She Loves Me

In the past week, I have learned something very valuable about human nature: People can change.

OK, this is not entirely correct in light of what I learned. More accurately, cats can change. But really, when it comes right down to it...aren't cats people too? People who sleep 23 ¾ hours a day, poop in a strategically-hidden box, and every so often hack up a chunk of fur the size of Mama Cass? I think they are.

As some of you know, John and I have two cats, Fergus and Claire. From the beginning, Fergus has taken to me and Claire has taken to John. We didn't plan it that way, it's just how it ended up working out. On the first night we had the kitties, Fergus, a little orange lump barely bigger than the palm of my hand, fell dead asleep on my chest and snored so loud that the air blowing out of his tiny pink nose gave me windburn. From that moment on, I was a pile of Jell-O in his soft, white-mittened paws.

Claire, though, proved more challenging. With John, she's always been affectionate, hiding all day and only emerging when he comes home. She lets him pet her, scratch her, brush her, kiss her, hold her, snuggle with her. With me, if she deigned to show herself at all in my presence, she stiffly suffered my love for as long as she could take it -- usually about six seconds -- before fleeing the room in terror.

This could very well all go back to a traumatic incident in Claire's childhood. An incident in which I, admittedly, played a key role. We only had the cats for a few weeks, and I was vacuuming the kitchen floor. At this time in their lives, both cats were fearless and curious kittens, and the vacuum intrigued them more than scared the cat-piss out of them. Anyway, I got a little too close to Claire with the hose attachment, and her tail got sucked up in it. In my defense, she has a very long fluffy tail, and I of course didn't mean to suck it up.

She instantly started shrieking, and when I realized what I'd done, I freaked out. I turned off the vacuum cleaner, thereby setting her tail free, though now it was all frizzy and smelled of Hawaiian Paradise Carpet Fresh. Claire whipped around to make sure everything was still intact and, a millisecond later, was gone -- under the bed, the desk, behind the couch. And in many ways, she never returned to me. Sure, she did come out of hiding at one point to try to maul me in my sleep, but that doesn't count. What does count is that, after the incident with the vacuum, she never felt entirely comfortable with me.

Until last week.

My mom FedExed us a box of fresh vegetables from her garden. And Ms. Claire loves boxes. I mean, really loves boxes. All the expensive cat toys in the world don't thrill her as much as a plain old cardboard box. She will play with it, inspect it, sit in it, lay in it, sleep in it. If we moved the food dish closer, she'd eat in it. If we moved the litterbox closer, she'd figure out a way to projectile poo so she wouldn't have to leave it. That's how much she loves boxes.

Though she's had many to enjoy over the years, this box my mom sent (once I removed the vegetables) made the usually-serious Claire as giddy and playful as a puppy. Even Fergus, who doesn't enjoy boxes like his sister, though he's often tormented her by sitting in them when she gets out to pee, knew better than to mess with Claire's new box. This piece of cardboard seems specifically designed for her: it perfectly fits her body. As far as she's concerned, this box is the greatest gift she's ever been given.

Since this momentous event in her young life, Claire has been opening to me. She no longer runs at the sight of me. She no longer cowers in fear when I reach out to stroke her. She no longer rolls her eyes when she hears me speaking lovey-dovey kitty-speak.

Most surprisingly, and satisfyingly, I woke up to the sound of her meowing the other night at about three in the morning. I went to her, to make sure everything was OK in her box, and it seems she just wanted a little love from her Little Daddy (and yes, John is Big Daddy). After a few minutes of petting and calming words, I went back to bed...and guess who followed me? Claire jumped right up in bed beside me, snuggled against my side, and as I fell back asleep, I reached my arm out to hold her. Most miraculously of all, she let me.

I don't know what brought all of this on, but clearly the arrival of the box signified something huge to her. Or maybe she's finally forgiven me for the vacuum cleaner mishap. Or maybe she's growing up. Or maybe I am.

Fergus, for his part, has taken all of this in the gentlemanly stride I've come to expect from him. He's had no problem "sharing" his Little Daddy, and I ensure that he and I still have plenty of cuddle time. If anything, I suspect he's slightly relieved that Claire has managed to win a piece of my heart: that's a few minutes less each day that he has to suffer copious showers of kisses and adorable kitty-speak.

