I am the prompt queen today. Writer’s Island is all about Unforgettable things. Weekend Wordsmith is Inside. And me, I’m doing a poem for the Poetry Train. Yee haw.

Inside Unforgettable

Hot
Wet
Humid

Screams
of fear
of joy
of anticipation
of realization

Laughter
Encouragement
Exhaustion
Hunger

Bright lights beckon
Lines intimidate
Fingers gone to prunes
Sopping towels
Lost lounge chairs

Retreat to the hotel room
for a nap
for dry clothes
for food

Back in bathing suits

Hit the water park again.

Yep, the kids are off school for conferences and we’re joining a bunch of friends — and half the Cub Scout den — up in Erie PA for what’s promising to be some unforgettable fun at an indoor water park. See everyone in a few!

For this week’s Poetry Train, Rhian asked us to come up with scary stuff. This situation, based on real-life happenings, has been giving me nightmares. Pretty scary.

Now listen up, girls and boys. We got a problem on our hands and it’s up to us music lovers to solve it.

Most of you know ’bout that chain of live music joints called Castle of Tunes. It’s a good chain; they ain’t the problem here, so don’t go burn them down. Good people work for them. They open their doors to bands you probably ain’t heard of yet, and they make sure the bands come from all walks of life and on one night or another, they try to suit the music fix for every single person on the planet. Castle of Tunes just might take over the world but that ain’t the problem here.

The problem starts with the people who own the land some Castles sit on. Those people decided that certain bands — like Hammerhead or Deadly Metal Hatchet, Carrion or Bitterness — don’t have the family values that the big, land-owning corporations like. That those bands I just mentioned, they aren’t good enough for people who spend money at the big corporation’s theme parks, movies, books, and all the other things they try to make us buy.

You see, music lovers. I know you do. They’ve crossed the line. They’ve gone from suggesting what we should buy to telling us what we can’t buy. Which in this case, that be music. Live music. The kind that feels good and is loud and ugly and noisy and some of it’s Satanic and some of it’s violent and Lord knows that in the case of Hammerhead, it’s sexual, too. Some of it’s the sort you wouldn’t be caught dead listening to. And some of it, you can’t get enough of.

That scares the big corporation people. So much that they won’t let these bands play in the places built on land they own. Because, you know, someone might have fun or find some sort of inner peace or something from music they don’t approve of. God forbid.

Music lovers, it’s time for us to stand up and put an end to this. Unless you’re under eighteen, no one’s got a right to tell you what you can and can’t listen to, and if you’re under eighteen, take a few minutes and educate those people who think they’re your dictators. You never know where a new fan will come from.

The big corporation’s gonna refuse to be educated. We gotta deal with them the way our parents dealt with us when we were kids and we were bad: ignore ’em. Ignore their movies, their theme parks, their cute cartoons and those stuffed animals you guys like to give us girls. Spend your money on the bands. Buy t-shirts. See if the boys in Deadly Metal Hatchet will stuff a Hatchet, and give that to your girl. It’ll hurt less when she uses it on you.

Take yourself to the other clubs. If you hear a band’s been thrown out of Castle of Tunes, go see ’em at the place that’s got the nerve to take ’em in. Make sure that place earns lots of bucks from that show. Let the corporation see how much green stuff they lost. Make ’em understand that they can’t control us music fans.

We got the power on this one, boys and girls. Let’s use it. And once you do, be sure to lobby for ol’ Chelle here. She might be out of a job once the big bosses at the Trumpet read this piece. That’s okay. Chelle’s got to fight. ‘Cause once people stop bands from comin’ ’round town, Chelle’s gonna be out of a job anyway.

Want more Chelle?

Here’s her bio.
The first Chelle piece: Jock La Feet
Bitty Bands

I’ll post links to past Deadly Metal Hatchet pieces, as this may be a bit of a jolt for those of you used to Trevor and his antics. The Hatchet is a young, up-and-coming band made up of four guys: Fozzy, Lido, Gecko, and Scott. They have a gimmick: the Deadly Metal Hatchet they are named after.

At any rate, as Halloween approaches, many of us are turning our thoughts to scary things. Here’s one for you, and I’m not talking about what the Hatchet gets up to.

Days like this were too nice to be inside. And it wasn’t like they could smoke inside anyway; those new rules about smoking were made by assholes in suits. Scott wished Fozzy could turn the Hatchet loose on them and the other upright and moral folk who’d decided that smoking was evil. Man, the world would have a few hundred million less assholes if he could.

The four of them were sitting on the curb outside the club, laminates on, blending in. Everyone else who milled around wore cargo shorts and black t-shirts, too. They were just four more guys sitting there, catching a smoke, not talking, soaking in the day and the nicotine rush.

“So what’re we gonna play tonight?” Gecko asked.

Fozzy shook his head. “Too early to do setlist.”

“Why are we wasting time with this talk again?” Scott asked. He sat back and adjusted his shorts. “We do the same fricken set for every same fricken show. Why don’t we just own up to that already and quit with the stupid setlist discussions?”

Fozzy screwed his face up. “It’s not like we have more than twelve songs in the first place.”

“…and time to play ten of ’em. Why don’t we ever play those last two?” Gecko asked. He ground out his cigarette on the curb beside him.

As he reached for the can of Coke he’d brought outside with him, two long-haired guys approached. They wore the code: black t-shirts, dirty flannel shirts thrown over top, cargo shorts, workboots left unlaced. “Hey, man, know where we can find Deadly Metal Hatchet?”

Gecko and Fozzy exchanged uneasy looks. Lido cleared his throat.

“Yeah,” the other guy said. “We want to hang with the Hatchet. We figure that when they make it big, we’ll be able to tell everyone we knew ’em when.”

Scott adjusted his shorts again; maybe it was time to find a laundromat already. “Got any clue who you’re looking for?”

The first guy, the one in the dingy red flannel, shifted his weight. “Deadly Metal Hatchet.”

“Yeah, we know,” Scott said. “But do you know what they look like?”

Red Flannel shifted his weight again. “Don’t they wear shirts with the Hatchet on ’em?”

