Whee! I was named one of the Editor’s Picks in the new EasyStreet Prompts Carnival of Writing and Art. They were kind enough to send me a lovely image, so I’ll have the Tour Manager get that up. In the meantime, though, check out what else made the cut. Think about submitting something yourself, why don’t you?

The piece I won the praise for was Robin Hood, featuring Lyric and the dude in green. If you missed it, be sure to check it out. I think it’s going to launch a new feature around here: Lyric’s Customers. But first, I need the time to write this new series.

Also, if you missed me last week at Savvy Verse and Wit, go see what I have to say about size mattering. And yeah, we’re not letting Trevor put his two cents in (because we all know what he’d say. Admit it.). And yep, you can enter to win a digital download of either Demo Tapes book.

And lastly, tomorrow (Wednesday), be sure to stop by Beth’s Book Review Blog. I’m guest posting about … something. Yep, this is way too close to the wire for my liking. You’ll like it. AND have another chance to win a digital copy of either Demo Tapes book!

And with that, I’m out of here. I, umm, have a guest post to write!

If you haven’t met Deadly Metal Hatchet yet, they’re the *other* band around here. Young and hungry, but also incredibly stupid, they’re musically inept but they have a great gimmick. Read on!

“No. I don’t like it. Every single freaking heavy metal band out there has pictures taken in front of a gothic gate like this one,” Scott said.

“Do we have to take pictures?” Fozzy asked.

Scott, Gecko, and Lido turned and glared at their guitarist.

Fozzy wandered off toward the gates. Scott followed, taking in the sight. Heavy dark brick, probably stained with some sort of smog or soot. Maybe it was moss; it didn’t matter. It wasn’t something you’d see at home.

Scott still couldn’t believe the record company had flown them out East just for a stupid photo shoot. They’d claimed the woods behind the gate was the Hatchet’s natural environment. That the sand and brush of the desert had nothing to do with the Hatchet.

Fozzy had tried to explain that the Hatchet was a city dweller, born on a wide asphalt street. No one at the label had cared. They wanted the Hatchet associated with all the usual gothic shit. Iron railings connecting the two tall columns of stone. Yawn.

“How many other bands have taken their group pictures right here?” Scott asked Fozzy, who lit a cigarette and stuffed his lighter into the front pocket of his jeans.

“The Hatchet could like it here,” Fozzy said after a minute. “Lots of hiding places. Lots of victims probably come through here.”

“Yeah,” Scott sniffed. “All our competition.”

“So where do you want to do this photo shoot?” Fozzy asked. He narrowed his eyes like he did when he was expecting something good but stayed ready to brace himself for something less than okay.

Scott turned in a circle, his face tilted up toward the sky as he thought. It was easier to give Fozzy something good than spend the next five hours waiting for him to draw the Hatchet. They had a schedule to keep. This stupid photo shoot. “In a ferris wheel,” he said at last. “A shot from a distance. That’ll go over easier with Mr. camera-shy.” He slid a look at Fozzy, waiting for a reaction. None came. Lido bit back a smile. Gecko lit a cigarette of his own and scuffed at a leaf on the ground. It was damp; it turned his work boot dark brown.

“The Hatchet can be… anywhere,” Scott said. “In a car of its own, digging the ride. Jammed into the electronics and ready to strike the poor suckers stuck at the top. Taking freaking tickets for all I care.”
Fozzy held his cigarette like it was a joint. “That could work.”

“Now we’ve got to get the label to go along with it.”

Fozzy smiled, that ugly, thin smile that was the only one Scott had ever seen. “Let the Hatchet handle that.”

This actually compiles three writing prompts. There’s the Easy Street Prompt from September 25, the Your Photo Story, and this week’s Sunday Scribblings.

Links to more Deadly Metal Hatchet (in order!):
Thursday Thirteen — The Hatchet
Anonymous
Chapeau
Thursday Thirteen — Bits about Deadly Metal Hatchet
Fozzy’s Skateboard
Somewhere
Late Invite?
Fozzy’s Accident

I’ve gotta give props to the guys at Metal Sucks. They sure get their hands on cool stuff, that I can then share with you guys.

So I do.

And I am.

This latest is … I don’t know. Musically, it sort of reminds me of Iron Maiden. I suppose if I were a proper metalhead, I’d snicker at the penchant of the band to dress in period clothes.

Or maybe dressing in period clothes is VERY metal and I’m cool enough to admit it.

Whatever. The simple fact is that this band — the Metal Shakespeare Company — has set the works of the much-lauded William Shakespeare to metal music.

The more complex fact (as opposed to the simple fact in the last paragraph) reads like this (lifted shamelessly from their website):

A Metal Shakespeare Company show is about 70% metal and 30% theater. In addition to guitar harmonies, there are duels. With swords. Audience participation has included public readings of the bard and public executions.

By all that’s holy, this is one band I’ve GOT to see. Let me know if you manage to beat me to them.

