West of Mars

1. April marks a milestone around here.

2. My blog turns four!

3. I turn … a lot older than four.

4. You’re glad of that part. Four year-olds should NOT blog.

5. Because it’s my blog’s birthday, I have now closed the files on what will become Demo Tapes: Year 4.

6. I plan to have at least two new books out for you guys to buy and read during the next calendar year.

7. Check out where I was last year.

8. Holy smoke, have I come far in one year.

9. Notice how I said the blog was turning four that year, too. Maybe I’m stuck on the number four.

10. Really, I counted wrong last year. I did.

11. So… this place has its fourth birthday. That makes me feel like an old blogger. And I am.

12. I miss some of the old friends who used to hang around here.

13. Why don’t YOU take their place?

Last night was that night again. That night when Jews all over the world gather around a ceremonial table in comfort and luxury. They drink four cups of wine (yep, you’re supposed to get drunk! One of two Jewish holidays where this happens). They eat horseradish, among other foods, fine and foul.

And the smart ones among us choose a most unfortunate time (according to everyone else) to break into song.

Yes, boys and girls, in answer to the famed question, “Why is this night different from all other nights?” the answer is:

We all become Metallica fans.

“Now
Let my people go, land of Goshen
Go
I will be with thee, bush of fire
Blood
Running red and strong, down the Nile
Plague
Darkness three days long, hail to fire”

(Lyrics copyright 1984 by Creeping Death Music, used here entirely without permission, with the sole intent of having fun and educating the non-Metallica loving public — the poor sods — to how relevant this band is to our daily life. Legal, please be nice to me. Again. Don’t make me take these down. Have someone grant me a license to post this, okay? If I’d thought of making this post sooner than five minutes ago, I’d have asked permission beforehand. I know who to talk to, and you guys know me. I’m more harmless than gefilte fish is foul. Happy Passover.)

I was going to embed this video, but it seems I need to tinker with the code to do that, and the Tour Manager is (most likely correctly) convinced I’ll nuke the entire operation here at West of Mars if he lets me tinker with the code. So… click this link and sing along with James! Don’t forget to chant!

“All. Came. Me.” Trevor flicked his tongue at the cigarette perched on the corner of his lip. He nodded. “I like that. All Came to Me. All Came with me. Me and my–”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Daniel said, holding a hand out.

Trevor blew a puff of smoke at him. Not that he hadn’t expected either Daniel or Eric to cut him off before he could go into detail.

But he hadn’t expected the Big Idiot to snicker, either. For whatever that was worth.

“The word is alchemy,” Eric said. “It means to use magic to make something insignificant great.”

“And how does that apply to ShapeShifter?” Trevor asked, drawing himself up. “There is nothing insignificant about us.”

“Not as a whole, no. But individually, before we formed the band, we were.”

Trevor snorted and turned his back on Eric. Mitchell growled softly at him, but ask Trevor if he cared. He didn’t. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. This was stupid.

Daniel took over. “It’s the music that’s the magic.”

Trevor wasn’t going to argue that point. To be successful, any band had to have a little bit of magic. Like those old tales of bands who sold their souls to the Devil. Not that he would have; he hadn’t needed to. Besides, he’d grown up in Hell and if the real place was worse, thankyouverymuch but no. He could do without it.

“Alchemy,” Daniel said, his perfect curls bobbing with the rest of the head they were attached to. “It fits.”

Trevor slid his eyes to the side of their sockets. “Insignificant?” he sneered. “You’re willing to let millions of people know you think you used to be insignificant?”

“What we mean here,” Mitchell said, leaning forward and putting a hand on Trevor’s shoulder blade, “is the band is greater than the sum of its parts.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Trevor snapped, although he knew. The Big Idiot was trying to keep him from claiming Eric was telling him he was nothing more than a fleck on the Earth, a flea that someone would wave one of those gross white dog collars at to scare off.

In other words: the truth.

Trevor flicked his cigarette to the ground and smeared the toe of his boot across it. He made an arc of the unsmoked tobacco on the driveway.

