…Jokers to the right

…Jokers to the right.


Clowns to the left of me…

For those of you scared by the evil clown of death at the beginning of the post, he has now been replaced by cuteness, something AA doesn’t really deserve, but I want people to read this, so there it is.


airport minion

You know the cool thing about being a writer/blogger? It gives you a license to kill. Not really, since killing as a general rule is frowned upon in society, but it’s worth considering.  So, buckle up, rant/indictment of American Airlines is about to begin.

My beloved friend Rook took me the airport Wednesday morning. Three o’clock in the morning, so we would be assured of enough time to get through checking in, going through security, finding the proper departure gate. You know how it goes. You can’t just go to the airport, throw your bags on the little moving thingy, check in and hop on a plane anymore. (Yet another reason to hate terrorists.) So, we left in plenty of time and go right to where we’re supposed to be. It’s now five a.m. We’re loaded down with two suitcases, a purse and a cat carrier.

We get in line…

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…Jokers to the right

Part two of the Great Exodus and my newborn dislike of all things American Airlines. We pick up right where we left off, with our heroine valiantly struggling to get herself and Moof the cat across the country. When last we saw them, she was trying to restrain herself to keep them from restraining her.

Now back to our story:


rows of minions

RFA and BFA glare at me and RFA take Moof’s carrier. That problem solved, I now having nothing to focus on my but my claustrophobia. My eyes dart around looking for a window. As long as I can see outside, I’m okay. All the windows have the shades pulled down but one. That one is blocked by the biggest head I’ve seen since A Charlie Brown Christmas. Still if he moves a little, I can get a glimpse outside. Doesn’t happen, so I pull out my book and hope for the best.

The flight is uneventful. Yeah, I know, hard for me to believe too. We land in Dallas and I notice on my ticket that nowhere does it say what gate I’m supposed to be at and I seek out the nearest desk person and ask, he looks it up and tells me B 48. I, being the polite Southern woman I am, say thank you and look for an exit. If I’m going to have to wait for two hours, I’m going to let Moof out and smoke and hopefully regain some of my calm. I stop in the ladies room first though and make a half-hearted effort to freshen up (an utter waste of time), then start digging in my purse for her leash.

No leash. But, being resourceful, I take out my favorite pair of sleep pants and cut out the drawstring and make one myself and then go find someone who can tell me the way out of purgatory. This of course means I’ll have to go through security again, but I don’t really care, I just want fresh air and sky and I mean to have it. It’s a five minute walk to semi-freedom and then I’m outside and digging out my phone as I sit on a stone pillar by the window. First, I call my friend Sherron and tell her to save herself, leave me til the morning, I’m sure I can find someplace to hang out. She refuses and says she’s coming for me anyway. I thank her and heaven that I have such friends on this earth.

Second call is my friend Hula, and she enjoys the story. I too will enjoy the story, at least by the end of the year, right now, I’m inhaling my cigarette and being grateful that I get another day of no jail time. I call Rook, who so selflessly did her best to get me on that airplane. Through no fault of her own and because of her diligence, I did make it to Dallas and I say it here and now,

minion smoochies


It’s 7:3o and I haven’t eaten since yesterday, but the Dallas/Fort Worth airport is just as ritzy as LAX, though about ten cents cheaper. I stuff poor Moof back into the carrier and spy one of those carts that you can put stuff on and wheel it around. Now, I’ve been to DFW. It is huge, a labyrinth of unparalleled proportions and my hands are swollen and aching. Just a shout out/warning to the younger people: appreciate the young, it won’t last forever. I dig through the purse and find the $5.00 it will take to get a cart and then we’re off again.


minion jumping up and down

I find AA, check in, and head to security, where Moof is a big hit  again, after I take her out of the carrier. Everyone wants to pet her and by now, she’s as tired as I am, and allows it and I’m thankful that she’s being sweet. Again, I get to keep on my shoes and again they swab my hands, and test my saline and I ask one of the TSA guys where I can find something to eat. Something simple, something that I won’t have to sell Moof for medical experimentation to get. I find a little place and ask for a quesadilla, a plain one so Moof can eat too. The woman behind the counter nods, but won’t look me in the eye. This is cause for some concern, but I figure the other people I see eating haven’t keeled over, so it’s most likely safe. I get my food, stow it away and set out to find a diet coke to go with it, as well as gate B 48.

