Useless Things

from Louise

It’s over. All the hoopla and shopping and cooking and eating and celebrating. Presents unwrapped, eggnog downed, credit cards maxed out. It was a fine example of that strange ritual called The American Christmas; an event both sacred and profane.

Last night, somewhere after the smoked trout and turkey, but before the port and carmelized pear tarte, awash in a sea of wrapping paper and bows, the conversation turned to Useless Things.

Certainly not those presents we’d just opened. Not the baseball cap with the three little lights on the brim so you can see the dog poop you’re trying to pick up in the middle of the night.

Not the ballpoint pen with the picure of a hunky, black-haired man in a Speedo who loses his swimsuit when the pen is held upright.

Not even the hatbox-shaped plastic purse from Japan that says “It’s so fabulous being me!”

I mean truly Useless Things. Those items we’ve owned, whether through our own besotted bad judgment or the misplaced affection of someone else with just a fingerhold on sanity.

Everyone had a story.

Karen talked about the olive tray from Hell. Two feet long and one olive wide, it was The Rockettes of all olive trays. It could hold two dozen of the black olives we used to stick our fingers in, or fifteen of the big green ones that look like they’re staring at you. This is your eyeball on drugs.

Her husband ate an olive and she glared. Where once had been a perfect symmetry of olives doing a high kick in unison, there now lay a briny gap in the line. She corrected the design with a new olive, served from the Tupperware container in her hand.

Another one was eaten. She refilled. And refilled. She spent the night hovering near the crudités, a handful of pristine olives at the ready, unable to walk away from a tray that only looked good when full.

My own story was The Toast. Surely, you remember The Toast? That crusty bit of dried out, seven-grain bread with the face of The Runaway Bride on it? She looked wistful, vulnerable. Yeah, and bug-eyed, too.

When I spotted it on eBay, I had to have it. It was the perfect example of all things useless. Food you can’t eat. Art that isn’t art. A person of fame simply for being a person of fame. A spiritual visitation of the most superficial sort.

I placed a bid and watched — aghast — as another offer came in. I upped the ante. Nobody else was going home with my toast. Two minutes and fourteen seconds left in bidding. I was still five bucks under the limit I’d set for myself. There was wiggle room.

Thirty seconds left. Somebody bid the price up ten bucks. Who was this evil creature, Mr. dontmesswithme@gmail.com? He took the prize. I hated him. And I hope he choked on the toast.

Dennis’s story was better than mine. He had bought a thousand gross of arrow fletchings. Not the arrows themselves, mind you. Not the arrow heads. Just the little feather things on the back that make the arrow fly straight and true.

“Why?” I asked him.

“Because they were such a good deal.”

Now all he needs are 144,000 boy scouts who want to earn merit badges in archery.

My friend Bob nodded his head, understanding completely. “I bought airplane tires.”

“Airplane tires?”

He nodded again. “Eight hundred of them. For 747’s.” He looked as proud as a retriever with a dead duck in its mouth.

His wife, Joanna, snorted. “You’ll recognize him on eBay. He’s the guy who writes ‘my wife says I have to sell them or she’ll leave me.”

So what’s your most useless gift or purchase? C’mon. Fess up.

Holy Tortilla!

by Pari Noskin Taichert

New Mexico is the land of holy tortillas and terrorist burritos. It makes me proud.

The tortilla story gained international status in the 1970s when Maria Rubio, a woman living in Lake Arthur, NM, was making the flour concoctions in a nice hot skillet. Lo and behold! unto this cast iron an image of the face of Jesus appeared in the seared markings on the lard-filled canvas. News of the miracle spread from person to person until television camera crews and reporters abetted the story’s rise into the national consciousness. Thousands of devoted believers queued around street corners to get a glimpse of this wonder. I bet they’re still coming today. Maria is credited with spawning holy food sightings around the world.

These incidents continue to happen in New Mexico — Jesus on toast, the Virgin Mary outlined in the creases on a pumpkin’s side. We all squint to make out the images on our big-screen televisions (or mine, which is the size of a thumbnail). Though some may scoff, many of us find solace in mystical possibilities.

I’ve always wondered what happens to the holy foods later, like, in six months. It’d probably be disrespectful to tell people about that moldy image of Buddha I found the other day on my tofu.