Mitchell sighed. “Let’s stick with the Freaks of Evolution idea. Dans, go find some kids, hand ‘em guitars, and let them call themselves Alchemy.”

“It’s a good band name,” Daniel agreed. “Maybe better than a record title.”

“Maybe.” Eric sounded, to Trevor, uncertain. Trevor waited for another warning growl from Mitchell, but none came.

Something insignificant made great, Trevor thought, reaching for a new cigarette. He looked at Mitchell. Now there was something that had been insignificant and, thanks to Trevor himself, made great. Maybe Mitchell ought to change his name.

‘Cause there was no fucking way in Hell Trevor was going to.

**
I feel like I rediscovered my writing mojo with this Sunday Scribblings. The bad news? This is the last outtake that’ll go into Demo Tapes: Year 4. At this point, I doubt there will be a Year 5; there are so many other characters I want to bring you. Still, when I started this whole thing, I never envisioned a Demo Tapes 1, let alone the two that are in print — and the two yet to come.

Who knows what the future holds? Maybe there’s some alchemy in it for all of us. Something insignificant made great.

And be sure to check in at the Weekend Writer’s Retreat, too. I’m still getting to know the folk involved there; come join me.

I make a point of not going to my PO Box every day. Unless I have to mail out a copy of one of my books, or unless I am waiting for a payment so I can come back and mail out a book, I don’t like opening my poor PO Box door and seeing nothing but the far wall of the inside office.

I usually stop by the post office twice a week.

Monday’s visit yielded nothing. Nada. Just empty space. However, I had three books on request from PaperbackSwap, so I knew it wouldn’t be a week of emptiness.

On Thursday, I was proved right. All three books were waiting for me!

The Mascot, written by Mark Kurzem, is for my book club. I really don’t want to read this; there have been maybe one or two non-fiction books we’ve read that I’ve loved. There were maybe one or two more that I said more than, “Eh,” to. (I’ll let you look over the list of what we’ve read and see what you think!)

I know. You’re wondering why I’d let this group, which is run by ME, bully me into reading something I really don’t want to. There’s a very good reason for this.

Let me make it up. Give me a minute or two…

No, seriously. If you don’t occasionally follow when someone else leads, you might be refusing to have a hell of an experience. So they expressed strong interest in this book. We’ll see what happens.

The other two books were welcomed more warmly. The next was JR Ward’s Lover Eternal, the second in the Black Dagger Brotherhood books. (And see? Proof that us women like to read about men! But that’s another issue for another post) I recently read the first in the series and while I didn’t love it, I’m willing to try it again. Maybe it’ll be like Kathy Reichs for me — hit or miss. Who knows until I try? (see a theme here?)

My third and final book of the week (and the winner for the Best Wrapping award, not that the other two were slouches by any means!) was David J. Schow’s The Kill Riff. No cover picture; Powell’s didn’t have one available. It’s rock and roll fiction, so look for it to be reviewed one of these days over at Rocks and Reads.

So there ya go. My mailbox. Be sure to stop by either The Printed Page or The Story Siren to see what others got In the Mailbox, on Mailbox Monday.

**
Just a reminder: I’m a Powell’s affiliate. Anything I earn through your purchases there will go back to you in the form of gives. And no, I won’t buy copies of my own books for these gives. That’s just tacky. (Anyone get the joke?)

Yep, here I go again… more rock and roll book coveting.

This one’s a bit different. It’s an unauthorized biography. I usually stay away from unauthorized anythings, but … it’s about Hetfield. You guys know how much I love Hetfield.

The book is called James Hetfield: The Wolf at Metallica’s Door. It was written by Mark Eglinton, who is apparently an author (ya think?) and journalist. (Janiss, do you know him?) It claims to have interviews from such cool folk as:

Charlie Benante [ANTHRAX], Jerry Cantrell [ALICE IN CHAINS], Rex Brown [PANTERA, DOWN], Jeff Waters [ANNIHILATOR] and Mille Petrozza [KREATOR], among a list of equally important others, and to kick things off there’s an excellent and fitting foreword by legendary [TESTAMENT] singer Chuck Billy.