Gecko smothered a laugh with his fist. Fozzy looked around. No one, band nor crew, was wearing anything with the Hatchet on it. Except their laminates, but then again, every person involved with the tour wore one of those.

“So,” the guy in the brown flannel said, “know where we can find ’em?”

“How can you be fans if you don’t know what they look like?” Scott asked.

The kid in red shrugged. “We’re not fans. Not really.”

“We think they suck,” the kid in brown said. “But one day, they’ll get big and we’ll be able to say we hung with them.”

Scott covered his face with his hand. Fozzy stood up; Lido jumped to his feet and the two went inside.

“Should we?” Gecko asked. “I mean, the band may not like it.”

“Fuck the band,” Scott said, wondering what the fricken hell he was saying. “They don’t need losers like you two.”

He and Gecko walked inside, shaking their heads.

“You join a fricken band to get noticed,” Scott said in the safety of the
band’s dressing room. “Not to get told you suck.”

“At least they think we’ll be someone,” Lido said.

“Dude, we already are,” Fozzy said. He ripped a sign off the wall and started drawing.

In short time, the Hatchet had gone to work on two guys in flannel: one red, one brown.

The members of Deadly Metal Hatchet cheered.

Some past links with the Hatchet:
Intro
Thirteen Hatchet Victims
Chelle and the Hatchet

Warning: today’s outtake was brought to us by the letter B and involves abuse of clothing. And ShapeShifter’s Mitchell Voss — but that’s not new..

It wasn’t unusual for the bus to pull up to the hotel, for Charlie to go inside and get everyone’s room keys, and then wake the band up and send them to their rooms to finish their night’s rest. Usually, it was hard to get to sleep in a bed that wasn’t rolling down some freeway. After all, they’d spent how many hours in a bed that’d been doing exactly that?

Trevor liked to break up the time between bus and bed with a third — better — word that started with the letter B: breakfast. Especially now that they were staying in places that would lay out these huge buffets and clear the plates while he went fucking nuts and crammed as much down his gullet as he could. Sleeping on a gut full of free food was paradise. Even your dreams were better when your belly was stuffed. And Trevor Wolff had good dreams in the first place.

Sure enough, this place had the free breakfast thing going. “One hour left,” Charlie told him in that solemn, Charlie way.

Problem was, he didn’t want to go alone. Eating by yourself was … stupid. So Trevor stretched, lit a cigarette, and waited for the daily soap opera that was better known as Waking Mitchell.

At last, the big idiot came out from the bunks, yawning, stretching, and scratching his chest. He wasn’t fully awake yet, which was a good thing, as far as Trevor was concerned. Conversation would be kept to a minimum, which meant they’d be able to eat more food in less time. Time which was ticking away; less than an hour before the free buffet ended.

“Gimme the room key,” Mitchell mumbled, holding out a hand, his eyes barely open.

Charlie grabbed his hand and shoved it aside. “Put some clothes on.”

Trevor snickered. It’d have been more fun if Charlie hadn’t interfered, but then again, he liked Charlie well enough. Letting Mitchell wander into a hotel in nothing but those gross boxer-things Rusty made him wear would probably mean a new tour manager for ShapeShifter. Not in Trevor’s best interests.

Mitchell shuffled back to the bunks, presumably for some jeans. Maybe even shoes, Trevor thought with a giggle he could barely keep in.

When Mitchell came back, his shirt was slung over his shoulder, his eyes were a little more open, and his jeans were buttoned and zipped, but his shoes weren’t tied. And he had Rusty with him, too.

That was almost enough to make Trevor lose his appetite.

“Hungry?” he asked the lovebirds as innocently as he could.

Mitchell nodded, zombie-like. Rusty just stood there, looking confused, like she usually did. She probably thought he was up to something but really, all he wanted was breakfast. Bagels, bacon, maybe even a banana.

He led the way into the hotel lobby, ignoring the stares. He was used to them: a bunch of long-hairs trekking through a pretty okay joint. It scared the respectable folk. Made them think the world was going bad, that they had to scramble to a hotel higher up the snob rating in order to be safe. Little did they know that ShapeShifter was planning on being right there with them.

Either Charlie had scared the fans away or else the band had shown up at the hotel before they were expected, because while the guests curled their upper lips at them, no one rushed over for an autograph or to just say hello. Sadly, there weren’t any girls who could convince Trevor to skip breakfast. Or better yet, come along as his guest and then help him get properly good and sleepy afterward.

Mitchell didn’t seem to care. “Which way?” he asked, squinting at the signs. Trevor sighed. Next thing you knew, the big idiot would show up with glasses, and how un-rock-and-roll was that?

“Over here,” he said with a sigh, wondering why Rusty didn’t take charge. She usually could be counted on to do that sort of crap. Maybe she was still expecting a prank.

It was almost a shame to disappoint.

Count on Mitchell to come through, though. As they walked into the hotel restaurant, the fine odor of bacon reaching Trevor’s twitching nose, the hostess stopped them. “Umm, sir?” she said, looking up at Mitchell like she knew he could morph into a dragon at any second.

“Problem?” he asked, puffing up his chest and slipping into Rock Star mode.

“When we say that shirts are required in the dining room, we generally mean that they need to be worn, not tossed over your shoulder.”

“Huh?” Mitchell asked as Trevor dissolved into laughter, losing it all the more when he realized that Rusty had been waiting for exactly this. Shit, she was good at setting M up. Better than he was, sad to say.

Rusty was the one who picked up Mitchell’s shirt and held it out. “Don’t gross out the guests before lunch, okay?”

“Why didn’t someone say something?” Mitchell asked. Trevor stared in fascination as the idiot actually blushed. So bad, it spread to his chest.

No wonder people wanted those parts covered, Trevor thought.

“Why didn’t you just get dressed?” Trevor asked him. “You put everything else on.”

“No, not everything,” Rusty said and pulled at the leg of Mitchell’s jeans.

Sure enough, the big idiot had skipped the socks.