And while we’re on the subject of cool shit, let me add this cool coloring book to the mix. The Indie Rock Coloring Book, that is. Thanks to Lindsay for showing it to me, so I can show it to you. It’s the same price as the Demo Tapes, you’ll notice. So if you want to get me a present and you’ve already bought multiple copies of The Demo Tapes (truly the best present you can give me), grab one of these. Or two and keep one for yourself. Or three. I’ll swap you a copy of The Demo Tapes (autographed!) for one.

I have all sorts of other cool stuff to share with you, and I will. But first:

Visit with me over at Savvy Verse and Wit today. Size doesn’t matter to THIS girl. Good thing; I know what Trevor looks like inside those leathers of his. The rest of the band, too, come to think of it.

And what’s that??? A PICTURE?? Of SUSAN????

Well, I wish I could say it was someone I paid to sit at my desk. Look carefully for the cat; he’s, of course, there. Hard to see, but in the picture nonetheless. (Yes, look at the cat. Not at me.)

I’ll be giving away a free digital copy of The Demo Tapes. You can pick if you’d like Year 1 or Year 2.

And for those of you with a quiet Friday night (at least Friday night Eastern Time), come join me tonight on Book Chatter!

I’ve never done this, either. I’ve done radio before; I’m licensed by the FCC, in fact. (My license was granted December 24, 19xx. I always figured if I celebrated Christmas, that was an unbeatable present) But to call in and talk about my books?

New ground.

Come join me. I really hate talking to myself.

ominous

Ominous. Man, that’s a good word. It sounds good. It feels good, like it wants to roll around in your mouth and come out in a great big tube like you find at some playgrounds, the kind of tubes little kids like to crawl through on their hands and knees.

I like to watch the cool moms follow their kids. Like to watch ’em coming and going.

Too bad ominous is one of those words Rusty likes. That right there means it’s a word I can’t use.

Maybe that’s okay. After all, ominous makes me think of bad shit. Life’s too short to spend thinking of bad shit. Or squirming. Or stopping as you walk between the bus and wherever-the-fuck-we’re-headed-now while Nature Boy Eric stops to sniff the air and tell all of us, like we’re too fucking dumb to know better, that a storm’s on the way.

The only storm this boy’s interested in is the sand storm that’ll kick up when Trevor here chases those cool moms through those tubes at the playground. And wins.

Happy Jewish New Year to all of us, even if you’re not Jewish. (You just might follow a religion based on Judaism, and that means that new year wishes ought to extend to you, at least in my book.)

I have a TON (almost literally) of books to gush about. I’ve been reading up a storm over here, and I need to do more than read. I need to talk about them and share the word.

I’m picking April Halprin Wayland’s New Year at the Pier to talk about first because it’s a book about a special tradition — one so special that I never knew about it until the Tour Manager spirited me out of the city and up here, to West of Mars.

I fell in love with the special Tashlich service from the get-go. During Tashlich, Jews symbolically cast their sins into a body of water. It’s usually done with bread, but our congregation usually uses corn. The Canada Geese love us.

Think about it. To take something physical and toss it into the water, to be (in theory) swept away, out to sea. And you’re left with this empty room that you’re presumably trying to fill with goodness…

I love it.

April’s book, New Year at the Pier, takes it a step further. Yes, this is a children’s book! It’s a picture book! And darn it, it’s a moving story of a little boy, Izzy, who feels the need to apologize to the people around him for the wrongs he’s committed throughout the year.

This is really what the holiday is about. If you’re not Jewish, maybe all you know of the Jewish High Holy Days is that Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year. Yom Kippur is some holy day when people fast. As a Jew, for a long time, that was about all I got out of the holidays. I’ll admit it.

However, I’ve since learned that it’s more than that. There’s a spirit that’s supposed to imbue us during these 10 days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. It’s about introspection, it’s about apologizing for what we’ve done wrong and forgiving others for hurting us.

Man, that last sentence… apologizing and forgiving. It’s hard work. In April’s book, Izzy manages to.

I only wish I could.

Daniel was trying to get away from Stan the Stud when Val ran over to him. She grabbed his forearm and kissed his cheek. “You’ll never believe what I just found out!”

Stan leaned in. “You’re pregnant?”

Val curled her upper lip and drew away from Stan, closer to Daniel.

“Maybe this isn’t something I want to say in front of jerks.”

“Ouch. Color me wounded,” Stan sneered.

Daniel turned away, not caring if he was rude to Stan. He’d be forgiven; after all, he had something Stan wanted. He had a drum set. And there was nothing more that Stan wanted than a band. Stan and His Studs. They’d wear black leather jackets and jeans and play good old-fashioned rock and roll — which to Stan meant songs like Johnny B. Goode.

It was a good song, but Daniel wanted to rock. His drums were a way to…

“Why aren’t you listening to me now?” Val asked, still holding his arm. She’d planted her other fist on her hip and if Val could look angry, she was there.