Throughout all of this, though, I know Ms. Claire will always be John's girl. She still waits for him at the back door at the end of the day. She still cries until he lays down on the floor with her and rubs her belly. She still hops in bed with him when the alarm goes off to receive her morning dose of Big Daddy.

But now I know that somewhere in that feline heart, I have a place. And that thrills me more than all the cardboard boxes in the world.

The Proust Questionnaire

James Lipton, the sorta creepy but insanely well-researched host of "Inside the Actors Studio", always ends each of his interviews with the Proust Questionnaire. This questionnaire, despite Lipton's assertions otherwise, was not designed by the great French writer Marcel Proust; Proust was just the most notable personality to answer the questions after their initial discovery. Proust found them among the papers of his friend Antoinette (daughter of future French President Felix Faure) with the title "An Album to Record Thoughts, Feelings, Etc". Apparently, it was quite common for the wealthy of that time to posit such philosophical questions to themselves and their confidantes. Proust took this informal poll around 1890, when he would've been 19 years old.

The popularity of this questionnaire was revived in 1975 on the French talk show "Apostrophes", hosted by Bernard Pivot (Lipton's hero). Pivot put the questions, in a slightly condensed and updated format, to his guests during every broadcast. Lipton was inspired by this and chose to do the same on his own show; it's typically the highlight of the already-insightful program.

Since Proust intrigues me, and I'll probably never be a guest on "Inside the Actors Studio", I thought it would be fun to take the Proust Questionnaire -- both the original version discovered in Antoinette Faure's papers and the revamped one by Bernard Pivot.


Original Questionnaire

What is your favorite virtue [that you possess]?
My great capacity to love.

What are your favorite qualities in a man?
Sensitivity.

What are your favorite qualities in a woman?
Strength.

What is your chief characteristic?
Compassion and self-preservation.

What do you appreciate the most in your friends?
They hear me.

What is your main fault?
My tendency to be inauthentic.

What is your favorite occupation?
Writer. Actor. Homesteader.

What is your idea of happiness?
Living in the moment. Being authentic. Being heard. Being far away from Boston.

What is your idea of misery?
Living in Boston the rest of my life. Getting trapped in a cycle of disappointment and inauthenticity.

If not yourself, who would you be?
A dog.

Where would you like to live?
Vermont. Venice. Amsterdam.

What is your favorite color and flower?
Colors: earth tones. Flowers: orchids; the flowers of the Dove tree.

Who are your favorite prose authors?
Doris Lessing. Erica Jong. Augusten Burroughs.

Who are your favorite poets?
Mark Doty. Mary Oliver. Claudia Emerson. Anne Sexton.

Who are your favorite heroes/heroines in fiction?
Anna Wulf from "The Golden Notebook". Veronika from "Veronika Decides to Die". Morris the Moose from "Morris Goes to School".

Who are your favorite painters and composers?
Painters: Klimt, Chagall, Whistler, Rothko. Composers: Philip Glass, Edward Elgar.

Who are your heroes/heroines in real life?
John. Edith. Rupert.

What characters in history do you most dislike?
Hitler. The Bush family.

Who are your heroes/heroines in history?
Gautama Buddha. Eleanor of Aquitaine. Harvey Milk. Rosa Parks. MLK, Jr. Oscar Wilde.

What are your favorite food and drink?
Cheap black olives from a can. VitaminWater's Vital-T.

What are your favorite names?
Dashiell. Jude.

What do you hate the most?
Ignorance. Shallowness. Rudeness. Oppression. Loud noises, loud people, loud cities.

What military event do you admire the most?
Violence just begets more violence, so I admire all military events when they are over and everyone gets to come home.

What reform do you admire the most?
The Obama Administration.

What natural talent would you like to be gifted with?
I'd love to be an opera tenor.

How do you wish to die?
In my sleep.

What is your present state of mind?
Exhausted.

For what fault do you have the most tolerance?
Sci-fi addiction.