Want more of Trevor and Mitchell?
Brotherly Love

Buying Chicken
Flags

And if you’re not entirely certain who’s who after all that, click on their names in any of the entries to read their bios. That should bring you up to speed.

So I’m just sitting down to eat lunch at the mall today and OmiGod, there’s Trevor Wolff. He’s strutting through with some lady who looked like she’s his mom, and she’s carrying all the bags, just like you’d expect, but she doesn’t look all harried or impressed or pissed or … well, anything. Maybe she’s not even with him. I don’t know.

I do know, though, that he walks up to me and says, “I’ve seen you around. Don’t think I haven’t.”

I about choke on my Coke.

And then he picks up my hot dog and gives me a big smile. We both know what he’s thinking. About hot dogs and my eating that one and how it all relates to him.

I don’t remember him asking for my phone number. I think I just somehow knew. I pull out my pen and write it on my napkin. And then I blot my lipstick on the napkin, too, before I hand it over. Just because you’re supposed to and all.

“You want to be home in an hour,” he tells me as he stuffs the napkin into the pocket of his leather jacket. Like it’s not a hot day out there, for Riverview, and he’s in leather? Made me feel better about being at the mall and eating a hot dog when I could, should, have been home having something healthy. What with certification coming up next week and all.

All of a sudden, I can’t think much about certification coming up next week, although it’s all I’ve been thinking about for weeks now. I can’t care about the new aerobic shoes I need, which is why I’m in the mall in the first place. I just nod like a ditz and watch him strut away, all full of himself, like he knows I’ll be waiting when he calls, like he owns the mall and being there in the middle of the day is completely natural. Maybe for him, it is. Maybe it’s just Mitchell who won’t move before noon. Or so goes the gossip about him, anyway.

I finish my hot dog and rush home. Just in case Trevor can’t tell time real well.

Which he can’t.

Any ideas on what to wear tonight?

For the background on Pam, go here:
Thursday Thirteen: Meet Pam Derbish

Meet Pam

Pam Gets Attention

And once you’ve done that, be sure to head over to Rhian‘s for more Poetry Train goodness. Let me tell you, there are some darn good people making up the Train. Come join in!

Thirteen Reasons why Daniel‘s a Drummer 1. His grandmother bought him a drum set to make him feel better about the divorce and having to live with her. 2. The pots and pans called to him, but not to cook. 3. Val thinks it’s the sexiest instrument there is. 4. His sense of rhythm is impeccable. 5. He likes to beat on things. 6. Drumming beats fidgeting, which he does anyway when not playing. 7. You look cool when you casually twirl a stick through your fingers. 8. You look even cooler when you learn how to bounce a stick off the sidewalk and catch it without missing a step. 9. Sticks thrown into the crowd go further than guitar picks. 10. Drumming can be loud as hell or soft as a whisper 11. The variety of sticks, drums, and cymbals is just darn cool. 12. Girls throw themselves at you because they want to experience your rhythm. 13. All sorts of bands need good drummers. From marching bands and orchestras at school to jazz bands and oldies bands and the ultimate prize: rock bands. Drummers are always in demand.

Yeah, it’s been one of those busy weeks over here, so nothing too terribly exciting today. Be sure to check back during the rest of the week for more fun!

Got a girl.
Name’s Maureen.
Guys call her Mo.
Friends call her Reenie. Or Reen.

I call her More.

Crew don’t get hotels,
Just a shower at the site.
I’m on Bus 1.
She’s on 7.
Anyways,
Nothing’s private on a bus.

Time’s hard to come by.
She’s busy around the show.
That’s my rest.

I tried to help her out some.
Band showed me the door.
Told me to be a good crew boy
And stop sniffing around their girls.

So me and More
We skipped dinner
Snuck off
Found a spot behind some empty cases.

She’s a great kisser.

Hambone saved me dinner.
But I want More.

Yep, another melding of the Weekend Wordsmith and the Poetry Train. I don’t know about you guys, but I dig the Roadie Poet. And as you can clearly tell, he’s now got a definitive gender.

What happens when you take the Poetry Train, the Weekend Wordsmith prompt, and a few hours to let ideas marinate? Read on…

Oreos

Usually, Trevor hated Eric‘s girls. The guitarist liked them full of innocence and stars in their eyes, still able to believe that good things in life happened all the time. Eric liked girls who were like Mitchell had been before Trevor had and fixed him. Sadly, Eric wouldn’t let him near his girls. They couldn’t get some Trevor-fixing.

But this girl, this Patsy chick, was different. For one thing, she was a little bit older than Eric’s usual girls — she might have even been over the age of twenty. And while she was still pretty star-struck, every now and then, that glimmer would fade and Trevor could see the tiniest bit of a backbone. Maybe even some cynicism.

Of all of Eric’s girls, this one had the most potential.

She caught up to them as they were assembling in the hotel lobby, bags in tow, ready to head over to the venue for sound check. “Do you guys need me to pick up anything?” she asked. Trevor closed his eyes; she had the smoothest Southern drawl. It reminded him of some of those old movies he’d watch late at night when the high from the show hadn’t worn off yet.

“You could pick me up,” Trevor said, bracing himself for some physical commentary from Mitchell. The girl was, after all, Eric’s.

“I was thinking,” she said, “of anything you might need from the grocery, for the bus.” She screwed up her face, like she was sorting through possibilities. “Staple things, like toothpaste. Maybe someone left their comb behind, or needs some Pop Tarts. That sort of thing.”

“That’s not as much fun as I am,” Trevor said, still waiting for Mitchell. The big idiot only hid a chuckle behind a glower; the guy was not in a good mood. Which was why Trevor kept waiting for the guy to smack him.

“Maybe,” the girl said, sounding so vanilla and boring, Trevor immediately lost interest.

“Oreos,” Daniel said suddenly. “Four packs of ’em.”

“Done,” she said. She kissed Eric and left.

Oh yeah, Trevor thought, watching her ass puff up each side of her skirt as she strode out of the lobby, her backless shoes flapping against the soles of her feet in a way that made him hard. A woman on a mission’s a hot creature, indeed. Even if she was boring and vanilla and maybe not so far from Eric’s usual gaggle of innocents.