Now for another international tortilla story. This one descends from the heady realm of spirit to the base reality of paranoia. Still, you’ve gotta laugh.

A few years ago, a kid at Marshall Middle School in Clovis, NM, took a class in marketing. For his final project, he decided to make a giant burrito (don’t ask). He got a 30-inch tortilla to house the filling of meat, cheese, lettuce and jalapenos. Well, have you ever tried to keep something this big warm? After much deliberation, he opted to wrap it in tin foil.

On his way to school, he passed many people. Only one was sufficiently flippy about the world and violence in schools to call the police when she saw the large, oblong silver object in the kid’s arms.

Flash forward to a school in total lockdown, all the students gathered in the gymnasium. Anguished parents form a tight circle of fear at the perimeter of the grounds. The principal addresses her charges — trying to stay calm, to instill courage — but her voice trembles in spite of her efforts.

Imagine the moment when the kid, a normal middle schooler — the kind that goes to church with his parents and drinks too much soda pop — realizes that his principal is talking about his burrito. It’s a marvelous image. I can see his pimply face redden, his shocked eyes widen, and his mouth open the smallest bit. Just lovely.

I wish I could’ve made this up.

Both of these stories make me happy for different reasons. I share them with you today as a kind of cheerful present that honors food. After all, most of us will be eating more than usual as we sit down with family and friends. I’ll be at my in-laws’ house; they celebrate Christmas and we celebrate them. Our feast will include tamales (yes, Mike, I love ’em too!), roasted pheasant (personally, shot by my FIL), German stollen and French bread. I hope there isn’t too much buckshot in the birds; last year, I nearly lost a tooth eating the quail . . .

Whatever you do this Christmas — go to church, open presents, dine at a good Chinese restaurant — I hope it’s filled with pleasure.

My best wishes to you all.

Ahhhh, Memories

After days of savage hand-to-hand combat in the malls and department stores of America, we should all take a moment to reflect on the true meaning of Christmas.

To me, Christmas is a time for friends and family. It is a time of traditions and memories. And what better way to explore the Christmas spirit than in tightly constructed, yet sincere bullet points.

So here is a list of fond recollections and holiday traditions that have touched my heart.

Trying to get my older siblings out of bed on Christmas morning so I could open up presents, damn it!
Tamales for breakfast!!! God bless our neighbors to the south.
Drinking beer and watching John Woo’s bullet-fest The Killer one Christmas afternoon. Mom was a little perturbed at all the machinegun fire on the savior’s birthday.
Seven-layer bars!!! These things are like CRACK in a pan.
Being so hung over one Christmas Eve that I barely left my bedroom. When I did, my grandmother gave me a look so severe, so dripping with disappointment that it haunts my nightmares to this day. I will take that image to my grave.
Millennium Falcon: Best gift ever!
Mom reading “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas” to all us kids and pulling it off with out sounding cheesy.
Nog with the in-laws.
Catching grandma jamming a tangelo into my stocking. That fact that Grandma stuffed my stocking instead of Santa didn’t bother me. What did bother me was that she took up valuable candy space with a frickin’ tangelo.
Feeling the cool, free air on my face after being stuck in a stuffy church for Christmas Eve mass.
Putting up the lights on the house with Dad. Every third light was out. Every fifth light was a blinker.
Did I mention Seven-layer-bars!!!
Having the whole MacLean/Leonard/Haydukovitch clan over for Christmas dinner.
Proposing to my wife in the soft glow of the Christmas tree.

So Murderati readers, what are your favorite Christmas memories?

I’d like to wish happy holidays to Pari, Louise, Paul, Elaine, Simon, Alex, J.T. and to all the other great writers I’ve met this past year.

BEST HOLIDAY MOVIES

Miss JT Crankypants started this, so okay, my turn. I admit to some holiday blues here.

Why?

– Probably all the staggering amounts of food, for one thing – always makes me nervous and irritable.

– People like Pari with her latkes and JT with her Christmas cards, making me feel guilty and inadequate. 😉 There’s no one I want to poison – yet – but the fact is that I am JUST NOT a homebody, so any holiday that revolves around decorating, baking, shopping, and obligatory writing of greeting cards is bound to give me the hives. My friends know I love them. I hope. They know I love them enough not to cook for them, anyway.

