ridiculous. . .

. . . is how I would describe my current ride. As in, no, my car wasn't stolen, but yes, it is still being cantankerous and more parts had to be ordered. So I have a rental. All so I could make it to class today to show my students the documentary, Baraka. (Which, incidentally, I came across at a Meacham party, courtesy of Ata. It is truly amazing. The baby chick part had them all horrified. I think it's one of the most beautiful parts. But then again, isn't terror a direct correlation to beauty?)

(Kunta Kinte on the iTunes right now.)

Anyway, back to the ride. A completely decked out brand new luxury SUV. That's all I'm saying. It is insane to drive. Bumps mean nothing. Places in the road where before I would leap joyfully up in the seat, I don't even notice. What is even crazier, is the whole "rich" feeling, one that I am not entirely sure I am comfortable with. I actually like my own car better now. Yeah, it's old. Yeah, it's falling apart. And no, it hasn't been washed in a few months. (But, we're in a drought people.) But all those quirks are just part of the car. I've had it for six years. It's outlasted every relationship I've ever had. I think it deserves some new stickers or something. Anyone direct me to a place in Wilmington where I could attain some of these?

the birds . . .

. . . are tearing up the freshly laid newspaper at the bottom of their cage. The gerbil is looking at me askance, because here I am, available to watch and make sure he doesn't get eaten, and I haven't let him out of his cage. The body shop has temporarily misplaced my car and the tech who was working on it. I am about to miss my window of opportunity to go walking around the lake, because soon I will be in that natural 'downtime' that occurs every day. May also possibly miss class again this afternoon.

But it's all good. Really. Surely. Halloween is tomorrow. I really dislike this holiday. My brother and I were talking about that yesterday. I don't eat candy, I like the idea of dressing up, but not really, and this is the anniversary of a death of a dog I absolutely adored and loved and miss terribly. She was hit by a car. I found her by the roadside, and carried her back to the house. It was a long walk, and she was very heavy. I put her in my brother's old room, in his bed. (Oops. Don't think I ever mentioned that to him. Oh well. He'll live.) Read her all sorts of his old childrens books and just cried. So yeah, Halloween sucks.

Hmm. Been twenty minutes and no word from the shop. My car is being joy-ridden down College Road. Whatever. Hope he enjoys it and remembers to put some gas in it when he brings it back. Which should be shortly once he finds out how shoddy the shocks are. Hah!

amid the pile . . .

. . . of rejection slips, a very lovely acceptance. The Red Clay Review will be publishing one of my poems in their inaugural Spring 2008 edition. Very exciting! Check them out.

oh, it's sooooo on, baby. . .

. . . that's right. My car and I are duking it out. I say OPEN! and it replies NO!

My key won't work. But the culprit is the door or locking mechanism or whatever. You may recall my earlier post and how I was crawling through the passenger side, yada yada yada. So now I am completely locked out. Better than being locked in, but whatever.

Had to cancel my classes, which really saddens me. Was looking forward to the stuff I had planned. And now, here I am, with hours at the dealership looming ahead of me (as soon as AAA comes to bail me out) and really bad television. Really bad. It's the tenet of all car dealership waiting rooms to provide you with the worst possible channels in the hope that you are sufficiently stupefied when they hand you the bill and you hand them your credit card. Nothing looks as bad after hours of daytime talk shows.

But it's okay. Really. I enjoy waiting. Do it well. Prefer it to be in airports, but you know. I can pretend.

girls vs women. . .

. . . taking a break in my poetry writing to contemplate something I read in the paper this week. It was an article about how adult females tend to refer to themselves as girls, as opposed to women. As in, "Hey, I'm hanging out with the girls tonight." The author had all these possible reasons for this word choice, including that females of today have a hard time living up to their mothers, and suggesting that perhaps the maturity level isn't quite up to par.

So, hey, Woman! (Author is a woman/girl/female.) You missed the point, honeydoll. When have you ever heard a male say "I'm going golfing with the men today" - you don't! They say 'guys' - "The guys and I are going to get waxed today."

So why is this? Simple. The letter S is a surefire pluralizer. In a language when educated folk use the word fishes to describe multiple fish, it is no wonder such ambiguity crawls into the use of switching an E and an A. Man:men; woman:women. Sucks. But the use of guys and girls is more pleasing to the psyche.

