I found this cool chick online: the LA Stylist Mom. I wish you’d all buy more copies of my books so I can afford to have her come fix my fashion issues, which are many (and which I mentioned during this guest blog post I wrote a little bit ago).

Check out these earrings! I don’t wear studs much because my second piercing is too close to the first, but man, I might take out my favorite pink ESP guitars for these babies.

And then there’s Martha Rotten. I drool. I covet. I wish I could have professional pictures taken and a free something from Martha so I could wear it in the pictures. I wish I could walk into my kids’ school with some of her jewelry on; the staff knows me too well to be scared by it. So do the kids. The parents, however, I think get their cheap thrills from being scared of me.

Ahhh…. on I dream. Of fashion. My tastes sure have changed since the days of prairie skirts, but hey. I’m cooler than prairie skirts now!

The watch. That’s what made it, Soriana knew. Her arm, bare, snaking up the wall. It could have been any other girl’s arm even though it lacked tattoos or cutting scars on her forearm. The lack would have made her stand out anyway, but it was that gold watch that pulled the eye.

It was one of those stupid watches parents gave their kids for high school graduation. The gold kind, with the solid strap that hooked shut and had a guard chain at the clasp. The kind that was thinner than Soriana’s little finger was wide, except for the face. It swelled out and back in, reminding her of her Mona’s pregnant belly.

She bit back a smile when he came over. “You’re barely old enough to know what you’re doing,” he said softly.

Soriana drew back, whipping her arm away from the wall. “What do you know? I’m older than you think I am!”

Pity crossed his brownish-green eyes, and he frowned. “I hear that every night. Trust me, honey. I know that unless I get you out of here, one of my friends might be arrested for statutory rape.”

Biting back panic, she felt her eyes dart back and forth but couldn’t see anything. She felt like she was standing inside her head, pressed up against the very back of her skull, looking out at the world. And at Eric, who seemed concerned but who was probably laughing at her, deep inside where she couldn’t see.

“I’m not that young!” she hissed, turning her head as she glanced around. A few other girls were looking at her, older girls, giving her death looks at attracting the guitarist.

He put a hand on her elbow and guided her out of the room and into the hallway. It was wide, it was sorta dark, and no one was around. It should have been creepy, but after the other girls in that room, there was something comforting about it.

“Now, look,” he said, but she pulled her arm away.

“You look!” She reached into her back pocket and pulled out her ID. “I know I look young. But only a fool would forge a college ID. I really am as old as I say I am.”

Eric took the ID from her and turned aside slightly. Soriana let her eyes travel the line of his waist, so smooth where it appeared under the waist of his jeans, so flat under his t-shirt.

“I told you,” she said into the silence. She licked her lips and shifted her weight from foot to foot, shuffling slightly. She’d worn these shoes before, of course. But she’d never had to spend hours standing in them. She knew when she kicked them off, the floor would feel warped.

Eric handed her the ID back. “Then I owe you an apology,” he said, folding one hand along his waist and bowing slightly. He reminded Soriana of a knight — one in an olive green khaki t-shirt instead of shining armor. Or an English gentleman who only needed his tux to complete the look. Or…

“But a girl like you shouldn’t be hanging around them,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
Soriana was fixated on his forearm. Thick. Strong. If she was Mona, she’d be thinking about the hints that forearm gave off, the promises of what else would be thick and strong.

Mona would have asked who a girl like her should have been hanging around. Soriana couldn’t bring herself to ask the question. She bit her lip, then licked it, and smiled nervously. “Probably not,” she said.

Eric smiled and leaned against the wall, folding his arms behind his ass like his hands were a cushion. “Lucky for me I spotted you. You’re the exact type Trevor likes.”

“Type?” she echoed hollowly, her sudden spike of fear receeding as she let her eyes trace the ends of his hair, sitting jaggedly on his t-shirt.

“Good point,” Eric said. “He likes all you girls equally. He can’t resist a redhead, a blonde, a brunette — and the girls who look like they’re out of place.”