– Another anxiety creator – that feeling of the year suddenly ending with so many things undone (and yeah, okay, a couple of things done that shouldn’t have been done, and no way to undo without becoming a Catholic).

– Some vague unresolved tax issues, undoubtedly.

– And surely there’s more, deeply buried, requiring years of expensive therapy to unearth.

Truthfully, I grew up with not much religion. At all. My parents, both of the scientific mind (despite some pretty typical religious training for their generation) are two of the most agnostic people you are ever likely to meet. My siblings and I were not forced to any particular church as children; instead, our parents encouraged religious promiscuity – meaning, whatever friend’s house was the slumber party for the weekend, we’d end up at that friend’s house of worship in the morning, whatever that was. Or – not.

Little did our parents know how broadly we would apply that theory…

Well, never mind that.

I was really a lot better about Christmas when I had singing to do. When I was in middle school, through college and those undefined and fucked up but kinda great years after college, Christmas was all about choir rehearsals and holiday performances, the obligatory but ecstatic gang-bang Messiah, and all that endless caroling, including impromptu a cappella breakouts into song on San Francisco cable cars, magical!!! I didn’t have to THINK about Christmas – I just FELT it, in the music.

Nowadays, I don’t have any formal singing to do, I don’t have any children to create a Christmas myth for, and there’s just too damn much chocolate around, leering and beckoning. (“Everyone’s wearing sweaters this time of year anyway… no one’s going to notice…” Oh yeah, right.)

Luckily, the antidote is clear. The best thing about Christmas, besides champagne, is Christmas movies (and okay, what I really mean is HOLIDAY movies, but when I say Christmas I say it as a total pagan, so just back off).

Here are mine:

IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE

Used to show it to my gang kids in prison school – it remains one of the all-time highlights of my life to see those kids start out whining that I was showing them a black and white film and then watch them fall under this movie’s spell. Oh man, did they GET it.

HOLIDAY INN

The ultimate escapist fantasy. Yes, let me make a living doing 12 live shows a year, simultaneously keeping two men at my beck and call, one who sings, one who dances. Where do I sign? Best line: “But I do love you, Jim. I love everybody.” Best song: “Be Careful, It’s My Heart”. Best dance – Fred and the firecrackers. Best moment: Marjorie Reynolds trying to look contented with Bing Crosby while Fred is dancing up a storm with Virginia Dale.

HOLIDAY

George Cukor directing a Donald Ogden Stewart & Sidney Buchman adaptation of a Philip Barry play starring Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn. Anything else you need to know?

PHILADELPHIA STORY

See above, plus Jimmy Stewart, and the brilliant and under-known Ruth Hussey (“Oh, I just photograph well.”) and Virginia Weidler as the weirdest little sister on the planet (“I did it. I did it ALL.”) Not a holiday movie, per se, but if you’re looking for cheer…

RUDOLPH THE RED-NOSED REINDEER

Best Christmas musical soundtrack there is – one great song after
another – only the whole thing makes me cry so hard I generally end up
avoiding it.

FAWLTY TOWERS

BBC series written by and starring John Cleese and Connie Booth, with Cleese as the most incompetent innkeeper in the history of innkeeping. The entire series is genius, every single episode – not exactly holiday themed, either, but guaranteed healer of depression and all other ills. Be prepared to laugh until you’re sick.

ABSOLUTELY FABULOUS

My brother turned the fam onto AB FAB and now it just wouldn’t be a holiday without Patsy and Eddy and Saffy. Sin is in, sweetie.

GODSPELL and JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR

Okay, so I’m not technically a Christian or anything, but I can see God in those two shows.

Hah! I’m feeling better already!

So give. What movies mean Christmas, or the equivalent, to YOU?

Thanks Aren’t Enough…

A big Thank You to Graham Powell, for all the incredible work you do with CrimeSpot.

We appreciate your dedication and support. Happy Holidays!

——————–

And from the terrible news department, Flashing In The Gutters, the coolest site on the web, has shut its esteemed doors.

On behalf on myself and all the flashers here at Murderati, let me extend another huge THANK YOU to my buddy Tribe, for giving me a chance to share my dreams and nightmares. You taught me what short fiction was meant to be, and I’ll be forever grateful.

We’re gonna miss ya!

All best,
Murderati

The Grinch Who Stole Christmas

JT Ellison

I have a new nickname around the house. Crank. Miss Crankypants, to be exact.