Case closed. Next?

uh, duh. . .

. . . who is shocked that Dumbledore is gay? I mean, come on! In reading the books, no one ever made the connection? I wondered about Minerva too. It isn't like the teachers at Hogwarts had family suites. Anyway, it'll just give the book-banning nazi cows more ammo to keep those pagan witch books out of schools. Must protect the children!

Whatever.

So John Updike was here yesterday, and he was quite delightful. He did a private Q&A with the CRW department students in the afternoon, before the night reading. He recalled his amazement at learning that a sentence had anatomy - he could even recall the name of the teacher who taught him that. More importantly, he recalled how she had this thing with messing around with her bra strap. Apparently, she was ill-fitted. We all laughed, of course, because it was funny, but then I instantly started to wonder if I have some odd behavior that I am unaware of but that my students will remember years from now. Ah, that Miss Weathers! (Some of them refuse to call me Jen, despite my repeated requests.) She always had her finger in her nose! Must've been the nose ring.

Yes, teachers have come quite a way from the days of slips and oxford shoes. Thank God. I guess I am a hair tosser. (Back to the odd habits. Keep up.) I always have my hands in my hair. I've gotten better about not twirling my pencil in my hand. . . I know that is distracting to others. Although it is so calming. Do I wiggle my foot too much? I also am a chair rocker - but only in the classrooms with those red chairs. . . hmmmm.

Too much to do tomorrow. I am already behind with all the extra stuff on my plate this week. And all I really want to do is write.

now available . . .

. . . at The Pedestal Magazine: my poem (and others as well!). The intro by Jared Smith is an interesting read. Take a gander.

the unforgettable fire . . .

. . . in the cd player, finally replacing Amy Winehouse. Although, I must say, I do go through phases with music. Amy's been in there since school began basically. But every once in a while I get on this U2 kick - older U2, when they weren't popmarting themselves with lemons in zoos. This is nostalgic, longing, mournful music. Thinking music.

Although I think I have found a way to get Amy Winehouse in the classroom. My 8th grade history teacher, Chuck, would bring in music to elucidate a lesson. Studying the Civil War? How about a little Guns 'N Roses. Dealing with the Depression and the Dust Bowl? Nothing like Bruce Springsteen to really bring the lesson home. Actually, the more I think about it, the more I see how many of his classroom techniques I actually use. Although, I've never tossed a chalkboard eraser at student - not yet. I should add that he was throwing it at two of his favorite students (me and a friend) who were probably shooting off at the mouth (yeah, I can pretty much guarantee that) and it was a friendly throw (it hit the blinds, in a cloud of dust). My aim is so bad though - I'd probably wind up beaning the wrong student.

In another twist of irony, speaking of that old friend, I just wrote a poem that pretty much has her as a central figure, although I haven't really thought much about her in years. But it was this thing she used to do - and it somehow caught my imagination. It probably isn't the nicest portrait of a person, but it sure does explain a lot about human nature.

And poetry - I have come to the conclusion that I am not good at scanning poems. My ear refuses to hear the stressed/unstressed part of meter. I can pretty much tell just by hearing if it is iambic, but in trying to deduce if there is a trochee or spondee tossed in, I can't really rely on how I hear it. Maybe this is one of those things that requires years of study, of tuning one's ear to the nuances of the language. Surely it was easier for poets who were writing back in the day before free verse took over, and everything started to sound like iambic, regardless of how the poet tried to make it sound. I am rather irked about this, because it is something I want to actively consider in my revisions. But I already know I don't hear things quite the way they sound sometimes, which can be rather annoying when I am trying to say certain words. (Measure is always a problem.)

football season . . .

. . . means that the weekend news gets the shaft. But I am not bitter. I know the news: the world's in a shithole, and we're having weather.

I realize that lately my blog entries may be reflecting a rather, shall we say, morose outlook on life. Au contraire! Various good things that have been going on in no particular order:

1. Finished grading, and if I can get my act together the rest of the evening I will be done with all my weekend homework. (Homework is not the best word to use for grad school stuff, but whatever.)

2. Read the most delightful short essay by Lori Soderlind entitled "66 Signs That the Former Student Who Invited You to Dinner Is Trying to Seduce You" which had me laughing out loud at several points. I was in B&N, so I went ahead and bought it. She unfolds the story by numbering - like Barthelme in his glass mountain short story. This style gives great weight to the irony and humor. Must try it.

