Thirteen (totally fictional) kids whose lives were changed by Music in the Schools programs

If you’re new to West of Mars, you’ve missed out on three previous years of benefits thrown by our favorite fictional band, ShapeShifter. On the Monday during Hanukkah, the band rallies the troops, raises lots of bucks, and gives it all to a charity that helps schools fund music programs. Sometimes, these charities are fictional. Sometimes, they’re real.

So to make it all the more real to you, me, and the guy across the street, I present 13 entirely fictional kids whose lives were changed by Music in the Schools programs.

1. Meet Yahir. An immigrant from Mexico, he couldn’t speak the language when he arrived in America. Yahir picked up a saxophone, spent a year taking lessons, and found that during band, no one made fun of his broken English or his accent.

2. And then there’s Angel. A real beauty with blonde hair and blue eyes, Angel came to her parents when she was left at a church and it was her mom who opened the door and found her on the proverbial doorstep. Angel picked up the cello, grew her hair long, and learned to rock like Apocalyptica.

3. Steven picked up the drums, loved the exhilaration of marching band so much that halftime of high school football games wasn’t enough. He found a spot in the Drum Corps International Blue Devils and spent a few summers traveling and performing.

4. Gage realized the tuba was the only instrument as big as he was. But it’s also way more important to a band than he ever thought he could be. He learned otherwise.

5. Sheelagh watched her grades go up and school get easier the more into band she became.

6. Lily put down the violin she’d learned via the Suzuki method when she was three. She picked up the flute instead and while she realized her parents’ ambitions for her to play in a major symphony, she found a way to do it on her own terms.

7. Nate realized he had no musical ability whatsoever and that Guitar Hero was going to be his shot at the spotlight. That’s when the acting bug bit.

8. Meryem learned that music was a lot more than the stuff her dad made her listen to when she was in his car. No matter how good Old Blue Eyes sounds to Dads, he’s not always a hit with kids.

9. Allison learned about respect and power. She learned you get more of both when you don’t jump into bed with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who promises respect and power.

10. Sanjit learned the value of teamwork. Of being part of a section of instruments and how horrible they sound when even one person (okay, it was him) decides the music in front of him is only a suggestion.

11. Caitlyn learned that reading music is a lot like learning to read Russian. It’s a new alphabet, sure, but it’s not unconquerable with some hard work. Best of all, Caitlyn’s grandmother immigrated from Russia and is thrilled her granddaughter can speak the mother tongue.

12. Devon learned how much trouble you can get into when you’re part of the drumline. And how delicious it is to get into trouble. Sometimes.

13. Susan learned she can’t read music worth a damn, but has a good ear for what’ll be a hit on the radio. So she went into radio. For awhile. And now she sits at home and writes books about musicians and the people in their lives. And dreams of when these Musical Hanukkah Benefits will come the rest of the way to life and earn some actual bucks that she can donate in the name of West of Mars.

Oops. This last one ain’t fiction. But it’s not entirely reality yet, either.

Happy Hanukkah to all of you. Friday’s the last night. Have a jelly donut and go make some music.

Mitzvah

That’s a Hebrew word, according to soul-boy Eric. What’s a son of a Presbyterian minister doing knowing all sorts of Hebrew shit beats the hell out of me, but whatthefuckever.

A Mitzvah, Soul-Boy says, is a good deed. He says that’s what we did last night at All Access.

Now, Trevor’s not so sure about that. Aren’t good deeds supposed to be this grandiose shit, like helping old ladies across the road, and carrying groceries for preggos so they can drag their toddling brats by the arm and keep ’em from diving under a car and making the rest of us happy?

There’s nothing grandiose about squishing onto the All Access stage and playin’ a set. That’s what we do. Call us Wolf Whistle, call us fucking ShapeShifter, it doesn’t fucking matter. We’re a band. We make music. There ain’t nothin’ special about that.

The only thing special about what we did last night was that we didn’t pay for shit. Didn’t pay for our crew. Didn’t pay for the stage. Didn’t fucking get paid, either.

Eric says not all Mitzvot are big gestures. That sometimes, the ones that mean the most are actually the littlest ones. Sometimes, he says, they can be something as simple as smiling at someone who’s having a shitty day.

I asked if that was Hebrew for give me a fucking break and Mitchell belted me a good one.

But c’mon. If you’re going to do something, why not do it right and do it big? That’s why I was against this whole stupid-assed cancelling the benefit in the first fucking place. Let the whiners whine. We’re ShapeShifter for fuck’s sake. We’ll rise above.

The band had gathered at the practice space as Mitchell had asked. For once, they’d beat him there, which pretty much told them he had a big announcement. He’d never shown up late with anything but a doozy. Mitchell usually didn’t do late.

“So what’s going on?” Eric asked when Mitchell walked through the door, grinning.

“Wolf Whistle’s going to play All Access tomorrow night.”

As Eric laughed with delight and Daniel hooted, Trevor threw his head back and howled.

The band’s official Wolff whistle.

“Everyone’s on board. Grey’s so glad to have us back, he’s got everyone donating their time again. Whatever profit we make, it’ll all go to the charity.”

“It won’t be much,” Daniel said. Eric frowned and nodded. “No jam session ticket sales, no t-shirt sales…”

“Every bit helps,” Eric said. “And maybe it’s more important that we’re making a stand with Wolf Whistle.”

