Word comin’ out of Riverview this week is that the annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration hosted by Chelle’s favorite boys, ShapeShifter, was a bigger hit than ever. They pulled in more money, had more fans around, and even invited a few drag queens to dance up on that stage with their handsome selves.

Believe it or not, but there’s some bitchin’ goin’ on about this year’s shin-dig, and it’s comin’ from some very interesting places, if you catch my drift. If not, here’s a hint: it’s comin’ from every big name star who was pining for an invite to join the party. Seems like if you’re in a band other than ShapeShifter, you weren’t wanted anywhere near that Rocket Theater place the band took over for the benefit. And now there’s some mighty peeved people out there in music land.

Now, my name being Chelle LaFleur and all, I had to get the skinny about what those ShapeShifter boys think they’re doin’, tellin’ all their friends to kiss off. That ain’t no way to treat no friend.

“I know, Chelle,” that handsome Mitchell Voss told Chelle over the phone on her desk at the Trumpet’s office. “We realized we’d hit a crossroads this year. We could have made millions — I’m not kidding. Millions. We had musicians like Sammy Spencer offering to donate cash for the chance to be there. Cold hard cash, and a lot of it, too. He didn’t even want to get on stage. He just wanted in. Those guys who were coming around were offering us so much money for tickets that our heads swam. We could have helped out a ton of kids if we’d gone that way.”

So why didn’t ShapeShifter bow to the mighty dollar?

“It was Eric, so blame him,” handsome Mitchell said. “He’s always been the force behind this, and when he reminded us that the idea was to show our fans they don’t need to be millionaire rock stars in order to make a difference. That five bucks means something in this world, something more than a cup of coffee. The party’s about helping kids have the means to make music, sure, but it’s about giving hope and power to people who think they don’t matter, too.”

Am I hearing this right? ShapeShifter, one of the world’s biggest bands, went for the little guy over deep pockets?

“It’s about the fans, Chelle,” Handsome Mitchell said. “They want to believe they can make a difference, and we’re lucky enough to be able to show them that they can and help them do it. One of the hardest parts can be choosing who to support. Where do you start? Save the panda? Buy land in the Everglades? Rebuild homes in New Orleans? What about the tsunami victims from all those years ago? You think their lives are normal yet?”

To be honest, Chelle ain’t given them a thought in a long time. I ain’t about to head over to Sri Lanka and wherever else got hit with that monster wave to see, but Chelle’s bettin’ the man’s right. About all of it: that them people ain’t got their lives back any more than a lot of the folk who’re tryin’ to repopulate this city of mine. He’s right that you gotta start somewhere.

You heard it first and you heard it here: ShapeShifter’s all about giving their fans a voice. Gotta love a band who helps people believe they can make a difference.

Yeah, I was going to leave it with our last post, but blame this on Wylie and Shelley. They asked; I delivered. The mystery of where Deadly Metal Hatchet’s missing invite has been solved: ShapeShifter turned into equal-opportunity dissers. Nice to know my boys have integrity.

Well, ready to end this year’s Musical Hanukkah celebration? I think that in keeping with the theme of the holiday — hope and miracles — this year, we’ve opened more cans of worms than we’ve wrapped up.

Mitchell knew three things immediately upon waking. The bed wasn’t his. Not with sheets that smelled faintly of perfume. Kerri knew better.

The house wasn’t his.

But the hangover? That was entirely his own. His own making, too.

He wished he could go back to sleep, but the image of what had happened when he’d walked into The Rocket Theater the day before wouldn’t leave him. It figured; it hadn’t let him drink it into oblivion, either.

She wasn’t in bed with him. He didn’t need to send a leg or arm exploring to know that. If Kerri was there, he wouldn’t have been on his stomach, his left cheek probably drowning in a pool of drunken drool.

But she was behind his eyes, giving Chrome and Penis warm hugs. Penis had even lifted her off her feet when he’d embraced her. Loudly. Excited to see her.

And then turned to him and said, “I’m in the middle of something. Is it okay if she shows you where the dressing room is?”

It wasn’t that they’d been all over his wife; he wasn’t sure, but he thought Chrome might have felt the contours of her ass. Kerri watched women crawl over him on an almost daily basis, especially when they were on the road. It was her turn to get pawed a little bit. Maybe later, when he was less hungover, he’d think it was a turn-on. Not now, though. Now he was still steaming over the whole thing.

It was that they’d been glad to see her. Friendly. Had wanted to sit down at some point and catch up, had invited her to stop in one day when she was free and shoot the shit.

Him, they’d thanked for moving the benefit to their place. Hadn’t even bothered to shake his hand. Had, in fact, avoided him as much as they could.

Sometimes, being a dick sucked.

Kerri and Trevor would probably gang up on him if he tried to whine about it. They’d tell him that he’d decided to be a dick on purpose, that he’d wanted to keep people at arm’s length. He had no reason to complain when he got what he wanted.

Still. Sometimes, being a dick sucked.

So did hangovers.

Don’t forget that if you’re new here, use the Cast tab to be taken to the Cast of Characters page. Or think about picking up a copy of The Demo Tapes, which collects twenty (roughly speaking) of the outtakes buried in these here archives. Join the Trevorlution with your own chronicles of Trevor Wolff, bass player hardly-extra-ordinaire. But no one ever said we loved the boy for his musical talent, only for his personality.

Springer stuck his hands in his pockets and wished for a smoke. He was out, though, dead broke — for a change. But it was worth it. Another year at the Musical Hanukkah Celebration, even if he hadn’t won the lottery this year. Can’t win what you don’t enter, Springer had told his girl, then pointed out that if she’d pay for things when they go out, maybe he would have been able to afford it.

She’d gotten all snotty about it. For a change.

Springer decided that overall, he didn’t miss cigarettes. Except for times like this, when he was waiting around outside The Rocket Theater, him and a bunch of other ShapeShifter fans, hoping to see the band when they showed up. He was bored. Smoking would give him something to do.

His girl sure wouldn’t give him something to do. As soon as she started pulling the diva routine, bitching about how they never went anywhere because Springer had no money, he tuned her out and wished she was gone.

There were some wishes Springer could make come true, all on his own. And they didn’t involve money, either.

A new, better girl was sure to appear. From somewhere. Right then, Springer didn’t much care. All he wanted was to maybe see Eric, see if the guitarist recognized him from that day at Gus’ Guitars. After all, Eric had remembered him then from last year’s Musical Hanukkah. It could happen.

He’d been looking for a limo carrying all the ShapeShifter guys, so he didn’t pay attention to the red Audi when it pulled in. No one gathered there did, really. No one in ShapeShifter drove a red Audi. Mitchell had the new Durango, Daniel had a Jaguar, Eric drove an Acura, and Trevor still had his bike.

Ten minutes later, none of those cars had appeared, but Eric came out the stage door, blinking at the light of outside like he’d been in the dark theater for awhile.

Springer stared, his mouth falling open a bit, his brain racing. When? How?

“Who has tickets for tonight?” the guitarist asked.

Without him telling it to, Springer’s arm went up. So did three others — one girl, dressed in faded jeans covered in ballpoint drawings, and two guys who were the usual black t-shirts under their flannels.

“You four, then, c’mon,” Eric said and motioned them forward.

Security appeared out of nowhere and made a line between the four of them and the rest of the group.

“Well, this is one way to get in without waiting in line,” the girl chuckled. Springer liked her; she had a flat, open face and yellow-blonde hair. Freckles over her nose and spreading across her cheeks under her eyes. She wore one earring in the lobe of her ear, a ShapeShifter dragon S. Springer knew those earrings; the band had sold them through the fan club. She had more piercings in the cartiledge of her ear, and wore an ear cuff that at first looked like a dragon.