“Which was me,” Soriana said. She hugged herself. “I know. I promised my best friend…”

Eric nodded. Soriana had the feeling he’d heard that one before. In this case, it was as true as her age. Mona had bought the tickets, had figured she’d have had the baby early and would be able to go. Had wrangled the backstage pass even when she knew it would be Soriana going. And had issued the instructions about how to stand, hand on the wall, watch sticking out.

It had worked. Sort of. Except now, Soriana didn’t know what to do. Eric was right: she was out of her league. She never should have listened to Mona. Should have scalped the ticket and sold the backstage pass for a couple hundred bucks. Mona wouldn’t have taken the cash, but she’d have taken the diapers the cash would have bought. Formula for the baby, food for Mona.

Soriana wanted to kick herself. Mona needed money, not tales of Soriana making an idiot of herself backstage. She was in college, for crying out loud. She was smarter than Mona — if only because she knew how to use birth control — and she was going places. Places that were bigger, longer, and further away from here than Mona could even begin to dream.

Eric waved an arm and someone appeared, making Soriana wonder if they’d been less alone than she’d thought.

“Can you see my friend to her car?”

“I… took the bus.”

“Then wait with her until the bus comes,” Eric said to the guy. He wore black pants and a black shirt, with dark red embroidery that said Bank Arena. His muscles bulged down the length of his arms; his thighs filled out the black cargo pants that disappeared into his boots. Soriana had a feeling he’d been wearing a yellow security jacket just a few hours ago.

“Will do,” the guy said, and led Soriana out.

She didn’t look back. Mona would just have to deal.

**
Okay, so Eric’s here, but otherwise, this really has nothing to do with the band. That’s okay. It can’t be all ShapeShifter, all the time.

Go visit the fine folks at the Weekend Writer’s Retreat and at Sunday Scribblings for more non-ShapeShifter fiction. Unless someone’s writing fan fiction, which is fine by me.

Ahh, we’ve got to blame this one on Steven Beeber, author of The Heebie-Jeebies at CBGB’s. It’s a really cool book tracing the history of Jews and the punk rock movement. Steven asked us to list our top 10 rock books, so I decided to do it here rather than there.

This is in no real order. And, of course, I can’t limit myself to ten. Hello? Me? The self-proclaimed expert on rock and roll fiction?

I don’t think so.

Anyway, here’s the list:

1. I’ll be crass and start this list off with my own books. Because I can. If you haven’t read them yet, shame on you for six weeks!

2. If you haven’t heard me rave about KL Going’s Fat Kid Rules the Earth, you haven’t spent a lot of time with me.

3. Don Bruns writes a great mystery series about a dude named Mick Severs. Don’t miss them.

4. Don DeLillo — Great Jones Street. I read this in college and it’s stayed with me all these years. It’s also the only DeLillo book I could finish.

5. Peggy Ehrhart — Sweet Man is Gone

6. Bill Flanagan — A&R

7. Kathi Kamen Goldmark — And My Shoes Keep Walking Back to You

8. Mark Childress — Tender

9. Sylvie Simmons — Too Weird for Ziggy

10. Michael Shilling — Rock Bottom

And of course there are a few honorable mentions, as well:

Roddy Doyle — The Commitments
Jeanette Clinkunbroomer — Life Without Music
Joe Meno — Hairstyles of the Damned
Cecil Castellucci — Beige
David Hiltbrand — Killer Solo

Got any of your own? I’ll link ’em here and/or add them to my rock books page. And yes, YOU can include non-fiction. I won’t tell.

**reminder of the disclaimer garbage: most of these links will take you to Powells.com, where I’m an affiliate. If I ever make money from it, I’ll buy books to give to you guys, my readers. If not, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I love you anyway. And really, I’d rather have the royalties from you buying MY books, when all is said and done…

1. Blank
2. Void
3. Devoid
4. Absent
5. Empty
6. AWOL
7. On vacation
8. Truant
9. Missing
10. Incapacitated
11. Frozen
12. Stale
13. Abandoned

It’s been awhile since we had a visit from the Deadly Metal Hatchet guys, and even then, this barely qualifies. It’s a tale that came to me and asked to be told. So here it is.