What is your favorite motto?
There is no possible way I can narrow it down to a single phrase. Here's three: "This too shall pass" (Jewish proverb); "Think wrongly, if you please, but in all cases think for yourself" (Doris Lessing); "Beat it, ya 50-year-old mattress!" (Sophia to Blanche, "The Golden Girls").


"Inside the Actors Studio" Version

What is your favorite word?
Brevity.

What is your least favorite word?
Gun.

What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
The written word. Silence. John. Adrien Brody.

What turns you off creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
Crowds. Stupidity. Bad movies.

What sound or noise do you love?
Fergus's squeak.

What sound or noise do you hate?
An animal in pain (I grew up near a slaughterhouse). Car alarms. Gunfire.

What is your favorite curse word?
Poopsticks.

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Meditation teacher. Actor. Opera singer (as mentioned above).

What profession would you not like to do?
Accountant. Tollbooth cashier. Flight attendant.

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? 

"Thank you for loving all of my movies...now come, let me hold you to my bosom." (Bear in mind: God = Meryl Streep).

Three Poems by Matthew Dickman

These are my favorite kinds of posts to write. I always get a little giddy when I discover a new artist whose work touches me in an unexpectedly profound and moving way. In the most recent issue of "The New Yorker", I came across a poem by a relatively new-on-the-scene young poet named Matthew Dickman (who won the 2008 American Poetry Review/Honickman First Book Prize in Poetry). The poem, "Trouble", struck a chord deep within me, and I immediately hopped online to find more of Dickman's work. I've included three of my favorites here.

Trouble

Marilyn Monroe took all her sleeping pills
to bed when she was thirty-six, and Marlon Brando’s daughter
hung in the Tahitian bedroom
of her mother’s house,
while Stanley Adams shot himself in the head. Sometimes
you can look at the clouds or the trees
and they look nothing like clouds or trees or the sky or the ground.
The performance artist Kathy Change
set herself on fire while Bing Crosby’s sons shot themselves
out of the music industry forever.
I sometimes wonder about the inner lives of polar bears. The French
philosopher Gilles Deleuze jumped
from an apartment window into the world
and then out of it. Peg Entwistle, an actress with no lead
roles, leaped off the “H” in the HOLLYWOOD sign
when everything looked black and white
and David O. Selznick was king, circa 1932. Ernest Hemingway
put a shotgun to his head in Ketchum, Idaho
while his granddaughter, a model and actress, climbed the family tree
and overdosed on phenobarbital. My brother opened
thirteen fentanyl patches and stuck them on his body
until it wasn’t his body anymore. I like
the way geese sound above the river. I like
the little soaps you find in hotel bathrooms because they’re beautiful.

Sarah Kane hanged herself, Harold Pinter
brought her roses when she was still alive,
and Louis Lingg, the German anarchist, lit a cap of dynamite
in his own mouth
though it took six hours for him
to die, 1887. Ludwig II of Bavaria drowned
and so did Hart Crane, John Berryman, and Virginia Woolf. If you are
travelling, you should always bring a book to read, especially
on a train. Andrew Martinez, the nude activist, died
in prison, naked, a bag
around his head, while in 1815 the Polish aristocrat and writer
Jan Potocki shot himself with a silver bullet.
Sara Teasdale swallowed a bottle of blues
after drawing a hot bath,
in which dozens of Roman senators opened their veins beneath the water.
Larry Walters became famous
for flying in a Sears patio chair and forty-five helium-filled
weather balloons. He reached an altitude of 16,000 feet
and then he landed. He was a man who flew.
He shot himself in the heart. In the morning I get out of bed, I brush
my teeth, I wash my face, I get dressed in the clothes I like best.
I want to be good to myself.