She was still pretty cute, though.

Daniel bent his knees to kiss her. “Sorry. What did you find out?”

“There’s these vocational classes I can take. They’ll teach me how to be a chef.”

“A chef? Val, I thought you wanted to …” Daniel paused. What was it she’d wanted to do last week? Zoo keeper? Model? He couldn’t keep up anymore, it changed so fast.

Him, he wanted to play drums.

“But think about it,” she was saying. “If I’m a chef, I can feed hungry people.”

He eyed her.

“I can maybe open a restaurant, one where all the people with too much money go. And I can charge a lot of money and use the extra to fund a food pantry or a soup kitchen, and then people like us. It’d be okay. I’d make it okay. I’d make it so it’s not so bad when we have to go there. But of course we won’t have to go there. We’ll be rich from it, only we’ll actually give back and try to help out and–”

“Val, not here,” Daniel said. He glanced around, hoping no one was listening. It probably wouldn’t be news to anyone, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be something worth talking about. The last thing he wanted was to give anyone a reason to talk about him.

She seemed to understand, taking a step back and looking down. “It’s… It’s not just you, Dans. It’s us, too. My family, I mean. There’s been times and … oh, never mind!” She stamped a foot, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and ran off down the hall.

Daniel watched her go. Actually, he thought a chef was the best idea she’d had so far. When his band got big, she could come work for them as their personal chef. And they’d be together forever.

He liked that last part the best.

In honor of the number seven…

1. It’s the minimum number of times Mitchell drops the f-bomb during a concert.

2. It’s the maximum number of times Mitchell calls the crowd pussies.

3. If you cloned the guys, you’d get seven. That’s because Trevor’s such an original, they truly broke the mode. He’s un-clone-able. So we’d have two of everyone else… and still too much of the one and only Trevor F. Wolff.

4. It’s the number of basses Trevor owns.

5. It’s the number of months Trevor spent rebuilding his Vincent (that’s a motorcycle, folks).

6. It’s the number of continents. However, no one’s played Antarctica, so it’s NOT the number of continents that ShapeShifter’s played.

7. Seven is a prime number. Believed by many to be lucky. We’ll leave this one as is.

8. It’s the number of drum sticks, on average, Daniel breaks during one week of recording.

9. It’s the minimum number of friends in the dressing room before it’s a true after-show party.

10. Seven pieces of ShapeShifter lore:
The Wall of Fame (bras)
Band going for ice cream after a show
Steal the guys’ undies!
The parties. Oh, the parties.
and the hangovers. Nothing’s more exquisite.
Who’ll do more than sign underneath your bra, ifyougetwhatImean.
Mitchell is unable to smile. (So says the lore.)

11. It’s the number of hits you get out of one of Eric’s hand-rolled beauties.

12. It’s the number of ShapeShifter albums on the Discography page.

13. It’s… it’s… it’s personal. And it’s good. Seven. Hot damn.

Day off yesterday.
Hambone went and got a tattoo.

Flaming road case.
Hard to describe.
It fits;
no one loads or unloads a truck like Ham.

Made me look around.
Most of the crew’s got tats.
Lots of tribals.
Cuffs circling ankles
wrists
upper arms.

Nothing meaningful.
At least,
not the way Ham’s is.

Me,
I don’t need a tat.
Not a physical one.
This life,
the road,
the shows,
the travel,
the food,
the people,
That’s my tattoo.
It’s inside me.
Living
breathing
beating

along with

my heart.

Please bear with me, guys. I’ve got a ton of stuff to tell you about.

First off, today was the Bridgewater Book Fest. What a well-run, well-attended event! Thanks to organizers Val and Cassie Brkich for a great afternoon. I got to hang out with my friend Holly Christine and her awesome husband as we chatted with the attendees. Be sure to check Holly out, if you haven’t already. She rocks.

HUGE thanks from me to the Tour Manager, who got up at 6AM with me on a Saturday morning (earlier than we usually get up). To his parents, who invited our kids into their house for a sleepover. To MY parents, who came down to the event to see me, and to my best friend Bridget, who I can always count on to take care of me. I was especially touched that my dad came with his camera and bought Holly’s book. (Holly’s mom bought a copy of Demo Tapes: Year 1 from me. Cool, huh?)

Also a big thanks and a big plug to Annette Dashofy and the lovely Pennwriters who were hanging with her. Annette and I had each other’s promo material and were helping steer traffic to each other. That’s the sign of a classy writer’s group. Even if you’re not in Pennsylvania, you can be a Pennwriter.

NOW. Onto more good stuff. (Whee!)

1. Demo Tapes 2 is now available at Lulu.com. In fact, if you’d like to buy a copy from them (a sales contest is now going on), here’s a 10% off coupon for you to use: Click “Buy” and enter code ‘LULUBOOK’ at checkout.

(If you’d rather save the postage ’cause Lulu charges a lot, and let me get a higher royalty rate at the same time, drop me an e-mail. I can autograph books, too!)