I should have known. This is Pepsi territory and not a Coke in sight. That’s okay. I have food and I have a bottle of water. It’s all good and I start walking after asking another AA worker bee which way to gate B 48. I get that look you see on people’s faces who have no idea what’s going on, but he points me further down the causeway and I see the numbers going down.

D 48



B’s got to be close, right?


 I make it to the B’s through sheer strength of will and collapse in a chair, pulling out my now cold quesadilla. I open it up and take out a piece of chicken but Moof’s not having it. She has reached her tolerance level. She’s been dragged from her soft bed, shoved in a crate and dragged half way across the country and her not eating is her way of saying, “fuck you mom, I’m done.” Who can blame her? So I eat her portion and mine, and drain the water, then rest for a minute. Okay, fine, more than a  minute, and then haul my body out of the chair, toddling along. I now feel like I know how anyone trying to find the promised land feels. I keep looking for a  clock because I want to be sure I make this flight. And I’m going to make this flight, even if I have to take hostages.

I reach the escalator with the arrow that tells me gate B 48 is but an escalator and Skydrive ride away. I can’t find an elevator and say a sad farewell to my little cart. I will miss him and his silent assistance. I   enjoy a short, swift ride on Skydrive and escape when it lurches to a halt and starting looking for signs again. I  see arrows, arrows that point toward Gate B 48 and keep going. I am nothing if not persistent. I go past






There’s just one problem. When I go the lady at the desk, she grimaces. “You’re at the wrong gate, it’s down there, Gate 45, not 48.”

My grip tightens on my purse and carrier and  I push out a “thank you” between my teeth and walk back down to Gate 45 where I sit next to these two teenage girls. I say again, teenage girls. It’s now 9:25. We haven’t begun boarding yet, but at long last, I’m starting to believe that I’m going  to make it. The keepers of the gate aren’t wonderful, but neither are they overtly hostile, which is a plus in my opinion. We get on, and I find my  seat, by the window, and I just slide Moof’s carrier in. I know it won’t fit under the seat but I’m hoping.

False hope, even though it’s false, is still hope. When the male flight attendant comes and asks me if Moof is a pet or a service animal, I, having learned my lesson on the  flight to  Dallas promptly answer, without blinking, “Service.” MFA leaves and returns with Amazon Flight Attendant, who gets into my personal space with “If it doesn’t fit, it doesn’t fly, but  since it’s a service animal, you can strap her into the seat,” and turns to the gentleman next to me and says, “We’ll just move you up one seat.” He kindly moves and I switch seats and strap Moof in. You’d think that would be a good sign, yeah?

Nope. The pilot comes on the PA and starts apologizing for the delay. Delay, there’s a delay? Well, yes because the sub-contractors AA hired are apparently lazy, slothful, and downright stupid. It’s their fault we have no a/c or gas, so, the pilot says, he apologizes for them and for AA. I’m thinking, Man that ship sailed long about 7:46 when I missed my second flight to Dallas. Unless they’re going to give me free life time air miles, there will be no accepting of the apology. And even then, I’m not sure I’d accept, as this has been the longest day of my life and I’ve had some doozies. But they continue on and when all the instructions are given as to what to do in case there’s an emergency, the MFA stands at the front of the plane, feet spread apart, arms over his chest, chin down and eyes roaming the cabin. At first I assumed it was his super hero stance, then I realized, no, he’s a serial killer looking for his next victim. So, of course, I grab my notebook and start making notes for book three of my Nobles Island series. Let’s see Sawyer figure this one out.



At last we take off and I say yet another short prayer, thanking God for any and all good things that might happen and blaming the bad on karma I’m still paying off from the last couple of lives. All goes well and I can feel my shoulders start to relax as we begin our descent. The wheels hit the tarmac and my stomach flips because I swear I felt us bounce and lay a hand over Moof’s carrier. This close to the ground, hopefully the fire won’t be too bad and we’ll be able to walk away with very little damage. He hits the brakes and I’m thinking, he should have been apologizing for his poor landing techniques instead of their sub-contractors lack of a/c stuff. I can hear the tires squeal on the runway and close my eyes. I’ve made it all this way only to crash and it feels almost perfect.  Yet when I open my eyes, it’s to the sound of the pilot thanking me and my fellow travelers for flying AA. I thought, how perfect are those initials.