3. Figs are still in the store.

4. Have been writing a lot of poems lately.

5. There will be something besides Lawrence Welk on television tonight. Of course, I won't be watching, but I like the TV on for background noise. But all those flashy blue suits and bubbles bouncing around the stage are very distracting. I don't do well with silence when I am trying to work. I like cafes, bookstores, the lake, beach; places where there is constant noise. The best sleep I had this summer was in Munich, in this little dive hotel with these huge windows that opened to the noise below. Munich doesn't sleep at night. It was great.

So there we have it. Five things. All good things. Also reading Chuck Palahniuk's book of essays Stranger Than Fiction. It is the first thing I have read by him, and yes, I know, Fight Club is on my list. I loved the movie. Brad Pitt does indeed rock. And yes, my new mission in life is to write a great book that Hollywood wants to option and cast Brad in. After all, it happened to Chuck, it could happen to me. (Don't be all judgmental on me now. This would be for purely altruistic reasons. My mother wants to meet him.)

Onto more reading and poetical analysis!

another enters the fray . . .

. . . of the blogosphere: Ecotone, the literary journal of UNCW is casting its net here, with a host of devilishly creative writers.

Speaking of blog updates, if you haven't been keeping track of Harriet, the Poetry Foundation's blog, you should check it out. There have been some really interesting posts, particularly by Christian Bok on writing and failure, which you can read in the archives under his name.

The weekend is here, and I am grateful. It has been a particularly trying week.

life should come with a foreign accent . . .

. . . today I went to the lake to write, organize some thoughts, revisit some poems, and when I arrived at one of my favorite spots, there was a man already there. I sat down anyway (it is a large covered pavilion right on the lake) and opened my notebook. He got up a few minutes later, and wished me a good day, in a lovely Australian accent. It was a beautiful thing.

fallen . . .

. . . walked to car after teaching and doing office hours today, only to find that my rearview mirror had fallen off the window.

Sometimes, it is just that kind of life.

it . .

. . . gets better, right?

what is this. . .

. . . finally finished Kim Addonizio's book of poems what is this thing called love? It took me so long because I kept rereading each poem as I came across it. This book was written for me, despite whatever impetus Ms. Addonizio may claim!

Actually, what I like so much about it is the way the images work inside the poems, so softly but so starkly that they are glossed over. The poems all feel organic, but never rough or halting. I am not a huge fan of the form, but I admire what she is able to do with it when she tries - whether the poems are successful or not is another matter, and since I can't get past the admiration of her poems, I leave that to the individual reader to decide. But hands down a keeper. Such a keeper, that I have been hard pressed to leave the house without the book or remove it from my immediate vicinity. You never know when you may feel the urge to read a particular poem again.

I will most certainly be buying her other books. I have heard via the grapevine that she was at UNCW a few years back, and I lament the loss of not being here then. But hopefully there will be a future opportunity.

Other news: read Pope's Rape of the Lock again, after two or three years. I still love it. I think what I love most is the circumstance of his writing the poem, and the stately grandeur with which he handles the situation at hand. Talk about taking things out of proportion.

I think I may have discovered why I react so vehemently about rhyme in poetry. Rape of the Lock does rhyme, of course, in couplets, with a few slants tossed in now and again. Spenser's Faerie Queene rhymes, as does anything by Shakespeare, so on and so forth - but the big difference between why I like these particular pieces and not the ballad or other shorter rhyming poems (exception of the bard), is that they tend to aim for a colloquial iambic pentameter, and they are epic. It is the story, the way the lines progress with clever wit, and a keen eye to the limits of language. But mostly it is the story. This is part of the transition of poetry from an oral tradition to a written one - the loss of rhyme (thank you Milton, thank you!) and the shift of focus to the line break as a higher measure of the art and the limits of the English tongue (another huge thank you, dear, most difficult language) that render rhyme obsolete.

So, when I read Addonizio, and I don't detect the rhyme initially, I am gleeful at the skill it takes to use such an historical tenet of poetry, and modernize it so fully that it becomes invisible.

I am also fully aware that I may change my mind about rhyme in future. And I do like children's books that rhyme, mostly because they love the musicality of the language and when one is learning to speak it is easier to have that sing-songish sound to help the brain unfurl those complexities.