2. Calling all e-book/digital readers! I’m now on Smashwords! You can download BOTH Demo Tapes books in a variety of formats, including for the Kindle.

3. Demo Tapes: Year 2 is NOT available in the Kindle store yet. Hopefully this week.

4. Want a review copy of either Demo Tapes book? If you’ll read a digital copy, holler. I currently have no money to send out print copies.

5. Not helping the royalty/money situation, but definitely good for the karma and the “do the right thing” standpoint, Smashwords has begun an Operation eBook Drop for deployed servicemen and -women. The agreement is that we authors send the servicemen a coupon for a free copy of our books and they… read our books on their digital devices. If you’ve got a Smashwords account, or have the ability to make your book available through Smashwords, please join in. Readers are precious people and our servicefolk are even more precious. I don’t have to get all patriotic and political here, do I?

Whew. I think that’s it. I’ll be back soon with this week’s Sunday Scribblings, which is TATTOO. Tailor made for this rocker chick, huh? (and nope, no pictures of mine!)

If you’ve never been over to Alice’s Restaurant, you want to fix that. You see, Alice and I have decided to team up for some blog fiction fun and send two of her characters to see everyone’s favorite band.

As soon as the red satin bra landed at Mitchell’s feet, a pang of jealousy shot through Trevor. What was that chick thinking? Throwing it at the big idiot, instead of him?

Trevor looked out into the crowd. She wasn’t hard to find there in the crush of people at the stagefront barriers, given the way she was squealing and grabbing the arm of the guy she was with. One of those easy-going types who’re everyone’s friend. Until you piss him off. He wore all black, too, so you knew not to fuck with him too much. Or he was afraid he’d look like a fool and was playing it safe.

Trev watched the two of them for a second. They were both laughing, the woman covering her face with her hands like she couldn’t believe she’d wiggled out of her bra right there, then launched it with all the skill of the girls at Moon Shadows.

Trevor wanted to sidle up to her, to push aside the stupid-assed beads and feathers she’d filled her hair with, and tell her he was glad she had. It had been fun to watch her squirm out of it. She should have fucking thrown it at his feet after that show, but he understood. Blondie was the frontman. Everyone watched the frontman. Even, sad to say, him.

But that was his job, he reasoned, jumping as Mitchell turned and glared at him. Trevor knew that glare; it was the one that said he’d just fucked up beyond usual. Time to think about music, not the chick who’d thrown her bra.

The song was over, anyway. Mitchell picked up the bra by one strap and let it dangle off his index finger. He held it out. “Look!” he told the crowd.

The roar that went up made Trevor stagger back a few steps. Holy fuck, they almost liked the stupid-assed bra better than the band.

Mitchell turned to Eric with the bra, then Daniel. The drummer stood up and reached out with a drumstick, like he was trying to hook it.

Mitchell, who was standing sideways so most of the crowd could see what was going on — as if the vid screens above them weren’t focused on him anyway — pulled it back and cradled it against his chest. His bra.

Trevor snickered, wondering if he’d model it after the show. They’d used to do dumb shit like that, back before they were headliners. Back when they didn’t have to worry so much about unauthorized cameras.

Mitchell cocked his right eyebrow at Trevor, the one hidden from the stage. It was the only invite Trevor was going to get.

He grabbed the bra from Mitchell. Held it up. Sniffed a cup. Deeply.

A quick glance into the crowd told him the woman who’d thrown it was blushing. Good; Trevor liked older women. Let her dude wait his turn.

“A good one,” Mitchell said into his mic, giving Trevor an approving nod. He turned and faced the crowd head-on. “Now, if any of you other girls out there want to share some goodies with us, you feel free.” He paused and let his face crack into one of his biggest, most doggish grins. “We’ve got a Wall of Fame at home, you know.”

Trevor wasn’t sure why the guy was so desirable. He looked like a total dork, grinning like that.

Mitchell motioned to Eric to come over. He lifted his guitar strap over his head and had the other guitarist hold the works while he stripped off his shirt. It wasn’t just sweat soaked, it was all but dripping.

“Who threw this?” Mitchell asked, pointing to the bra Trevor still held.

Trev stepped up and pointed out the girl, all crazy colors in her hair, all Blending Boyfriend holding her at the waist so she didn’t get trampled as the crowd surged toward Mitchell. Each one of them needed Mitchell’s shirt. Not one of them had a doubt it was going to the girl, but they’d go down hoping.

That was what made ShapeShifter fans so fucking cool.

Sure enough, Mitchell motioned to security. Trevor pointed out the girl again.

The Blending Boyfriend accepted the shirt and gave it to his girl.

The four members of ShapeShifter grinned at each other. Yeah, it was about the music. It always was. But damn if this sort of thing didn’t rock every bit as hard.

Got an idea to have some fun with me and the band? Drop me an e-mail; I’m all ears.