(Quote stolen from the article on Blabbermouth. and I really hope that link works… but if not, you know how to go to Blabbermouth and search for the book title. Really. If I can do it, so can you.)

And now it’s time when I do my shameless begging for a free review copy… I mean, heck. I’m already predisposed to liking it, right?

It has become such a burning question that even seemingly innocent Internet sites are now speculating on the topic. While many question the need for this to be a topic of discussion, there seem to be an equal amount who need to find the answer to this glimpse behind the scenes of one of the biggest bands: what’s on ShapeShifter’s catering rider?

Before embarking on the dangerous mission of sneaking into a backstage room prohibited to men wearing certain sticky passes on the fronts of their silk shirts, Kermit Ladd, your intrepid reporter of the day, sought guesses, speculations, and hypotheses from the many ShapeShifter fans littering the landscape. He was mightily entertained and often would chuckle as he set about, discovering the ultimate truth about what ShapeShifter eats.

The adventure began with a knock at a side door of the Great Energy Center, where a black-clothed young man with short hair and a spider tattooed onto his neck allowed access for your secret snoop. Credentials were presented, a business card handed over — and quickly, carelessly deposited on the floor by the guard’s booth with a practiced flick of the fingers — and the sticky pass affixed to the reporter’s shirt despite the presence of the lanyard and a proferred hole-punch to allow for fast attaching.

Luck was on this reporter’s side, as a quick but whispered discussion between the man with the spider tattoo and a burly, bearded man, who also wore a black t-shirt and who held a clipboard, resulted in Mr. Spider escorting yours truly to the last room expectation had thought possible: the catering room.

It’s not much of a room. Not to look at it. Half a dozen round tables are set up, each with a white cloth covering. There are no centerpieces. Eight folding card table chairs are tucked under the lips of the tables, unfolded and ready to hold up the vaunted stars and their most important of guests.
At the back of the room sits two eight-foot rectangular tables. They also wear the white cloths. Anchoring them are seven chafing dishes, lids askew, heating element absent. It must be too early for food, although the far right end of the table holds a bus tray filled with ice. From the table in front of which all reporters seem to be placed — as there are two others sharing space with yours truly — nothing can be discerned. Getting up seems to be against the rules of etiquette.

When the band members reveal their determination to keep the press waiting, your intrepid reporter decides to break those unspoken rules. Perhaps the rules have been broken already, when a sticky pass was affixed to the front of a silk shirt.

The food, a gentle inquiry reveals, will come later. Some pasta, two broiled fillets of fish. Hamburgs will be brought directly in from the caterer’s grill and placed directly on the band member’s plates; no warming tray needed. Broccoli and cauliflower will be steamed and some seasoned zucchini will be stirred in. A rice dish will also be added, for variety. Dessert will be served after the show.

At this point, the caterer smiled like she was about to share a big secret. Kermit Ladd leaned in to hear what she had to say. Big secrets are why intrepid reporters prepare themselves to sneak into catering rooms.

“They love ice cream sandwiches right as they get into the dressing room. I stand right outside their dressing room door and hand them over as they walk past.”

Any other secrets?

“Serving key lime pie will get you fired.”

While this hasn’t been the most revealing investigative reporting ever done by this particular intrepid reporter, the most ardent ShapeShifter fans ought to be pleased with a hard day’s work.
Perhaps best was the discovery that the dry cleaner could save Kermit’s favorite tan shirt. It shall live to go backstage another day.

**
Not only did I link to this week’s Sunday Scribblings above, but I found a new place to link up your fiction, too. It’s called Weekend Writer’s Retreat. I have high hopes for the future of this new meme. Come join us!

I only made it to the post office once this week (as the books sitting on my floor, waiting to be mailed will attest), and when I was there, only one book was waiting for me.

Lonely? It’ll have PLENTY of time to sit and be social while it waits its turn on the TBR mountains.

It’s Laura Fitzgerald’s One True Theory of Love.

If you weren’t a visitor back when I read Veil of Roses, you may want to use this handy-dandy link and see why I absolutely couldn’t wait to add this to the mountains. And really, you should become a regular around here. That wasn’t even six months ago!