We de-plane and when I reach the potted plant, I sit my purse and Moof down and flex my hands that are now ridiculously swollen. I can’t hear anything thanks to the up and down of cabin pressure but there’s a lady there who’s just dropped another person off and she has a wheel chair.



airport minion

Oh, how I wanted to just sink into it and beg her to push me to the baggage claim. However, having some small semblance of dignity left, I instead thank her for offering it, put Moof in the seat and we take off, following the signs. I’m almost there when I spot Sherron. I want to collapse but again, I do have my pride and we meet up and head to the baggage claim together, wheelchair and all.  I’m afraid that my luggage won’t be there and there will come another adventure of tracking down two suitcases at  one in the morning. The two carousels spun in tandem with each other and I stood there, staring, praying, and then out pops the first suitcase. Not mine, but someone’s so I hold out hope.

More suitcases, and then I breathe a sigh of relief. My suitcase,which used to be so pretty once upon a time, came rolling out. One corner is ripped open, yet I’m thankful because my cotton granny panties  aren’t showing. Then the second miracle. Suitcase number two comes out. Say what you will, I believe the power of prayer is a strong thing. We gather all the things and make for the door.

I fear if we do not make our exit swiftly and silently that the airport demons will reach out and suck us back in, where we will never be heard from again. You laugh. Ask Stephen King, he knows.

I can only thank Sherron and Mark for being there in spite of the heinous hour and pushing my brain dead body to a place to lay my head.

I might not have the best family, but I damn sure have the best friends.

P.S. I’m forwarding this to American Airlines, so if you never hear from me again, they got me.


Clowns to the left of me…

airport minion

You know the cool thing about being a writer/blogger? It gives you a license to kill. Not really, since killing as a general rule is frowned upon in society, but it’s worth considering.  So, buckle up, rant/indictment of American Airlines is about to begin.

My beloved friend Rook took me the airport Wednesday morning. Three o’clock in the morning, so we would be assured of enough time to get through checking in, going through security, finding the proper departure gate. You know how it goes. You can’t just go to the airport, throw your bags on the little moving thingy, check in and hop on a plane anymore. (Yet another reason to hate terrorists.) So, we left in plenty of time and go right to where we’re supposed to be. It’s now five a.m. We’re loaded down with two suitcases, a purse and a cat carrier.

We get in line and I think, done, how awesome.


I should stop thinking. There are at least 70 people in line and as I scan the American Airlines check in desks, I see…two people. Two people who apparently think that it’s better to look at their monitors instead of the endless queue of people waiting to make their flights. There are others, who (I think) work there, walking up and down the line as I nervously eye the clock.

The clock which seems to have been caught in a temporal anomaly. The one that speeds time up so that the next time I look at it, thirty minutes have passed and we are, maybe, two steps further than we were.  It’s now 6:30. My flight is at 6:45.

The same lady who has walked past us at least half a dozen times, stops and asks us again, “When is your flight?” Again, we answer “6:45.”

“Well, then come with me.” I look at Rook, she looks at me. Remember, it’s 6:30 now, and I’ve been awake since eight a.m. yesterday morning. This does not bode well for the people who get on my nerves, but, we follow her, around the other people, to a shorter line.

I think Hooray! Straight through to the plane!  {Insert derisive snort at my naivete here} We get to the shorter line and a tall, skinny woman with the look of someone who would rather be in Jamaica than in LAX at 6:30 in the morning, asks everyone and the other lady what we think we’re doing. When the other AA worker tells her, she does snort in derision and tells us, “You’re in the wrong place and if you want to make your flight (something that is so not going to happen since it’s now 6:40) you all need to go the main area.” When we all look at her as if she’s speaking some alien tongue, her faces screws up even more and she adds, “the longer you wait here, the less time you have to make your flight.” Her tone suggests, were she able, she would send us all straight to the 9th level of hell to burn in perdition so she could go have a coffee.

When we dare to ask her where the “main” lobby is so we can do as she suggests, she, who WORKS FOR THE AIRLINE, tells us, “I have no idea.” I can do nothing but stare at her, because if I open my mouth, chances are the TSA minionis going to come tackle/taser me. I may not always keep my mouth shut, but on occasion I have been known to have a modicum of common sense. She points in a general direction and we head to that general area where, lo and behold, there’s a big fucking sign that says “MAIN.”

Remember people, SHE WORKS THERE.