Ever notice how you can pick out a friend’s back across a crowded room, even if everyone in the room’s wearing the same uniform?

It’s the hair

Color

Style

Their posture

Shoulders up, chest lifted

Shoulders in

Hips canted to one side

The set of the jaw, or the jawline itself

Do they talk with their hands?

Do they fidget?

Favor one leg?

If they’re wearing heels, do they rock one foot forward and anchor that heel into the ground?

Attitude.

Think about it. What makes you recognize someone? What lets your friends recognize you?

Hey, guys, once you’ve gotten your fill of Trevor, Mitchell, Amy, and the contents of Mitchell’s suitcase (and if you missed Trevor’s Word of the Moment earlier this week, you might want to go catch up and weigh in with your thoughts), be sure to stop over at Alice’s Restaurant.

Yep, I’m hanging with my good friend Alice Audrey today. Come join us.

Truth be told, Trevor had better things to do than keep Amy company when she busted Mitchell’s balls. The Vincent needed a tune-up and some time on the road. There were girls out there who needed him. The world to dominate.

Cliches like truth be told aside, Trevor knew better than to believe in Truth, Justice, and the American Way. It was nothing more than some loser’s idealistic dream of the way things ought to be. It had nothing to do with real life.

Still, busting on Mitchell was one of the best ways to eat up some time now that the band was officially on break. For two-months, but a break was a break. After the past year and a half of non-stop touring, two months was paradise.

It was also time he had no fucking idea how to fill.

Good thing Amy brought him, they realized fast. She didn’t have the key to Mitchell’s place. The big idiot had locked her out, probably knowing the master ball-buster was jonesing for some action. The druggie’s kid wouldn’t let them in, even if he could. The kid had long ago decided he was the guardian of the apartment building — and Mitchell’s place, in particular. Which meant no one got past this little twit of a kid unless Mitchell okayed it.

Mitchell usually okayed Trevor. He really must have needed some peace.

There was only one way in: Trevor had to pick the lock. No problem.

Blondie was sitting in front of the TV, eating cold pizza, when the door opened. “Hey, Trev,” he said, “Want so–” He put the pizza down on the coffee table in front of the couch and stood up when he saw Amy. “What the fuck?”

She walked right up to him and did that chin-grab thing she always did. And just like always, Mitchell looked annoyed and batted her hand away. “What do you want?”

“Mom sent me to unpack you. You’ve been home three days, she’s finished with all Trev’s laundry–”

Trevor beamed at Mitchell, for once fine with being Mommy’s Little Pet. The Good One.

The truth was, he’d run out of clean socks. Okay, he’d done that a long time ago, but they’d started to get crusty, he’d worn them so many times. He was afraid to look at his feet, in case something had started growing there.

“So where is it?” Amy was asking when Trevor stopped thinking and wiggling his toes, sighing at the softness of the cotton. He’d never take clean socks for granted again.

Mitchell waved his arm at the bedroom.

“Well, come on,” Amy said.

“Just take the whole fucking thing,” Mitchell said. “You’re going to, anyway.”

“You have clean clothes?” Trevor asked him.

“Enough,” Mitchell said with a shrug.

“Last time,” Amy said, her voice hard. So was the corner of her jaw, the spot where Mitchell would start throbbing when he got pissed. “Last time, you made Mom go through all the magazines and stuff you’d bought before she got to the clothes. She only wants the clothes this time.”

Mitchell shrugged again. Even though Trevor knew it was Mitchell’s default comment when Amy was around, it still pissed him off. He wanted to grab the guitar player and scream, “Speak!” in his face.

Amy seemed every bit as frustrated. Not that Trevor blamed her. So far, no balls had been busted. If anything, Mitchell had the upper hand so far, what with the mystery of the door and now… His eyes grew huge as he followed Amy into Mitchell’s bedroom.

The suitcase sat on the floor beside the dresser, open. Clothes spilled out of it like they had exploded out in their haste to escape the tour-induced funk. And sure enough, peeking out from the jeans and underwear, Trevor could see guitar magazines and all the other shit Mitchell lugged around with him.

Amy sighed, pulled a laundry bag out of Mitchell’s closet, and sat down on the floor to sort through it.

“One dirty black ShapeShifter t-shirt, one dirty black ShapeShifter t-shirt, one dirty black ShapeShifter t-shirt,” she said as she stuffed each thing into the laundry bag.

“See a theme?” Mitchell asked. He grinned like he was proud. Probably was, the big idiot.

Trevor sat down on the edge of Mitchell’s bed and lit a cigarette. Mitchell helped himself to a light and sat down beside his bass player.

“Aren’t you sick of me?” Trevor asked.

Mitchell just shrugged.

Amy had gotten to the socks. She turned to Mitchell. “You know, this thing you have with the color white is scary. Where do you find this many black socks?”

He shrugged again. “Ask Ma.”

Amy shook her head and moved a few magazines into a stack in front of the bottom drawer of Mitchell’s dresser.