She showed up near the end of soundcheck, one of those cutie tote bags in one hand. Trevor hoped the Oreos were in there; until Daniel had said the word, he hadn’t thought much about the simple comfort of a store-bought cookie. Maybe he ought to tell Daniel or Mitchell to add cookies to their catering rider.

“I can’t stay,” she said when Eric jumped down off the stage and removed the four packages of Oreos from the cutie tote bag. “I got called in to work to cover for someone. I’ll make the show, though.” She gave him a kiss that was more of a peck than anything romantic and was gone just that fast.

Good thing, Trevor thought, as the guys stampeded for the dressing room and barricaded the door shut. If Charlie, their tour manager, found out about the Oreos, he’d be there. As if feeding the tour manager was on the list of band duties.

Eric was one of those geeks who unscrewed the cookie and licked the filling out. Daniel nibbled at them slowly, almost sucking on them. Trevor liked to take his own sweet time with them, the way you’d handle a really exceptional woman.

And then there was Mitchell. The big idiot stuck them in his mouth whole, chewed, and swallowed just enough to have room for the next. He snarfed an entire package in the time Trevor ate ten cookies. You’d have thought the guy was being starved or something and this was his first meal after being released from some cage he’d been kept in.

He stood up, flapping at his gold t-shirt to get the crumbs off. How he managed to get full of crumbs when he didn’t take a bite of the stupid cookies was beyond Trevor, but that was Mitchell for you.

Trevor silently counted down from five. He noticed that Daniel was counting along with him, equally as silent, although the drummer’s lips were moving.

When they hit one, Mitchell let out a burp that shook the entire room. It was one of those that came from somewhere so deep, it was surprising that the guy’s guts didn’t come up with it. Good thing it stayed down: Trevor didn’t want to see half-chewed Oreo come up.

“Know what I need now?” Mitchell asked the guys.

“Milk,” they all answered in unison.

Trevor shook his head. “We are so fucking pathetic, it’s scary.”

Mitchell grinned and winked. “Just so that door’s locked, no one needs to know. Who’s got a few extra?”

Trevor hugged the remains of his Oreos to his chest. “Go find your own girl who’ll buy you some,” he said. Eric and Daniel quickly agreed.

Mitchell shrugged and slipped out of the dressing room. In search of milk, in search of more cookies… Trevor didn’t know. He didn’t particularly care, either. Just so long as the big idiot stayed out of his stash.

It all started when Trevor brought a new addition to the ShapeShifter Wall of Fame last week. He brought up the idea of showing you public what the Wall looks like. The Wall was originally Mitchell‘s idea, so he thought he should get to show you around. But the tour was Trevor’s idea. While the two of them are busy arguing over who gets to share their stories, Eric‘s going to step up and fill the void. Thus… Thirteen items on the ShapeShifter Wall of Fame: 1. This was the bra that inspired the Wall of Fame. We were backstage, getting ready for our set and some girl walked in the room, took off this bra, and draped it over Mitchell’s head. He blushed. Trevor thanked the girl in his typical way and tried to steal the bra. I think he wanted to wear it. Mitchell grabbed it back and said it was going to go onto a new Wall of Fame. He kept that bra until we got home, and then he hung it on a wall in the practice space at Daniel’s house. Now, we have our Tour Manager ship them home for us. 2. We didn’t come by this one honestly, I’m afraid. We were in Vegas and Daniel dared Trevor to sneak into some showgirl’s dressing room and make off with part of her costume. Trevor can’t turn down a dare of this sort, but he didn’t sneak. He picked a girl who was so gorgeous, my eyes hurt to look at her. When Trevor came back out of the dressing room, he said she gave it to him. Given the look she gave him when she kissed him goodbye, I don’t doubt it. 3. I can’t say anything without upsetting Daniel, but I don’t believe this should be on the Wall of Fame. It’s apparently Val’s. 4. This bra belonged to a girl I dated for about a month. I met her in Seattle at a show and at first, she followed us in her own car. Three weeks later, she convinced a friend to drive the car home so she could stay on the bus with me. She only lasted on the bus with us for a week before she couldn’t take it. We didn’t stay in touch, but it wasn’t for lack of effort on my end. 5, 6, 7. These belonged to this set of triplets who got past security. We were very glad they did. 8. Ever notice how gorgeous a basic white bra looks against darker skin? The contrast is amazing. I’m not talking about a girl with a fake tan that rubs off onto the cotton, either. The next time you see that white bra against a deeply colored skin, stop and appreciate. 9. Those Texas girls… We love them. 10. We’ve known the girl behind this bra for years. She shows up whenever we’re in Minneapolis and the surrounding area, depending on how free her schedule is. Karina loves to travel, so we shouldn’t have been surprised when she caught up with us in Paris. The best thing about Karina: she’s always wearing this bra. Well, not this particular one. But this exact style. We’ve got like twenty of them laying around. Mitchell keeps asking us what would happen if we gave the other nineteen back. Trevor says once we start that game, it’ll never end. We’ll wind up passing the same bra back and forth between us. He’s probably right. 11. I always thought there was something virginal about this bra (and notice how the white stands out against that gorgeous skin of hers). And then I met the woman inside it. I was right. 12. Trevor has a thing for demi-bras, especially when the girls are overflowing them slightly. You want to see that boy drool? Show up in one of these. I picked this one as an example because I really like the color. 13. Trevor brought us this one just last week. Something about it being left behind when he was hanging with some cool folk who tell stories in 100 words or less and the owner maybe asking Susan for it back, but we were all supposed to play dumb and … oh, shoot. Susan’s going to read this, isn’t she? Umm. Well, then. Let me tell you the real story behind it. It’s been here for years and we have no idea who Rhian is. Really.

And a HUGE L’shanah Tova to my fellow Jewish friends. May we all be inscribed for a wonderful new year, Jew and non-Jew alike. May our blogs continue to be places where our differences are celebrated and our likenesses treasured.

This actually took on a different resonance after I wrote it. Maybe it’s keeping with the whole thinking about the Alpha thing. I don’t know. You tell me.