Mitchell bobbed his head. He could always count on the lead guitarist to get where he was coming from, even as Trevor was lifting a lip to sneer at Eric.

Wolf Whistle was the only band in Riverview history who could book a last-minute show and still manage to pack the place. Then again, Wolf Whistle was nothing but a code name for ShapeShifter when they wanted to fuck around. Everyone knew it. Hell, the line was probably already forming.

“What’s door?” Daniel asked.

Mitchell shrugged. “Not even close to what we’ve been charging for tickets the past few years. Like you said, no one gets to pony up to jam with us. We don’t have t-shirts. This isn’t going to bring in big bucks.”

“Then why are we doing it?” Trevor asked.

“Because I’m pissed we’re not doing the usual,” Mitchell said. “We’ve been doing good here and I’m pissed everyone’s come along and ruined it. So we’ll play and let everyone hear about it after the fact and feel like heels.”

“Nothing like a little bit of guilt to make people realize what jerks they’ve been,” Trevor sneered.

“I don’t really mind losing the jam session,” Eric said quietly.

Mitchell nodded. While popular with the fans, the jam sessions were tough. People were everywhere, there wasn’t anytime beforehand to make sure everyone knew what was going on… really, it was all about letting fans pay for a chance at five sloppy minutes onstage with ShapeShifter. But it brought in big money that went directly to the charity, so the band put up with it. It was for kids, after all. For making music.

It all came back to music.

Mitchell frowned and rubbed his chin. He’d have to get with Daniel and probably Eric later on. There had to be a way to turn all the whining into something positive. These people who’d thrown a fit last year hadn’t been upset about not being given a chance to join the benefit. They were pissed at missing some easy promotion.

They’d managed to ruin this year’s fun, for an awful lot of people. Not to mention the schools who depended on the money they donated — last year, it had been a solid five digit donation they’d made. That had bought a lot of trombones. Or paid part of a teacher’s salary, saving him or her from being laid off.

He was more pissed than he was willing to let on. All those pretentious assholes, trying to ruin it for the kids. Who were they to limit a kid and try to stop music from being made? What if that was tomorrow’s star they were trying to limit?

No more, Mitchell resolved. Wolf Whistle would let at least a few of them rise above.

A brave move from the band, perhaps. Yet it’s definitely one that keeps alive the traditional themes of Hanukkah: hope and miracles. Check in at Sunday Scribblings for more acts of bravery. And pick up the Demo Tapes, why don’t you. My dreams of making enough money from my books to be able to donate to charities such as the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation still need your support before they can become a reality.

Now, for three years previous to this one, Chelle here been faithfully tellin’ y’all about what’s going on in Riverview. You know: A city that’s not even ours. But Chelle’s done this, year after year, because those favorite boys of hers in ShapeShifter have been throwin’ themselves a benefit concert. They’ve worked their special ShapeShifter magic and gotten everyone involved to throw in their stuff for free. From the concert hall to the crew to the people who print the tickets, somehow, those cuties have been able to give every single penny to them Music in our Schools charities.

Chelle had even started pricing airfare to get her fat rear up to Riverview. Not that Chelle LaFleur’s ever been on an airplane and probably needs three of them narrow seats just for her fat self.

It won’t be happenin’ this year.

With Hanukkah set to start tonight, Chelle hunted down her favorite ShapeShifter, that deep-voiced Mitchell Voss. You know as well as anyone else that Mitchell’ll give up the goods for Chelle.

“Well, here’s the thing,” he said and sighed. “It got too big, too fast. Last year, with the change to the bigger theater, instead of everyone going, oh, now they can raise more money and let more fans in, it turned into I’m a rock star, too. Why can’t I come? All these stupid accusations went flying around and the next thing I knew, we were the bad guys for trying to make sure that kids can have a school band. We’re talking about those kids who’d think they were cool ’cause they’d play saxophone and it wouldn’t matter they had these faces all full of zits. Nope, they’d be cool ’cause of that sax. Or the trumpet.”

“The oboe is not cool,” bass player Trevor Wolff said into Chelle’s ear. “There has never been a cool oboe player. Not in the history of oboe players. I don’t even know why people play the oboe.”

We won’t repeat what Chelle’s cutie Mitchell said to Trevor. It ain’t fit for print and besides, I wouldn’t do that to you faithful readers of mine. You got delicate ears. Maybe not your mouths so much. I hear you at shows. I do.

Besides, you might not think so high of Mitchell if you’d heard what he’d said to Trevor. And now that he’s cancelled the Musical Hanukkah Celebration this year, that public image is takin’ a hit.

He left me with this, though: “We’re gonna take the year off, regroup, let some of the momentum die out, and then we’ll be back in 2010. The Monday of Hanukkah, we’ll be rocking out with our fans again.”

I’m-a gonna hold him to that. You should, too.

You heard it first and you heard it here: No Musical Hanukkah this year, but it’ll be back next. Go and donate on your own anyway, just in case there is a sexy oboe player out there. Chelle bets Trevor will love her.

Okay, so maybe I overdid it today at Boot Camp. I’m sore. My perennially sore parts are sore.