“Foz-zee!” Mark said, standing up and leaning over the counter so it’d be easier for Fozzy to try to slap his hand. The guy didn’t need the beer he’d come in here to buy; he already walked with a lurch, thanks to that stupid-assed way his dad had laid down that bike. Mark thought it had been a waste of a good bike. And a damn stupid way to try to off yourself.

“Doooood,” Fozzy crowed back, stopping in front of the counter and making sure he was anchored before going off-balance for the hand slap. “How’s it hangin?”

Mark adjusted the waistband of his jeans. “Loose, man. Got some good air flow happening today.”
He nodded, trying to look like he had it all going on. Fozzy couldn’t deal if a guy started telling him how his girl had walked out the other night, how blue his balls were, or how sucky his pay at this pissant job.

He looked past Fozzy, who was nodding and looking for all the world like he was trying to figure out what to say next. She was there again. The little girl with the dirty brown hair and the too-small t-shirt and those long, skinny legs. She must’ve been about seven. And she was always alone.

“Hey, little girl,” he said, gesturing to her. He eyed the security screens he’d made Hans put in when the beer had been cleaned out the third time, right under their noses. He wasn’t supposed to leave the counter, no matter why. But it was just him, Fozzy, and the girl in the store.

He knew what the girl was up to. He didn’t know how she pulled it off, not with that tight t-shirt and those shorts that had once been knee-length. But she managed to walk out of the convenience store every few days with something pretty significant. A loaf of bread. Peanut butter. Paper towels.

She looked over her shoulder at Mark and Fozzy, her eyes wide, her mouth open a bit. Mark figured she’d grow up to be a looker. If she got a chance to grow up.

“Man, isn’t she a little young?” Fozzy asked, leaning close so he could speak softly.

Mark pressed his lips together and shook his head slightly. The little girl turned back to the shelf.
She was eyeing the Cheetos.

He had Cheetos in the lunch box he’d filled before his shift started. The only way to get through some of these shifts at this shitty job was to eat. Otherwise, you’d fall asleep, or do something dumb like take some funny money, or give someone change for a twenty when they handed you a five. Of course, they’d never fess up. They always got that same smile, like they had a secret, and they’d fold up the cash and slide it into a pocket, even when they still had their wallet in their hand.

“You hungry?” he asked the little girl.

She looked at him again, her big eyes bigger. She bit her lower lip and nodded slowly.

Fozzy shifted his weight and scuffed his feet. Then he started rubbing at his arms.

Mark understood. Hungry little kids weren’t supposed to happen. Not where they lived, even though where they lived wasn’t exactly Hollywood or some other place where the rich people flocked.
But here she was. A couple of times a week.

Fozzy took off for the cooler the beer was in. Mark hadn’t expected him to stay as long as he had.

“You can’t keep coming in here and taking food, you know. My boss makes me pay for it.”

She didn’t answer. She just kept staring, half-turned like a spring that was all wound up and waiting for the release, so she could shoot across the room.

Fozzy paused, the door to the cooler propped against his bad shoulder.

No one moved for the longest minute, then Fozzy closed the cooler. “For real?”

Mark nodded. “Anything comes up short on my watch, I have to pay for.”

“How do they know?”

He shrugged. “They do. Somehow.”

Fozzy looked at the little girl and then at Mark. He frowned.

Mark wanted to groan. This was probably part of her act. Make ’em pity you and they’ll cough up the cash. She’d probably deliver it to her old man and he’d spend it on booze while she went hungry…

Fozzy left the store without his beer. The little girl followed. Mark let his eyes linger on the shelves.
Everything seemed to be there.

Except his self-respect.

.
Be sure to stop by the Weekend Writer’s Retreat for other great fiction being posted online!

