Finally, after 4 months of downtime because of injury, I'm taking my act back on the road. Driving to the midwest to visit family, I'll be away from my favorite tv.com boards for a week - yikes! - and probably away from any internet connections whatsoever. I know - withdrawal is a major factor.

So the CM recap will be a little late next week, and I'll miss keeping up with the newest theories about Hotch's injury, Reid's status, and the search for The Reaper.

On the plus side, there is cable tv in Chicago, thank the Lord, so I'll see the ep on time. Consider me with you guys in spirit.

TTFN

Sometimes I wonder just why I'm so drawn to some television shows. I'd like to think I am a person of taste - that I know schlock when I see it, that I can spot a TV classic in its infancy, that I am a bit of a television gourmet, as it were, filtering out the mindless drivel of over-dressed "Housewives" of any location, random zip codes that were unpalatable in their first incarnation, and humorless, "fierce" anorexics who take themselves and the imaginary world around them with great heaps of seriousity.

Okay, so I scoff at unreality shows even while making sure I don't miss a moment of Top Chef. That doesn't make me a hypocrite, does it? After all, it's not like I'm watching American Idol (shudder). It's about the cooking, honestly.

But I digress. I pretend to enjoy only the best TV dramas: they must be well-written, well-executed, well-acted examples of dramatic integrity. No one-dimensional characters need apply. No horridly erroneous plot-lines are welcome. No gratuitous nudity, language, or bed-hopping. See also: Criminal Minds, Burn Notice, Stargate. I'll admit to The Mentalist and Flashpoint under duress. Okay, I liked Castle. And Firefly. And anything else with Nathan Fillion. But, still, don’t make me watch anything with alphabet soup as its name, or that uses its "dramatic location" to justify soap opera. I'm picky.

So, why oh why am I a fan of Supernatural?

The stops along my own personal road into the twilight zone make some sense; at least I'd like to think so. It all began with a silver, wolf-headed cane glinting from the tiny black and white screen of my parents' television back in the day (before most of you were born, actually. Sigh.). The waves pounding against the coastline beneath the shadowy Collins' estate, the enigmatic Barnabas, innocent Victoria Winters with the dim past, creepy children, Ed-Woody special effects and the randomly visible shaky scenery and microphones, Dark Shadows crept into my imagination and took root there, leading me onto the dark, winding road through the deserted forest of "supernatural" B television shows.

I blame Dan Curtis. He started the whole thing.

I laughed, I cried, I gasped with fear (okay, I was young, there is an excuse here, somewhere). I was caught up in the ill-conceived and worse-visualized bad guys, but anyone who can bring us not just ghosts, werewolves, and vampires, but phoenix-mommies, leviathans, and repeated time-warping deserves the Josette Dupres award for bringing day-time television back from the dead. This show developed my taste for badly executed tales of the uncanny and just plain weird.

Okay, Lara Parker should share some of the fault. After all, she played Angelique, as well as about thirty other roles on the show. She at least leads me on my tangled, six-degrees-of-separation thingy. Where will she pop up again, you ask? Oh, yeah. On the almost as tacky, helplessly badly fx-ed show Kolchak: The Night Stalker.

No, I didn't exactly "follow her career" there, but we both ended up at the same place and that should count for something, shouldn't it? Well?

Who didn't love Darren McGavin in his wrinkled seer-sucker suits, clutching his flash-cube-topped camera and cassette recorder as he tracked down everything from vampires to aliens to robots in 1974? This was such a favorite that my cat actually sat up and crowded the television whenever the tell-tale whistling of its opening music was heard.

And Lara Parker? She played a witch in one episode. Honestly. Kolchak had to publicly accuse her and dunk her to squash her horrible schemes. Poor Carl Kolchak: a professional who was never believed by any of his colleagues.

Which brings me to my next thin strand of connection. Chris Carter, a big fan of Kolchak, has stated that he got much of his inspiration for the character of Fox Mulder of The X-Files from watching Kolchak: The Night Stalker. Mulder, FBI, another man who seems to be the only one around him who notices the supernatural and/or alien-influenced happenings in the world. Granted The X-Files was a much better financed, acted, and special-effected (?) show than the two previously mentioned, but the genre is the same. Improbable explanations for silly monster-chasing and angst-filled scenery-chewing. My mouth is watering just thinking about it.

While Mulder and Scully hunt demons and vampires (oh, yes, there were vampires) under the auspices of the FBI, another link in the chain of my television-viewing-shackles is securely forged: Kim Manners.

Kim Manners was a talented director who was responsible for many X-Files classics such as The Truth (Pts 1 & 2), and Nothing Important Happened Today. A producer and director, this talented man left us on January 25, 2009, but not before he left his indelible mark on the cause of my current consternation: Supernatural.

Sigh.

Yes, I’ve watched every episode and own the DVDs. A "guilty pleasure?" Sure, okay, I'm down with that. But why? Why do I feel so dang head-hanging guilty watching a show that has everything I've ever loved about B-rated horror/mystical/supernatural schlock-fest written all over it? Why shouldn't I be proud to scream my tongue-in-cheek love for this show from the heavens? From the tear-stinging brotherly smarm to the super-deepitude of plot holiness, Supernatural is my current Dark Shadows. Go ahead, smirk.

I think the only reason I'm loathe to admit my nonloathing is that this show is the current inamorata of the 12-17 year-old drooling-female demographic, of which I am most definitely not a member. Hunky brothers. I'm told by my students that they are eminently stalker-worthy. Sorry, I'll have to take your word for it as they resemble students much more than heartthrobs to these older-ish eyes.

But, I have to admit, the show appeals. Stock supernatural critters? Check. Disbelieving masses? Check. Angst? Check. Mysterious histories? Check-a-rooni. Very predictable plots? Oh, yeah. Well then, I suppose, just as the fifth and final season of the show begins this fall, I'm finally over the guilt. Thursdays at 9 PM are spoken for at our house, I admit it, and not for the ratings-grabbing shows you all probably like so much.

So, there you have it: my journey down the twisted road of uncanny fandom. If you can read this, you're entirely too close

I advise you to refuse if anyone ever offers you one.

Yes, in a crappy, crappy month in a less than stellar year, today, while walking across the tile floor at the school from which I've been fired, let's not forget, and to which I'm forced to schlepp every day until the yearbook is finished, and I dislocated and fractured my ankle. Immediate, knee-jerk reaction made me grab my foot and pull it straight, and, since I happened to be in a classroom full of kindergarten aged little kiddies, my verbal reaction was, erm, subdued to say the least.

A friendly ambulance ride later, I was firmly esconced in the ER where I managed to wrangle some pain meds EVENTUALLY and some nifty x-rays that determined that I had an avulsion fracture of the fibula and a generally messed up right ankle. Given some scrips, a tight splint, somey shiny new crutches, and the name of an orthopedic fella, my daughter brought me home so I could lay here and pout.

Holy Hannah am I sick of this particular calendar year. Bright side? The pain meds are finally kicking in.