It went that way, with Amy saying very little and Mitchell saying even less. Trevor was considering curling up for a nap in Mitchell’s bed when Amy got to the bottom of the suitcase. “Is this really all of it? It doesn’t seem like enough.”

Mitchell, of course, shrugged. Trevor didn’t offer the explanation that girls had helped themselves to most of the Big M’s clothes, wanting their very own precious souvenir of their quick five minutes with the wanna-be stud.

Amy patted a pocket in the side of the inside of the case. It made a strange sound.

Trevor leaned closer. Maybe this would be the thing that saved this whole stupid-assed excursion. So far, it had been a major bust. The Vincent was calling him; he could feel it.

“What’dja find?” he sing-songed.

Amy got up on her knees and pulled at the elastic holding the pocket shut. She peered in, then gasped. “Mitchell!”

“What?”

Trevor had to give the big idiot credit. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. If there was any way of calling Amy’s bluff, he was ready.

“C’mon, Aim,” Trevor said. “Let’s see it.”

“It’s no big deal,” Mitchell said.

Trevor figured it had to be a deal — a very big one. That was the longest sentence the big idiot had said in almost an hour.

Amy reached into the pocket in question and pulled out a handful of hotel room keys. The plastic kind, with the stupid-assed strip that usually worked only one out of three times. Which was about how often Trevor managed to get them in the door the right way.

One at a time, Amy tossed them on the bed.

By the time she’d finished emptying out the pocket, there were over one hundred room keys sitting on the bed.

“I should make you mail these all back,” she said.

Mitchell shrugged — only one shoulder this time. Amy was bitch enough to make him do it, and they all knew it. “They tell you to just throw ’em out,” he said. “They’re no good after you leave. So, I figured, what the fuck. I’ll be old-school. Chi-Check says you can tell a musician’s road doggedness by how many hotel keys he’s got.”

“He meant the actual keys. The metal ones. On those plastic tags. Like the ones they gave us way back when we went to …” Trevor looked at Amy. “Umm. Nevermind.”

She let him off the hook. “Mitchell, you’ve got every flyer from every show you’ve done so far. You’ve got t-shirts with the cities listed on the back. What do you need room keys for?”

“To remember the girls?” Trevor suggested as he lit another cigarette.

Mitchell just shrugged. Which was fine with Trevor; the one thing Amy didn’t need to know was that most of those keys had been his at one point. A few had been Daniel’s. Even fewer were goody-goody Eric’s, who most often stood at the front desk and handed the key into a warm hand.

This was more than a collection showing how road-worthy ShapeShifter was. It was a band bonding thing.

Trevor wondered if maybe he ought to stick up for Mitchell a little bit. But Amy was standing up, Mitchell wasn’t helping with his own dirty laundry, and it was clear the adventure was over.

Somehow, he felt like the only balls that had been busted were his.

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is the key. When we were a the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame last April, I was — as always — struck by the suitcase overflowing with hotel room keys. Put it together and … it’s like a ready-made outtake.

1. 3 PM.

2. Time for my daily bike ride.

3. I’m coming down the street toward a stop sign.

4. Car coming the other way. We both slow. He stops. I don’t have to. Yet. Don’t want to, really.

5. I’m wearing a light blue jersey. Black shorts.

6. My bike’s red. Pink handlebar tape.

7. Nothing metal about me.

8. The guy in the white car sticks a hand out his window.

9. “Uh-oh,” I think. “Here it comes.”

10. Because every bicyclist has tales of encountering assholes.

(not that we’re all perfect, ourselves.)

11. He leans toward his open window as he drives past.

12. Yells, “Slayer!”

13. The only thing I can think is, “Dude, if you only knew!”

Does my voice here remind anyone of a certain Roadie Poet? Wild.

Extinct:

Yeah, yeah, you’re all ready to start gushing over some stupid furry animal with a brain the size of a pea but who fucking cares because it’s sooooo cuuuuuute, Trevor. Don’t you just want to pet it?

No, I fucking don’t. And keep acting this way and I won’t want to pet you, either.

Shit.

Yeah, the word of the moment’s extinct. Now, go put an iron on those panties you just put in a bunch. It’s just a fucking word. Doesn’t mean the Word of the Moment’s going away. Far from it; you’re stuck with this stupid thing through the newest Demo Tapes launch and through both the novels. If you’d start buying what’s out there already. C’mon. Even the fucking recession’s extinct.

Extinct’s got nothing to do with cute fuzzy animals. It’s about those bands that ought to hang it up. The ones who should’ve hung it up awhile ago. You know, like Walter Cichewski and Jim Shields and Terry Fantillo. And all those losers in Rat Catcher, aka Mitchell’s favorite band.