Onto the rest of my Sunday. There are more poems to read.

have lost my voice . . .

. . . and also apparently my sanity. Or sense of decorum? Or impeccable sense of character? (Hah, if I had that, well, there are books that can be written on the time and trouble I would have saved - mostly in high school, but in other patches of life too.)

Doris Lessing has won the Nobel. I know her by name, but not by work, and so I am sort of glad a lesser known writer has taken the prize because it will help shoot her out of obscurity. Looking forward to reading her work.

Also, Al Gore won. Of course. Can you say validation? Because honestly, I don't which upsets me more - the ignorant people who voted for Bush (you know who you are, and we both know you aren't reading this blog), or the ignorant people who don't give a shit about the environment (you know who you are, and many of you are reading this blog, and honestly people, you can't shit in your bed and expect it not to get messed up).

On tap for the weekend - copious amounts of studying and other various domestic chores. I should write more.

Oh, and official thanks to the guest poetry editor Jared Smith at The Pedestal Magazine for selecting my poem to be included. They have been amazingly supportive - go check them out.

genocide denier

so when bush starts ww3. . .

. . . who will stand by us?

The possibility of Bush attacking Iran sounds laughable, right? Because clearly the American people see this as a bad idea, and Bush respects the wishes of the people. We don't currently have the manpower in our armed forces to set up a school cross walk, let alone invade another country. Clearly, Iran is not speaking for the majority of the Middle East countries. So it is absolutely absurd for me to posit the thought that we could very well see the next world war on a nuclear/biological level in the next two years. Right?

Well, no. (If you don't already follow my sarcasm, the above was an example). McCain, on his bid to reinvigorate a dead campaign, is actually going to the far right Christian evangelicals. Bill Moher had a special on this the other night. I didn't catch it, but heard about it. The gist seems to be that they are starting to drum up support for a war with Iran with the US equivalent to Muslim extremists. (Uneducated people are ignorant, no matter what their religion is, and those ignorant folk are the dangerous kind. The ones who start shit.)

Recently Hillary Clinton and her fellow campaigners were questioned about a bill they voted for that gives Bush power to strengthen sanctions against Iraq. The questioner accused Hillary of once again giving Bush the authority to invade a foreign country. Hillary denied that the bill would do any such thing. Iran is certainly on the radar of many though.

Bush obviously doesn't respect the wishes of his countrymen, or we would not still be in Iraq. (I never wanted to invade in the first place, but I was outvoted.) The lack of military might isn't such a problem either. The draft still exists. We could very well see it come back to use. By drumming up support with the religious right, a huge obstacle is overcome to public feeling. Iran is seen as a much bigger threat than Iraq. (Because they are, realistically speaking.)

A war would certainly help the economy. Think of all the factory jobs that would be created. Bullets, bombs, aircraft, hummers, all sorts of equipment would be needed in a short amount of time. The US economy soared during WW2 with all that production. Everyone had a job.

So who would stick by us? England. France. Italy, Germany. Other Eastern European nations. Israel.

Who wouldn't? The entire Middle East. Even countries who may wish for neutrality (Egypt springs to mind) will be hard pressed to not come to the call of their fellow Arab. Russia. China. North Korea?

This isn't sounding like a good thing, is it. The more I think about it, the more surreal it seems. But it also is resonant of how great the rhetoric of Hitler was. He put Germany into such an atrocious position, but it was so gradual, so slowly done, so righteously presented. I am not comparing Bush to Hitler (although many would I am sure), but what I am saying is that there is a feeling of complacency among Americans. We don't believe Bush would put us in such a bad spot. We really are secure in the memory of Vietnam that the draft will never be used again. We are naive. The evidence is mounting. It is being seen by people, but kept quiet.

I would love to be wrong on this one. I would happily eat crow (tofucrow). But I don't think I am. I think things are escalating and if they continue there will be a point where we find ourselves in another war, not quite knowing how it came about or why. You need a passport these days to get into Canada. Just remember that.

behind . . .

. . . not sure how this always happens to me, but it does. I get spectacularly ahead in certain areas, and then fantastically behind in others. Never a happy medium. I have an eight pack of paper towels in the cupboard, but I'm almost out of cleaning spray. (Yes, organic, geranium scented. It is my personal theory that all the germophobes out there who use harsh caustic chemicals are somehow partly responsible for cancer rates soaring. Germs are okay. Tumors a little less so.)

