going on a tour that was attended by people of every age.  And I think it went to your head.

Granted, there have been some fun episodes this season.  I loved "Duets," and "Sectionals" had a season 1 feel about it, in that it actually cared about the consistency of the characters--plus it showcased players who don't get to sing quite as much.  I also appreciated the additions of Sam and Blaine, in more ways than one.  Dayum.

But the inconsistency!  Oh, the inconsistency!

Just as I had to eventually let go of my ex because I couldn't take the emotional ups-and-downs, I can't invest my time and energy with a show so incredibly frustrating.  To wit: why does Terri only pop up once every seven episodes?  Why is Mr. Schu now just a douche on the sidelines 93% of the time?  Am I really supposed to believe Kurt will go back to McKinley, when I've never known a bullied kid to return to the scene of the bullying once he/she has escaped?  And just when did Rachel change from a relatable chick who, while sometimes annoying, just wanted to be understood to a shrill harpy who sent her rival to a crackhouse?

(Because I still care for you, Glee, we will not begin to discuss the abominable Britney Spears butt-licking, the Rocky Horror that was only rocky-horrifying in that a GIRL played Frank N. Furter, and the terrible, terrible, one-dimensional-even-for-you, looks-like-a-40-year-old-porn-star Santana.  I hate Santana.  Please kill her.  Not the actress, who I'm sure is very nice, but the character.  Ditto Emma Pillsbury and her rage-inducing baby voice.  Though I do like her wardrobe.)

I can't do it, Glee.  Just like I can no longer wait for my ex's infrequent texts, I can't wait by the TV in hopes that you'll go back to the show you used to be.

In the halcyon days of your first season, I wrote a blog post doubling as a love letter to a show encapsulating what I wish high school would have been like for me--not the pregnancy stuff, but the breaking into perfectly choreographed numbers--while also capturing what it WAS like for me, as the ambitious wannabe star who sometimes went too far but got far more crap from her peers than she deserved.

Glee, I can't promise we can be what we once were, but in the interest of your own self-improvement, you might want to reread that postletter.

I wish you well.  But right now, I have to Slushie you.

Love,
Unpro

A Cynic's Defense of Romance Novels

I am not a romantic.

Even at sixteen, when a girl is supposed to be all starry-eyed and love-drunk, I was more of the cynic/realist of my relationships.  On our first date, my then-boyfriend and I went to a park with a gazebo.  "Stars are cool," he remarked.  "That was really corny!" I chirped.  He kissed me anyway.

I'm not sure why I'm this way.  My parents may argue a lot, but they've been happily wed for over thirty years, so it's not like I came of age among marital discord and strife.  Maybe it links to why I've cursed like a sailor since I was twelve: in a baggy shirt without eyeliner I look like a virginal milkmaid.  In a tight shirt with eyeliner, I look like a virginal milkmaid trying to be slutty.  What can I say?  I've always been about contrasts.

So it was the weirdest damn thing when last year, I found myself getting into romance novels.

Like the most hush-hush of sex acts, it started out innocently enough: my friend Bryn Donovan sent  me an advance copy of her novel An Experienced Mistress so I could review it for the blog.  After a stressful workday, I sat down at Borders--my punk rocker crush in plain sight--and perused the PDF.  At first, the Catholic schoolgirl in me blushed and giggled.

Then, the Catholic schoolgirl in me realized just what it was I was reading--a story of an interesting woman who had a lot of steamy, well-written sex--and got very, very turned on.

Shit!  I realized.  I think I like romance novels!

It didn't stop there.  Two days later I found myself, as I usually do, in Barnes & Noble on my lunch break.  Except this time I was visiting a different section.  I timidly poked my head into where it said "Romance"--with the side-eye I was giving to make sure no one I knew saw and judged me, I may as well have been buying crack.  Instead of a familiar face, however, I saw a tall, attractive woman, also in work clothes, perusing titles.  We smiled at each other conspiratorially.

I bought Lessons in French by Laura Kinsale.  You never forget your first time.

That was almost a year ago, and since then, thanks to Smart Bitches, Trashy Books, my local library, and a generous friend who gave me a whole tote bag full of her old paperbacks, I'm an official convert.

Let's address the arguments right away.  Yes, some romance novels are crap.  Terribly written tripe with rapey heroes, stupid heroines, and an HEA (Happily Ever After) I wouldn't believe in a million years.  You know what most romance novels are, though?  Well-written.  With flawed but funny heroes, smart and interesting heroines, and a HEA I see coming (because it's romance and you have to have the HEA) but can totally believe.  Let's just say that Jennifer Crusie, Laura Kinsale, Eloisa James, Lauren Dane, and the Godmother of them all, Susan Elizabeth Phillips, kick Dan Brown's vanilla-prosed, conspiracy-spouting ASS.

Because you know where else there's bad writing?  In memoir.  In sci-fi.  In crime, both true and fiction.  In New York Times-bestsellers.  If I have to read about yet another repressed housewife whiiiiining about her husband's affair, I may blow up a suburb my friends don't inhabit.  And yet none of these genres get the hate that romance does.

Do men like romance heroes exist in real life?  Some may argue no.  Some of my happily-married and -coupled friends may beg to differ.  But does it matter?  A big part of romance is escapism.  Fantasy.  But readers can still learn from this.  I'm not saying any of us should hold out for the perfect man, but we shouldn't settle, either.  And really, most romance heroes aren't perfect (really, I have no patience for the ones who are).  Just like the heroines, though, they learn.

Wanna know why I think romance gets a bad rap?  Fair warning: I'm about to step up on a feminist soapbox, but if you read me regularly that shouldn't be much of a shock.  Romance is a genre largely written by women, for women.  Never mind that it's basically keeping the publishing industry afloat: it's for GIRLS, ewwwwww!  Because women can't possibly know what they want, physically, emotionally, and sexually.  Because there's no way writing and editing a romance novel isn't damn difficult.  Because (and this is a literary argument as old as time), the female experience can't be universal.

*Unpro steps off soapbox*

Look, if romance ain't your bag, it's cool.  I'm not trying to make anyone read a romance, though I certainly won't stop you.  But don't make the mistake that Jezebel's Morning Gloria did a week ago, when she denigrated all romance as rape-promoting garbage, using one or two blogs as expert sources.  It's like anything else: don't trash it if you don't know what you're talking about.  (Thanks to Jezebel's Sadie Stein for her excellent rebuttal.)

I admit, I used to trash romance too.  Because it was easy.  Easier to giggle at Fabio (who's supposed to be pretty cool in real life) and lump a literary phenomenon into a National Enquirer-esque category of fluff.  Easier to judge a book by its (sometimes admittedly silly) cover.

A year later, it's Friday night and I'm heading to Borders, thinking "I could really use some Jennifer Crusie right now."

Without any shame whatsoever.