He peered closer. She blushed and covered it with her hand, pulling it off. “I shouldn’t… not here,” she said.

But he’d seen. A naked man, quite obviously showing off her favorite part of a guy.

“Okay,” Eric said when they were inside. He’d walked them across the stage, where Springer had reached out and touched the edge of Daniel’s drum riser, and down a flight of stairs. They were now in some small room. One of those candle things sat on the table, in front of a deli tray that hadn’t been touched. “This is Daniel’s doing, so let me get him. Wait here.”

“Can we eat?” one of the other guys called out.

“Not yet!” Eric yelled over his shoulder.

In a second, Eric came back in with the famous drummer.

Springer licked his lips and told himself that passing out would not be cool.

The girl touched his hand. He looked at her; the gleam in her eyes said she was thinking and feeling the same things he was.

“Here’s the deal,” Daniel said, pushing some of his hair behind his ear. Just as fast, he shook his head so the hair fell free. It was as common a gesture as any Springer had ever seen; the guy did it almost constantly. “You heard about the recent terror attacks in India, right?”

Springer joined the others in nodding, even though he barely knew about them. Just that there’d been attacks and people had died. It sucked, but then, so did most things.

“There’s a group of ultra-Orthodox Jews, from the group whose rabbi was killed in those attacks, who’re calling for us to join with strangers and share the light and hope of Hanukkah.”

Springer wondered how this affected him.

Eric stepped to the table and picked up a book of matches. Daniel stepped back and motioned to the four fans to come closer.

Striking the match, Eric read something unintelligible from a piece of paper between the candle thing and the deli tray. He touched the match to the middle candle, then the two on the left of the candle thing.

“There,” he said, letting out a deep breath. “I hope I did it right, but if not, God knows my intentions are good.” He looked at the four fans. “You guys can dig in here and go on up to grab places on the floor. The doors’ll be open in about forty-five minutes. Oh, here. You should have these,” he said, pulling backstage passes out of his back pocket. He handed one to each fan. “Don’t try to get in our dressing room, though. Security won’t let you.”

As he handed a pass to Springer, he paused. “I keep seeing you around. What’s your name again?”

“Springer.” He was glad his tongue wasn’t taking off like it did the last time. That didn’t mean he didn’t feel like he had a second head or something; it was hard to stand here and be cool in front of your hero.

“Springer. Good name. Hey, will you make sure your friends here don’t knock over the candles? It’d be bad news if we burned this place down.”

“I’ll send someone in to get them out of here,” Daniel said. He leaned around Eric and extended a hand to Springer. “Nice to meet you and thanks for keeping an eye on things for us.”

They were gone fast like that. It felt like the air returned to the room and Springer could think and breathe again. The two guys were busy digging into the deli tray, but the girl was looking at Springer. “How cool was that?”

“How cool is all of it?”

“I’m Trinity.”

“I’m Springer.” He blushed. “I bet you figured that.”

“Eric knows you.”

Springer bobbed his head. “Seems to.”

“I need to hang around you more often.”

He could feel the blush spread down his throat. “We’ve got all night.”

And so the Hanukkah Celebration begins here at the Meet and Greet. If you’d like to know what this experience Springer last had with Eric was, go here. Remember that by buying a copy of The Demo Tapes or the Hanukkah T-shirt at the merchandise table, you’ll be helping make a real-life donation to the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation. And while we’re speaking of real life, Eric’s comment about the Chabad House’s invitation to everyone to join in the hope of the Hanukkah season by helping Jewish friends in the nightly candle lighting… that’s very real. Forget about the presents, forget about the decorations and hustle and bustle and remember the hope that this season brings with it. Happy Hanukkah, everyone.

They’d been waiting for it, saving up the gas money. Driving from Phoenix to Riverview wasn’t going to be cheap. They’d tried lining up some gigs, but it was a bad time of year to do that on your own. People were spending money on presents, not on live shows. The right-sized clubs wanted bands who could draw, not unknowns.

“But we’re not unknown!” Scott had tried arguing. “We’re Deadly Metal Hatchet!” Even telling the club owners and promoters that they were friends with ShapeShifter hadn’t helped.

Still, they weren’t going to miss the annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration up in Riverview. They’d agreed to sleep in their van if they had to, unless they could find a nice girl who was willing to let them crash on her floor. They even agreed they wouldn’t fight for her and her bed.

The only thing they were missing, really, was the invitation.

“What are we gonna do?” Lido asked. “It’s Saturday. The gig’s in two days and we gotta leave like an hour ago if we’re gonna make it there on time.”

Scott shook his head and held his hands up. “There’s nothing we can do. If they didn’t invite us this year, they didn’t invite us.”

“I thought they liked us,” Fozzy said, shaking his head. “Fuckers.”

“They ran that cartoon of the Hatchet last year,” Lido said. “Maybe that’s why they didn’t invite us this year. They need to rotate through all their friends.”

“There are an awful lot of people who are better friends with them than we are,” Scott said.

Fozzy got up and stalked across the room.

Scott shook his head, knowing what was coming next. “Don’t do it, man. They’ll never forgive us.”

“I’m not doing shit,” Fozzy said, bending over the notebook on the table, a pen already in his hand. “The Hatchet is.”

“It may not be personal,” Scott warned. “This might change that.”

Fozzy didn’t answer. He just spread his legs farther apart, bringing his face and body closer to the notebook.

Scott bent over, forearms planted down the length of his thighs, face hidden in his hands. “Fozz…”

“Not me,” the guitarist said. “It’s all the Hatchet’s doing.”

“Dude,” Scott said, standing up and adjusting his glasses. This whole scene hurt, and the Hatchet was only going to make it worse. “They gotta raise money. How much money can we help them raise? If it weren’t for our t-shirts, we’d be broke. It’s all about money, and we can’t help them much. I don’t blame them if they blew us off.”

“Maybe the invite’s just late,” Lido said, glancing nervously at Fozzy’s ass.

“Maybe,” Scott said, giving Lido a grateful look.

“I say we go anyway,” Gecko said. He gave Scott and Lido a small smile. “Maybe we can get tickets or something.”

“With what money?” Scott asked. He shook his head and turned his back on everyone. They just didn’t get it. The band wasn’t bringing in a lot of money. They should be practicing now, not waiting for Fozzy to finish letting the Hatchet destroy them. Letting the Hatchet loose on ShapeShifter… this was suicide of the worst sort.

Fozzy threw the pen down and stalked away. Scott held his breath.

Gecko picked up the drawing.

There was the ShapeShifter logo, or something close enough to it. Just like Scott had expected.

But instead of the Hatchet tearing it apart, the Hatchet lay below it, almost as if it was bowing.

And a tear escaped from its head.

“Maybe our invite is just late,” Gecko said.

“Maybe,” Scott said.

I hope you’ve been following this year’s Musical Hanukkah Celebration posts. Join the fun by getting your hands on the official 2009 t-shirt at the Merchandise Table. Remember that a portion of all profits from the sales of the t-shirts and my own book, The Demo Tapes, will be donated to the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation so that kids can make music of their own. And hopefully be better than the guys in Deadly Metal Hatchet.

Penis swallowed and nodded at Chrome. He wasn’t ready to face the ShapeShifter guys just yet. Sure, it was seven years later — and probably as many inches that he’d grown since then — but if they recognized him, he’d have to wrap himself in chains and throw himself into the river.

He snapped the elastic around his wrist, glad he’d brought the extra. Reggie didn’t like him meeting new talent with his hair down; he said Penis lived up to expectations when it was pulled back. But he needed that elastic to snap. No darting outside. No toot. No drop. No stolen minutes with Chrome.

Pure professional.