Alone.

The house is silent except for the music
Pouring out of my computer.
So much easier than the CD player behind me
But maybe not what I want to hear.

What I want…
I’m not sure anymore.

More.
I know that much.

Less.
I know that, too.

But how much of each
I can have
At any one time
On any given day…

Now,
There’s the question.

I’ve stood here
Balanced on the edge of a double-edged sword
For what feels like forever even though
It’s only been years.

Only.

I’ve worked hard,
I’ve barely worked.

Nothing produces what I want it to.

And thus,
I don’t know what I want anymore.

Except for a quiet house,
Music pouring out of the computer,
And the time to figure it all out.

Be sure to check out the other poems and fun on this week’s Poetry Train! More from the band in a day or two, and be sure to stop in for this week’s Thursday Thirteen. It’ll be one for the Hall of Fame. *snicker*

Welcome back to the musings of fictional musical journalist Chelle LaFleur!

So Chelle‘s been keeping this spot humming lately, hasn’t she? And she’s not stopping now. She’s not allowed, not so long as the city’s humming like it’s going places. Wouldn’t that be nice.

That’s why it’s so important that all you out there in newspaper land get off your rears and get out to experience for real some of what Chelle’s so busy writing about. I don’t do this so you can stay home, peoples. I do it so you all know where to best spend your precious entertainment dollars. In other words: I suffer so you don’t have to.

The Gathering Rising is the latest discovery that Chelle just can’t stop raving about. A band out of Omaha, they look like Nerdvana would look if Nerdvana were trying to look like contemporary geeks. Yeah, you know the type; they’re what Chelle had expected Temple of the Book to be. Cerebral. Electronic. The sort you get stoned and listen to. Not that Chelle or anyone at the Trumpet gets stoned or advocates getting stoned, mind you. It’s just that anyone who does might get more out of the music. Ready for a big word? Aural. Grab a dictionary; Chelle di. Expand your mind. That’s what aural means. That’s what The Gathering Rising does. They may not have screaming guitars, but they’ve got a cool name and a sound that indie rockers will dig. And while Chelle hopes that indie rock never takes over the throne from good ol’ Rock and Roll, she’s thinking that The Gathering Rising can break away from college radio and make bunches more fans.

You heard it first and you heard it here: If you see Chelle in a Nerdvana or The Gathering Rising t-shirt, don’t be shocked. The best metalheads are those who know there’s more to music than heavy.

This was actually inspired by literary agent Nathan Bransford’s not-so-recent comment about book titles involving the words Gathering and Rising. That, of course, inspired this. I was going to make them a metal band, but just for Nathan, I made them more the sort I think he’d like. Which sort of explains right there why he’s probably not the right agent for me.

At any rate, for more top-tier writings and poetry, check out Rhian’s poetry train! And join in, will ya?

Over the past few weeks, we’ve talked quite a bit about groupies. We started with stereotypes, moved on to the truth, and then spent last week celebrating ShapeShifter and you guys who’ve become my groupies (or are about to).

This week, to end the unit of study, I thought I’d bring you the notes of famed journalist Kermit Ladd, who continues to try to sit down and control an interview with the members of ShapeShifter. Being a smart sort, Kermit sat down with frontman/rhythm guitarist Mitchell Voss, but before long, the party was crashed, and this is what ensued:

Thirteen Things about Groupies Thirteen things about Groupies 1. Mitchell: The thing about groupies, what makes them so good, is that they love us. Trevor: It’s all about the love. Mitchell: No, no. Really. These women love us. To the point that they’d marry us if they could. Trevor (sniffs): Like I’m getting married? Ever? 2. Mitchell: Hold on a second. You see, when someone loves you, all they want to do is please you. Trevor: And please us they do. (He folds his arms over his chest and nods once. Firmly.) 3. Mitchell: For them, it’s all about giving pleasure. All we need to do is sit back and take it. 4. Trevor: You greedy, lying bastard. You get off on showering these girls with attention just as much as I do. Watching them start to drool ’cause you’re looking at them and then they hold their breaths, hoping you’re about to give ’em that invite they want so bad… (He takes a deep breath through his nose, his eyes closed in satisfaction.) Yeah, that’s the best. 5. Mitchell: Here’s the thing with groupies. We do make fun of them when they can’t hear, but you’re not a real band until you’ve got ’em. We know that. We love them for it. Trevor: We make fun of them when they’re not around? (Mitchell cuffs the back of Trevor’s head.) 6. Mitchell: They’re important people in the world of a band. The smart (he gives Trevor a sidelong glance) guys know this. The groupies who are cool or extra-special, if you know what I mean, those are the girls we’ll tell the crew to keep an eye out for. Trevor: Sort of like that Lana chick. The whole crew knows Lana. They watch out for her. Help her past venue security, give her passes without the usual payment, make sure she gets fed. Mitchell: I heard Cookie once slipped food out of the crew’s catering for her. Trevor: Wouldn’t surprise me. Cookie knows who he works for. Mitchell: The band? Trevor: Me, you dumbfuck. 7. Mitchell: These groupies, the devoted ones, they’ll say they work for us. That they’re as essential to us as people like Cookie are. Trevor: They’re wrong. They’re in it for themselves. To get close to us. Cookie’s around to be my bass tech. Mitchell: Might want to tell him that. I know he likes your rejects. 8. Trevor: How’d we get on to this? We started off saying that these girls are all about pleasing us. Mitchell: They are. Trevor: But now you’re saying they’re all about getting close to us. Mitchell: Nope. You said that. Not me. Trevor: Same fucking thing. (Mitchell gives him a confused look) 9. Trevor: Are we done with the groupies yet? I’m bored. Mitchell: Nope. We have four more points to make. Trevor: Why not get Adam and his camera in here and let him do a picture thing? Mitchell: Because this guy’s here to talk to us. Talk, Trev. Not look at pictures. Trevor: Pictures are more interesting. I’m done talking. (Trevor wanders off) 10. Mitchell: So I guess we’re back to just me, huh? Shit. Maybe Trevor’s right and we have said it all. 11. Mitchell: Nope, never taken pictures of the girls I’ve been with just so I can remember them later. That’s probably a good thing. Now that I’m married, I’d have to burn them all. 12. Mitchell: Nope, not going to write some tell-all book and spill it all. What happened back in my single days needs to stay there, and not just because Kerri doesn’t want to hear it. 13. Mitchell: Yes, girls do still grab my dick and slip me some tongue and do everything else they can think of to get me to take them over my wife. Not a single one of them’s gotten anything but an escort out of the room, though. I don’t care how great they are, Kerri’s better. I guess that means my groupie days are done.