1. Victims of the Deadly Metal Hatchet are generally too dead to be sore.

2. Mitchell fell off the stage once. (It’s referenced in this outtake, in fact) He was sore afterward.

3. Daniel’s a drummer. His shoulders and arms often get sore. (As referenced in these outtakes, in fact).

4. Eric and Mitchell both get sore fingers. What do you expect from a couple of guys who play guitar most of the time?

5. Trevor gets sore… Nah. That’s too easy. You guys know Trevor. He loves his girls!

6. Okay, here’s a better one. The first couple of days on a new headlining tour, the entire band can be sore the next morning. Until they get into the swing of things, you know.

7. After Trevor pierced his ear, Mitchell was mighty sore.

8. And then there were all the fights that Daniel and Mitchell wound up having to fight when Trevor pissed off some girl’s boyfriend. Yeah, they were mighty sore after that.

9. If Eric didn’t pitch his tent in the right spot, he’d wake up sore from sleeping on a rock.

10. To return to Deadly Metal Hatchet for a moment, Fozzy was plenty sore after the accident. For months, in fact.

11. Soul Bedorff was generally too drunk to be sore. Ever.

12. More DMH: Lido’s got a VERY sore heart. You’ll hear about that one day.

13. And last, Chelle LaFleur’s VERY sore at her friend Mitchell. Seems there’s a holiday startin’ on Friday night and there ain’t gonna be a certain benefit concert this year… more on that later, though.

I love it when my latest vision matches the Sunday Scribblings prompt.

“Weird.”

Fozzy supposed he should have had something else to say on the matter. After all, he’d woken up to find a fresh drawing sitting on his desk. He’d been drawing a lot since the accident, it was true. Then again, when all a guy could do was lay around and be miserable, drawing at least filled the time. So what if he’d had to learn to draw left-handed? It had been the sort of challenge he’d been up for.

But he didn’t remember drawing this one. It didn’t look like anything he’d been drawing lately. There were no skulls, no demons, no death. No horror, no screaming. No blood, no bones, no gore.

Nope. It was a drawing of a meat cleaver. Handle down, blade pointing to the left. That was it. Nothing more.

That alone was weird. This was the first time Fozzy had ever drawn something he couldn’t remember drawing. Maybe he hadn’t. But if he hadn’t, who had?

And there was no way he would have drawn on last week’s drafting assignment, either. It had taken him three times as long as it should have; he didn’t have that left-hand thing down yet. It had been a kick-ass project, too, one he might have tried making. He’d gotten an A on it, too. Fozzy didn’t get many As on things.

Now it had this weird hatchet thing drawn on it. You couldn’t see the drawing anymore. Just a few arrow ends here and straight lines there. So much for that A he’d earned.

That made two weird things he’d woken up to. Fozzy would have never let himself ruin something he’d worked so hard on. He wanted to get mad and throw things, but what was the point? His drafting assignment would stay ruined. And if he threw shit, something else might break and get ruined, too.

His counselor would tell him he was growing. Changing. Becoming at peace with the world.

His counselor was full of shit. All he was doing was realizing how pointless it was to have nice things, and to care about them when you managed to get your hands on something. It was stupid, all of it. The only thing that mattered in life was getting out of it.

That brought him back to the third weird thing. So he had a drawing he didn’t remember making, of a hatchet or meat cleaver or whatever the hell it was. It had appeared out of nowhere, ruining last week’s drafting homework. At least he’d already been graded on it. One. Two.

Three; the Hatchet was wearing a red Santa’s cap, complete with white fluffy thing at the tip and a white band around the brim.

The Hatchet seemed happy. But somehow, Fozzy knew better. It was like him: biding its time until it could go for the throat and take its revenge on this shitty life that had done this to him.

Opening Act #1 can’t get past the outtake I wrote over two years ago. (You’ll find a better-edited version in Demo Tapes: Year 2, you know.)

1. I think the kid’s just got cookies on the brain.

2. So does our favorite fictional band.

3. It probably began with that outtake I linked to above. Mitchell grew up in a house where baking cookies was a sign of love. Or sibling rivalry. You can read that one and decide.

4. That means that when the band was young, Mitchell’s Mom, Sonya, would send them on the road with a few dozen home-made cookies. To eat on the ride.

5. She’d always tell them to save some for after the show, when they’d be hungry. They, of course, never did.

6. As ShapeShifter became more successful, Sonya would fill shoeboxes with cookies and mail them to the band’s hotel. Mitchell always made sure she knew what fake name he’d sign in with (when he needed to; even that took awhile), and those cookies would be waiting.

7. Later, after Val quit her chef’s job, she’d help Sonya fill those shoeboxes. Suddenly, the guys had more than mere Tollhouse or double-chocolate cookies.

8. They would get chocolate crackles. They’d get cookies with candy hidden inside. They got some that were so fudgy, so gooey, the guys needed their fingers licked clean by willing groupies.

9. There were always willing groupies.

10. It fell into a rhythm: Charlie would do his Tour Manager gig and check the band in to the hotel. He’d come out with room keys — and a box.

11. The guys would fight over the box, pushing, shoving, grabbing it out of each other’s hands. Eventually Mitchell would assert dominance over it and open it.