He paused behind the curtain. If there had been an audience, they’d all be staring at his back, judging his ass. But the real judges were in front of him, on the other side of that curtain.

He’d been seventeen and stupid. He’d thought throwing parties for the band after almost every show would make them let him into their world. He’d been too stupid to know when he was being used. He’d done everything everyone had told him to — and a few things no one had mentioned. Not once had he gotten anything more than a companionable chuff on the arm and a gruff “Nice party.” He wasn’t even sure they knew his name.

Chrome started talking and immediately, Penis stiffened. He remembered those voices. Sure, Mitchell’s was a bit rougher these days, but after touring the way ShapeShifter did, it made sense. Daniel’s voice, though…

Penis closed his eyes and remembered. He snapped the elastic and pulled himself back to the present.

“Ahh, you’re the ShapeShifter guys,” he said as he stepped around the curtain. He swallowed hard as they looked him over — the same way everyone else did, he realized. Like they were expecting someone who looked like a penis. “I’m Penis.”

It was a horrid nickname, but it was also a safe hiding spot. No one thought to look beyond the nickname and at the person who wore it. He was Penis, the guy who ran The Rocket Theater.

The band’s manager started talking ten miles a minute, pulling him in one direction while the band guys walked off in another with Chrome. That made it easier to focus on business and forget they were two men he’d once dreamed of being best friends with. It had been a long time ago that he’d wanted that, before two stints of rehab and the meeting that had given him the chance to prove himself here.

He was the one who was pushing to open The Rocket Theater to someone other than the queens. He loved the queens, but dammit, he wanted to see if he could handle it this time. Being around rock and roll. Handling the hard-on the music gave him without drugs, without cheap sex, without whoring himself to guitar players and drummers and singers.

As they met up with the band, he snapped that elastic around his wrist. He could do this. It didn’t matter if they recognized him. He wasn’t that kid anymore. He was Penis, and The Rocket Theater was his.

“This just keeps getting worse,” Mitchell mumbled as they walked up to the stage door of The Rocket Theater. Okay, so there weren’t any queens hanging around outside, blowing kisses at them like he’d been afraid there would be, but JR still trailed behind them like some little brother who wanted nothing more than to hear the older kids liked his plan.

Maybe, Mitchell thought, if this was okay, he’d pat the manager on the head.

“It’s just a walk-through. We’ve done a million of them,” Daniel said.

“Not with a guy named Penis.”

Daniel gave him a sidelong look. “Better than a girl named Penis.”

“Think they hire women around here?”

“They hired Kerri, didn’t they?” Daniel knocked on the stage door, then tried the handle. It was, of course, open. The action behind it was minimal; mornings at most clubs like this were quiet.

“The queens hired her, not the theater,” Mitchell said, following the drummer through the door and holding it for JR. He couldn’t deny that this was a better theater, or that he’d had more than a few fantasies of ShapeShifter being the band who’d break the stranglehold the queens had on the joint. The fact that they were able to do that and stay open was pretty damn amazing. Their audience wasn’t nearly as big or as thirsty as the All Access crowd.

“Help ya?” A stage hand showed up out of a shadow or something. Dressed in black, with dyed black hair, he had a body carved at the gym and colored in a tanning bed. Mitchell wondered if he did more hands than stage.

“We’re looking for Penis,” Daniel said.

Mitchell admired the guy’s straight face although if it had been him talking, he’d have been equally as cool. They weren’t ShapeShifter for nothing.

Besides, they’d left Trevor at home. There was no one to start the snickering.

“Before you ask, he does not have a strange-shaped head,” the stage hand said.

“Why would he?” Mitchell asked, as blank as possible, like he didn’t get the joke. A quick phone call to Kerri before they’d come over had cleared it all up: the guy’s name was Richard. He’d been through rehab twice and he was the lord of the manor, deservedly so, Kerri said. He knew everything.

“Why Penis?” he’d asked her.

“His name’s Richard,” she’d said. “What’s Richard’s nickname? Dick. What’s another word for a dick? A penis.”

“Coulda called him Schlong,” Mitchell had said.

“Penis sounds better. Wait until you meet him. It fits.”

The stage hand eyed Mitchell, clearly expecting to be hit with a joke. But Mitchell just kept staring. Finally he said, “So where is this Penis dude?”

“Ahh, you’re the ShapeShifter guys,” someone said from behind a curtain. He stepped out into the backstage area. Well over six foot four and skinny as hell, with one of those protruding Adams Apples and the curl to his shoulders and back that extremely tall people adopted when they spent too much time with short folk, he had his red hair pulled back in a pony tail. “I’m Penis,” he said, offering hands.

JR took over from there while Mitchell and Daniel let the buff stage hand show them around. The dressing rooms were huge and well-lit, as Kerri had said they would be. One wall in each room was given over to clothing storage, including wigs. Mitchell wanted to try them on and goof a bit, but the stage hand was looking a little
nervous.

“Something wrong?”

“Penis will be looking for you. We don’t do a lot of live music and when we do, it’s nothing like what you guys play. You’re the best to tell him what we need to change. He’s eager to get to work on this.”

Mitchell and Daniel exchanged a look. Sure, JR had babbled something about theater management doing whatever it took to make the band happy. They’d heard that before, too many times. And too many times, it had been nothing but hot air. “You’re for real?” he asked the stage hand.

The guy nodded. He looked like he wanted to say something but was holding back.

Mitchell frowned, wondering what it would take to get this Chrome dude to spill, but he was already hustling them back to the stage. He’d changed the subject, too, to the catering. “Whatever you want in your dressing room, that’s no problem. We’re used to all sorts of strange things. I mean, I thought eating disorders were limited to teenage girls, but you’d be surprised.”

This, Mitchell thought, from a guy so buff, he probably ate baby food out of the jar to avoid any and all fats.

“There you are,” JR said as they stepped onto the stage. Mitchell looked out into what would be the audience. He couldn’t help but grin. There was something about a stage that got him every single fucking time, especially a stage he was going to be playing from. JR stepped up beside him. “What do you think?”

When the manager actually waited for his answer, he said, “Perfect.”

“I’ll say,” Daniel said, pacing off the width of the stage. “I never knew it was this big.”

Penis smirked. “We hope to get a lot more of that.” He held a clipboard that he looked down at. “Now, tell me what sort of sound you need us to get. What goes where. The whole works. We guarantee the backline will be perfect.”

“We’ve got all that,” Mitchell said. “We’re ShapeShifter.”

He watched Penis carefully. The guy tried to mask his irritation, but Mitchell caught it. Sure enough, The Rocket Theater wanted to move into live rock shows. Why else would you worry about the backline for a band like them?

He shrugged. Whatever their story was, it was theirs. All he needed to focus on was the chairty show. He’d make the calls when he got home, get the right people on this, figure out what was going on, why they were doing this, and how it would impact the scene.

But for right now, all he wanted to do was stand and stare at the audience and remember those dreams he’d had when he’d been younger.

So we’re getting closer to the holiday and the show. Feel like you’ve walked into the middle of something? You have.

Have no fear, though. This link will take you to the set-up for this piece. This link will take you to the introduction of this year’s celebration, complete with links for the new t-shirts available to us real people. Remember that any copies of The Demo Tapes or any t-shirts you buy will include a donation to the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation, which works to bring instruments to our kids, so they can join their school band or orchestra. It’s a worthwhile donation on your end, and you’ll get either a book or a t-shirt — or both! — to remind you that even something as small as a buck has power. Come join us.

Mitchell glared at Daniel. The drummer had told him they’d wait for him to get started. Daniel had promised he’d tape JR’s mouth shut if he had to.

But, of course, JR’s mouth was flapping and he was halfway through whatever it was he’d flown across the country to tell them.