I have better words for it, considering the season. Grinch. Scrooge. Bah-Humbug.

Yes, that’s right. I am NOT in the Christmas spirit. I haven’t seen Rudolph, Charlie Brown or any of my other staples. I’ve barely done any shopping. Hubby had to practically force me to put up the tree, which after half an hour became the "Less is More" tree and is missing an entire bag of tiny ornaments, just because I couldn’t face dealing with them.

What is wrong with me??? Could it be the specter of 2007 roaming around my house like a pre-Christmas dinner Roast Beast?

I finally had a moment putting together the Christmas cards. Every year we send out a ton of cards to folks far and near. Up until three years ago, we always included a letter. Lately, people have complained that they aren’t getting the letter updating them on the nothingness that’s happening in our lives during the year. We don’t have kids, haven’t bought a new car, haven’t been the recipients of a lottery check, haven’t survived a tragedy. Things have been rather nominal in the Ellison household of late. And if there’s nothing to say, I’m not going to send a letter — Dear friends and family — NOTHING EXCITING HAPPENED THIS YEAR.

But this year it’s all different. We have tons to share. Self-serving, obviously, but a lot of news. Hubby has a new job since the last letter, I have the book coming out, all that is fodder for the ubiquitous yearly correspondence. At last — we have news.

So I put together the letter. Updated the address database. Printed out the labels, which is a new thing for me. I usually handwrite, but the list has gotten a little long, and I copped out. Printed the return labels. Printed the letter. Bought the cards. Set up in the dining room where I could spread out my happy little stacks and work the system — write personal note in card, fold letter, insert letter into card, insert card in envelope, lick envelope and seal, stick on address label. Seemed like a perfect setup.

Until I opened the box of cards. Boxes, I should say. And realized I was a complete idiot. I try to buy the boxes that have two greetings, one Merry Christmas, one Season’s Greetings. That way I can send cards to everyone and not offend anyone. The boxes I bought this year had 2 messages alright. They were just disbursed among 15 different designs. 2 cards of each design. 4 boxes. Which meant I had to break open all the boxes and separate the cards into stacks, matching the designs from box to box. Grrr….

Okay, this is doable. I start breaking everything into their individual piles. There’s only one problem. Half of the cards are covered in some sort of fine, industrial grade glitter. Whomever decided that glitter on a Christmas card was a good idea should be taken behind the woodshed and summarily shot.

So here I am, stacks of cards abounding, each with designs that range from lovely to cheesy, and the cat decides to join the party. I’m covered head to toe in glitter, there’s no more fizz in my Diet Coke, I have a crick in my back, and the cat comes and lays smack dab on the piles. I nudge her off; she just slides down the table a few inches. I give her a push accompanied by a semi-curse (because who can swear at a cat who wants to share Christmas joy with her mother?) and she took shelter under the table runner. That’s when I decided I needed to A) take pictures and B) blog the hell out of this story.

Cat out of the way and pictures taken, I settled in and made some progress. I had about twenty cards complete when I realized… I was having a good time. Yes, there were a million designs. Which meant I was picking the cards individually for the recipient. Oh, they have kids, they’ll like the glittery Santa Claus. Oh, she likes animals, I’ll do the Snowman surrounded by bunnies. I want to impress so and so, I’ll send the elegant ornaments. On and on I went, decimating my stack, signing and folding and licking, until I finally, finally felt the spirit of Christmas.

People say be careful what you wish for. 2007 will bring many changes to my life. I just finished book 2 this week. I have a proposal due for book 3 on January 1. Killer Year is humming along. Murderati is populated with the coolest writers on the planet. But I’m going to try and forget about that for now, and live in this moment. Treasure this Christmas, my family, my friends. Stop being such a grinch. Remember that there are people in this world who have a lot less that I do, and be thankful that I have this life.

And be thankful for all of you, who help make this happen. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Happy New Year!

This doesn’t mean I’m completely abandoning my grinchiness. Just watch this… (not with the kids around, though!)

