West of Mars

While Trevor’s off, trying to write a poem for Monday’s Poetry Train, I thought I’d sneak back in here to ask you guys two questions:

1. Do you WANT Trevor to write a poem for Monday’s Poetry Train? Or would you rather hear more from our roadie poet?

2. For this week’s Thursday Thirteen, we’ve been asked to list our favorite Thirteens. I figured I’d ask you guys for some input. You can say something like, “When the band has conversations,” Or “when you tie in the Thirteen to some fiction” or “when you tell us things, like the series about what’s in everyone’s kitchens, and when are you going to finish those, anyway?”

Be specific, vague, whatever.

I’d better run before Trevor catches me here. Last I saw him, though, the lit candle was the only light in the room and the floor was covered in crumpled-up notebook paper (notebook stolen from Mitchell, of course). He’s taking this poetry thing to a pretty cliched level. Be careful what you ask for.

So there’s this question floating around today, and people are wasting their time with it instead of my list of shit from when I hijacked this joint.

What’s the most desperate thing you’ve read because it was the only available reading material?

If it was longer than a cereal box or an advertisement, did it turn out to be worth your while?

I read the setlist once. Mitchell was busy making the crowd eat out of the palm of his hand, for a change, and I was toweled off and I’d drank so much, the fucking Gatorade, which tastes like shit, was sloshing around in my gut like I’d swallowed a live fucking fish or something, and I was ready to go back onstage, but Mitchell’s still at it, getting this group in the front few rows to bellow something no one could make out into his mic and shit, I was bored.

So I read the setlist.

Yeah, there’s some advantages to knowing what you’ll play before you need to be playing it. But I’m a sucky bass player and we all know it, so why bother?

So that way cool wench herself, Rhian, honored me with the Rockin’ Wench Blogger award, formerly known as the Rockin’ Girl Blogger award. You should think I’d be used to all the honors you guys show me, but nope. Not yet.

At the same time, Red, Wylie, Sophisticated Writer and Xine all made me nuts by tagging me with the same frelling meme! Didn’t last weekend’s acceptance of the tag teach you anything — or are you guys clever enough to tag me, knowing I’m going to turn it inside out and upside down and prove how worthy and deserving I am of that Rockin’ Wench Blogger Award???

Clever women… All of you.

Instead of going to Wikipedia and following the rules of the Birthday Meme, I’m going to give you thirteen (’cause this is my Thursday Thirteen post) things instead.

Hey, wait one fucking minute here. Susan wouldn’t have come up with this blog if it hadn’t been for me. This fucked-up thing she’s doing needs to center around me. Trevor Fucking Wolff. (And if that’s not enough to save her from the shame of not being an R-rated blog, I’ll call my dealer and have him come liven the party up some.) Without further ado (I’ve always wanted to say that), here’s a list all about me and that day in November. 1. Trevor Fucking Wolff was born. Are you dumb enough to believe that anything else important happened? 2. Other shit happened on that day, too. Like the day when Pam came up to Rusty and told her that Mitchell would like her better if Rusty wore a push-up bra. I knew I’d have trouble hating Rusty properly when she kept calm and said, “Why mess with perfection?” 3. Then there was the night the band played this show and Walter Cicewski jumped up on stage. Turns out he and Mitchell were buddies. The big idiot never bothered to tell any of us he’d buddied up to someone like Chi-Chev. 4. It was the first time I bought anything from Lyric’s shop. Mitchell told me to. Like I listen to that dork; I was going to before he told me to. 5. The band landed in Japan for the first time. Two days later, I ran up a sushi bill I couldn’t pay. Remind me to tell you that one. 6. On my nineteenth birthday, Harry’s Hoagies went back to using the good meatballs. They’d been using this piss-poor recipe before that and if you ate them, you’d have the runs for two days. Three if you were lucky. 7. Chelle LaFleur claims it’s the day she said, “You heard it first, and you heard it here. Fat chicks with dark skin do like metal! You sit down and watch ’cause I’ll prove it.” I’ll be damned, but she’s doing just that. 8. It was somewhere around my birthday that I hooked up with Amy and started my whole thing with the Voss family. 9. Boomer, the KRVR DJ, played ShapeShifter for the first time. It was our demo, but that didn’t matter. It was ShapeShifter. On the radio. On my birthday. I thought life didn’t get any better than that. Fuck, I was a fool. 10. Mama Voss actually fed me turkey on Thanksgiving. Okay, that wasn’t on my real birthday ’cause Hank knocked eight of my teeth loose the day before when I asked for a day without him drinking, but Sonya put together a holiday dinner once I could eat solids again. 11. I got stoned with Daniel and Eric for the first time. I don’t think Eric had ever gotten stoned before. He liked it. 12. Other famous birthdays: Who fucking cares? It’s all about Trevor Wolff. 13. Famous people who died on my birthday: Like I care? Life goes on with or without you. So long as it’s going on with me, nothing else matters.