Now, you all know that it’s part of Chelle LaFleur’s job to be a busy girl. Bands come to town, Chelle’s there in the audience, reviewing the show for this here Trumpet newspaper. Bands get ready to come to town, Chelle’s on the phone with them, getting interviews so her precious readers have a clue or two about the bands playing our lovely city and might actually turn out to check out something new.

Anyone who’s been reading this here space for awhile knows how many different bands Chelle sees. And that being the music critic means that Chelle sometimes has to go hear bands who she wouldn’t download if you paid her to. Not that they’re not good. They’re just not her style.

That’s the case with a band just breaking into the national music scene. You say you love music? Then go check them out, but don’t be expecting to run into Chelle LaFleur out and about the town inside of one of their shirts. Actually, they have a pretty good name: Nerdvana. Maybe if they want to win this city over, they can comp me the 4XL ol’ Chelle needs and she’ll even wear it to a ShapeShifter show. Chelle’s used to sticking out in those metal crowds.

She stood out in the Nerdvana crowd, too. Turns out saying Nerdvana’s the polar different from ShapeShifter’s being gentle with you good readers.

They’re from Baton Rouge, of all places, so you’d think they’d rock. Their name Nerdvana screams of the irony and alternative rock you Tulane types dig so much. We’ll save the irony and alternative rock for another time ’cause there’s nothing ironic about Nerdvana. Alternative… yeah, they’re an alternative to most of what’s out there, but alt radio ain’t gonna be hugging these guys and making nice on them so fast.

Good thing I’m not Nerdvana’s manager ’cause for the life of me, Chelle can’t figure out which radio station to stick ’em on. They belong with the Golden Oldies and poodle skirts and sock hops. They got that harmonizing thing going, they’re four boys with crew cuts and ears that stick out and square glasses and probably pocket protectors, too. Their guitar player holds his axe so high that Mitchell Voss gets arm cramps just looking at them, but then again, if anyone wears their guitar lower than Mitchell Voss, I’d like to meet him. Or her.

The best way Chelle can put it is that these boys croon. The old men who sang the standards before they were standard? They’re up there in heaven, where all good crooners go, cheering these boys on. Seriously. You could play Nerdvana in the middle of any of those oldies and unless you listened to the words, you’d think their songs were as old as the others.

Maybe they’ll turn out to be nothing more than a novelty, which is fine with Chelle LaFleur, who refuses to put on a poodle skirt ’cause that’s just disrespectful to poodles everywhere. But you heard it first and you heard it here: Nerdvana’s doing something different. If you can take their kind of music, make sure you look into ’em.

I’m taking a break from drawing names and matching them up with prizes from the Summer’s Hidden Treasures contest. A bit too much weekend put me a bit behind schedule, so stay tuned for news of the winners. In the meantime, here’s a visit with our Roadie Poet.

Wearing Pink

New girl at the sound board.
She’s in pink.
Pink.

Hambone says she’s new.
I say she’s someone’s girl.
’cause crew,
We know
you don’t wear pink.

Black’s the roadie’s color
Maybe white,
If it’s a shirt for the local crew
Who’ll be invisible by showtime.
Maybe white.
Maybe.

Near showtime,
Hambone chases me down.
I’m gaffing the last of the stage.
Shoulda been done hours ago.
Fucking local crew.

Hambone points her out.
Not in pink no more.
Wearing black.
Sitting at the sound board.

She bounces,
All excited like,
And Hambone hands me twenty.

Sure enough,
Come morning,
Another girl’s in her spot.
This one’s
Wearing pink, too.

This may appeal more to the regulars than you-who-aren’t-so-regular-YET, but that’s okay. Search for any of my characters and you’ll get some of their backstories. Or follow the links back to the main website — especially if you haven’t been there in awhile. Think you know what it says? You might be surprised…

Write About Me

Write about biking,
The Tour Manager said.
Yesterday’s 22-mile trek
Along the River Yough.

Write about me,
Chelle said.
Two new bands I’ve found.
They need to hear it first, and they need to hear it from me.

Write about me,
Roadie Poet said.
There’s a new chick at the soundboard
Whose story I need to tell.

Write about me,
Pam said with a pout.
No one pays attention to me.
And now I’ve got that Rhian girl to worry about.
But if she takes Trevor,
I can have Mitchell all to myself.
Oh, Rhian…

Write about me, write about me,
All my characters said to me this morn.
Mitchell’s got clothing problems.
Kerri‘s watching her husband shave.
Daniel‘s glued to CNN.
Val‘s buying yet more chocolate, too.

One character missing,
The astute of you will note.

Trevor’s kicked back,
Cigarette dangling from his lip,
Greasy part of his Vincent in one hand.
“Quit writing so much and actually
Submit something somewhere,” he says to me
And bends back to his bike.

Write about me, write about me.
Oh, you journalists and bloggers.
Write about me.

Any of you groupies who Thirteen — or any of you who don’t — who’d like to join me in a Trevor-sized bit of fun, please e-mail me for directions. Don’t be surprised if I contact you but really, get a jump on things. Get involved early. You will NOT regret it.

I told Rhian last week that I’d post some high school antics for her in today’s Poetry Train. Come on and jump on the train — and don’t forget the Hidden Treasures Contest! We’re starting to wind down, so get your reviews in soon.

It was 3AM, right on the nose, when Patterson pulled into the driveway. He was so tired, he felt like he had to use his whole body to get the gear shifter, mounted to the steering column, up and into park. He hated these late-night calls, always had. He hated having to leave Sonya’s side, hated having to sneak in and out of his own house so he didn’t wake the kids.

