West of Mars

Pantera sang of Cowboys From Hell. They ain’t got nothing on Pam Derbish, Groupie From Hell.

So Molly and I are there in the front row of the ShapeShifter show last night. It’s getting pretty full at ShapeShifter shows now and it’s not so easy to get up to that front row anymore. Word’s out. They’re playing stuff from the new album, which’ll be their first big record. And we’re not the only girls there anymore, us and that hippie chick who’s always hanging around. Not by a longshot. I don’t know a lot of the girls who’re showing up these days. The funny thing is how they all act like they’ve got a right to the band. Like they’ve been there since the start. Like they really think so!

The mosh pit is churning behind us and every now and then I have to put an elbow into some overheated, overexcited jerk who thinks that shows are only about moshing and not about the music or the band or any of the really important stuff. I’m not even so sure that some of them are into moshing. Sometimes, you get these newbies who think it’s all about crashing into people senselessly. But a good pit, I’ve been learning by being so near them, has rules.

So Molly and I are right in front. I can reach out and touch the top of the monitor right in front of Mitchell‘s feet, so I put my hands there. To show everyone I belong. I igore the dirty looks from the other girls, the new ones who think Mitchell is their turf. We’ll see about that.

If I were just a bit taller, say if I could get a foothold on the edge of the stage, I could reach over the thing and touch Mitchell’s foot. That’s how close I am. That’s my spot and God help the bitch who tries to take it from me.

I about died when it happened. I mean, Molly says I should have expected it. We’ve been to how many shows? And hung out near the backstage door after each and every one? We’ve done everything but throw ourselves at them. It was overdue, I suppose. She says it was so overdue, the library stopped charging. I don’t think I get that, but I don’t care. Because it finally happened.

Right after they do Phases of the Moon, Mitchell bends down and picks up the Gatorade on the floor near his foot. “Hey, girls. Good to see you tonight,” he says as he takes the cap off the bottle. I watched his throat as he drank. I wanted to lick the sweat off it.

Molly says he blushed when he talked to us. I say his face was already red from singing and playing and exerting. But Molly insists we made him blush.

Whatever. I don’t really care. All that’s important is that he noticed me! Mitchell Voss noticed me!

He talked to me! He knew I’m alive! Omigod, I think I might die of it. Mitchell Voss. He’s so amazingly hot. I wish I could do more than lick the sweat off his neck.

I didn’t sleep last night. I’ve got classes today, but I’m as awake and energized as if I slept for two days. Mitchell Voss knows I’m alive!

And because the voting’s not closed yet…
And if you’ve missed it somehow, Just a reminder… go vote for me!

Yes, I’m totally going to torture you with this until the voting closes on May 22. So go vote, will ya? If you’ve already voted, why not register under another e-mail address? You’ll get to vote again that way!

In Jewish communities, a Sephardic Jew is one who hails, roughly, from Spain. That’s how I always remember it: Sephardic, Spain. S, S. You get the idea, even though the geographical area is actually a bit bigger than the one country.

So what’s a Sfardic?

My term for a fan of Joann Sfar, a (incidentally Jewish) fabulous graphic novelist. I first encountered him via The Rabbi’s Cat and have since picked up Vampire Loves and a few of the Dungeon books. I can’t get enough. In fact, I’ve taken a few out of my local library and somehow have wound up with two copies of The Rabbi’s Cat. I mean, how can you argue with a cat who gains the power of speech (in a way that’s simply brilliant) and demands a Bar Mitzvah?

To say I’ve flipped over this talented, creative, insightful, wise, and funny as hell artist/storyteller/what-have-you is an understatement. And now, with a new release on the shelves, you don’t have an excuse to stay away.

Whoa. Sophisticated Writer tagged me for probably the scariest meme that’s ever been invented. Even worse, the meme originator, Urban Monk, is going to donate up to $500 to charity for each link back to him.

Here’s the concept:

Bloggers: The blogosphere is coming to an end.