Now that Trevor’s lost interest in this and has gone to gaze at his reflection, I thought I’d nominate a few folks for the Rockin’ Wench Blogger Award.

First off: my blogging road crew: Karen and Janelle. They’ve put hours into the Summer’s Hidden Treasures Contest, so be a sport and join in the fun!

And then my writing blogger friends: Amy Ruttan, Wylie Kinson, Thomma Lyn, and Sophisticated Writer.

Written for Rhian’s Poetry Train. I think it’s self-explanatory!

Looking back
Over old poems written years ago

I see their beauty
Recognize their pain
Love their nostalgia
And fear their power
To wound

I’ve come so far since then
Learned what love really is
Brushed the past under the carpet
And walked on it,
Like you walk over crumbs
That you promise yourself you’ll vaccuum up later
But never remember to do

Doesn’t matter where I am now,
I suppose.
Not when there’s another who might see
Who might be hurt
Wounded
Torn raw
And opened to a fiction that reads like truth
Instead of the fantasy it was
And the truth it could never be.

Maybe under the carpet’s not deep enough.

Maybe I need to take this part of my past
Into my treed backyard
And dig a hole
And bury them there, my poems.

I’ll mark the spot
With a rock, a stick, an old bird’s nest
So that when the nostalgia hits
I can visit them and dream again

About things I wished were a different way

Even as I know
That as good as I wanted them to be
They could never be as good
As things are now.

Don’t forget to check out the Summer Hidden Treasures Contest! And if you haven’t been here for a few days, scroll on down and catch up with Kerri…

I think I’ve been tagged for the Five Things Meme three times now. And a million other ones, too; my head’s starting to swim with them all. I may not do any of them. In fact, I probably won’t because I’m so overwhelmed right now. But at least I’m honest about it!

However, one of the questions in that Five Things meme resonates with me: What would you do with a million dollars?

I can say, with the utmost authority, that I would not change a single thing about my life and the way I live it. Oh, stop chuckling and disbelieving me. As Eric would say, have a little faith.

However, a million bucks (and more) has worked a transformation on my main core of characters. Eric, Trevor, Daniel, and Mitchell are all obvious; they’ve gone from being struggling musicians to rock stars. Rock Star is synonymous with wealth, of course; it ought to go without saying that these guys are loaded.

But there’s one character I’ve got, a woman who met a guitar player in a grocery story and assumed he was a struggling musician the same way that she was a struggling artist. When her assumption was proved wrong, much to Mitchell’s amusement, Kerri Broadhurst suddenly found herself marrying into money.

Thus, Kerri is probably the best person to ask what she’d do with a million dollars. Here’s what she had to say:

When I was in art school, I used to dream of being able to endow scholarships that would help broke art students like myself. My tuition at Riverview Art was entirely on me — my parents refused to pay a penny. In fact, they’d been quite clear about the fact that they hadn’t wanted me to go to art school at all, let alone one across the country in Riverview.

But Riverview Art Academy is one of the best out there. And getting far away from home seemed like a wise choice. So I took what I had, which was very little, and I turned it into a lot.

One thing I’ve learned about money is that when you marry someone who’s got it, you feel different about it. All those plans and dreams I’d had while in art school … they were still there, don’t get me wrong. Helping struggling artists was and is important. But spending Mitchell’s money didn’t seem like the right way to go about doing things.

I wish I could say that we struck a deal, but Mitchell would be insulted if I even hinted that’s what happened. He was always very clear about it: I was a full partner in our marriage but it was still a man’s job to provide. He’d been saving up for the day when he’d be able to provide for his family — at least, that’s what he said. The truth is somewhere closer to the band’s touring schedule, which didn’t leave any of the guys with time to spend what they were making, although Trevor sure tries.

Basically, Mitchell’s attitude meant that the money I earned from my art was mine. By this point, I was long out of art school, so my vision had expanded. One thing I’ve learned is that the art community at large has needs, even in a city as art-friendly as Riverview.

The point in all of this is that without Mitchell’s money, I wouldn’t be able to be the huge supporter of the scene that I am. He gave me this comfortable cushion that I needed to establish before I could give my own income away. Otherwise, I’d be giving away my own rent money, and that defeats the purpose; I’d need the help I’m otherwise giving.