Love

We fall in love at weddings and auctions, over glasses
of wine in Italian restaurants where plastic grapes hang
on the lattice, our bodies throb
in the checkout line, the bus stop, at basketball games
and we can’t keep our hands off each other
until we can—
so we turn to rubber masks and handcuffs,
falling in love again.
We go to movies and sit in the air conditioned dark
with strangers who are in love
with heroes like Peter Parker
who loves a girl he can’t have
because he loves saving the world in red and blue tights
more than he would love to have her ankles wrapped around
his waist or his tongue between her legs.
While we watch films
in which famous people play famous people
who experience pain,
the boy who sold us popcorn loves the girl
who sold us our tickets
and stares at the runs in her stockings
every night,
even though she is in love
with the skinny kid who sold her cigarettes at the 7-11,
and if the world had any compassion
it would let the two of them pass
a Marlboro Light back and forth
until their fingers eventually touched, their mouths
sucking and blowing.
If the world knew how
the light bulb loved the socket
then we would all be better off.
We could all dive head first into the sticky parts.
We could make sweat a religion
and praise the holiness of smelliness.

I am going to stop here,
on this dark night,
on this country road,
where country songs
come from, and kiss her, this woman, below the trees
which are below the stars,
which are below desire.
There is a music to it, I hear it.
Johnny Rotten, Biggie Smalls, Johan Sebastian Bach, I don’t care
what they say—
I loved you the way my mouth loves teeth,
the way a boy I know would risk it all for a purple dinosaur,
who, truth be known, loved him.

In the Midwest, fields of corn are in love
with a scarecrow, his potato-sack head
and straw body, hanging out among the dog-eared stalks
like a farm-Christ full of love.

Turning on the radio I hear
how AM loves FM the way my mother loved Elvis
whose hips all young girls loved, sitting around the television
in a poodle skirt and bobby socks.
He LOVED ME TENDER so much
that I was born after a long night of Black-Russians
and Canasta while “Jailhouse Rock” rocked.

Stamps love envelopes, the licking proves it—
just look at my dog
who obviously loves himself with an intensity
no human being could sustain, though you can’t say
we don’t try.

In High school I once cruised
a MacDonald’s drive-thru butt-naked
on a dare from a beautiful Sophomore,
only to be swallowed up by a grief
born from super-size or no super-size.

Years later I met a woman
named Heavy Metal Goddess
at a party where she brought her husband,
leading him through the dance floor by a leash,
while in Texas cockroaches love with such abandon
that they wear their skeletons on the outside.

Once a baby lizard loved me so completely,
he moved into my apartment and died of hunger.

No one loves war,
but I know a man
who loves tanks so much he wishes he had one
to pick up the groceries, drive his wife to work,
drop his daughter off at school with her Little Mermaid
lunch box, a note hidden inside
next to the apple, folded
with a love that can be translated into any language: I HOPE
YOU DO NOT SUFFER.

Grief

When grief comes to you as a purple gorilla
you must count yourself lucky.
You must offer her what’s left
of your dinner, the book you were trying to finish
you must put aside,
and make her a place to sit at the foot of your bed,
her eyes moving from the clock
to the television and back again.
I am not afraid. She has been here before
and now I can recognize her gait
as she approaches the house.
Some nights, when I know she’s coming,
I unlock the door, lie down on my back,
and count her steps
from the street to the porch.
Tonight she brings a pencil and a ream of paper,
tells me to write down
everyone I have ever known,
and we separate them between the living and the dead
so she can pick each name at random.
I play her favorite Willie Nelson album
because she misses Texas
but I don’t ask why.
She hums a little,
the way my brother does when he gardens.
We sit for an hour
while she tells me how unreasonable I’ve been,
crying in the checkout line,
refusing to eat, refusing to shower,
all the smoking and all the drinking.
Eventually she puts one of her heavy
purple arms around me, leans
her head against mine,
and all of a sudden things are feeling romantic.
So I tell her,
things are feeling romantic.
She pulls another name, this time
from the dead,
and turns to me in that way that parents do
so you feel embarrassed or ashamed of something.
Romantic? she says,
reading the name out loud, slowly,
so I am aware of each syllable, each vowel
wrapping around the bones like new muscle,
the sound of that person’s body
and how reckless it is,
how careless that his name is in one pile and not the other.

The Cover Craziness Continues: It's the Ladies' Turn!