12. Trevor would be first to stick his nose in to see what they’d gotten this time.

13. No one would move for their hotel rooms until the box was empty, their stomachs were upset, and they swore they’d do better next time.

… and the winner of Christie Craig’s latest novel, Divorced, Desperate, and Deceived is….

(we need a drum roll, but when I asked, Trevor threw a fit and said bass players never get any attention. It’s always the drummers, or the blonde asshole up front. I think he’s just jealous, myself)

It’s Anne, from Small Town Mommy!

I don’t usually wade into controversy. While I’m usually not scared to do it in real life, I really hate being flamed here on my blog, too. This is my safe haven.
But… sometimes, I gotta open my mouth. This is one of those times. It’s about that charmer, Adam Lambert.

There are some things I need to say up front:
* I did four years of college radio, running my own radio show. Had a staff, too; it became quite the operation. I worked with the record reps in New York City and LA (and various other places. Manalapan, New Jersey, anyone?).

* I came a job interview away from making a career with a record company. And that’s only the start of the many music-related things I’ve done.

*Add retail sales and concert promotion into the list, as well as stage crew. Don’t forget the FCC Radio Operator’s license in my wallet, although I couldn’t exactly have done college radio without it.

So I’m no stranger to the excesses of the music industry. Most of them just make me shrug. Some of them (like the original hoopla over the cover of Metallica‘s Load album) make me laugh.

Adam Lambert’s AMA performance is another story.
(more…)

Yeah. This is so long overdue, I’m not even changing this first line. I began drafting this in June. Yes, I’m embarrassed it’s taken me this long to acknowledge your kindnesses.

Summer can be hard, ya know? The kids are underfoot (sometimes literally), it’s hot, it’s sunny, Susan gets cranky.

And then I steal a few minutes here at my desk and open my e-mail and discover… you guys love me anyway.

Debbie at Wrighty Reads was kind enough to give Win a Book the Literary Blogging Award. She says, “The ladies at West of Mars provide a very valuable service with their ongoing list of the many contests on the blogs. Love the new site!”

Wow, Debbie. Thanks. Win a Book, I say over and over again, is my labor of love. I’m thrilled with its success.

The awesome ladies at Yankee Romance Reviewers work VERY hard to bring a stellar line-up of guests in almost daily. They’ve given Win a Book the Lemonade Cart. I love the lemonade cart, guys. But then, I love lemonade.

Then we have Lady Vampire, a woman I don’t know nearly well enough. I admire the fact that she reads so much vampire-themed books — without growing tired of it. Lady Vamp is definitely setting a standard among the book bloggers. Be sure to check her out, and not just because she’s given Win a Book the Heartfelt Award.

Laura at I’m Booking it gave Win a Book the Let’s Be Friends award. Let’s definitely be friends, Laura. Our acquaintance is new, but there’s room in my world for you.

And then there’s Jezebelsk. I have NO IDEA what kind of name that is, but it’s fun to say. Go on. Say it out loud. Fun, innit? Anyway, she’s given me the Zombie Chicken Award, which is truly one of my more favored award badges. I have to agree. I’d wear a Zombie Chicken t-shirt with pride.

Oh, yeah. J says she loves this site, too, but she’s GOT to know what books are being given away. Which is one of the many reasons I started Win a Book. Yay!

Nightdweller at Bibliophiles R Us has given Win a Book the Bloody Good Blog. Why thank you, babe. We do our best over there.

Wow. Notice how these are all directed at Win a Book? If you haven’t added my kooky, goofy, FUN site to your reader, you may want to rethink that. I have a BLAST with Win a Book. Apparently, it shows.

Shaunie, my dear friend, hangs at both blogs, so she told me to pick an award for each one. I’ve got a ton of awards already and don’t want to be greedy, so I’ll acknowledge the kindness and leave it at that.

So. Want to know where I’ve been hanging lately?

Ha. Win a Book’s been keeping me jumping. Maybe too much. And now I’ve added Rocks ‘n Reads to the mix.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s too much. The problem is, I feel like I’ve got a lot to say, a lot of work to do… What’s the old Gandhi saying? Be the change you want to see in the world.

I’m trying. It sure ain’t easy, but I’m trying.

It’s release day for my new friend Christie Craig. Her Divorced, Desperate, and Deceived comes out today, so I asked her the now-familiar question: What song makes you think of your book?

Here’s what she had to say:

Well, at first I almost chose: Old MacDonald Had a Farm

My stories are whimsical/quirky, fast paced, have lots of animals, are about down-home folks, and hopefully make a lot of people smile. Ahh, but then they’re also kind of sexy. And while I’ve often said that my books are hotter than a goat’s butt in pepper patch, let’s face it. A bunch of animals on a farm, or even a pepper patch, are not reflective of my sensual or suspenseful tone. So I had to go back to the drawing board. But I didn’t come away empty handed. I found: Hero, by Enrique Iglesias.

Okay, I know you’ve probably gotten this one before, but I’m a sucker for lyrics. And these words are so perfect for my book. In many ways this song resonates with the whole Divorced & Desperate series, because all my heroines in these three books are afraid to let another man in their life. They are all in desperate situations and all the heroes are determined to win their love, but first they have to keep them alive.