Mitchell, at least, slept through anything. Short of pouring water over his head, that boy was near impossible to wake. An annoyance most days, on nights like this, it was a blessing.

With Amy at college, that should have been one less closed bedroom door to creep past. But she’d come home for a few days, needing to get away from the ruckus in the dormitory in order to study for one of her pre-med exams. He’d be sneaking for sure; she needed her rest.

Amy should have known better than to come home seeking peaceful surroundings, Patterson thought as he gathered up his briefcase and swung the door open. Since Trevor had moved in, the house wasn’t silent anymore. Even when the boy wasn’t home, it still crackled with his energy, as though he had somehow bewitched it.

That boy… Patterson sighed and heaved himself out of the front seat. Sonya had always wanted two boys to compliment her two girls, but Patterson didn’t think she’d envisioned a son like Trevor. He’d come to live with them as the result of another late-night call and while no one regretted it, it certainly hadn’t turned out as expected. The brightest point in a world made brighter by having Trevor in it full-time was that Mitchell was actually getting into less trouble these days. It seemed that having his partner in crime become a permanent fixture was making the novelty of their antics wear off. It was only a matter of time now before Mitchell straightened out the rest of the way. Nothing at all to worry about.

Patterson paused by the door, halted by what sounded like a cat in heat in the back yard. Since Mrs. Bretton’s prize Persian had been impregnated by the Wilsons’ tom, and since the coyotes had grabbed three cats from further up the street, the neighbors had been militant about keeping their pets inside, especially at night. It was doubtful that there was a cat, particularly a cat in heat, in the back yard.

What was back there — or more appropriately, who — didn’t surprise Patterson in the least. Trevor perched a good ten feet up in a tree, one of the boys’ guitars on his lap. Thankfully, given the hour, not even Trevor had been able to electrify it that high up.

Obstacles, however, didn’t stop Trevor. Patterson groaned as the young man, seemingly oblivious to his company — although with Trevor, one was never certain of anything except that frustration was imminent — began to sing.

“Son, come on down now,” Patterson called up to him.

“Finally home, huh? Did you catch the bad guys?”

“Nevermind that. Come on down before you fall and land on that guitar of yours.”

“Not gonna happen, powerful legal guardian. I’m busy serenading the neighborhood. Wrote the song myself. Like it?”

Patterson wiped a hand over his face. “Trevor, son, it’s late and we should both be in bed. You have school in the morning and I have work. Come down.”

“Actually, it’s early. And school’s a waste of time.”

“Regardless, you and I made a deal and I expect you to uphold it.”

“I want to see who else I can wake up.”

“So far, you would seem to have woken absolutely no one.”

Trevor shrugged. “So I’m starting small. But mark my words, one day, when I’m famous and the whole fucking world respects me, these treeside serenades will be what people all up and down the street remember. And every single one of these losers who’s too busy sleeping to appreciate my bad music will suddenly be my best friend.” He cocked his head. “Sort of like how until you Vosses came along, all the people who pretended to be my friend would bug out every single time I showed up with a new black eye. Only in reverse.” Trevor gave one of his satisfied nods, the ones that Patterson had learned meant he was hurting. “You watch. Every single person on this street will be able to tell you what songs I sang up here. Their memories will be so good, in fact, that they’ll fucking fight about them.”

“I suspect you’re right,” Patterson told him. This wasn’t the first late-night escapade Trevor had pulled, and it wouldn’t be the last, Patterson was sure of it. They tended to occur when the boy had nightmares and feared a return to sleep. This was probably the only part of the Trevor experience that he felt ill-equipped to handle; the boy’s scars ran deeper than anyone had anticipated.

“Well,” he said as Trevor began plucking away at the guitar again. “I am going to bed. These late nights may not be hard for you, but they are for an old man like me. I expect to see you at breakfast, ready for school.”

“I told you. I’m not going to school.”

“Then you will have to find yourself a new place to live.” He stepped back a few paces so he could see Trevor better. “That was our deal, and I know you’re not a deal breaker.” He paused to let that sink in. The boy’s pride would get the better of him; it always did. “Come inside with me and let’s go to bed.”

Trevor laughed, a brittle sound that carried farther and struck Patterson more deeply than his singing had. “Yeah, like I’ve even got a bed in this place. All you people gave me was a sleeping bag on blondie’s floor.”

“I seem to recall you being quite grateful for that sleeping bag. So grateful, in fact, that you refused our offer of a more permanent sleeping situation.”

Trevor stroked his chin and pretended to think that over. “Know what I’m thinking?”

“Trevor, your thoughts are entirely your own.”

“And that’s a good thing. Remember that.” Trevor pointed at Patterson like he was issuing an order. “Maybe I ought to go show some gratitude for that sleeping bag of mine.”

“Wise choice, son.”

Trevor monkeyed halfway down the tree, handed over his bass, and jumped, landing neatly beside his guardian. “But I mean it. One day, when the band’s the biggest of the big, all the losers on this street will remember this night.”

“Trevor, of that I have no doubt.”

I’m still exhausted from the camping weekend, so here’s a sort-of haiku. Let me know if I actually managed to get the syllable count right. I’m too tired to count that high.

Muscles honed at the gym
Carry me easily
Tempting normality

If you didn’t follow the end of the adventures of the Deadly Metal Hatchet, or if you need an update on Summer’s Hidden Treasures, scroll on down. It got quiet here while I was gone!

… now that I’ve pretty well shredded that Alabama band, let me tell you about this t-shirt I got from the good souls who work for Deadly Metal Hatchet. They sent it in size 4X, so that right there tells you they’re serious about having me wear it and not use it to wash the car I ain’t got. It also tells me that they care about ol’ Chelle LaFleur here ’cause let me tell you, having something made in a 4x costs extra bucks.