Rook and I get in this line and I look at the clock. Nope, 6:45. Not gonna make it. When we finally get to the desk, where we explain to the lady what has happened. Or, really Rook does. I’m too livid to speak, my main goal at this time is not to beat the woman to death with the cat carrier. (It weighs 14.5 pounds. I again refer you to the fact I would not be happy in jail.) Rook does all the talking and gets me on a flight at 7:36, so I can make my connecting flight.

The weighing of the luggage comes next and one suitcase is over the limit, so imagine if you will, two middle aged women, one of whom is pulling stuff out of one suitcase the other who is frantically stuffing said pulled out items into the other suitcase. When the second suitcase will hold no more, I put everything else in my purse. I now have my favorite sleep pants (more on that later) and other sundry things jammed into my purse, along with my usual purse stuff and a book. We make a mad dash to security and the lady was nice and tells me I don’t have to take off my shoes.

Rather than protest, “But I wore my good socks!” I say a profound thank you and keep moving. Onto the conveyor belt go my purse and cat carrier. I have dug Moof out of the carrier and am holding her against my bosom, like Melanie held Beau when they were making their escape from  burning  Atlanta. The TSA people LOVE Moof and want to pet her. I let them, then manage to get Moof back in the carrier, where I’m called over to the deck where they want to look at stuff inside your purse and I think  Well, crap. Because I have saline in my bag. They swab my hands and I know it’s ridiculous, but I’m thinking, I hope it cleans them too, not just look for bomb making residue.

They test the saline, it’s just saline. It’s just saline because I have no idea how to make a bomb and a terrorist’s life is not for me. At least not yet. By the time I get to Dallas, all that might change, but if I DID become a terrorist, it wouldn’t be to protest the inequities of labor law or demand that all religions bow to mine. Nope, my jihad would be against American Airlines and the demand that they put people into positions who actually know what they’re doing.

We’re through security, fast duck walking down the causeway to find gate 44C.


Minions high five

This is where Rook leaves me, because I can catch a bus by myself. I have no watch, so I’m thinking, well, they wouldn’t put me on the shuttle for a flight that’s already left, right?  {Insert your smart ass comment here.} The shuttle takes forever and then I’m on it and at my designated gate.  I go to the desk, ask the man how much longer til this flight boards, and hand him my ticket. He looks at me with utter disgust. “That flight left,” and throw a thumb over his shoulder to the plane that is just reaching up for the sky. Now, I admit, I don’t have a lot of patience and I have a pretty bad temper, but those anger management classes have really paid off. There was no cursing, no yelling, no beating about his head. I did snap the pen in my hand in two though.

I politely try to explain to him what has happened and he sends me to another place to re-book the flight. This lady re-books me for 12:06 p.m. to Dallas. I, because I do have a triple digit I.Q. ask, “That’s for today, right?”

She looks at me funny, says yes, gives me my ticket/boarding pass and I find a clock, the proper gate, and a coke machine. It’s now around 9 a.m. and I’m hungry, so Moof and I, we meander around to where they keep the food. The ridiculously expensive food. The $15.00 for a hamburger food. I check out the food truck. Maybe a chicken quesadilla, plain so I can give some to Moof. The quesadillas have kimchi on them. I ask if they can make me just a  plain one, and they give me a look that declares me a Philistine. This is where I start to wonder if I should be allowed out on my own.

So I take my soda and go find a little slab of concrete that is close to my gate, sit and lean against the wall and close my eyes. Next thing I know, a little Asian man is snapping his finger in my face, asking me if I’m going to Atlanta and if I am, my plane is boarding now. I snap my finger back at him and say “No, I’m waiting for the noon flight to Dallas, and please don’t do that snapping thing at me again, I don’t respond well to it.”  He straightens, turns on his heel and leaves. I look at the clock. Not even eleven yet. I stand, stretch, and decide to check out the shops. Apparently, shop keepers know they have you over a barrel, and though I was mightily tempted by the store with all the Minions stuff, I resisted and went back to the gate area, to find a chair to sit in. I found one and there was even a space for Moof to sit on the table so she could see things, instead of nothing but people’s feet.

Just as a side BTW: Ladies and Gentlemen, if you are stuck in LAX for any length of time, bring one of those fold up chairs with you because LAX chairs are the same as concrete, only the chairs have arms and you  don’t have to bend as far to sit down.