I can be your hero, baby
I can kiss away your pain
I will stand by you forever
You take my breath away

Stan, AKA, Luke, sees Kathy’s pain. He’s been trying to win her over for almost three years. More than anything, he wants to be her hero. She symbolizes everything he longs for in his life. Someone tender, who wants the simple things, someone who could accept him, flaws and all. But she can’t trust in love. While she’s turned him down more than any man should allow, and he should just give up, he can’t turn his back on her—especially when she accidentally gets caught up his past life, one that could get them both killed.

The lyrics continues to read:

Would you tremble,
If I touched your lips?
Would you laugh?
Oh please, tell me this.
Now would you die,
For the one you love?
Hold me in your arms tonight.

My books are sexy, my books have a heck of a lot of laughter and they are suspenseful. This song with its beautiful lyrics brings all that into the listener’s mind. Luke and Kathy are on the run, they find themselves laughing their way through stressful situations. Kathy has to defend herself with toilet tank lid, and then they find a dead guy in the Porta-potty. So yup, you’ll laugh, but you’ll never forget that danger is right around the corner. Forced to trust Luke with her life, Kathy learns to trust him with her heart. Falling in love has never been so risky, or so much fun.

Thanks so much asking me to participate, Susan. Here’s hoping my quirky stories offer a few smiles and sighs to your readers.

Divorced, Desperate, and Deceived. Pick it up, if only to find out about the dude in the Porta Potty!

Can’t get to a bookstore?? Well, Christie’s got a copy to share with you guys (US only, though, ’cause she’s paying for the mailing herself). Just leave a comment telling me WHY you want to read this and your e-mail. I’ll pick a winner on Monday the 30th.

No fancy hoops, like over at Rocks ‘n Reads. Just a comment will do!

There is beauty in this world. I know it. I’ve seen it. I’ve held it in my hand and spent days simply staring, drinking it in. I’ve made beauty through my music, music that sounded like an angel’s song and pleased the maker as much as any other angel’s song could.

I was an angel. I made beauty.

And then the adoration started. There was beauty in that, too. Beauty in their faces as they looked at me, worshipping me as they’d worship a real angel. Beauty in their awe, their respect, their need to be around me.

I stopped feeling like an angel and felt like a god, instead.

It came with a price. A bigger price than simply making music had brought. That had been easy. The price was the need to make more music, to sing higher, louder, more and more. To let my guitar say all those things I never could. To forget about food and people and everything but the music.

I had people who took care of me. There was beauty in them, too. Beauty in the way they cared. In the way they did everything so I didn’t have to. “C’mon, Soul, you need a shower,” they’d say, and they’d take the guitar out of my hands.

They were beautiful. I loved them.

They went away, pushed away by the fans. The fans who took my guitar and handed me a bottle. At first, there was beauty there. Beauty in the things I saw, things I’d never see when it was me and the Oracle.

The beauty turned ugly. And here I am, stuck. I set fire to my guitar, to my precious Oracle every night. I can’t bear the noise it makes now, when once it made music. But it comes back, again and again, my Oracle. Looking for more. Looking for me. It wants to sing the songs of angels again.

I try. I try and try. But the song has left me.

And there’s no more beauty in my world.

***
For more beauty, check out this week’s Sunday Scribblings.

Trevor pointed out to me that since the Demo Tapes (both of them!) are available through Barnes & Noble, he’s quite available for a little bit of nookie. At less than five bucks for each Demo Tape book, you’re getting the steal of a lifetime.

Yep, it’s true. Trevor Wolff. Appearing at a B&N near you.

I hope I’m the only one who gets nightmares from that idea.

**This offer only applies to the e-book versions, in case the price didn’t tip you off.

1. My Sunday Scribblings this week was the story of Mitchell being allowed a chance to play the famed Oracle guitar. From the scant comments, most of you missed a doozy.

2. The Oracle used to belong to Soul Bendorff.

3. Read more about Soul here.

4. Like his dark blue suede vests, the Oracle was his trademark.

5. He set one on fire every night, at the end of every set.

6. He used that guitar to redefine music.

7. The magic Soul created was part of what made Mitchell pick up the guitar in the first place.

8. The Oracle disappeared for many years after Soul’s death.

9. It finally reappeared at a Christie’s Auction.

10. It sold that first time for $300,000 or so.

11. The MBA developer-cum-memorabilia-collector named Jeff bought it for more than that. But less than it’s currently valued at.

12. Which makes me wonder why he’s offering to give it to Mitchell. But he is. It’s a sincere offer.

13. Just more of the magic of music.

When challenged by the anonymous (but oh, so smart) editor Moonrat to come up with my list of 2009 Best Books by Women, I realized quickly I had a small problem.

That problem is how few books published in 2009 that I’ve read. Period. Doesn’t matter the gender of the writer; I don’t read nearly as many current releases as I’d like to.

That’s partly because I have books that have been on the TBR Mountain Range since (this is embarrassing) September of 2005. I’m trying to read those first. Many of them were published well before 2005, even. In today’s publishing climate, these are dinosaurs — without the scientific value and the cool factor. Maybe these are corpses best left buried. I don’t know.