He’s got this love thing going with Chi-Check, too. Chi-Check, whose knuckles are so fucking swollen with arthritis that when he puts his hand down on a newspaper with those knuckles touching, you can see fucking words between the other parts of his fingers, the places where the arthritis isn’t. I’ve been right there with the legend. That guy needs his fucking drugs just to breathe, I fucking swear it. Every single fucking joint’s got it; the guy fucking creaks when he moves. You sit in the first few rows of one of his shows, you’ll hear it. That’s not the music, boys and girls. That’s Walter.

One more thing to think about before old Trevor here says goodbye. And that’s the fact that no one’s forgotten the blue-footed booby and all those other fun, fuzzy things we can’t even see in zoos anymore. It just means we can’t see you. That you’re not clogging up the stage instead of letting some young, hungry kid get his turn. And yeah, yeah. I probably won’t get off when it’s my turn either. It’s addictive, being up there.

Time’s up for all of us sooner or later, youknowwhatI’msaying? Let the fucking stage go dark. Better yet, let me get up there. I’ll show your fans a thing or two.

Okay, you need the set-up for this one. I was Twittering with Carrie Lofty and one thing led to another and I promised her I’d have one of my characters speak the penultimate line here. Now, the dude who speaks it isn’t a regular character; he’s just passing through — no matter HOW much you like him. So… I still owe her that. It’ll come around Halloween. Yep, I’m planning early this year. In the meantime, blame ALL this on Carrie. And then go out and buy her book.

Look. I own what’s essentially a porn store. I mean, I sell plenty of other things, like my signature massage oils and candles, and there are days when my wigs and outerwear sell more than the sex toys in the back room. Not many, but they happen. It’s the bath salts and the silk stockings. Once you start using them, you’re hooked forever.

So what I’m trying to say is that I get plenty of shady characters in my store. Over the years, I’ve come to know most of them, if not by name then by sight. Most usually by preference in brand of rubbers. Not all of them are as shady as they look. In fact, the metal heads are usually the ones who’ll turn the shoplifters in.

Having a band like ShapeShifter come from this city’s been good for us in a lot of ways.

Mom and I were alone in the front lounge when he walked in. We didn’t know what to call him other than Robin Hood. I mean, he was wearing green, even down to the tights. He sorta looked like that cartoon version of Robin Hood where Robin was played by a fox. A cartoon fox.

It wasn’t Halloween. It wasn’t a night when the drag queens would be flooding the Rocket Theater. And even if they had been, no one dressed up like Robin Hood. Maid Marion, definitely. I’ve had to order those fancy dresses for some of my regulars.

I slid around the counter and followed Robin Hood into the toy room. Allegra was taking inventory of the movies; talk about shady characters. This one guy had been in last week, wearing a trench coat, of course, and pumping Mom for everything she’d give him about making flicks. It wouldn’t surprise any of us if he’d lifted a few DVDs; we’d found a bunch out of place after he’d left. Nothing had turned up missing that day, but one thing you learn in a business like mine is that these guys like to case the joint and come back later.

I studied Robin himself more than the way he moved through the store — how a person takes my store, with its rooms that get increasingly sexually explicit tells me a lot about the kind of customer I’m dealing with. I was hoping I’d pick up a clue about who he was, but I couldn’t help it. I kept staring at his legs, right above where they disappeared into the green suede ankle boots.

No help there; I rarely if ever see a guy’s legs below the middle of his thighs. If I even seen that much; I’m not really a leg girl.

His ass, his back, his arms, his jawline… nothing. As far as I could tell, this guy had just walked into town.

Allegra looked up at Robin Hood and licked her lips before giving him one of Mom’s special welcome smiles.

Robin looked from Allegra to me and back again. Right then, I knew I was right: he wasn’t from here. Everyone in Riverview knows Allegra and I are twins. We’re as legendary as Mom. Mom made sure of that, and now with the store, the legend continues. Not that I mind so much; if it gets people to come into the store and spend money, I’m all for it.

I didn’t say anything. Neither did Allegra. At this point in our lives, we’re over the whole twin thing.

“Need some help?” Allegra asked.

I leaned against a wall and watched the guy shake his head. He had shaggy red hair, reminding me again of the cartoon Robin Hood. I don’t know why; I haven’t seen the movie in years.

He got busy with our harnesses, pointing to them and waiting for Allegra to take them out of the case. He even tried a few on over his hose, measured the opening with his fingers.

Allegra shot me one of those looks. The WTF look.

I shrugged. By this point, I didn’t think the guy was shady. Just one of the harmless weirdos we get from time to time.

He proved me right when he picked his harness and carried it carefully up to the counter. I followed him again, slipping behind the counter and ringing him up. He paid cash, of course; I do a huge cash business when it comes to the stuff in the toy room.

And then, he finally spoke. He had this amazing English accent and he said, “Thank you. I doth rock out with my cock out.”

Mom and I managed to not laugh until the door had shut behind him and we couldn’t see his cute little green hat anymore.

If you don’t remember Lyric, click on her category over to the right. You’ll be seeing a LOT more of her at some point in the future. What that point is, exactly, I’m not sure. But the pieces are lining up on my hard drive, waiting for the perfect time.