You guys miss the nut cases in my fictional band, ShapeShifter? Me, too.

Here’s some moments you might have missed. (and yes, I’m playing with words again. It’s what I do. Go figure.)

1. A Saturday Afternoon Trevorism

2. A Trevorism

3. A Scene I hated to cut

4. Another one I hated to cut.

5. And a third, but a paragraph this time.

6. Some of Trevor’s favorite foods

7. One of Trevor’s Favorite Comebacks

8. This Moment with Trevor was in response to a video in which I’d supposedly appeared.

9. You can meet and greet Trevor as part of the first life of Thursday Thirteen.

10. Another Thirteen list about our boy.

11. Trevor? Sappy? Valentine’s Day?

12. More Thirteen fun! Trevor’s favorite perks of being in ShapeShifter.

13. And a final thirteen, where Kermit Ladd makes his debut on the blog and the boys school him.

If you’re a link clicker, have fun looking around. Comments on all posts should still be open, so feel free to leave some! I live for comments — what blogger doesn’t?

Welcome to you who are stopping in to celebrate National Poetry Month with Serena at Savvy Verse and Wit. Since many of you are first-timers here at The Meet and Greet, let me tell you a bit about what’s going on.

I’m Susan Helene Gottfried, author of a couple of books that you might like, and — more importantly today — the creator of a fictional poet who hangs out on these blog pages. We call him RP, or Roadie Poet — yes, he’s a member of a rock band’s road crew (thus, the roadie part of his name) who happens to report his adventures in free verse. Here’s his latest adventure.

Pettr the sound guy
walked up to me.
Asked how I was
celebrating.

I stared at him.
Birthday’s not yet.
Tour’s not ending.
Nothing to celebrate
with me
and More.
We’re still feeling each other out
Just dating.

“National poetry month,”
Pettr said.
“Seeing as you write poetry
and all.”

I told him
I don’t
write
poetry.

I tell stories.

He nodded.
Like he didn’t believe me.
Clapped me on the shoulder
And walked away.

I wanted to go after him
Show him what I write.
It’s not poetry.
Nothing rhymes.
There’s no rhythm.

Usually.

It’s not poetry.

It’s not.

1. April marks a milestone around here.

2. My blog turns four!

3. I turn … a lot older than four.

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

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

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

7. Check out where I was last year.

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

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

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

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

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

13. Why don’t YOU take their place?

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

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

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

We all become Metallica fans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In other words: the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I usually stop by the post office twice a week.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Any other secrets?

“Serving key lime pie will get you fired.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

6. Dark blue was the Soul Bendorff color.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fascinating. Invigorating.

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

Now to catch up so I can implement them all…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life is good.

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

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

Well. I’m off with some of my local Sisters in Crime for the weekend. We’re journeying to a town that’s supposedly currently flooding, where we’ll take over a B&B and kick the owners out. ’cause you know. Mystery writers? They talk about how to kill off their characters — and the conversation is often loud, gleeful, and … to the casual eavesdropper, scary.

Nope, this doesn’t mean I’m going to bring you a mystery, although I haven’t ruled out the idea of writing one. It just means I’m gonna try to whip this one particular puppy into shape…

Have a great weekend, everyone.

Before we get into the Thirteen fun, I’ve got to say… I am having THE BEST time watching the sales reports for The Demo Tapes books. As part of Read an E-Book Week, I’ve offered them for FREE. Here’s the link. Make me happy, will ya?

Now. Thirteen words that equal a whole

1. The
2. Snow
3. Around
4. Here
5. Is
6. Melting.
7. I
8. Am
9. Sad
10. to
11. See
12. it
13. Go

Happy Thursday Thirteen, gang! And welcome spring!

Mitchell was supposed to be out of the room. He was supposed to be off doing interviews and making nice to the press. That meant Trevor had a private spot to bring this blonde back to. He was in a private sort of mood.