I wait a bit and then get up to check the board for my flight. Looks like I won’t be missing this one, because the departure time has changed from 12:06 to 12:55. Half an hour later, it’s changed to 1:05. At 12:55 I get up, prepared to board. Guess what?! Departure time is now 1:55. By now, I fear American Airlines has beaten me into submission because I don’t do well without sleep, or even with sleep for that matter and I settle down to wait a bit longer. There’s a young mother with an adorable toddler there now and apparently he knows a kitty when he sees one and tries to poke his finger through the front of the carrier. God love her, all Moof does is make a pathetic meow sound and turn her back to him. I fear I have now traumatized the cat to the point of no return.

At long last, they call my flight and people are pushing and shoving to get to be first in line. This is when one the worker bees comes on the P.A. and says, “Please step away from the line. You’re not helping and if you don’t, you will be the last to board. And you stand by people, you’re not getting on this flight, it’s full, so you’ll have to wait elsewhere.”

I mutter something about manners and the woman gives me the hairy eyeball and repeats what she just said, but says nothing to me. I wait until most everybody is in line then get up to join the queue. By now, my hands are beginning to ache and my formerly comfortable Dr. Scholls’ sneakers make me wish I was at the beach digging my toes in the sand, but I soldier on. I get to the flight attendant who tells me where I need to be seated and I tell her, “No, I asked for an aisle seat, because I’m claustrophobic.” I look at the ticket. Middle aisle, middle seat and I push down a panic attack. At this point I just want out of LAX and I would kill the neighbors for it. She shrugs and I think, it’s only two hours, if you focus on something else, it’ll be ok. I try to fit Moof under the seat and have half way managed it when the guy who’s going to be sitting on my  right comes up. Offers no assistance, just stares at me as if I’m ruining his flight. This is another reason I want the aisle seat, there’s a better angle for it, and then guy who’s sitting on my left shows up, giving me the same look, so I sit down, Moof on my lap.

ruth buzzi

I figure the always kind and benevolent flight attendants will help me when they come through and see Moof is not under the seat. One blonde, on red head, neither of whom are even a little bit helpful, stand over me and tell me I’ll have to put in the overhead and I’m like, “uh, no and if you try, it won’t end well.” I left off, unsaid, the “for you.” They are hovering over me in a manner that reminds me of photos of the Spanish Inquisition and I stand, when the blonde asks me where I’m going. “Uh, this is the plane to Dallas, is it not?”

“Yes, but is that your final destination?”

Spanish inquisition

“No, but right now, I’d be happy to be out of this airport. Huntsville is my final destination.”

BFA: “Huntsvealle?” That is her approximation of a southern accent.

Me: “No. Huntsville.”

BFA: “So, Huntsvealle?”

Me: “If by that, you mean Huntsville, then yes, that is my final destination.”

BFA:  (Hand on her hip.) Well, if he doesn’t fit under this seat, he won’t fit under the other seat. Don’t you know that?”

Me: “Actually yes, I do, which is why I asked for an aisle seat. An aisle seat allows for a different angle.”

BFA: “Well, you can’t hold her like that, it’s against the rules.”

Me: “Then please find someplace else, besides the overhead bin, to put her.”

BFA leaves and returns with red headed flight attendant, one on each side of me. I’m still clutching Moof’s carrier in my lap.

RFA: “We’ll put in her in the back in first class.”

Me: “That would be fine.” See, not that difficult a problem. That garners me a dirty look, but ask me if I care.

To Be Continued in …Jokers to the right.


BP’s Win

Here’s something to fuel your nightmares if the economy and the price of gas aren’t enough:  BP placed and won bids on 43 leases to drill in the same area that was the site of one of the worst oil spills in history.
Yes, you read that correctly.  BP is extremely proud of themselves as well.  “As the largest leaseholder in the deep waters of the Gulf of Mexico, we remain committed to continuing investment in this important U.S. energy source,” Scott Dean, a BP spokesman, said less than ten days ago.  Pressured to boost domestic oil production, the Obama administration auctioned off tracts that lie off the coasts of Alabama, Louisiana and Mississippi and BP placed the winning bid.
While the need for a domestic oil program is clear, to allow BP to drill again so soon after the last disaster can be nothing less than folly.  Twenty seven months after what was arguably the biggest disaster for  the coastal states in term of revenue and jobs, BP will once again be allowed to drill.  Two years is hardly enough time for all the OSHA reforms to be implemented and BP isn’t known for their safety record in the first place.
The long term effects on the Gulf, its wildlife and sea creatures is still unknown, and the oil eating operation is still being studied for its effects as well.  In a phone interview held on the same day as the bids were awarded, Jacqueline Savitz has said what most all are thinking, and that is if the drilling continues, there will be more oil spills.  The Deepwater Horizon spill could very well be just the first in a long line of accidents that happen because the dollar has become more important than the environment.
Yes, we need the jobs, yes, we need the oil, but we need our oceans to survive as well.  Without them,  there will be no earth.  Even with re-vamped rules and regulations written by the Department of the Interior, even with the new standards for well design and  sub-sea oil spill containment systems, there is still no real ‘eyes on’  oversight committee in place to make sure these rules are followed.
Yes, a non-profit group has been commissioned and has stated that U.S. inspectors need to be allowed to live on the proposed oil rigs with the workers, observing their procedures.  The question is, will it be allowed?  And if it is allowed, will their recommendations be followed?
With BP, any safety recommendations could and most likely would be ignored if it will interfere with the bottom line.  Long known to be tight fisted when it comes to safety, if not their commercials, or their executive’s perks,  BP has been handed a license to drill and with it comes the renewed fear that once again, the Gulf is in danger.