I found this great post and since The Demo Tapes: Year 2 is coming out on September 12, I thought I’d call your attention to it.

I’d change one thing, though and that’s Point #3. Yeah, it’s great if you take the ISBN number from either book of mine and carry it to your nearest bookstore and order it. That’s a great way to make a bookseller aware of me and the Trevolution. You might make new fans along the way, and that’s always a good thing.

BUT. Here’s the thing. My royalty rate slides. If you buy the books directly from me, I get the most moolah. That’s helpful because I have to front the cash to buy the books — which eats into my profits. Plus, you can get an autograph.

If you buy the books from Lulu.com, I get the next-highest royalty. The payment on the download is higher than on the print copy. I think Smashwords, once I get the store open, will fall into this next area, as well.

And finally, there’s what I get from bookstores. Ready? For Demo Tapes 1, I get sixty-six cents. For Demo Tapes 2, I get fifty cents. PER BOOK.

So… something to keep in mind.

Now, books published by the big publishing houses don’t follow these royalty rates. These numbers are unique to people like me, people off the mainstream radar.

But it’s something to keep in mind when you buy books. As is the rest of that post. If you love an author, there are easy things you can do to help him/her/me out. We’d love it if you’d try.

No, no John Lennon songs from me today, no matter how brilliant they are.

Rather, imagine a dark concert hall.

Imagine the press of bodies all around you. Holding you tight in your spot. But that’s okay. You want to be there.

Imagine the white spotlight. Four of them, one on each band member. And darkness in between. But not real darkness.

Now, close your eyes. FEEL the music wash over you. A wave. A wall that breaks over your head and collapses down your body.

It takes you somewhere new. Old. Safe. Dangerous.

Imagine the longing. To climb inside the music. To be noticed by the men making that music. To be Someone Important.

Imagine the power. The way you feel more alive than any human being ought to feel. The way it’s not just the air that’s crackling, it’s you, too. From your arm hairs down to that center core, the one where you hide the shit you don’t have the guts to let anyone see.

Feel your lips move as you sing along. Hell, you’re not even fully aware that you’re doing it, or that you’re pumping your fist in the air. That’s because you’re not inside that body that’s crackling with vitality. You’re… over it. Inside it. Under it. On the stage. In the pit. In the nosebleed seats.

See the sweat glisten on the bare, tattooed arms of the men in those white spotlights. Watch drops of it fly off long hair, wetted into tiny spears that barely block the light and yet manage to eat the light for dinner. Don’t be blinded by the glare off their teeth, even the ones yellowed by cigarettes.

Imagine the way you scarcely dare breathe as they run from end to end of the stage. You’re afraid to blink, afraid of missing something. You couldn’t even begin to explain what that something is. You’ll know it if you see it.

The hands in the front row, reaching for a hand slap, a pick, a drumstick. From where you stand, you can see the fingers trying to wrap around a wrist, to hold on. To prolong the contact. To find a deeper meaning in it — for him on stage and for you, down below.

And then it’s done. You’re as spent as they are; you let the crowd carry you out in their swell, outside, where the air is somehow sweeter and thinner and it fills your lungs and washes it all away. All of it. Except the memories.

Imagine.

The problem with being a writer is that there is NOT enough time to sit and read. I’ve talked until I’m blue in the face about how many books are here, waiting to be read — a number that never seems to shrink, either.

So what am I doing? Adding to my wishlist yet again. Now, mind you, I’ve got over 1800 books on my wishlist. I know I’ll never get my hands on them all, let alone read them all, even if live to the ripe old age of eight hundred. When I add things to my wishlist, it’s a crapshoot, a roll of the dice. Will I get this book I want to read, or not?

I’ve come across another one — thanks to the very neat Joanne Rendell — that I absolutely must read at some point in my lifetime (the sooner the better!): This Little Mommy Stayed Home, written by Samantha Wilde.

Here’s the blurb:

Joy McGuire has gone from being skinny and able to speak in complete sentences to someone who hasn’t changed her sweatpants in weeks. But now with a new baby to care for, she feels like a woman on the brink and as she scrambles to recapture the person she used to be she takes another look at the woman she is: a stay-at-home mom in love with her son, if a bit addled about everything else.

C’mon, all you moms out there! You TOTALLY get this. This was you. Admit it. And while I was able to shower AND change my sweats, this blurb really describes me back then.

One of these days, I’ll get my hands on a copy and see just how closely it parallels my life. I’ll even review it if I can get a copy sooner rather than later.

Just right now… excuse me while I go hug my kids. Now school-aged, I’m darn glad they’re not babies anymore. I don’t miss those addled days of parenting an infant.

And if you’re looking for the usual fiction, stay tuned. I’m all tied up in another piece that might make some rounds as a short story. Or not. We’ll see. In the meantime, don’t forget … Demo Tapes: Year 2 on September 12! Preorder through me ONLY.