What I guess I need to say is that it took more than just a million dollars to make all of this possible. That a million dollars doesn’t go very far anymore. Not like back in the days of the Rockefellers and the Roosevelts, whose wealth was astronomical for the times. Now, I meet ShapeShifter fans who are millionaires, and they are sometimes, the most down-to-earth people you’ll ever find. Some of them still struggle to make ends meet, the way I did when I was a penniless art student, cleaning a drag queen’s apartment instead of paying rent.

My advice to any new millionaire is to invest it. All of it. Let it be the springboard for the change you want to see in the world — even if that change is only that you now want to spend a grand on a pair of shoes that won’t be in fashion next week, just for the fun of it. A million isn’t what it used to be. Spend it wisely and make it last as long as you possibly can.

Since today is the first day of summer (I hope you’ve visited some of the great Thursday Thirteen posts about the solstice), it’s time to recap how I did in the Spring Reading Thing.

I’d have to say that overall, I did better than expected, in terms of sheer numbers.

While I didn’t get through my initial list of twenty-nine books, I did read twenty nine — seven titles were different from the list. I had to read a few to give to friends as prizes over at BookObsessed.com, a place I don’t spend nearly enough time anymore. Also, I forgot to factor in my book club books, of which there were two. And I had the pleasure of not one but two graphic novels by the wonderful Joann Sfar.

Overall, the standout was, of course, Karma Girl, which I’ve been raving about pretty non-stop for the past few weeks. I finished You Gotta Have Balls last night and while the first half was rough and I wished I could give up, I’m glad I didn’t. I’ll rave more about this later; it’ll be a great Hidden Treasure book.

Overall, I think I’m disappointed that I gave up on as many as I did (seven). I’d like to think my taste in picking what to read is improving, but I guess not…

It was a fun challenge. I hope to do more, even if my reading has fallen off lately. Too much to write, too many blogs to surf… You guys know how it is.

Yeah, I know I raved about Jennifer Estep and her debut, Karma Girl, before. And yeah, you’ll be hearing more from me about Ms. Estep, especially next winter, when Debut a Debut returns.

BUT since I can’t get enough, if you head over to Front Street Reviews and click on Interviews, you’ll see a short conversation the lady and I had. It blew me away how similar our thought processes are; I hope to one day be able to sit and compare notes with the lovely Jennifer Estep.

Be sure to check out my review of Karma Girl, too, while you’re there. And if you missed yesterday’s outtake as part of the Poetry Train, make sure you scroll down (or click through and then scroll down, you feed readers). Definitely one of my favorites.

And on a personal note, I mastered the bun! It was actually quite easy. Now, getting all that gel and spray out may be a different story, but getting it together turned into a no-brainer breeze. I’ll take it.

Trevor took a deep drag on his cigarette and motioned at Mitchell with it. “C’mon. Quit being a wuss.” It was more a command than a request, but of course, Mitchell wouldn’t see it that way. You could command the idiot to eat an entire chocolate cake and he’d quit after two bites and say he was saving it for later.

“I’m not being a wuss, dickhead. I don’t want an earring.”

“How can you be a respectable rock star without a pierced ear? Name me one single fucking star out there who doesn’t have at least one hole in his ear.”

Trevor could tell from Mitchell’s face that the guy didn’t even realize most stars had ears, let alone shit dangling from them. Too, he could tell that the idiot didn’t think that image meant a single fucking thing.

Waiting Mitchell out was useless, so Trevor filled the space with his cigarette. When it was all but gone, Trevor sighed. Smoke that hadn’t escaped his lungs chose right then to come out his nose; he decided he understood how dragons felt.

“Look,” he told Mitchell, “it’s no big deal.”

“Tell that to Ma. She’ll kill me if I let you do this. And then she’ll kill you for doing it!”

“No, she won’t. Not if you’re serious about this band thing.”

“I am, Trev, and you know it. You fucking know I am!” Mitchell crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. “But I gotta draw the line somewhere, and I’m drawing it at earrings!”

“No one’s gonna think your ass is gay,” Trevor drawled. “Despite what Amy did over the end-of-day announcements that one time. No one bought it then and no one’ll buy it now.” He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray Mitchell’s mother had given then when she’d given up the battle to keep her precious baby boy from smoking.

“That’s not the problem.”

“Yeah, and I’m already a fucking rock star.” Trevor eyed Mitchell, convinced he knew what the guy was about to whine: it’ll hurt, Trev.