That’s it for me this week. Drop by The Printed Page and The Story Siren to see what others got in THEIR mail this week. Make a few new friends while you’re at it, too.

I’m in a mood. Sit back and have some fun with me.

1. You’ve met Soul Bendorff on these pages before. Here. And here. Only sorta here. But very definitely here.

2. Like many young men out on his own, Soul would wear socks with holes in them.

3. No big deal, right? I mean, come ON. You’ve had a favorite pair or two of socks that you haven’t been able to part with. I know you did, even if you won’t admit it.

4. But when you’re a rock legend in the making, people talk about your socks. (among other things) Especially the fact that you wear them at all. (especially when you looked as grungy as Soul did.)

5. Or that his were dark blue, worn with his dark blue Chuck Taylors.

6. Dark blue was the Soul Bendorff color.

7. But back to the socks. It was amazing that Soul wore socks. But have YOU even worn Chucks with no socks? Onstage? Under hot stage lights?

8. It was at a party one night, when Soul had wrapped each talented hand around the very cool, long neck of a bottle of booze (he never cared WHAT booze, only that it was booze), that he let some girl take off his shoes. She wanted to play with his toes, she said.

9. Now, I know you’re expecting me to say his big toe was sticking through that hole I’ve hinted at. But… you’re wrong.

10. It was his heel. Soul had narrow heels, you see. They always rubbed, no matter what shoes he wore. Socks wore out after a week, it seemed. But see above about why he didn’t just chuck the things entirely.

11. So this girl picks up Soul’s foot and finds the sock. She sticks her finger in and tickles. He’s not amused. Wants her to put his shoes on.

12. Someone hands him a fresh bottle. He forgets about the girl. He’s had enough to drink, he can’t feel his feet anyway.

13. Five years after he dies, she donates them to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Hole and all.

After reading Annette Dashofy’s great summary of the weekend, I can’t put it any better. Go see the play-by-play. See if you can recognize me.

Let me add a few things: Inspiration struck at 4AM after that first, interrupted session. Book therapy, indeed. I like the inspiration and can’t wait for the time to build on it. You guys will be in heaven.

Another random bit: Annette’s taken on the grand task of teaching Clueless here the fine art of skin care. No one else ever has, and so my gratitude to Annette is huge. I just may stop hating what I see when I look in the mirror. Might even have some professional pictures taken.

If you ever get to be on the safe side of a historic flood, I highly suggest it. Watching the water creep in and out — although at times it wasn’t exactly creeping. Racing. Devouring. Threatening. — and the water heaters, the barrels, the tree trunks (was that a bear?)…

Fascinating. Invigorating.

Coupled with the workshops designed to kick-start the creativity, it turned into a very good thing. Lots of ideas. New things, and not all in the written, book form, either.

Now to catch up so I can implement them all…

I forgot a book in last week’s Mail Call!

I got a super duper copy of Rebecca Cantrell’s A Trace of Smoke — from the author, herself. She even signed it!

I won it from… I want to say Number One Novels. Really. You should think I’d keep better track of these things. One thing I WILL be keeping track of is this book. It’s going to go into my Book Club bag, which has been looking a little empty of late.

I know where The Jewel Trader of Pegu came from! Paperbackswap.com, thankyouverymuch. I’ve read really good things about it, and then the Tour Manager’s mom raved about it to me and … that did it. I brought the synopsis to my book club and … it’s on our list.

And if you remember this post, I’ve got a VERY cool update of it.

Ms. Olivia Brynn herself saw my post — and sent me her one and only print copy so I can review it!! Wasn’t that amazing of her??? The book is called Falling Star and I am DYING to get reading it. I’ve got a few in the queue in front of it (go figure), but I’m trying!!

I swear, when it rains, it pours. Lots have been showing up here for my two passions: Jewish lit for my book club, and rock and roll lit for me.

Life is good.

Be sure to look at The Printed Page and The Story Siren for other good lives and better books, eh?

Oh, and those of you looking for the links, pictures, and tales of the weekend writer’s retreat, stay tuned. It’ll come during the week, I promise. I need sleep and processing, in that order. It was quite the adventure…