Now, most of you know all about Deadly Metal Hatchet. They’re an okay band, one of those bands you always want on your bill ’cause they’ll help pack the joint and if you’re smart, you’ll take a cut off their merchandise sales, too, ’cause people can’t get enough of that Hatchet. They’re not dumb, either. They’ll be the first to tell you that they’ll never be able to pull in more than five thou peoples a night. They’re about the Hatchet more than the music, they know it, and they don’t care, so long as their merchandise sales are good.

This t-shirt they sent me’s got the Hatchet on it, of course. It’s sticking out of what my medical editor says is a lung and let me tell you, she had a good old time showing me all the different parts of a lung, all of which are right smack there, right where they ought to be. Anatomically correct and all that.

It’s a cool shirt. My medical editor said she’d have stolen it if it were her size, so I got on the phone and tried to mooch one for her. They’ll be in the stores soon, so keep your eyeballs peeled for ’em and keep off my medical editor’s clothes.

Before y’all go out, though, there’s one thing you need to know about this latest Deadly Metal Hatchet shirt. It’s a black shirt with white print. White print that glows in the dark and makes fat Creole women like yours truly here scream when they walk down a dark hallway and see their size 4x besom glowing at her.

I told you first, and I told you here. Chelle LaFleur screams. Deal with that fact, and get your own damn shirt. Mine’s hidden at the bottom of the pile ’cause if it’s not, it glows all night long and keeps me up, staring at all those anatomically correct lung parts.

You heard it first, and you heard it here. Deadly Metal Hatchet shirts and bands from Alabama. Both make ol’ Chelle scream.

If you haven’t heard, I’m at Cub Scout Camp with half of the Opening Act, so the Tour Manager’s in charge around here. Because the power’s going to his head, he probably won’t honor you with a return visit. I’ll have to do that when I get back, so look for a visit from me late into the weekend or early next week. Be sure to sign Mr. Linky even if you don’t leave a comment, so I know to visit you!

As for this week’s Thirteen… if you were here on Monday for Rhian’s poetry train, you’ll understand. For those of you who weren’t, Deadly Metal Hatchet is an up-and-coming band who have this gimmick: a Hatchet. Their fans are into them more because of the antics of the Hatchet than for the band’s music, and for good reason.

Really. Go read the outtake and then come on back. You’ll appreciate this all the more.

Thirteen places The Deadly Metal Hatchet’s been found 1. Lots of hearts. Deadly Metal Hatchet’s not quite the love-song type. 2. A lung (stop back for more about this!) 3. A full stomach, with contents in full detail, some of which a perceptive fan can make out but the rest of which make for unending discussion in fandom 4. A leg 5. In the breast of an otherwise curvy, attractive blonde whose come-hither face has been replaced by a scream of horror 6. Sticking out of the head of lead guitarist Fozzy, who is the only known survivor of a Hatchet attack. 7. Right smack in the middle of Scott’s bass drum. 8. A tour case. Rumor has it that the band has put the names of bands they don’t overly like on this case, but the truth is that the Hatchet went after one of its own band’s cases. 9. A beer keg. All involved agreed it was a terrible waste. 10. The driver of the band’s tour bus. This was actually a bit of an inside joke, as they had this driver who almost deserved his date with the Hatchet. He should have been in the Book of World Records for his complaining habit. 11. What appeared to be a CD put out by a boy band. Or a vanilla, generic girl who gyrated more than sang. Or both. 12. The logo for Treble TV, the hot music video channel that refused to play DMH videos. 13. A cover of Rolling Stone magazine. And this was before the magazine’s reviewers panned the DMH’s first three releases.

Welcome to this week’s Poetry Train! This is a multi-day commitment, so be sure you’ve got me in your reader. You won’t want to miss the fun that’s Deadly Metal Hatchet.

Security bought the band a measure of privacy in the club’s lobby. That and the fact that Deadly Metal Hatchet, the night’s headliner, was still on stage.

“So what do you think?” Daniel asked anxiously.

Val yawned and patted her lips with her fingertips in a gesture of bare politeness.

Mitchell ignored her. “I think their sound sucks, but that could be the venue, not the band.”

“How many times did we have that problem,” Eric mused.

Mitchell ignored him, too. “They’ve got a good following,” he said. “Does it extend outside of Phoenix?”

“I think so,” Daniel said. “I asked JR that, and he said people are talking more about the Hatchet than the band’s music, though.”

Mitchell stroked his chin and tried to think. If people were more into the band’s mascot than the band’s music, ticket sales wouldn’t necessarily follow. Daniel was hoping that they could find a support act that would bring in some people who otherwise would have avoided ShapeShifter shows. This wasn’t necessarily the band to do that.

As Daniel and Eric discussed the Hatchet, Mitchell wandered over to the poster of the Hatchet that Kerri was studying. “What do you think?”

“This is some nice art. Not technically great, but that’s part of its success. It’s crude enough to make you think this is some guy’s fantasy, disturbing as that thought is, but at the same time, that’s what makes it. It’s easy to relate to.”

“I meant the music,” Mitchell said, wondering if that was true. Of course he knew that when Kerri was standing in front of a piece of art and you asked what she thought, all you got from her was art.

She shrugged. “It’s okay. I like you guys better, but I’m biased.”

“Would you get excited about seeing the two bands together?”

“If I could buy a new Hatchet shirt, sure.”

He shook his head and told himself she was giving him exactly what he was asking for. Kerri may have kept her radio tuned to KRVR back in the days before they’d met, but that hadn’t meant she’d had a clue who he was when he’d introduced himself to her. She wasn’t a music fan, much as it pained him to admit that.

They rejoined the band. Daniel gave him an expectant look, which he answered with a shrug. “Talk to JR. I think you might be right that we’re a natural fit for each other and with a gimmick like the Hatchet, it’s only a matter of time before that band gets big.”

“As big as us?” Eric asked.

Mitchell shrugged again. “Not with that sound guy working for them.” He gave him a sly smile. “Maybe we should bring whoever it is on tour with us. Not give them the chance to get as big as us.”

“I don’t think they will,” Daniel said thoughtfully. “But the Hatchet sure might.”

Mitchell laughed. “Good. We get a piece of their sales, remember?”