I had such a disproportionately awesome time critiquing "gay novel" cover art in a previous post, that I felt compelled to share the snark and see if "lesbian novel" cover art was just as rife with possibility. And boy oh boy, is it ever! A quick Google search turned up page upon page of delectable romances, mysteries, adventures, erotica, and science fiction, all written for ladies who love ladies (and probably a few straight men who get off on the idea).

Narrowing the field down to ten choices was tough; those popular pulp novels from the 1950s, which seemed to be rather obsessed with "womanly lovin'", could've easily taken all ten spots. But I think I've achieved a nice balance of the old and new. Yet regardless of when they were written, one thing is clear:

These books are classics...by the cover art alone.





"Dear Jeebus, thank you for sending Geraldine to me. She is an angel. An angel with ginormous holster hips and the tongue of an anoura fistulata bat. She makes me so happy and doesn't even ask me to remove my jewels for our trysts.

"Thank you, too, for the genius product known as the Ogilvie Home Perm. Without it, I could never look my best for Geraldine (though, personally, I think her blue hair could use a little Miss Clairol).

"Please don't let my husband ever find out about this affair. He would make me give Geraldine up and return to his rancid pickle. And I don't like pickles. I only married him because he promised to keep me in French-whore-pink lipstick and Lee Press-Ons for the rest of my life.

"Also, I'm praying to you so hard right now that I seem to have quashed my breasts and possibly scraped off my left nipple with my bracelet. Please let Geraldine accept me with my new deformities.

"Amen."





Oh, this is a good one. Lots going on here. Here are my observations:

• The chick in the uniform has got to be Hilary Swank. I'm impressed. Two Oscars, big horsey teeth that must take hours to brush, AND she manages to find the time to pose for lesbian romance/sci-fi novel covers! What can't she do?!?
• Given her pasty white skin, limp yellow hair, and soulless gaze, I think the lady in the chair might be dead. No further guardianship necessary.
• And I also think Hilary Swank may have accidentally killed her. In her overzealousness to protect, she seems to have one eye out the window for any potential intruder, all the while unknowingly planting her sword into the shoulder of the one she's trying to keep safe. Oh, Hilary! Someone take away her Oscars STAT.
• If I'm wrong, and I hope I am (for there's nothing sadder than an unrealized lesbian experience), I want to give a little word of warning to the haggard dyke in the chair, who seems a tad innocent and naive: Honey, that sword isn't real. It's store-bought. That's how it's done. Trust me. I learned the hard way.
• If this novel is as good as it looks, I'm voting for a film version, a sort of remake of "The Bodyguard". Ms. Swank and one of the Olsen twins can star. It doesn't matter which Olsen twin. They both look like the walking dead, too.

I don't know about you, but this is how I always come to the airport: half-dressed, no shoes or socks, no shirt, and still pulling my pants up over my thong. What a relief to know I'm not the only one!

And just how the hell did this woman get through the security checkpoint? I mean, those Nazis don't even let you through with a Slurpee, let alone barefooted and boobies to the wind. What's her secret?

Also, check out the great big liver-spotted man-hand clutching the briefcase. Methinks that stewardess is hiding more than just in-flight pretzels under her uniform....





This is my favorite one on the list. What better way to scream "Lesbian Romance" than a shot of the open road, the purply sky at dawn, and a lumbering big rig? You know the ladies behind the wheel of that sucker are no lipstick-wearing, stiletto-loving gals. These are hardcore womyn with flannel shirts, lumberjack boots, a gross of Slim Jims, and Anne Murray blaring from the radio.

I must read this one. My mind is soaring at the thought of the delicious sex scenes that take place in the 2x2 sleeping compartment of that truck. NOTHING says "sexy" like love on 18 wheels.





Apparently, Satan is not only a lesbian, but he is a lesbian with an immaculately-groomed Van Dyck goatee. Satan must be on some hormones.

Speaking of hormones, check out Brunhilda beating the living shit out of that wimpy-ass straight dude. She should just abandon the pathetic whip, though, and pummel him with her Breasts of Terror.

And isn't that a young Bette Davis cowering submissively in the background? Oh Bette, we hardly knew ye!