You have one last post. What is it going to be?

What is the final summary of your blog?

What is the one last gem that you want to leave with your readers?

I’ve been having a hard time with this one. Yeah, there needs to be a TON of thanks to all you guys for all your support, especially you guys with the pom-poms and strong belief that I’ll find myself a major publisher who’ll help get Trevor the attention he craves.

However, I don’t like endings. And I’m the woman who created Trevor Wolff, a rebel sort. I’m also the woman who created Kerri Voss, the woman who manages to move across the country and find a way to finance an art school education. Add in Mitchell Voss, whose dedication to his dream had him working his rear off.

Put all that together and I think my final post would be something along the lines of a Trevorish, saucy wink and the words, “Meet you over at West of Mars.”

Just because blogs are ending doesn’t mean the fun has to. I’m not done yet.

(note: I’m not tagging anyone directly ’cause this is a scary concept and no one needs this kind of stress and panic. So I’m handing down the challenge to all of you: Are you tough enough to face this? If so, make sure you tell me so I can come visit.)

And because the voting’s not closed yet…
And if you’ve missed it somehow, Just a reminder… go vote for me!

Yes, I’m totally going to torture you with this until the voting closes on May 22. So go vote, will ya? If you’ve already voted, why not register under another e-mail address? You’ll get to vote again that way!

Robin told a href=”http://creativegoddesses.blogspot.com”Rhian/a to declare today to be Poetry Monday (or something like that), so here’s my contribution.

If I could write our story,
words like “beautiful”
wouldn’t exist.

We would have all the time
we could ever want;
No fears of getting
too attached,
of needing to define the rules,
of clinging to mind games,
only to see me leave you for a new life,
a life without you
except for far-between weekend visits.

And you wouldn’t tell me -
your arms around my waist,
me perched on the tops of your feet
but my chin still no higher than
the middle of your chest -
that when you look at her,
all you see is beauty.

And that’s the one thing I can’t offer you.
Or so you say.

.
If I could write our story, Mario dear,
there wouldn’t be such a gap between us -
not that height matters,
not that money matters,
not that age matters,
but it’s all about living.

You would understand about relationships-
that women are best when they are both
girlfriends and friends,
and that you can have the second,
without the first.

And I would understand about you -
your fragile ego,
your need to be a man, not a boy,
your thoughts,
your wants;
And all the potential that I see so clearly in you now
would be realized.

I promise you that if I could write this story,
That’s how it would be.

.
Remember, though,
that there are things I could never change
in this fiction I long to write:
The planes and angles
that make up your face
and cause something inside me
to catch, then melt –
even though I mean it when I say
that beauty’s far from everything.

There’s the gentle way you kiss;
and your hands so soft and ghostlike
that after your touch,
even a whisper feels harsh;

You say I am not beautiful
but still,
you make me believe
you’d never hurt me -
that’s what you promised.
Isn’t it?

.
So if I could write our ending,
it would happen on the ice -
in the middle of a hockey game -
and you would realize this:

That we are comfortable together,
and that the beauty of our friendship
is what matters,
not how beautiful you or I appear
when we look at each other.

And one day you will realize –
I guarantee you will,
even if I don’t write this story –
that this is the the kind of beauty -
the only kind -
that I will ever have to offer you.

.
If I could write our story,
it would be enough.