Regardless, this list will feature the women authors whose books I’ve read so far this year. Sad to say, the list wasn’t as robust as I’d expected, mostly because this was a big year of multiples for me. I caught up on Charlaine Harris‘ Sookie books, for example. (And I have to say that I found Dead & Gone to be disappointing, so don’t be surprised when it’s not on the list). I read all three of Hank Phillippi Ryan‘s books. Two by Lisa Marie Wilkinson. Two by Kathy Reichs (beware; her website has auto-noise!).

Here’s the list of books by women authors I’d suggest you read.

1. ShapeShifter: The Demo Tapes: Year 2. No author name needed; you ought to know this is my book. Of *course* I’m going to include it in my list! (And a resounding Fuck You from Trevor if you don’t like seeing it here.) And if you’re holding back ’cause you haven’t read Year 1 first, get over that. They stand alone.

2. Song of the Seals — Christy Yorke. I loved this tale of a small fishing town. Loved the thick, foggy atmosphere. Loved the way these characters interacted. And I loved the ending.

3. Hank Phillippi Ryan — Okay, so Hank’s not a book. That’s good thing. But her books were reissued this year by Mira, and I didn’t want to hog three spots on this list for them. Not that they don’t deserve to be listed separately. They do. To be brief, I am loving this series about investigative news reporter Charlotte McNally. I can’t wait for the fourth, Drive Time, to come out. Call me fangirl.

4. Possibly hogging two more spots is author Lisa Marie Wilkinson. DEBUT author Lisa Marie Wilkinson, for a few more months yet. I loved her Fire at Midnight because whenever it could have veered off into cliche, it went in another direction entirely. I’ve read her second book, Stolen Promise, and it’s darker, but there are similar themes — and even more non-cliche fun. I hope it’s huge for her; she deserves it to be.

5. I already did a whole blog about how much I loved Laura Fitzgerald‘s Veil of Roses. Go read it and save me the need to repeat myself.

6. Colleen Gleason — The Bleeding Dusk. I’m behind in the brilliant Gardella series, I know (in fact, Colleen’s ended it). I don’t just love this because Colleen gives me a thanks in the credits. (Yep, another author I’m a fangirl of.) I love it because she doesn’t let her characters off easily. She makes them do reprehensible things. She makes them face the dark side of life — and the dark side often has nothing to do with vampires so much as it does choices of right and wrong. I adore this world Colleen’s created. I may cry when I read the final book.

7. Sara Gruen — Water for Elephants. Yeah, I know. I’m the last person on the planet to have read this book. I’m an idiot, too, because I simply adored it. What struck me most was the plotting, although the characters were stong and the setting and world-building vibrant.

8. Lorelei James — Long Hard Ride. After knowing Lorelei for years online, I finally was in a spot where I could justify buying one of her books. Good choice on my end; I often get tired of the erotic romance that turns out to be sex, sex, and more sex. Oh, and total dominance by the man. Yawn. Lorelei gives us real, fleshed-out characters with worries and desires and ambitions. And really good sex.

9. Donna Lea Simpson — Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark. Okay, this book was totally NOT what I was expecting, which was a humorous romance. What I got was a mystery with a romance. And a cliffhanger ending! Beyond that, while I didn’t love this book the way I loved some of the others on this list, I’ve found myself thinking about it, months after I finished reading it. I’ll be picking up the next in the series, most definitely.

10. Geraldine Brooks — People of the Book. Yet another one that people raved about, only this time, I didn’t reject it out of hand. Instead, I brought it to my book club, only to discover they were as excited about reading it as I was. This wasn’t nearly as good as Year of Wonders, but Year of Wonders might be among the best books I’ve ever read. Members of my book club felt that in parts, it tended toward cliche and okay, maybe it did. But it was a fun imagining, nonetheless, and given the subject matter — a Haggadah, the book we Jews use at our Passover seders — it’s a book I’ll think of for a long time to come.

**
And now for the stupid disclaimer shit: I bought very few of these. Traded for a bunch online. Was sent more from the authors. No one expected me to do anything but read ’em. The raving’s, as always, my own creation.

If you use any of those links to Powells.com, I’ll get a few pennies. Once those pennies add up (by the time I’m 120, it *might* happen), I’ll buy you guys, my readers, something you want.

If you buy the Demo Tapes, I get a royalty. But I bet you figured that part on your own. If not, don’t tell me. I hate being scared so early in the morning.

Kerri paused, struck by the reverence with which Mitchell reached for the guitar. His hands were soft, cupped, his arms strong. As the Oracle was placed into his hands, they swayed slightly, as if allowing it a harsh meeting with his palms would be an insult.

His manner was probably the same as that of a True Believer who was accepting communion, Kerri figured. She immediately began sketching as Adam’s shutter began snapping.

To Mitchell, there probably wasn’t much difference between this guitar and holy communion. The Oracle had once belonged to Soul Bendorff. The Oracle wasn’t the guitar he’d set on fire at the end of every show. Hell, the Oracle hadn’t been allowed on the road. It had been the original prototype for the Soul Bendorff model. It had been Soul’s guitar, the one he’d bent sounds with and broken barriers with.

And now Mitchell held in it his hands, thanks to a private audience with a rock-and-roll memorabilia collector named Jeff. He’d first claimed to be a ShapeShifter fan, but a few sneaky questions had proved that the guy was mostly interested in the publicity the photo op would bring him.