Oh hell no! If I saw this group of lesbians walking down the street, I'd drop my man-purse and run screaming and flailing in the opposite direction. These are some scary, scary Sister Girls. Even the praying one looks like she could pull out a switchblade at any minute and cut a bitch.

The second Sister Girl from the bottom is the one who frightens me the most. With her arms crossed and eyes narrowed, not to mention a bunch of glittery stars falling all over the damn place, that chick wants all men DEAD. She wants testicle stew for breakfast, wang salad for lunch, and prostate pie for dinner. Ew. That even made me cringe. Prostate pie. Blech!

But I do give these ladies props for their flawless weaves.





Lesbian in the Foreground: "Michelle! Michelle, come back! Come back RIGHT NOW or my baby's mutant arm will crush you!"

Lesbian in the Background: "Screw you, Wendy! I can't stand any more stinky diapers, baby puke, or C-section scars! I'm going to live in the dumpster."

Lesbian in the Foreground: "But I love you, Michelle. We had such fun together: listening to Janis Ian, making our own granola, dressing the baby up like kd lang. Please don't go! If you leave me, I'll stab you with my ice-pick chin!"

Lesbian in the Background: "You don't scare me! I carry a tomahawk in these jeans!"

Lesbian in the Foreground: "Well at least give me my dogs back."

Lesbian in the Background: "Hell no! I'm going to live in the dumpsters, and I'll probably get tired of eating chicken bones and pizza crust every night."

Lesbian in the Foreground: "Nooooooooooooo!"





This is SO not funny. They've obviously stolen the likeness of my beloved Tori Amos for the cover of this book. Someone must pay.

And what the hell did they put on her feet? Are those shoes or some kind of lesbian torture device I know nothing about? No wonder she looks frozen to that spot, contorted in agony -- those shoes have completely eaten her knees!

Yes, someone must pay DEARLY.





Imagine. Helen Hunt a psychotic lesbian killer. Who woulda thought?

I love the dead chick, though. She makes this cover. I think they sketched her about thirty minutes AFTER rigor mortis set in. Poor thing. Oh well, at least Phyllis Diller can have her wig back.

And just look at that pitiful hetero chump relegated to black and white in the background. Sorry, Detective, I know you're mesmerized by Helen's elf shoes, but she is most certainly not interested in anything you've got to offer. Besides, she's already scanning the horizon for her next victim.

Wait a minute. I think she's spotted her target. Is that her "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" co-star Sarah Jessica Parker she's looking at? I think it is! Go for it, Helen! GO FOR IT!





To be honest, I don't have anything to say about this cover; I find it pretty blah. But I had to include it on this list because...well, check out the name of the author.

Yup, folks, it's THAT Lynne Cheney! The wife of Dick Cheney, that compassionate paragon of moral rectitude (har-har-har) known as our vice-president, once wrote a steamy lesbian romance!

Now I know that Dick is something like 400 years old and is more than likely damn-near blind. But if I were him, I'd be on the lookout. If he had any sense, he'd be checking her out every time she came home from "Bible study" for any signs of a pussy mustache.

What am I talking about? We all know he has no sense. So rock on, Lynne. Do what you gotta do, girl. But I fully expect to see you in the next gay pride parade with Dykes on Bikes.

Everything's Coming Up "Nightrose"

Eighteen years ago, when I was first becoming interested in the genre, I read a romance novel that I've never forgotten. It's lived on the periphery of my memory ever since, and as I read more and more historical romances over the ensuing years, I inevitably compared them all to this one early tale that had introduced me to the world of affordable paperback love stories. Typically, I found all other romances to fall short of the spectacular tale spun by Dorothy Garlock in her 1990 novel "Nightrose".

A few weeks ago, I got my hands on a used copy of "Nightrose" and trembled with anticipation at rereading it (as only booksluts like myself can tremble over a book). I was excited to see if the story was as great as I remembered, or if it had somehow changed over the last eighteen years. I knew I had changed, so the idea that the novel had as well, for better or worse, was a very real possibility. And I was right. "Nightrose" had indeed undergone a transformation. It was even BETTER than I remembered.