**
And if you’ve missed it somehow, Just a reminder… go vote for me! a href=”http://www.bloggerschoiceawards.com/blogs/show/3599/?utm_source=bloggerschoiceawardsutm_medium=badgeutm_content=theblogitzer”img src=”http://www.bloggerschoiceawards.com/images/bca_badges/bca_badge_theblogitzer.gif” border=”0″ alt=”My site was nominated for The Blogitzer!”/a a href=”http://www.bloggerschoiceawards.com/blogs/show/4602/?utm_source=bloggerschoiceawardsutm_medium=badgeutm_content=bestblogdesign”img src=”http://www.bloggerschoiceawards.com/images/bca_badges/bca_badge_bestblogdesign.gif” border=”0″ alt=”My site was nominated for Best Blog Design!”/a br /br /a href=”http://www.bloggerschoiceawards.com/blogs/show/4601/?utm_source=bloggerschoiceawardsutm_medium=badgeutm_content=bestblogofalltime”img src=”http://www.bloggerschoiceawards.com/images/bca_badges/bca_badge_bestblogofalltime.gif” border=”0″ alt=”My site was nominated for Best Blog of All Time!”/a a href=”http://www.bloggerschoiceawards.com/blogs/show/4717/?utm_source=bloggerschoiceawardsutm_medium=badgeutm_content=hottestmommyblogger”img src=”http://www.bloggerschoiceawards.com/images/bca_badges/bca_badge_hottestmommyblogger.gif” border=”0″ alt=”My site was nominated for Hottest Mommy Blogger!”/abr /br /Yes, I’m totally going to torture you with this until the voting closes on May 22. So go vote, will ya? If you’ve already voted, why not register under another e-mail address? You’ll get to vote again that way!

It’s all Wylie’s fault.

If you’ve been following the Walter saga, you understand the history here, such as it is. The short version goes like this: Wylie was musing about names.

Now, she’s got me doing it, too.

Only, where she was wrestling with first names, my issues lie with last names. This has always been a thing with me, a detail I never overly cared about. I kid you not; I dated guys whose last name remained a total mystery to me even after we broke up. Makes you understand why none of them lasted more than three weeks (although the Tour Manager’s early intrusion into my life deserves most of the blame for that).

Surnames are something we’re born into, maybe even more than a first name. After all, our parents sometimes anguish over first names. They fight. Hopefully, they don’t come to blows and hopefully, they don’t name their child after the first thing they see (Plexiglass, anyone? Know who was named for Plexiglass?) But a surname… forget it. We girls are sometimes lucky, in that if we like our husband’s name, we can take it and shuck off our old name. But the guys, by and large, are stuck. As are we all, at least until we’re 18 and can face a judge and explain why Heffenshitzel isn’t such a great surname.

(This is where I point out the irony that the band ShapeShifter was named for Trevor’s surname — Wolff. And that I named Trevor before a friend, whose maiden name was Wolfe, named her son Trevor.)

So, of course, when Wylie asked about rock stars named Walter, I went with what she’d given me — a rock star named Walter. It didn’t dawn on me until after I’d posted the first Thursday Thirteen list that Walter had no surname.

Fortunately for me, this realization came at one of my favorite times for letting my mind wander: 4:30 in the morning, which seems to be my latest time to wake up for a potty break during the night. And which seems to be when I’ve been doing some really cool envisioning of scenes that get written out over the following few days.

Even more fortunately, Walter’s surname popped into my head immediately. Cicewski. Pronounced “Chi-Chev-ski.” You can tell a bit about the area in which I live if that name and pronunciation came together so easily.

So Walter’s got a surname. He’s got an outtake featuring a few familiar faces, too, but not for a few days yet. Sheesh. I’m still trying to get you guys more Pam, who didn’t have a surname for years.

She was just fine. Never got cranky about it. So why did Walter?

It’s all about character, huh?

And if you’ve missed it somehow, Just a reminder… go vote for me!

Yes, I’m totally going to torture you with this until the voting closes on May 22. So go vote, will ya? If you’ve already voted, why not register under another e-mail address?

First off, I’d like to say that She is NOT getting the Thinking Blogger award for this post.

Secondly, if you weren’t here yesterday and are wondering who Walter is and how he fits into the grand scheme of things, scroll down and read yesterday’s Thursday Thirteen. That should give you the background you need, but really. You can blame it all on Wylie. I’m not calling this an outtake because… I have no idea what it is yet. Maybe an outtake. Maybe the start of something longer. Tell me if you want more.