“Oh, good, Mitchell. You’re here so I can talk about this. I promised Daniel I wouldn’t until you arrived so now that you are, the deal goes like this. All Access can’t do the Musical Hanukkah Celebration this year. They are too maxxed out in terms of capacity and I’m getting requests from all over the world from people willing to pay four times the ticket price to get in the door. I know this is for charity and that four times the ticket price is still cheap, I should maybe listen if they’d offer ten times the ticket price but between the demand and the size of the dump”

Mitchell growled. All Access may have been a dump, but it was their dump.

“so switching to a new place would be a smart move and I’ve managed to get a hold of the people at The Rocket Theater, who are willing to open their doors to you for the night, with the same terms All Access offered, that being”

“The Rocket Theater?” Mitchell howled, standing up from the chair he’d just sat down in. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“say they’re willing to make any changes they need to, so that they can accommodate live music”

“JR!” Mitchell bellowed, silencing the manager. He leaned forward, to get in JR’s face. “The Rocket Theater is where the drag queens hang out. They don’t let anyone else in there, and you tell me they’re willing to let us in? What’s the catch?”

JR shuffled through his notes. “As you should know, Mitchell, The Rocket Theater was funded by Anatole and Anna DeBartolo back in 1834. Anna DeBartolo’s maiden name was Anna Voss and I believe she was a distant relative of yours, thus making it likely that the motivation here is tied to you and the fact that you are, still, a member of the famed Voss family who founded Riverview. Given that there don’t seem to be any drag queens in the city who are related to the Voss family, this seems like their best chance to get a Voss on their stage.” JR gave a satisfied nod and, for once, stopped talking.

“And the drag queens are going to want to get on stage with us?”

JR opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Mitchell threw his hands in the air and spun in a circle. “And do you have any idea what happens to Kerri when we walk in there? She is fucking mobbed, man. All those queens trying to hide their hard-ons over my wife, who’s this legendary makeup whiz. So now you’re telling me that she’s going to have to deal with that shit all night? When she should be having just as much fun as every other person in there, she’s gonna get guilted into working? Oh, fuck no. Kerri can’t have it that easy. Can’t sit and watch us. Instead, she’s gotta get fucking mobbed with all this, Kerri, dear,” he said, slipping into a falsetto and holding his fingertips up near his cheeks.

Daniel burst out laughing.

Mitchell ignored him and kept going, “You look incredible tonight. So much better than I do. Do you think you could take a minute of your oh-so-precious time and fix me up a bit? Just a touch, you know? Maybe my lips need to be lined better.”

Daniel bent in half, but not before Mitchell noticed the tears running down the drummer’s cheeks.

“You think I’m fucking joking? The last three times she dragged me there, that’s what it was. Now, when she gets invites to go? She won’t. So how the fuck am I supposed to tell her that we’re moving into The fucking Rocket Theater for the night — and letting the queens in, too!”

Mitchell had barely finished when JR started in again. “I’ve written stranger things into a contract. This ought to be easy to say that wives and girlfriends of the band are to be approached only by members of the ShapeShifter crew, or we could be more specific and say that Kerri Voss is not to be approached by any person wishing to have their makeup done for an appearance on the stage with the band and while we’re talking about this and since you mentioned it, why don’t we have the drag queens also enter a raffle to be allowed on the stage? If you make the local musicians do it and since this is all about charity it would seem to make the most sense. Maximize our donation. And while I’m thinking about it,”

“NO!” Mitchell howled, dragging out the sound to cover up some of JR’s babble.

JR actually took the hint.

“We’re moving theaters so we can get more fans in, right? We can’t leave fans out in the cold while we’ve got drag queens strutting around with us and whatever star makes a big enough donation. JR, you’re losing sight of what this is about, man.”

“My understanding,” JR said quietly. Not that he was ever a loudly spoken person, probably because he was too busy getting the words out to worry about the volume. “My understanding is that this is a charity function, conceived simply to raise money to help support music education in public schools, which are currently cutting music education budgets by amounts that would alarm you if you knew what they were. Daniel, I know you got your musical start in school, and I believe that Eric did as well, although I’m sure the time he spent at his dad’s church influenced him to no small degree. You know how very important this is, so why are we letting Mitchell tell us that we shouldn’t be thinking of the revenue and should instead be focused on the fans?”

Mitchell growled. Daniel signalled him quiet.

“Because any of those stars can make a donation on their own,” the drummer said. “When we include our fans, we remind them that anyone can make a difference. That five bucks helps. You want to let some queens in? Fine. They pay the same ticket price as everyone else. They pay the same price for the raffle to get on stage as everyone else.” He took a deep breath and held up a hand to keep JR quiet. “But I’m telling you now, JR, if I look out and see the place has more transvestites than ShapeShifter fans, I’m turning him,” he pointed at Mitchell, “loose on you.”

JR actually paled and was quiet for thirty full seconds.

Ahh, and so this year’s Musical Hanukkah Celebration begins to ramp up. Not sure what’s going on? Click here to go back to the original post that kicked off this yearly tradition. Or check out the category called Musical Hanukkah Celebration and read from the bottom up.

Remember that any purchases you make of The Demo Tapes and of the Musical Hanukkah Celebration t-shirts will help fund a donation from me to the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation. Let’s provide ALL our kids with musical instruments. Maybe one of them will go on to found a real-life ShapeShifter.

Patterson didn’t mind that they’d left early. The after-dinner entertainment had been the same for years now: the men gathered around the television, the women in the kitchen, cleaning up and gossiping, the kids who were too young to do either dispersing to the basement or another round of football in the yard.

Mitchell, for all his love of baseball, loathed watching football. And Trevor’s lewd comments about the sport had been immediately unwelcome.

Frankly, Patterson had been glad to have an excuse to leave. He wasn’t much of a football lover, himself, and family togetherness had its limits when there was so much in your life you couldn’t discuss.

He pulled the Bronco into its spot on the side of the driveway and sat for a moment. Trevor, in the back seat, had gotten awfully quiet. Too quiet.

Mitchell, beside him, hopped out of the Bronco like he didn’t have a care in the world. Like leaving early wasn’t a big deal. To the boy, it probably hadn’t been. Spending the day with the family had been okay at first, with the annual flag football game and the cousins to catch up with. But if you kept Mitchell away from his guitar too long, he started to get twitchy. Once that happened, the cousins decided he was weird. Adding Trevor to the mix hadn’t helped, but leaving that one at home had never crossed Patterson’s mind. Trevor was part of the family now, no matter how hard he worked at reminding them all that he wasn’t.

Trevor followed Mitchell out of the Bronco, but didn’t wait by the back door with the younger boy. Instead, Trevor stared at the sky.

“Did you ever wonder,” he said to Patterson, his face turned upward.

“I wondered what’s bothering you tonight.”

Trevor shoved his hands into the pockets of the leather vest he’d consented to wear over his denim jacket. He hunched his shoulders.

Patterson had a few guesses. But it was best if the boy talked without prompts.

Suddenly, the hands were out of the pockets, the shoulders were down, and the boy had spun to face his guardian. “Do you have any fucking clue what it’s like to watch that table get cleared and hear everyone laugh that everyone forgot about the cranberries and this and that and everything else? Do you have any fucking clue how lucky you are to even have a fucking family?”

“Yes,” Patterson said. “And not just because this is a holiday of gratitude, either.”

Mitchell wandered closer, but stayed safely behind Trevor.

“Do you know what my Thanksgivings used to be like?” Trevor went on, his face turning red in the starlight. “Do you know what we’d have for dinner?”

“No,” Patterson said. “Tell me.”