I received a rejection notice today in the mail which is odd. I won't mention the journal's name (because the person who sent this was obviously a very green editor who didn't know what she was doing), but it was the usual form letter, with some wording to the effect of 'don't forget your SASE.' This contrasts with their website instructions, which I always follow (with the exception of simultaneous submissions). Anyway, she'd underlined that part twice, and then, to make sure I got the message, hand wrote out a note that next time I submit to be sure to include my SASE. My poems were included in the envelope.

Now, why would I want those poems back? Firstly, they were stapled. I know better than to send anyone a stapled set of poems. Secondly, they had been handled by who knows how many people and were wrinkled and creased, recreased. Why would I send out to another editor a set of poems that had clearly seen rejection once before? I don't include a SASE if it isn't required. Call me cheap. I figure if you like my poems enough to want them, I'll hear from you via email. And if not, please recycle my poems.

Since I am on my soap-box, let me just tackle the simultaneous submission policies of many publishers. I figure they are sort of like a really feeble lock on a henhouse to keep the foxes out. They nudge it, the door stays shut, they move on to the neighbors. The smart fox ignores the lock and goes in through the open window. My advice? Don't tell them you've sent it elsewhere (even if they invite you to do so - you'll be at the bottom of the pile), and don't worry about it. I know it sounds harsh, but honestly. Most likely you are not being paid. Most likely they are not being paid. They do it for the love of finding great new talent. You do it for the love of being the great new talent. Editors who bitch about them or flat out refuse to deal with them are normal. Everyone complains about their job from time to time. (I complain about writing all the time.) It is the writer's responsibility to ignore the editor on most things. It is the editor's responsibility to find great new talent. It is how it is.

Just read the end of King's On Writing where he writes about the practical side of publishing and agents and all the business that goes with being a published writer. I find it to be a really refreshing take on the business side of things. (Of course, King is always rather open with his ideas and in a no-bullshit manner. Love it!)

I feel that now (after I have insulted people with cancer and magazine editors at large) my work is done for the day. I can revel in the rest of this latte, look at some student poems, and relax in the mellow glow of the fading sun. (Yeah, the sun was a bit much.)

Ken Smith

There is nothing I can say that several haven't already. Obviously, Ken touched many lives. He was a presence in the room, and his laugh was infectious. He will be sorely missed.

Other (more eloquent) posts on Ken from former UTC students Laurel Snyder and Paul Guest. Anther alum, Bradley Paul, had a great memory of Ken and his wife on the sun porch of Rick's house during Meacham - he posted that on Paul's blog.

If there is one memory to take away from Ken's life, for me, it would have to be the absolute love between him and Madeline. They were in love. True, lifelong, romantic love. You didn't have to know them to know that. They exuded it wherever they went.

lovely news . . .

. . . this morning. Exactly how I like to start my days. It makes up for yesterday which was a minor run-in with disappointment.

No classes Monday or Tuesday. Fall Break. A marvelous invention. Reading selected stories from Sixty Stories by Donald Barthelme. I never would have picked up this book on my own, mostly based on the fact that they are short stories and the less than lackluster title. However, I am very grateful I did pick it up (for a fiction class), and read the intro by David Gates who addresses the title of the collection. I must say that overall, I am very impressed with Barthelme's titling propensities, being that I am myself rather title-challenged. I am going to start naming my poems Bob. Bob 1, Bob 2, Bob 3, so on and so forth. Okay, not really, but I do feel that titles are an area I really have to work at. I find them rather difficult because they are almost expected to be summations of a poem, or they draw uber-attention to a certain aspect of the poem. Perhaps this is why I am fond of long illustrious titles that bounce back off the poem or first lines that play immediately off the title.

Also finished The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova, and found out that she will be a visiting writer next semester. I hope I am able to take her class. I think of her book as being more in the pop fiction vein, and since I have had my students read Stephen King's On Writing this semester the idea of literature versus pop fiction has been on our collective minds. I haven't read any reviews of her book, but I suspect it was well received. I was more than happy to follow her down the path she took, and was pretty enthralled the entire book, and then found the ending to be almost anti-climatic. But part of me is hoping this is because she has a second follow-up novel in her sleeve, which I will tentatively call The Librarian. It seems only fitting.