There could be a few reasons for this, all of which are plausible. Perhaps I've read so many second-rate romances that I now recognize a truly good one for the rarity it is. Perhaps, as someone who has tried his hand at writing one of these things, I've come to respect the monumental challenges presented by writing not only a believable, logical love story (for what is logical about falling in love?), but an historically accurate document of a certain time period. Or perhaps I've just grown up and could relate more realistically to this story of love, compromise, and second chances. Whatever the reason, I now regard "Nightrose" as my favorite romance novel -- and certainly one of the best ever written.

I've always felt a certain affinity with the novel's author, Dorothy Garlock. Like me, she is an Iowan with a fond attachment to the land and the stories associated with it. In fact, I lived and worked for years in the same town Garlock calls home, and though a small community, I can't recall ever having run into her. That may be for the best, as I probably would've groveled at the feet of such a celebrated writer; Garlock, now in her sixties, was one of the pioneers of the American romance novel: the grand dame of the frontier love story.

This title is well-earned, as is evidenced in "Nightrose". Garlock constructs a story that is so much more than your dime-store bodice-ripper. Though much of it revolves around the relationship between strong-willed spitfire Katy and determined charmer Garrick, the book is much grander in scope than it first appears. It is really the story of an entire town, once deserted and left to rot, that comes brilliantly back to life, and the diverse, interesting people that populate it.

"Nightrose" takes place in Montana Territory, 1874. Twenty-one-year-old Katy, her older sister Mary, and Mary's young daughter Theresa have been abandoned; they are the only residents of the desolate ghost town of Trinity. Mary's loser-husband Roy has run off in hopes of striking gold, and though he left with the promise to return one day, wealthy and successful, to his wife and daughter, no one is holding their breath. The three young ladies are forced by necessity to leave behind their ramshackle cabin on the outskirts and take up residence in the most unlikely of places: the town funerary. They are completely alone and living off the land, with just a cow, a derringer, and whatever left-behind foodstuffs they can salvage from the forsaken buildings and homes.

Enter Garrick Rowe. Tall, muscled, Greek, and imposing. He sets up camp across from the funerary in the town jail. The ladies are uncomfortably aware of him, tracking his every move, though unsure of his motives in Trinity. He, too, is keeping tabs on them. What in the hell are two grown women and a little girl still doing in this forgotten place?

So begins the brilliant "Nightrose". Their paths soon cross, sparks fly, all manner of people come and go throughout the town, shots are fired and blood is shed, and all the while Katy and Garrick are drawn closer together. The focus of the novel gradually expands to include the stories of not only Mary and Theresa, but those of the entire growing community descending upon Trinity, as well as the stories of Garrick's friends and acquaintances in the "metropolis" of Virginia City.

Of course, there are villains as well. And not just one lowly scoundrel, but several shady schemers with different malicious agendas. Even using the word "villains" to describe these people is too generous. They fall more into the "Mega-Douchebags Who Deserve to be Castrated" category. I tend to dislike romances where the villains are this thoroughly evil, without even the slightest hint of humanity, but in Garlock's deft hands, these characters serve a greater purpose than just being total pricks. Their collective presence is simply another obstacle that Katy and Garrick, and the town itself, must overcome on the journey to wholeness and contentment. Much like the hardships of living hand-to-mouth off the land, or being submissive to the whims of the weather, or existing under constant threat of attack from God-only-knows-who, these villains are one more hurdle to be overcome. And since all romances rely on a Happily Ever After (the main reason I enjoy them so), this overcoming is triumphant and exhilarating.