Mitchell carefully set the Oracle on his leg, his hands instinctively finding their spots: one ready to strum, the other to chord.

“Here,” the collector, Jeff said, jumping forward to plug the guitar’s power cord into the solid-wood body. He fiddled with the knobs for Mitchell, who lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. Then, when Jeff stepped away, Mitchell began to play.

Kerri had still been sketching as all that took place, but as Mitchell’s notes turned from tentative to assertive, as he began playing first an old Soul Bendorff classic and then his own song: Behold Me, she got as caught up in the music as Mitchell. She didn’t get lost in it as often as Mitchell did, but right then, she was entranced.

At the end of Behold Me, Mitchell grimaced and shook his head. “I ought to give this back. I don’t want to abuse it.”

“I think it needs to be yours,” Jeff breathed. He wasn’t much older than they were; maybe a year. Maybe. He’d gotten his MBA and ran his father’s development company out here in Omaha. A company that bought foreclosed farmland and built towns on it. Kerri knew how Mitchell felt on the subject, how he’d have ordinarily refused this sort of connection. Too many ShapeShifter fans had been thrown off their land — but just as many had benefitted from the towns that had been built.

But this was the Oracle. It had once been Soul Bendorff’s. And guitar players like Mitchell Voss owed a lot to Soul Bendorff.

“Really, man,” Jeff said. There was more heart to his voice; wherever the music had taken him, he was coming back from it. “This guitar… it needs something. You can feel it, you know? Maybe what it needs is you.”

Mitchell ran his hands over the side of the body facing up. He didn’t say anything.

Kerri realized she was holding her breath.

“I want to give it to you,” Jeff said.

“Give it to me.” It wasn’t a question. Kerri breathed again.

Jeff held his hands out and backed up a step, as if Mitchell was trying to return the guitar and he was refusing it. “Give it to you. No strings attached. Ha-ha. Strings. Get it?”

Mitchell nodded, frowning. “I get it.” He stood up and set the Oracle gently back into the stand Jeff had taken it from. “I’ll have my lawyer call you.”
“Dude,” Jeff said, suddenly Mitchell’s best friend. “We don’t need to do that. Here. Take it with you.”

“And have you scream about how I stole it? Maybe not today or next week, but a few years down the road when you’re hard up for cash and you think about what you gave up? No. If you want to give this to me, then fine. We do it right. I’ll have my lawyer call.”

He stood up. Kerri and Adam, the photographer, walked out of the room with him.

“Are you sure?” Kerri asked softly as they left.

“Yes,” Mitchell said. “We do it right or we don’t it.”

“You’d kill for that guitar.”

“Yeah,” he said through an exhale. “I would. And that’s the problem.”

Kerri nodded. She understood.

OEBD? Operation e-Book Drop. I’ve mentioned it to you before. One month ago today, in fact. (I’m so slick!)

I’m bringing it back up today because two really cool things have happened that I want to tell you guys about.

First is that I did an interview for the Pittsburgh Literature Examiner about my participation in OEBD. This link will take you to an older article about it, but now you can add it to your reader and keep an eye open for it. I will, of course, let you know when it goes up.

Second is that a mere few hours after finishing the interview and sending it to Holly, I got a note from the kids’ school. One of the fourth grade classes has been writing letters to a serviceman stationed in Afghanistan. This year, the teacher has drafted the other fourth grade teachers to help put together a care package for the Troops.

I’ve got a ton of stuff here: lip balm, thanks to my friend Hank Phillippi Ryan (she sends me a new one with every book that comes my way); sudoku books I’ve never touched; playing cards that the Tour Manager won’t use again for poker.

And then, I’m going to print up some coupon codes for my books over at Smashwords and tuck them inside notecards that include my usual letter — and also offer an explanation of OEBD and how they can get more involved. With 220+ authors at this point, there’s got to be something for every serviceman out there. (The other side of this coin is that with 220+ authors, it’s harder to make Trevor stand out. But we’re dwelling on Only the Good here, right???)

I’m jazzed. I’d love to see OEBD turn into something as routine as those programs that provide books for prisoners. But mostly, I feel a little more connected to this group. Even though it’s not my kids who are writing to this troop, this hits close to home (as does the continued disappearance of Morgan Dana Harrington, but again! Only the Good!). This connection exists within my community.

When I think about all the shit in this world (see above.. Morgan, come HOME, dammit!), it’s these little connections that make me think there’s hope and merit in small acts of tikkun olam — to heal the world.

If you’re an author, why not look into making your books available for OEBD? If you’re not (or if you are; I don’t like to exclude people), please continue to support me and the Trevolution. Giving away free e-books may not cost me anything but time and a few e-mails, but on the other hand, it was you guys who brought The Demo Tapes to life. The bigger this thing gets, the more gestures like OEBD mean.

Happy Friday the 13th.

Holy shit, I’m old. When an icon like Sesame Street is younger than you are, you are OLD. Maybe my dear friend Toby is right and I AM older than dirt.

Or maybe I’m lying about my age.

Doesn’t really matter. What matters is that Sesame Street turned 40.

I have vivid memories of:
1. Mr. Hooper. What a funny thing to think of first.