Also reading Kim Addonizio's What is This Thing Called Love. Pretty much loving it. I am amazed at how she is using form in this book. Rather experimental and incredibly colloquial at the same time. Some are more successful than others, but when she is on, she is dead on. Amazing moments. I will definitely have to read her other books.

I wrote four poems last week (inspired by Addonizio), and two of them seem to work pretty well, the others need some serious life support. I like this bout of prolific writing, although the product may be somewhat questionable. It still feels like a good balance. Read a book of poetry, write four or five poems.

Considering all the news that the movie of Khaled Hosseini's book Kite Runner is getting these days, I may try to read it this week before I become immersed in knowing too much about it (which I sort of feel I do already). Of course this runs the risk of not liking the movie then, which is usually the case (books are better with the exception of Lord of the Rings, yeah I know, but come on - one can only read so many fake folk songs in horrid iambic trimeter/tetrameter).

drama . . .

. . . with my car. Today. At a strip mall. Couldn't get in. Door lock sticks. Door lock is automatic, only responds to the key if key is inserted and twisted the right way. Key lock is a fickle lover.

Me (in my head): Oh my God, no.
Me (out loud): Fuck!
Me (in my head): I hate this car, I really, really, really hate this car.

My passenger door unlocks. [This is a new occurrence that only started happening when the driver's side door stopped working. But why? I don't care about my passengers. If there is a fire in the car you can bet your ass I'm getting myself out. ]

I decide not to look around to whomever could be witnessing my struggle with the lock. Crawl in through passenger side, over huge lumpy armrest (which does move, but I forget). Furiously poke button from inside of door. Still won't budge. Effectively trapped.

Still need to drive to store. Store is in same parking lot. Drive over, with nonchalance. Surely, during the ten seconds it takes to make it to Harry T's my door will miraculously work again.

I park, shut off engine. Bush button. It doesn't work. Am officially trapped. Parking lot is rather busy, and I feel expected to make a normal exit from my car. Frantically turn to cell phone, randomly look through numbers. No one to call. Revert to pretending I am listening to messages (ah, how low we sink) and trying to ignore the fact that the car is now heating up and I am about to die in a parking lot full of people because I am too prideful to crawl out the passenger side and would prefer to look as though I know exactly what I am doing and in what temperature I am doing it in.

Look hatefully at door. Push button again. It unlocks.

grizzly bears . . .

. . . that is what is on the state flag of California. I miss it actually. Thinking about it a lot today. There was a smell that reminded me of this potpourri that I used to have when I was a little girl. I don't know how I got it or why, but the smell is rather like faded roses and crisp branches. Then driving to class today it softly rained in this field that has a lot of bitter weeds in it - you know the type that bleed milky white when crushed. The smell was amazing.

Ah, California. What a tempestuous relationship we have. I should work on going out there this summer. Doing some reading, writing. Hanging out on the boardwalk in Santa Monica. Visit a Borders. Have some real Mexican food. Figure out if that is where I want to go after graduation. We'll see.

What is that great line from Cannery Row? Something about the stink of nostalgia. . .

ugh . . .

. . . day is just not going well. There is a disconnect that I cannot figure out. Somewhere, something is not jiving. Something is missing. I have this feeling it is something right in front of me, but for some reason, I am just not seeing it.

We talked about passive voice in class today. How it lacks authority. (And fragments can be good.) Which makes me wonder how passive I am in life. (All things writerly can be ascribed to life in general, I think; poetry is life.)

Passive is an easy way to be. Non-committal. And who wants commitment during an MFA? It is so much easier to not deal with those sorts of issues. To not have to deal with them. I'm lucky if I can commit to an entire book of poetry these days.

But. . .

I did commit to a wall color. That's worked out pretty good. I commit to reading novels outside my classes. I even finish them. I'm so committed to my pets that I end up spending way more resources (time, money) than I have to give. Somehow it all works out.

And let's face it - all those bumps in the road are worth it. The time with the cats, the birds, the gerbil; the not having to look at white walls; the new stories. . .

Okay. So I am not really a commitment-phobe. So what all is going on here?

(Basically, this is me talking to myself. If you're reading this, and have insight, by all means, let's hear it. Otherwise, you can ignore my drivel and be glad I didn't post the earlier draft of my rant on all things evil about Paula Zahn. Now that was scary. And I may put it up anyway. In the future. If I can commit to it.)