Trevor just shook his head, like the words wouldn’t come. Mitchell sat down in the grass and folded his legs Indian-style. He began playing with his shoelaces.

Trevor pulled his cigarettes out of the chest pocket of the denim jacket. “Some years, it was us sitting around the table, watching him drink a bottle of JD. One year, he beat Mom with the bird she’d brought home and then made her cook it and stood there while we ate it. I puked it back up about an hour later.” He snorted. “And don’t forget the year there was no food because Mom couldn’t get a hold of his paycheck and he stole hers and drank ’em both.”

Mitchell shook his head and visibly swallowed. Patterson just listened. He’d been witness to scenes like this, although not at the Wolff household. It didn’t matter; the tragedy was still the same. The fact that he’d been able to make a difference in this young man’s life couldn’t even begin to make up for the families he hadn’t been able to help so directly.

“Happy fucking birthday, Trevor,” Trevor said, sniffing hard and rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his denim jacket. “They usually forgot. And there’s the Voss family,” he said, gesturing expansively, “with a birthday cake and apologies for being a week late.”

Patterson looked at Mitchell; he felt the boy watching him. He’d managed to shelter Mitchell from the worst of Trevor’s stories; this couldn’t be easy.

Mitchell was imploring his father to make it stop. To help him know what to say or do.

Patterson pursed his lips and gave the barest shake to his head.

“And all that fucking food that everyone forgot to eat,” Trevor said.

“We didn’t forget,” Mitchell said. “No one likes the cranberries. So Aunt Paula leaves ’em on the table because we’re supposed to have cranberries. She’s probably shoving them back in the container she uses every year, and she’ll throw it in the freezer until next year. They’ll make it to the table, probably still frozen, and then when we clear, everyone will joke about forgetting to eat them when the truth is, no one wants ’em.”

“Think that’s funny?” Trevor whirled and bent over to look at Mitchell, who shrugged.

“I think cranberries are okay,” Mitchell said.

Patterson had to bite his lip to keep from smiling.

Trevor cocked his head, considering.

Mitchell started pulling at the grass.

“So you’re saying I’m a cranberry?” Trevor asked at last.

Mitchell made a sound sort of like one of Trevor’s indignant snorts. “No,” the boy said. “You’re an ass who’s keeping me from my guitar. C’mon. Let’s go make music.”

Patterson moved to unlock the front door, wondering if a parent could be more proud of his son. It wasn’t likely.

It only took ole Chelle here two years to figure it out, but when there’s a message taped to her phone, waitin’ for her in the morning, and when that message don’t say nothin’ but “Be at your phone at seven, your time, Wednesday,” it means one thing and one thing only.

Time to talk up this year’s Musical Hanukkah Celebration over in Riverview.

Yeah, yeah. I know. We don’t live nowhere near Riverview. We be two time zones over and at least a thousand miles away. So what’s Chelle doin’ talkin’ this thing up?

You boys and girls who’re regulars know the answer to that. The Musical Hanukkah Celebration is the baby of the one and only ShapeShifter. And that means fat ole Chelle gets the skinny from the luscious Mitchell Voss himself. He’s probably the only man who could tell Chelle when to get herself by a telephone. He’s worth it every time.

Except, luscious Mitchell Voss… he ain’t the best with the hellos. Know what Chelle hears when she answers the phone? “We’ve got our best charity yet for this thing.”

No Hello? Where’s the How Ya Doing, Chelle?

“It’s the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation. Stable. Been around awhile. Famous ’cause of some movie I never saw. And we’re moving into the Rocket Theater this time, too,” Mr. Luscious said. “It’s bigger. The stage is bigger and it holds more people. The backstage area’s nicer, too, so we can have a few more guest stars. We’re pulling out the stops this year. And wait until you see the t-shirt. We’re making more of those, too. People want to buy ’em online and help support the cause. Since it’s such a good cause, we’re all for that.”

There you go, boys and girls. We get t-shirts this year if we ain’t gonna make the trek to Riverview. And why would we? We got us some great weather this time of year. Gettin’ on an airplane might cost so much, you gotta sell your favorite band t-shirt on eBay, and that’s before you get to the airport and they call for a cavity search. No, boys and girls. Let’s stay put. There’s a great local scene here y’all should be explorin’. Chelle’s got a rundown of who to go see later on this week.

That don’t mean you shouldn’t buy those t-shirts when word gets out that you can. Any donation’s sure to make those little kids happy and grateful. It’s all about bringin’ music to the kids, remember that. A kid who plays the flute now might turn out to be tomorrow’s Mitchell Voss. We ain’t gonna know until that kid gets the chance to make some precious music.

For now, you heard it here and you heard it first: ShapeShifter’s Musical Hanukkah Celebration. Gettin’ bigger, getting’ better and with t-shirts for all, not just the folk who make it inside. Gotta love that. Chelle sure does.

If you’re new around here, this whole Musical Hanukkah Celebration thing has got to seem as though it’s from left field. Click here to read the beginnings.

While the characters in this piece aren’t real, the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation is. Profits on the t-shirts and The Demo Tapes will go toward this great effort to keep our kids musical. There will be more details and hoopla to come, I promise. And a lot more fiction, too, building up to this fun event.

You may ask why I’m blurring the line between real life and fiction like this. The answer’s easy: Today’s clarinet player might be tomorrow’s million-selling lead singer. Every child all deserves that dream.

Got home just now.
The start of a month off the road.
I need sleep
Clean clothes
Good food.

In that order.

My key fits in the lock.
Everything inside looks the same:
Shelf for mail
The dent in the bannister from when I kicked it with a steel-toed boot.

Don’t ask.

In the living room
In front of the TV
In the recliner I bought Mom with my first tour’s pay

Isn’t Mom.
It’s some guy.
In blue plaid flannel pants.
Black socks.
Brown slippers with no backs.
Not a lot of hair.
Glasses.

I look into the kitchen.
There’s Mom’s cookbooks
Mom’s pots
Mom’s teapot.
No Mom.

Just this guy.

“Hey,” he says to me.
“You must be RP.”

“Who’re you?” I say to him.
“Does Mom know you’re here?”

He laughs.
Stands up.
Shoves his hand at me.

I stare at it.

Mom shows up then.
Dressed in a flimsy robe.
Surprised to see me.
Her second kid.

Like I’m forgettable.

She gives me food.
Takes my laundry.
Sends me to bed.

In that order.
I don’t complain.
I needed all three.
Especially sleep.

I’m awake.
Never thought I’d need earplugs at home.

Maybe
I can find
A tour
That’ll keep me busy
For a month.

I don’t really need
Sleep
Food
Or clothes.
In any order.

Aww, man! Poor RP; his mom’s got a boyfriend! There’s more to this saga, so stay tuned. In the meantime, why not check out other friends who’ve done some Sunday Scribblings? (more…)

Many of you regulars may remember Mabel. Here’s how the legend began:

It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. Just a cheap guitar that could take some abuse, something up to life on the road. Take abuse, it did. It got knocked, bumped, dropped. But in the end, not even the inflatable ones could handle being stepped on.

Just like that, Mabel’s life came to an end.

Mitchell couldn’t believe how much he missed the stupid thing. He moped. He whined. He made the band threaten to leave him at a rest stop.

It was Daniel and Eric who came to the rescue, of course.

And Mabel the second was born.

***
The idea for this began with this week’s 100-word challenge: Resurrection. It continued with this week’s Sunday Scribblings.

To read more about Mabel, check out this link. She’s appeared in other spots, too. Have fun finding them and remember to leave comments so I know where you’ve been!

Warning: This outtake contains lots of foul language and men in women’s clothing. Happy Halloween!

“Trevor, you may not go trick-or-treating!”

“Aww, Mom, why not?”