Or he thought he had a private spot until, blonde under one arm and hotel room key in the other hand, the noise of Mitchell’s thundering stopped them. From the sound of the big idiot, he had a full head of steam on. Hardly a time to bring a girl into the room.

The blonde shrank under Trevor’s arm. Not that Trevor blamed her; Mitchell had shifted shape into the dragon, and no one with sense wanted to be near him when he got like that. Not even Trevor.

“Did you fucking hear me?” Mitchell snarled at whoever he was talking to.

Trevor turned his blonde so she faced him. He kissed her forehead. “Go wait for me in the bar. I’ll detonate the asshole here.”

There was something almost relieved in her nod. Trevor told himself to take a better look at her so he’d recognize her again — soft nose, blue shirt, black heeled boots. Girls got pissy when you forgot who they were and wound up with someone else. You heard about it later on, and that was the sort of shit Trevor didn’t need. Ever.

Neither was this scene with Mitchell, but what the fuck. It wasn’t like he had much choice.

He dawdled, watching his blonde speedwalk toward the elevator. If Mitchell had permanently fucked this up for him, he thought, the asshole was going to spend an awful lot of time in the near future dealing with whatever had him so royally pissed.

He took a deep breath and pushed into the room. Acting casual and uncaring took some effort in the face of the tornado.

Mitchell was a tornado, all right. Pacing around the room, raking a hand through his hair, so red in the face, you’d think he was covered in the stripped-off paint from some barn.

“I don’t fucking care,” he snarled some more. “No more college twits.” He spoke each word slowly, precisely. His pissiness came off him in waves. They hit Trevor square in the face, making him want to blink it away.

“JR,” Mitchell said as Trevor flopped onto one of the two double beds in their shared hotel room, landing on his elbows and crossing his motorcycle boots at the ankle. It was his best approximation of Mitchell Cool.

Mitchell didn’t even fucking notice. “Stop fucking talking long enough to fucking listen to me, will you? I don’t give a shit how important promoting the band is. Answering questions about what sort of pasta I’d be, or what I’m fluent in, or any of that other wanna-be intellectual shit is not going to keep up. Got it?”

Trevor frowned and rolled onto his left elbow, freeing up his right hand so he could grab a cigarette. He didn’t blame the big idiot. Not this time, anyway.

What sort of pasta would he be? Oh, shit, that was a loaded question.

With another snarl and a growl that made the hair on the back of Trevor’s neck stand up, Mitchell slammed the phone down. “Fucking A!”

“I don’t think her name started with an A,” Trevor said as blandly as he could. “But,” he said and perched the cigarette on the corner of his lip, “I didn’t exactly get the time to find out, ifyouknowwhatImean.”

Mitchell stared at him, mouth slightly slack. After a long second, his lips started to work, but it was like all the sound had disappeared with the end of the phone call.

“So,” Trevor said, trying to stay cool even as he bunched up his muscles and got ready to dive for the floor, “what are you fluent in?”

“Rock and roll, fuckhead,” Mitchell said, slightly calmer somehow. The return of his voice must’ve brought some peace with it.

Trevor nodded, not sure if he was relieved Mitchell wasn’t getting violent on his ass. “Good answer.”

“I thought so.”

“I was going to be fluent in a blonde until I found your hairy ass here.”

“Oh,” Mitchell said and sat on the edge of the other bed as if his legs had just given out from under him. “Well, go get her, then. I’ve got to go deal with another fucking college kid. One question about pasta and I’m fucking history.”

“You’re not fluent in pasta?”

“No fucking way,” Mitchell said. He actually cracked a smile. “I’m fluent in rock and roll, remember?”

“There’s hope for you yet,” Trevor said and got off the bed, hoping he’d shortly be fluent in a blonde in a blue shirt.

Hmm. I think I’ll have to wait for Demo Tapes: Year 4 to make this really zing. As it is, today’s Monday and I wrote this for this week’s SUNDAY scribbling prompt. Guess that’s your incentive to keep supporting the Demo Tapes project, huh?