2. The street itself. The dirty, gritty street that was clearly not the TV set. I always knew it was shot somewhere else. The streets of New York? Didn’t matter. Those city streets were very different from my own suburban white-bread upbringing.

3. Oscar. Man, I love that grouch. Maybe there’s part of him in Trevor.

4. Cookie Monster! I remain envious at the sheer number of cookies that muppet has access to. In my next life, I want to be Cookie Monster.

5. The Count and his organ. I think I liked the organ better than I liked the counting. (See? Music junkie at a young age!)

6. Gordon and Maria. They were so nice. I think the lessons of their different ethnicity were lost on me. Or maybe that explains why I don’t get the fuss about people of other ethnic backgrounds.

7. Bert and Ernie. Gay? Fuck no. Best friends.

8. Big Bird. Big, yellow, feathered … and while others may say he’s a true innocent, I always sort of thought he wasn’t that smart.

9. Grover. I never really got Grover. I just sorta tolerated him, the way you tolerate a goofy friend.

10. “Sh..” “..eep” Remember those word mashes? And the lips that spoke them?

11. MUPPETS. Oh, man. Nothing on that show impacted me more than the muppets did. I adore the muppets. I adore all they stand for: making life a party, and laughing, and caring. Dance your life away, worries for another day… or however the Fraggle Rock song goes. I shouldn’t even be singing it ’cause it wasn’t on Sesame Street.

12. Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here! Those of you who recall my character of Kermitt Ladd, intrepid rock reporter, will maybe, hopefully, finally get the joke.

13. Rubber Duckie. Enough said.

Happy birthday, Sesame Street. Here’s to 40 more years of you raising our kids right. Assuming you all think I came out right…

You going to see my favorite real-life band tonight? You people in Grand Rapids (Michigan, for those you more geographically-challenged) are in for a treat.

Remember THIS Roadie Poet piece? (Holy smoke, it’s from 2007!)

If you’re too lazy to click through and read it, well, shame on you. At least open the link in a new tab so you can read it after you read this post. For you lazy-asses, here’s the lowdown: Roadies wear black. Someone’s girl shows up in pink. Scandal!

Tonight in Grand Rapids, roughly 90 members of the local crew who’ll be working the Metallica show will be in pink shirts instead of the traditional black. Yep, it’s a breast cancer awareness thing, which Trevor’s fully in favor of. (Healthy breasts are his favorite kind, don’tchaknow. And he’ll be glad to help you examine yours!)

(Uhh, women only, please. But men, remember, you CAN get breast cancer, too!)

I wish Roadie and I could be there to see this sight. I might have even put those pink stripes back in my hair for the occasion.

Glass.

If he closed his eyes, that’s what Mitchell visualized. Shards of glass, poking their pointy, broken ends into his throat. His sore, tender throat. The one that needed to be able to sing for two and a half hours.

Last time he’d felt like this, Amy had sent him medicine. It had worked just fine on his throat but fucked with the rest of him. Not in a good way for a guy on the road. Eric hadn’t minded the extended guitar solos the first two nights, but when it dragged on for eight, not to mention how it’d slowed down their travel with Mitchell’s constant need to stop, even the guitarist, the most tolerant of all of them, had had enough.

As if Mitchell hadn’t. After all, it was his body the medicine had fucked up.

He wasn’t calling Amy so fast. Not if she was going to do that to him again.

Still, he had two interviews to give before the show later that night. Sucking on lollipops helped a bit, but not for very long, and it was hard to talk with a sucker in your mouth. That wouldn’t work with the press, even if most of them were dicks. It wouldn’t wash later, during the show, although it might be fun to flick a sucker from your mouth into the crowd, just to see what would happen.

Probably fall in that safety zone between the fans and the stage.

“Dans? Where’s the honey?”

The drummer crossed the room; he’d been primping for an interview of his own and the dressing room felt empty with just the two of them in it. Eric would show in another hour, to give some face time himself, and Trevor would appear… whenever King Trevor felt like it.

“Right there, by your right hand,” Daniel said, surveying the catering table set up in their dressing room.

Mitchell figured that was how it went. He was busy looking at the set-up for the tea, the bags and the sugar and the powdered flavored creamers for coffee, the real milk in the ice tubs with the beer and Gatorade. The honey was… there with the ketchup and shit. Made perfect sense.

It was one of those honey bears. They were fun to fuck around with; Daniel was constantly coming up with new things to do with the stupid things. Mitchell picked this one up, turned it ass-up, and poured a dollop of honey directly onto his tongue.

“Slick,” Daniel said.

Mitchell swallowed and shrugged. And then he closed his eyes and swallowed again. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better.

He set the bear down — near the tea and coffee shit this time — and eyed the back of its head. That same spot he liked to whack Trevor in. He swallowed again, and gave the bear an affectionate pat.

It may have been an old wives’ tale that honey soothed a sore throat, but those old wives sure knew a thing or two.

Whoever the fuck the old wives were.

“Mitchell, ready?” Charlie asked, sticking his head in the dressing room. “I’ve got one reporter on the hook for you, and a quiet spot for you to inflict the torture.”

Mitchell turned to go, then stopped. He twisted and picked up the bear. It could come with him. Maybe he’d have some fun with it and the reporter.

Maybe the reporter would know who the old wives really were.

Honey on glass. He’d take it.