Mitchell dove for the safety of his room. If Ma wasn’t going to let Trevor out of the house in spandex pants and a vest, she sure as shit wasn’t going to let him out. Not with his hair spray-painted orange and while he was wearing one of Amy’s old bras. Aim would kill him when she saw him in her only long skirt, too. Hopefully she’d stay up at school tonight and hit up those stupid frat house parties she’d been raving about. As if he’d go to college, let alone join a fucking fraternity.

Trevor showed up a minute later, looking glum. “Mom threatened to barricade the door.”

“Did you ask if we can hand out the candy?”

Trev shook his head. “She’s on to that trick, dude.”

“So let’s fuck with her and really hand out the candy.”

“What are you going to do about your hair?”

Mitchell shrugged. “We’ve got a gig tonight, right?”

“And no candy to throw during it.” Trevor sat down on the bed and dropped his chin into his hand.

“Eric’ll cover for us.”

Trevor sat up and snapped his head around. He narrowed his eyes at Mitchell, who raised his eyebrows in surprise at the extreme reaction and waited. “What happened to pulling our own weight?” the bass player demanded. He jumped up and started waving his arms around, occasionally pointing at Mitchell. “We’re a band and we rely on each other but that doesn’t mean we slack off. It means we all work our asses off to be the best fucking band we can be. That doesn’t mean you sit on your pampered ass and wait for Eric to show up with the fucking candy. That means you use my escape route out that window of yours and we go fucking trick-or-treat so we have something to give our fans, dumbfuck!”

“Not in a skirt,” Mitchell said calmly, picking at a fold. Really, he thought, these things weren’t so bad, once you got used to them. It was sort of free inside there, not all caught up inside a denim casing like a sausage or something.

Trevor jumped up and down, his eyes screwed shut, his motorcycle boots thunking on the floor. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nothing. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Fuck off. I’m the one giving a fuck around here.”

“No,” Mitchell said, sitting up and adjusting the bra. They’d stuffed it with socks, of course, although Trevor had sniggered and suggested using underwear. It didn’t matter what was in there; Mitchell now had a much better idea of why they called them knockers. “It’s not about whether or not I give a fuck. It’s about how long we have to wait to pull off my plan.”

“Oh, a plan,” Trevor said with an exaggerated sniff and wag of his head.

Mitchell stared at the ceiling and asked whoever was hanging out up there for some patience. “Yes, a plan, you dumbass,” he said. “It’s simple. We hand out candy. One to the kids, one to us. By the time we need to split, we’re set.”

“And how are you planning on getting that past Mom? You know she won’t go for it.”

“It’s simple. Either we take it, or we eat it. Remember what happened last time you hit a sugar high?”

“Fuckhead.”

Mitchell laughed. He stood up and held his arms out. “So tell me. Do my boots go with the skirt?”

For more Scandalous happenings, check out this week’s Sunday Scribblings.

So this was it, Trevor thought as he followed Mitchell off the elevator and down the narrow, dark hallway. This was the other love shack, the one Mitchell bonked Rusty in when he wasn’t doing her in his own place. Trevor wasn’t so sure he wanted to go in. Hell, he wasn’t sure why Mitchell wanted in Rusty, but the big idiot had never been the smartest thing around when it came to girls.

At least the door to Rusty’s place was cool: floor to ceiling and on these rollers that made a great noise when Mitchell pulled it open. It looked old and industrial and was almost as interesting as his place.

The first thing Trevor noticed was the space. Huge. Empty. A few ugly couches, a few lights set around them like he’d seen at photo shoots the band had been on. And a drafting desk, white, facing the couches.

A couple of mismatched throw rugs on the floor. Rusty’s bike by the door, and hooks for keys and shit. Not hooks, he realized as he looked closer. Carabiners. They made stealing her keys pretty fucking hard, the way they were rigged, there. It was almost a good idea.

Behind the drafting desk, he saw a couple of stools, one of which held Her Rustiness. Her shadow fell behind her on one of those screens for privacy that had some soothing nature scene painted on it. That must be her living space back there, but damn if Trevor could see any of it. Damn if Trevor wanted to see it.

He hated to admit it, but the whole place added up to some sort of artsy style. A little too serious to be a student’s digs but at the same time it was obvious she wasn’t on easy street. If this wasn’t Rusty’s place, he might even have been able to respect the person who lived here.

“Hey, you’re here,” she said from behind that drafting desk. She lifted her head and pierced him with those damn eyes of hers. Trevor still didn’t understand how Mitchell had found a girl who had the famous Voss eyes.

“Yep,” Mitchell said, crossing the couch area and going over to Rusty. He put his hands on her waist and kissed her like he was trying to crawl down her throat. All of him, not just his tongue.

Trevor looked around, wondering where the bathroom was. Just in case bad judgment got the better of him and he decided not to yak on her floor. Watching her clean up that mess would be sublime — assuming Mitchell didn’t make him do it himself, which the idiot would probably do. After all, Rusty might get her precious self dirty or something.

He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It hadn’t hit him; it couldn’t be Mitchell. That meant…

He jumped again, away from Rusty this time. He gave her a quick once-over: paint-covered sweatpants that used to be grey and a sorta snug but not tight t-shirt. He couldn’t deny she had a good shape. Even worse, the paint streaks brought that out.

That she was barefoot didn’t surprise him. Mitchell would have to fall for someone who hated clothes as much as he did. It was that simple, until you got to the eyes. That was just fucking freaky.

“Hi, Trev,” she said like he hadn’t just handed out this insult by getting away from her touch. Sometimes, he thought she was clueless, but then he looked in those eyes and knew better. The Queen of Polite, that’s what he ought to call her. Maybe he would — except Rusty fit so much better. And it pissed her off.

Trevor realized he had no cranky comeback for her. Nothing about the lack of walls helping make sure she didn’t get lost. Nothing about the high ceilings or those couches. Nothing.

Mitchell growled and stuck an elbow in his ribs. Trevor glared at him and reached for his cigarettes.

“Let’s get rolling,” Mitchell said.

“I need to change,” Rusty said. She vanished behind the stupid screen.

“You can’t change enough,” Trevor told her and placed an unlit cigarette in its usual place at the corner of his mouth.

“How did I know you’d say that?” she asked. It was weird, talking to her like this. He couldn’t see her but nothing was muffling her voice. It was like talking to someone who was invisible. Then again, life would be better if she wasn’t there at all.

“Maybe you’re a fucking clairvoyant or something.”

“Maybe I’m just smart,” she said, coming around the screen all dressed in jeans and another t-shirt, this one without paint on it. “We ready?” She held her arm out. Mitchell grabbed it and wound it around his waist.

Trevor tried not to gag. “I’m readier than you’ll ever know,” he said.
“Good thing,” she said as Mitchell took a swipe at the back of Trevor’s head. It wasn’t hard; just enough to remind him to watch himself. Like he’d do anything else here in Rusty’s lair. If she’d used it to snag Mitchell, there was no telling what she’d do to him.

So you’ve met Trevor, Mitchell, and Kerri over the past week. Now you get to see them in action, as part of the Sunday Scribblings prompt.

I don’t know about this one. For those of you who’re regulars, I’m going to drive you NUTS when I say this: it feels like it belongs right inside of Trevor’s Song. Sorry, but it’s true.

Stay tuned for news on how to help get that book into your hands. There’s a lot brewing behind the scenes here. And yes, you’ll like it all.

In my fictional world, there are lots of triangles. One of them will only be seen when you finally get to read Trevor’s Song.

One of the other triangles involves Trevor, Mitchell, and Mitchell’s wife, Kerri. You’ve already met the boys here and here. So now it’s time for the girl.