“Dad,” Mitchell said instead. “He meant it when he said he’d kick me out of the house if I do it.”

Trevor sighed as loudly as he could. How stupid was Mitchell? “That’s why you grew your hair out, asshole.”

“I thought it was to get girls.”

“Well, since it didn’t work for you, let this be the reason you did it.”

“Amy’ll tell.”

“I’ll handle Amy,” he said easily, knowing it was true. His usual methods may not have worked with the wanna-be doc, but Trevor Wolff did not have only one way to get through to a girl. Besides, he had plenty on Amy if it got that far. Which it wouldn’t.

Mitchell chewed on his thumbnail, eyeing Trevor, who wanted to jump up and down with glee. The guy was teetering on the edge. All he needed now was one little push and he’d do most of the jumping himself.

“It’s a chick magnet.”

“Just one,” Mitchell said. “One hole, one ear.”

Giggling, Trevor ran for an ice cube. When he got back, Mitchell was sitting on the edge of his bed, hair pushed back behind his left ear, hands braced on his knees. “Make it fast.”

“The ice’s gotta have time to work. You don’t want to feel it, do you?”

Mitchell swallowed hard and Trevor handed him the ice. “Hold it on your ear until you think your ear’ll fall off.” He pulled out his lighter and produced a pin from a pocket.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I did Jeremy and Eliza’s after HJ did mine,” he said. “Wait. I gotta find the… Put the ice back on!”

It was in his denim jacket pocket. The earring they’d leave in while the hole healed. The same one he’d used, the same one he’d let Jeremy borrow, and the same one he’d stolen right out of Jeremy’s head when the dumbshit wasn’t looking.

Trevor held its post and the needle in the lighter’s flame. Mitchell turned paler than he normally was.

“Okay,” Trev said when the ice had melted away and Mitchell was swearing about how his hand felt. The wuss had been impressive in the way he’d held onto that frozen water; if it was a test of manlihood like HJ had insisted, the blonde idiot in front of him had passed with flying colors. “Can you feel this?” he asked, poking at the air beside Mitchell’s head.

“Nope.”

“Good,” Trev said and jammed the pin through Mitchell’s ear.

Mitchell swallowed a scream that still managed to get halfway out — and then passed out. Trevor caught him and laid him gently on his right side, left ear facing out.

“Easier this way,” he said to no one in particular since he doubted Mitchell was up for listening and engaging in conversation.

The first hole went so easily that Trevor dug two more starter earrings out of his jacket and gave Mitchell a grand total of three.

He crossed his arms and nodded, satisfied with his work. So what if Patterson and Sonya didn’t like it? They’d never throw their precious baby out of their house. Not them. No way, no how.

This is part of Rhian’s Poetry Train; jump on aboard. As you can see, you don’t have to post poetry. (Wink to Karen)

Also, I hope you’re looking for some Hidden Treasures to spend the summer with. The contest begins whenever you want to read; remember to post your reviews online starting July 15. Scroll down for more info; sticky post or something similar coming soon.

A lot of you have said you’re interested in joining us for our summer contest (I’ll get to “us” in a minute). I know a lot of you are already doing summer reading challenges or other contests. Too bad; here’s one more. Read on; you’ll dig it.

It’s time for the West of Mars, Breeni Books, Morsie Reads, Eclectic Closet, Writing Aspirations Summer Reading Contest!

The rules are simple:

1. Find a book that’s a Hidden Treasure. That means a book that hasn’t made it to a best-seller list anywhere that you can find. A suggested reading list is available at WestofMars.com. Feel free to find your own treasure, though.

2. The book MUST be from a royalty-paying publisher. If in doubt, ask.

3. Read it.

4. Post a review somewhere on the Internet between July 15 and August 15.

5. Sign the Mr. Linky at West of Mars. Include the permalink for your review. (yeah, that link brings you back here.)

6. Yes, you can use a Hidden Treasure book that fulfills another contest or reading challenge.

7. Yes, you can review more than one book.

8. If, for some reason, you don’t want to win a prize, let Susan know.

9. If you have suggestions for the Hidden Treasures Suggested Reading List, or a prize for the winners, drop Susan an e-mail. You can also contact Janelle; she’s giving me a LOT of help (so be sure to surf over and thank her).

10. Prizes will be awarded August 20. Winners will be contacted and winning list will be posted no later than 22 August; be sure to have a way for us to contact you!

So, there you go. Got a prize to offer? Got a favorite book that you want more people to know about?

Leave a comment or e-mail me. I’m a bit slow lately, but I’m still here.

Kudos to friends for helping spread the word: Nimrodiel,