One of the aspects of "Nightrose" I found so impressive was the masterful way Garlock is able to walk the line between creating a story that is completely true to the traditional roles and accepted attitudes of the novel's era, all the while remaining respectful of the sensitivities of modern readers. Many romance novelists don't get this; they strive for historical accuracy and end up with offensive stereotypes (blithering, submissive women and violent, aggressive men). But Garlock's characters are different: they are three-dimensional creations with rich inner worlds and capabilities of great thought and understanding. Katy is perhaps the most headstrong heroine I've encountered in a romance novel, often to the point of being stubborn and delusional, and Garrick is so bloody determined to make Katy "his" that he more than once crosses the line into the territory of controlling and obsessive -- but these traits in our hero and heroine are not cemented. Like all of us, Katy and Garrick have the ability to change, and this fact is perhaps Garlock's greatest success as a storyteller. Her characters slowly transform themselves, or let themselves be transformed by "the power of love", however you choose to look at it. They think, they feel, they come to realizations about themselves and one another. Katy examines the nature of her initially strong (and extreme) aversion to Garrick, and she gets to the root of the problem to see just how flawed her reasoning is. Garrick, too, realizes that if he's ever going to woo Katy with the passion he feels in his heart, he's going to have to take a step back, make compromises, and concentrate on her thoughts, needs, and dreams. Whether these transformations are historically likely is not really relevant. What is relevant is that the author is courageous enough to imbue her characters with something truly timeless: GOOD SENSE.

All of this makes for a very believable and entertaining love story, an easy unfolding and revealing of emotions between two very interesting characters. And swarming around this main romance are several others, just as believable, notably Mary's own burgeoning relationship with Garrick's right-hand-man, the burly, furry Irishman Hank Weston.

Yet each of Garlock's characters -- not just the ones in the throes of la passion -- are equally strong, memorable, and unique. The brusque but tender she-hulk Mrs. Chandler, owner of the eatery. The handsome and sensitive mercantile proprietor Elias Glossberg. Nan Neal, a sassy illiterate showgirl who rocks Virginia City. The spunky working gals of The Beehive, Trinity's very own whorehouse. I even liked Mary's daughter, five-year-old Theresa, and I typically find kids in romance novels to be annoying and distracting. But Theresa is precocious and endearing; it's easy to see how she enchants those around her.

Then there are the love scenes, which Garlock handles elegantly and sensually, without ever tipping over into the unseemly or unrefined. There is a lot of kissing in this book. A lot of kissing. Pages of it, in fact; from a peck on the cheek to a full-out French, and all of it is tasteful and classy (it's a special writer who can make a tongue down the throat come across as romantic and soft). And I loved the fact that Garrick was Greek; imagining his fine-ass bod was a pleasure for me, and clearly for Ms. Garlock as well. I also loved that Katy wasn't some heaving-bosomed sex kitten. She had boobs proportionate to her frame (read: SMALL), and while she approached her lovemaking with abandon and great joy, I always got the impression she kept her eye on the bigger picture: she loves this man, and he loves her. Thus, the sex became something more than sex (another fact that many romance novelists completely miss).

Garlock's prose is luminous. She has the power to transport you wherever her words are in any particular moment. As "Nightrose" is so much more than your everyday historical romance, her talent as a storyteller is immense. While she could have focused solely on Katy and Garrick, she chose to make this a much larger love story: the romancing of an entire town. In this sense, I almost want to suggest that "Nightrose" is less of a romance novel and more of a good old fashioned Western. With really hot love scenes.

Finally, the cover. Not only can this book be held up as an example of how great historical romance novels can be, but the cover art is also exemplary (at least it is on the edition I read, the original 1990 publication pictured above). For one thing, the characters actually LOOK like the characters in the book; in fact, they look just as I had imagined them. There's also no submissive embrace or cheap excuse to show skin (though Garrick is shirtless, with his back to us, on the cover); there is instead a pose that appears as if they are running into one another's arms. This is much more believable than some awful cover depicting, say, Katy's nipple shadow and the outline of Garrick's twelve-inch bratwurst as they cavort in the mountains with swans and horses creepily watching. Like the book it envelops, the cover is dignified yet fun.

If you've never read a romance novel, but have fallen under the impression that they are somehow sub-par or tawdry, "Nightrose" is for you; not only will it prove your theory wrong, but you'll have a hell of a lot of fun in the process. If you are a romance reader who's never really come across a decent one, "Nightrose" is also for you; this is a book that could be used as a shining example in "Romance Writing 101". Even if romance novels hold no interest for you, but big epic stories about people and places of a bygone era are more up your alley, then "Nightrose" is an excellent choice here as well; it plays out in the mind with all the sweeping majesty of a classic Western movie.