1. Kerri Voss left her hometown of Pittsburgh because she’d been accepted at the very picky Riverview Art Academy. Kerri was going to be an artist.

2. Although Kerri liked to turn her radio to KRVR when she worked, she couldn’t have identified a single member of ShapeShifter even after the day she noticed the hot blonde in a leather biker jacket looking over the tomatoes in her favorite grocery store. And even then, it took a few weeks — and a driver’s license — before she realized the hot blonde wasn’t a struggling musician like he’d initially led her to believe.

3. Even though ShapeShifter fans are introduced to Mitchell’s wife in a variety of ways (she’ll play tech during his shows and help him switch guitars, and bands always need artwork, don’t they? T-shirts, album covers, website design…), Kerri won’t talk about her pre-Mitchell life, except to say she went to Riverview Art. Anything before that strangely doesn’t exist.

4. Trevor’s nicknamed her Rusty. Gotta read Trevor’s Song to find out why. But in typical Trevor fashion, there’s more than one easy reason.

5. The physical: she’s about five-nine, which plays nicely with Mitchell’s six-one. She’s got a willowy, dancer build although she was too busy pulling pranks to do something as serious as dance. And she’s got that deep red hair that fades to brown with age — unless it’s, as Trevor suspects, enhanced. Or is it?

Although Kerri doesn’t have a huge role in this outtake, it’s still one of my favorites. And it’ll show you a bit of this triangle in action.

If you missed the other day’s post, I’m offering a few quick notes about the main characters who run around this joint like they’re real people. To many of us, they are.

I did Trevor first, of course. No, wait. We’re talking about Trevor, so let me rephrase. I did not DO Trevor. I wrote about him. He’s not real, remember. A real person can only fantasize. But then, so does Trevor. And so does his best friend.

Anyway, that brings us to…

Mitchell Voss.

1. Let’s start with the physical: six-one. Keeps fit by spending so many hours in swimming pools, his silvery-blonde hair turns green. Hazel eyes that look right through Trevor and annoy him to no end.

2. Trevor’s the closest thing he’s got to a brother. He’s actually got two older sisters. One’s a doctor and lives nearby. The other is a mom and lives out of Riverview.

3. A large part of the ShapeShifter dynamic is the Frick and Frack, Heckle and Jeckle, Lucy and Ethel that goes on between Mitchell and Trevor. It’s been this way since Mitchell dreamed of a band and Trevor decided to make it happen.

4. It’s rare to find Mitchell without a guitar in hand. The man oozes music and for better or for worse, there’s not much more to him than music. But does there need to be more?

5. Many of my long-time groupies have come to love Mitchell more than Trevor. He’s moody, sensitive, and the calm in the face of Trevor’s storm. He’s also completely devoted to his wife, Kerri, in ways that all us married women wish our husbands really, truly were like. No matter how great our husbands.

(okay, now. Who was this post REALLY about? I told you that Trevor rules the roost around here!)

Want more Mitchell?

This link will take you to one of my favorite Year 2 outtakes.

This link will take you to his bio page. Have fun getting to know one of my favorite men.

There have been a number of new faces around these parts lately. In an attempt to bring you up to speed and help you understand all the fuss and hoopla, here are some fast facts about the (fictional) man known to many as Trevor Wolff.

1. He stands five foot ten. Really. Truly.

2. He weighs about 120. Soaking Wet.
Okay, that may be an exaggeration, but not by much. Trevor’s one of those skinny guys, almost scrawny, with the flat, hollowed-out chest and a little tuft of chest hair dead-center over the breast bone.

3. His nose has been broken more times than he can count. It’s ugly, misshapen, and has a hook in it. But it works and he’ll take it.

4. When it comes to being a member of ShapeShifter, his value isn’t in his bass playing. Far from it, in fact. In some circles, Trevor is known as the luckiest no-talent on the planet. Some say even hard work can’t save him. But the band is Trevor’s vision of Mitchell’s dream, and no one can imagine a Trevor-less ShapeShifter.

5. Here at the Meet and Greet, Trevor often rules the roost — no small feat for a fictional character. As we get closer to the annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration that ShapeShifter throws every year, you’ll be seeing more of him again.

I know you groupies will be pleased.

Want to know more? Want to see Trevor in action? Use this link to be taken to his bio page. At the bottom of the page — well, taking up most of it these days — are a bunch of links. Click yourself into Trevor nirvana.

Okay, so I know I’m not the smartest girl who ever walked the Earth. I mean, if I couldn’t figure that out in school, then maybe I am too stupid to live, like those rich bitches used to say I was.

But I’m not. Know how I know that? It’s because I know something that a bunch of smarties at some university back East had to study for years to figure out. I’m a health professional. Them, they’re eggheads. That’s how I got to know this so much faster.

Pregnant women who exercise have less depression.

Like I didn’t know that? Hello?

I can totally see it on the faces of my pregger students. How they walk in all achy and complaining and maybe sorry they’ve done this to themselves but of course they can’t admit that. I watch them careful ’cause, you know, they’re pregnant and all. As class goes on, those aches go away. Their bodies gear up and get in the groove. I see their faces relax. Their hunched shoulders drop. They smile. By the time they leave, it’s all good and being pregnant is the best thing in the world.

It’s simple. Exercise makes you feel good. It makes you feel like your body’s under your control. I’ve never been pregnant but my students say that sometimes, their body feels out of control. That it’s doing all these things and they can’t stop it and they can barely watch because some of it’s ugly. Their body knows what to do and it goes and does it and the heck with what their brain wants!

This is why I do what I do. I never feel as good or as alive or as sexy or anything as I do after I’ve worked out. I don’t feel dumb when it’s me up there leading the class. I’m not dumb when they come to me and ask why something hurts.

And I’m sure not dumb when I know that exercise makes pregnant women less depressed.

Now if only Mitchell Voss would see how not dumb I am. And that I’m only with Trevor until Mitchell notices. I mean, how much closer does a girl have to get? Hello? I’m right here with your best friend, buddy! Open your eyes. I’m waiting.

With Yom Kippur ending, pregnancy and kids are on my mind (see this post for why) and … well, I felt like it.

If you’d like more of Pam, click here.

Trevor stifled his smile and handed the list to Mr. Bautista. The English teacher gave it a quick glance and handed it back. “I know you hate me, but trying to get me fired is pushing it. Even for you.”

“No one’s gonna fire your ass. These are just books.”

“Books which I’m forbidden to teach to my students.”

“You said the whole point of this was for us to teach you something. So I’m gonna teach you why it’s stupid to want to ban all these books.”

Mr. Bautista stood up, looking down at his desk. He pursed his lips.

Trevor waited, curious. He’d either wind up in detention again or else he’d be doing a book report on Huck Finn. Either option was fine with him.

“I hate it when you put me in these positions,” the English teacher said heavily. He looked up, and for a second there, Trevor identified with the look on the guy’s face. “But I have to uphold the school’s ban. Why not Tom Sawyer? It and Huck go together like best friends.”

“Tom Sawyer doesn’t put people’s panties in a bunch.”

Mr. Bautista held up a hand. “Language, Trevor. Restate that, please.”

“It doesn’t piss people off?”

He got one of those looks that told him he was trying to kid a kidder and it wasn’t welcome.

“People don’t object to it,” he said in his most dramatic, sullen way. He even scuffed at the floor. No one seemed to care. Times like this, he really hated the English teacher. The guy almost never played along the way he was supposed to.

“Look, I know what you’re trying to do,” Mr. Bautista said. “You want to stir your classmates up and try to rally them to make a stand. You’re right to want to do so. In some parts of the country, you’d be brave to be trying this because some parents would call to have you expelled for even showing me this list.”