And anyone who catches the reference to another TTer and writer wins a cheer.

There was no doubt about it: Walter’s fingers were stiff and sore come morning. In some ways, they didn’t feel like fingers at all, but like claws, or those skinny little bird’s toes, all red and rumply. The sort you stared at as they moved, presaging disaster.

A few of those pills that Dr. Rosen had prescribed worked wonders. Over the years, Walter had learned not to ask what sort of pills Dr. Rosen was giving him. They worked, they got him through, that was all he needed to know. They gave his fingers their life back so that the show could go on.

Walter rolled over in bed and grabbed for his cigarettes and the lighter with the big, arthritis-happy flicker. The show… ahh, the show. The one that they said would tank, not last all these years. The one they said that fifty-year-olds had no business performing.

Tell that to Rat Catcher, Walter thought with a smile. They were as old as he was, had been at it as long as he had, and could still rock the house. Maybe not as long or hard or with as much energy, but they could still rock.

So much for those preconceptions of youth, Walter thought. Better to die before the aging process set in. Better to hang it up before age 40, just because 40 was when you got too old to have long hair and play the guitar for more than ten people at a party held in your living room.

It was funny to hear the young kids who came to play with him or just pay homage. A lot of them still believed those old tales. They’d blurt out something stupid like that, firmly inserting their feet in their mouths, all the while completely oblivious to it.

Walter and Dr. Rosen would have themselves a few good laughs about it later on. Sometimes, Lila would join them for those laughs, but usually, she held back. Lila wasn’t much for laughing at anybody anymore, least of all the young kids with stars in their eyes. She’d learned the hard way how that sort of behavior could backfire on you.

So had he, which is why Lila and Dr. Rosen were the only people he laughed with. Over the years, as his acquaintances had grown, his trusted inner circle had shrunk. People were too fast to sell you out, to crawl over you in their own race for the top.

How many times had he sat down with an eager young kid who wanted to be his next disciple and told that kid that being on the top didn’t matter? That having a steady, loyal audience and a consistent sales level was where it was at.

They’d always point out that in addition to a disciple, Walter himself was always latching on to a new hot guitarist with a huge following. They never got that it was all about marketing, that the idea was to use the hot guitarist to draw in new fans, many of whom stayed once the hot guitarist had cooled and drifted off into obscurity or a spot playing behind true has-beens like Jim Shields and Terry Fantillo.

The only ones who stuck around were the smart ones, the ones who did a stint with Walter and then went on to create their own band. Or to join a band with staying power, like Rises the Night.

He’d seen all sorts of kids over the years. The cocky ones, the quiet ones, the sex-obsessed ones, the junkie ones. He’d learned. And he’d survived.

And if you’ve missed it somehow, Just a reminder… go vote for me!

Mom alert: Some grown-up words in this one, and if you didn’t guess, some nudity, too. It’s fiction; it’s all good.

It wasn’t turning into a good afternoon. Mitchell had been over at the Owenses’ house, trying to mow their lawn. Trying; they’d left Sarge, their German Shepard, outside, and he’d either stick himself between Mitchell’s legs or else he’d laid down in the mower’s path, tongue lolling as if he was laughing. Because, of course, Mitchell couldn’t mow over the dog, much as he wanted to.

He got home hot and crabby, disgusted to hear that Amy had her friend Valerie over again. They were in Amy’s room, the door was open, and Mitchell could hear them giggling and laughing. Just like usual. They’d never learn.

He shucked off his sweaty t-shirt and shorts; the socks and shoes had gone even before he’d entered the house. The underwear absolutely had to follow; there was nothing worse than sweaty underwear. It chafed.

The towel he’d left in his room had, of course, been stolen by Trevor. That meant he had to…

Mitchell grinned. Amy’s door was wide open. Amy’s door was between Mitchell’s room and the bathroom. And nothing or no one could go past Amy’s room without her looking out. This was going to be beautiful. Better than usual.