Between the Covers

book stack

I was chatting with a friend last night and we started talking about books. No big surprise there, we often talk about the books we’ve read. Everything from classics like Ivanhoe and Jane Eyre to modern romance novels. She made a comment that a student she tutors isn’t required by her school to read the classics. There’s no reading list at all to speak of now. I was stunned. I’ve always been a reader and one of the first things my mom put in my hands was Wuthering Heights. At the time I didn’t get the angst of Heathcliff or the uppitiness of Catherine but that set me on the road to reading. By the time I was twelve, I had managed to get my mom to buy me a copy of The Complete Works of Shakespeare. And this was before Kindle, so that book was ginormous.

Then we moved on to the readers of today. Everyone uses that old chestnut of “it doesn’t matter what you read, as long as you read.” I used to believe that too. Now, I add my own caveat.

Read everything.

Why? Because I was in a chat room talking with other writers and one actually said they’d never read The Great Gatsby. Not read The Great Gatsby? How is that even possible????!!!! How can you call yourself a writer and not have read the classics? They are the basis of education, a master class for anyone who wants to stand up and hold out their children (books) to the world for scrutiny. She said it hadn’t been required reading. And that led me to a rant on our educational system and how we are dummying up our children more and more. Today, if you mention Twilight or the Grey books, you get an eager response. If you mention Rebecca you get a blank stare. I realized last night, truly for the first time, that people have thrown away the classics in favor of the quick read. In favor of the books that don’t take your imagination to another place and leave you there. When you close the book, it’s done. It’s like eating a doughnut, it’s great while it lasts, but it doesn’t stick to your ribs.

Now, if you’re wondering what started this, I made  a remark about the fact that yet another poorly written, clichéd, hackneyed EL James book is now the number one best seller.  That  remark was prompted by my friend reading that James had been eviscerated on Twitter. I read some of the comments and they were nasty, by and large, and some were personal attacks (which I don’t approve of at all) or attacks on her writing. At first I felt bad for her, but the more I thought about it, the more I think it was staged. Her PR people must surely be aware of what most think of her (lack of) writing ability. Did they think only her fans were going to show up? And if they did, EL James, fire your PR team, because clearly they’ve never been on Twitter. If you want to read some of the Twitter questions go  HERE  because I won’t post  them on this blog. You’ll see how polarizing she has become. You either love her work or hate her work or her. Having never met the woman, (though I have heard things through the fanfic network) I can’t speak to her being a good person. I can speak to her ineffectiveness as a writer.

And that brings me around to my original thought. If you’re not a reader and bought her books and became a reader, kudos to you! You’ve taken that first step. Now, pick up a book about a boy and his friend who managed to get into trouble with very little effort. Read the original Christian and Ana, Wuthering Heights or Jane Eyre or Ivanhoe or Rebecca. The list is, well, not endless, but pretty darn long. For that reason I’m also including a link to this. Technically it’s a Have You Read quiz, but also a pretty darn good reading list.

My last thought is, don’t mistake the Grey books or the Twilight  books for literature. They’re what was known back in the 30’s and 40’s as pulp fiction. Enjoy them, but then move on. Embrace the classics. They’re well written and well worth the effort. I encourage you to read, not just anything, but everything.

Note: I should probably mention that I’m not getting paid to hawk the classics, there’s no money in it. I just like them. 🙂