“This isn’t some parts of the country,” Trevor said. “This is Riverview, the city that tolerates everything and everyone. So what’s so wrong with a stupid book?”

“Some people feel that books give students the wrong ideas.”

“I’m not some people,” Trevor said.

“Then you need to stand up and be heard. All of you,” Mr. Bautista said, leaning to the side so he could see the class lined up behind Trevor. “Why are you letting nameless, faceless people dictate what you can and can’t read? Who said those people are the morality police? Why are you willing to let them define which ideas are right and which are wrong?”

Trevor’s classmates squirmed uncomfortably. It was up to Trevor, of course, to answer.

“You know, we all show up for the Gay Parade and love it. But we can’t read a book with a guy named Nigger Jim in it? That’s his name. What’s the big deal?”

“I don’t make the rules, Trevor. In this case, I don’t even agree with them, but if I want to pay off my car, I’ve got to follow them.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of being a sheep?”

“Of course I do. When I was your age,” Mr. Bautista gestured again at the class, “I wanted to read every banned book, too. So I did — outside of the classroom, where no one could stop me. And you’re right, Trevor. Once I read them, I realized they were no big deal. Except for one thing.”

He held up a finger and every kid in the classroom, including Trevor, leaned forward to hear what their teacher had to say. “Those books were what made me fall in love with literature. They’re what made me want to be a teacher. If you want to read these books outside of school and put together a discussion group at someone’s house, please do! Expand your worlds, your brains. Read the books that were banned and the ones that weren’t. Learn all you can about literature and then come back and tell me if you’ve learned to agree about the pointlessness of banning books. All it does is make every single last one of you want to read them!”

Trevor squirmed. No wonder he didn’t like this guy; he got to all Trevor’s great rants before he could do it himself.

“Look,” Mr. Bautista said, “I’ll make you a deal, Trevor. You do the report on Tom Sawyer. Focus on Tom and Becky and their relationship–”

“I’m not reading some sappy love story!”

“Read the book and see for yourself what I’m talking about.” Mr. Bautista leaned forward and dropped his voice so no one else in line behind Trevor could hear. “If you do that, I’ll share a book of my own with you. It’s one I could get fired for even telling you the title of, the school board is that uptight about it.”

Trevor’s eyes sparkled. If it was that forbidden, it was for him, all right.

“Deal?” Mr. Bautista said, leaning back and nodding at the next few kids in line.

“Deal,” Trevor said, nodding firmly.

Mr. Bautista pointed at the door. Trevor gave him a wild look. “What’d I do now?”

“It’s not what you did, Trevor. It’s what you’re about to do. Go down to the library and get yourself a copy of Tom Sawyer while I okay everyone else’s picks.”

He hoped the nerdy kids all wanted Tom Sawyer. He couldn’t wait to see their faces when he got up and made his report. That meant he had to put them to shame.

Those losers? It shouldn’t be hard, he decided and headed off to the library, letting short little Carolyn take that final step up to Mr. Bautista’s desk, her list trembling.

Trevor wondered if that was because she wanted to read Lady Chatterly’s Lover. The quiet girls like Carolyn, they liked that racy stuff. She’d probably get to do it, too. That one hadn’t been banned.

Trevor knew that. Trevor knew every last book that had been banned; he’d memorized the lists.

He could hardly wait to see which one Mr. Bautista was going to slip him. It better be good.

I know you want to know more about the mystery book. While I don’t answer the question directly, here’s a response that ought to satisfy anyway.

Now, if you know Chelle LaFleur like you supposed to know Chelle LaFleur, you know all too well what sort of ShapeShifter fan I am. I am sayin’ right here and now that I could go head to head with any other ShapeShifter fan out there and beat ’em when it comes to trivia. And that any other fan bit? It includes their own Mommas and Poppas. Maybe even the boys, themselves.

So I don’t know what local townie Bradley thinks he’s doin’. Oh, no, not the gettin’ married part. That’s the part that makes sense. So do all the wedding plans, with the flowers and the cake and fire hall and the decorations and all that.

Where it all falls apart is where he looks at me and says, “Hey, Chelle, what do you think about us using Behold Me as our first dance song?”

Okay, now. No one’s exactly lining up to marry ol’ Chelle’s fat self here, so maybe I’m a little bit out of touch with what’s hot in the world of weddin’s these days. Maybe I am. I’ll say that up front. But last time I checked, you was supposed to pick a slow song, something that gives a man and a woman reason to snuggle up in each others’ arms while everyone watches and coos about how cute you are. Behold Me is no slow song. So Bradley, what’s your plan, boy? You and your beautiful bride gonna hold hands and lead the head banging? You really think Great-Grandma’s gonna get what you two be doin’? Won’t she fall out of her wheelchair if she tries to follow along?

Now, Chelle here sees another problem entirely with this plan of Bradley’s. And that problem’s the meanin’ of the song. Behold Me isn’t some sappy plea from the outcast high school girl who wants to get herself noticed by the quarterback. Oh, no, sir-ree. Behold Me‘s about more substantial stuff.

Just to make sure Chelle was hearin’ things right, I went right to the source. My main man, Mitchell Voss.

Now, you all know about Mitchell Voss. They call him a dragon, and for good reason. So Chelle here wasn’t exactly expectin’ to hear laughter when she told Voss what was up.

“They want to what?” he asked and nope, there weren’t no laughin’ going on. At least, I don’t think that noise was laughin’. Count me in that group who thinks that boy don’t know how to laugh.

I told that handsome man I was callin’ him to see if the song’s about what I’m thinkin’ it’s about. And like I said, ol’ Chelle may be fat and slow, but no one knows ShapeShifter better.

“Behold Me is a song about a homeless guy who wants to be noticed and seen. Maybe helped,” Voss said. “There’s nothing romantic about it. I mean, s—, this is ShapeShifter we’re talking about. We don’t do romance.

“On the other hand,” he said, “more power to this couple if the song holds that much meaning for them. Maybe one of them was homeless. Who knows? It’s not the song I’d pick and no, Chelle, don’t ask. I’m not telling you a damn thing about my life.”

Boys and girls, lemme tell you somethin’. When Mitchell Voss married that pretty little artist of his, do you know who the first media person he called was? Do you know how many dreams of Chelle LaFleur’s got trashed with that phone call to that first rock reporter? And that boy thinks he ain’t gonna tell me a “damn thing” about his life?

Seems that Bradley’s pulling a Mitchell Voss on me, too. Chelle picked up the phone and tracked that boy down, but if he knows why he and his lady picked Behold Me for their first dance, he ain’t sayin’. Whatever.

You heard it first and you heard it here, right outta the horse’s lips. Behold Me‘s a song about homeless people, not the adorin’ gaze of lust.

Once again this week, I had a million ideas when I saw this week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt: wedding. I thought of letting Pam dream about her wedding to Mitchell. Lyric was going to put together special wedding baskets in the store. I even played with ideas for Roadie Poet and Deadly Metal Hatchet.

In the end this won. Hope you like.

For more Chelle, use this link.

For more Mitchell, use this link.

For more ShapeShifter, use this link.

Maybe if she wasn’t who she was, she wouldn’t understand it so utterly. Maybe she wouldn’t smile when she woke up to find her arm being chorded, her hip being strummed.

She did understand it, though. She had similar pulls: to draw, to sketch. To make a piece of paper come alive with an image. His music, her art… together, they were a team whose creations couldn’t intersect. It was a team of space-giving and passion-nurturing, of speaking a language few could hear.

He said she was his muse. She knew he was hers.

Who knew where they could go?

Wow. Here it is, all these years after I created Mitchell, Kerri, Trevor and the fictional city of Riverview, USA.

I do, however, still yearn to bring you a book. Stay tuned.