Sure enough, as he strolled past, the girls shrieked, then Amy wailed, “Mom! Mitchell’s naked in front of Valerie again!”

He stopped, of course, and came back to stand just within view. “You left the door open,” he told them.

“So? That doesn’t give you the right to go parading around the house naked.”

“I’m not parading anywhere, you fucking princess–”

“Mom!”

“I’m going to take a shower,” Mitchell continued, ignoring her latest screech. Ma wasn’t going to get in the middle of this one, and if she did, it’d be to tell Amy to keep her bedroom door shut already.

“Why can’t you shower at normal times, you loser?”

Mitchell took a step closer, all too aware that Valerie was checking him out. So far as he knew, Valerie didn’t have any brothers. This was probably good stuff for her. “If someone in this house wouldn’t hog the bathroom for a good half-hour every morning, maybe I could get in there before school.”

Amy shut her mouth, cutting off whatever she’d been about to say.

“And if that same someone,” he continued, taking another step forward, “would shut her fucking flap every time I try to take a shower before bed, I’d do it then.”

“Going to bed with wet hair–” Amy started, but Mitchell held a hand up.

Amy recoiled.

“Got a whiff, huh?” Mitchell asked, lifting his entire arm. “While you were in here, giggling over guys in magazines and proving I’m right that you don’t have a brain in there,” he said, tapping Amy in the forehead, “I was out, working my butt off and trying not to mow Sarge. While you two were in here, dreaming about your stupid weddings, I was out there, working to make my dreams come true. You don’t like the results, shut your fucking door.”

He surprised even himself when he pushed Amy back into her room and leaned in to grab the door and shut it himself. In the back of his mind, he could hear Trevor nodding with approval, but he felt like an idiot. Ma would kill him for touching Amy like that.

She flung her door open before he could close the door to the bathroom. “Oh, yeah?” she yelled, stalking down the hall toward him.

He ignored the impulse to shut the door in her face. Whatever she was about to say might be good.

“You think you’re hot shit, strutting around all naked like this, huh?”

He sighed. “Aim, what the fuck do you want?”

“I want… I want…” Her eyes darted back and forth as she tried to think on her
feet. Fortunately for Mitchell, she wasn’t very good at it. “I want you to leave me and Valerie alone!”

“I walked past your door, you egotistical bitch!”

“Mom!”

Mitchell pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Calling for Mom like that’s only going to get you in trouble,” Trevor said from the other end of the hall. “And quit being jealous that your brother’s got all the family jewels and you’ve just got those teeny titties already, will you? Let the idiot go shower before I go and get naked on you. ‘Cause let me tell you, girls, if I go and do that, I’m not staying in this hallway, youknowwhatImean?”

Chuckling as the girls shrieked some more, Mitchell finally closed the bathroom door. That almost made up for that stupid dog laying down in front of the lawnmower. Even if it had taken Trevor to make it good.

Just a reminder… go vote for me!

Wow. Every time I check in at the Blogger’s Choice Awards, I see that some smartass has nominated me for more. Best blog design? Hottest Mommy Blogger?

Well, *I* may not think I belong there, but you guys apparently do, and I’m not going to argue. No way, nuh-uh, for-get it.

Instead, I’m going to say thanks and to let you in on a secret: I’m working on something that I think you guys will really dig. Yeah, okay, there’s an outtake in the works that’ll have you Mitchell lovers going nuts. Anyone who laughs until they cries will get a special award from me, even.

But there’s more. So stay tuned. Tell your friends to stop by and visit. And most of all, keep voting! I’ll admit it: if I can’t win, I at least want to be on the first page, for maximum exposure. Let’s flood this joint with groupies.

Trevor will be a very happy boy.

And a big thanks to our blogging/author goddess, Colleen Gleason. I won a copy of The Rest Falls Away and not only did it arrive yesterday, Colleen’s got a way with an inscription. Wow!