Wine of the Week — Marquis Philips Cabernet Sauvignon S2 McLaren Vale

A Method To The Madness

The more I read with a writer’s eye the more I see things from a writer’s perspective. I was on a panel a few years back and an audience member asked what kind of writers we were. Struggling was the first thing that sprung to my mind, but that wasn’t the answer the questioner was looking for. At the time I was just writing. As soon as story idea struck, I wrote it. I never felt that I had an agenda or a platform to perch my work upon. But when I examined my stories, I saw a common theme running through them all. Predicaments seemed to play a central role in my stories. Usually an unsuspecting person, an average Joe by every definition, is put on the spot. A situation arises that my protagonist can’t walk away. The reason they are there is usually their own fault. Sometimes it falls into the no good deed variety, but usually, the story’s hero has done something to get them ensnared. A tryst. An indiscretion. A little white with a black edge. A past mistake. These factors are subject to Newtonian psychics. For every action there’s an equal and opposition reaction. It doesn’t matter how minor the mistake my characters have committed, there’s a price to be paid. Things come back to trip my protagonists up. This means my heroes are starting off on the back foot. They are struggling with desperate times where failure means the destruction of their comfortable way of life. So my stories are told from a nightmarish stance. My protagonists are desperate when the reader meets them.

Where do these characters come from? Why have I chosen storylines like this? I think it’s because I can identify with these people. I live a pretty ordinary life, but I can see how fine a line I walk. One bad decision and my life could change forever. There have been several instances in my life where something I’ve done has come back to bite me. Some instances have been caused by some very innocuous actions. So when my what-if synapses kick in, it usually centers on a minor action that will snowball into something large. My short novel, The Fall Guy, demonstrates this. A guy gets involved in a fender bender, does a runner and ends up indebted to organized crime. Life has a funny way of turning mean when you’ve done something wrong. Ask Michael Richards.

I see other writers express themselves in similar ways. I love Ruth Rendell when she writes under her Barbara Vane pseudonym. Guilt raises its ugly head in virtually all of her Vane novels. For those that have read her, just look at A Fatal Inversion, Gallowglass, The Chimney Sweeper’s Boy, No Night Is Too Long and The Brimstone Wedding, to name a few. The characters have done something wholly terrible and they want it kept quiet, but no matter how depth the truth is buried, it finds a way of rising to the surface. At times, it’s hard to like these people but I can empathize with them. Luck sometimes keeps us from falling down a crevice of bad decision-making. I’ve noticed that Peter Straub often deals with a past injustice that only come to light generations later. When I notice a common thread, I wonder what the root cause is for the theme. What’s the source of the muse that created all these great books? What locked boxes do these authors have? Maybe none. Maybe I’m transferring too much of myself into the situation and reading things that aren’t there. But I hope not. 🙂

The reason for this blog is Lee Child. I’m reading Killing Floor at the moment. Child’s hero is rough, tough Jack Reacher. He kicks butts and takes names. He’s a force to be reckoned with. Bad guys watch out, Jack’s in town. My leading characters aren’t like this. None of my characters come from a comfortable place. They aren’t masters of the situation. They’re vulnerable and it shows. But that’s because I’m a not a very self-confident or self-assured person. After reading page after page of Jack’s kickassedness, I thought, wouldn’t it be neat to write a character like this—mad, bad and dangerous to know. Although I enjoy writing about vulnerable protagonists, I’m wondering if I should break my own mold now and again. I hanker to write about a tough guy with a bulletproof personality. As they say, a change is as good as an arrest.

Merry Christmas to one and all,
Simon Wood

Crime Writers Discuss the Death of the Mystery Series

“You’ve got to start out with a hit, right off the bat."

An agent told me this once after reading part of a novel I’d written. The book, he said, showed promise but wasn’t big enough in scope to snag a major publisher. Being a fan of Ugly Town Books and Point Blank Press, I asked him what were the novel’s chances at one of the smaller houses. He dismissed the idea.

“Years ago, you could slowly build an audience,” he said. “But these days you have to start out with a hit.” He went on to say if your first novel only manages meager sales, it’s unlikely the bigger houses will take a chance on you.

This is not what I wanted to hear. I’ve always had a deep admiration for small press authors, those who write not for the money or acknowledgement but for the sheer love of writing. And truth be told, I’d harbored the romantic dream of becoming a hard-boiled novelist who languished in obscurity, yet created an underground cult of rabid fans. Then, only after growing bitter and despondent at the literary world, turning to the sweet, sweet bliss of alcoholic darkness, would my work find a much wider audience. (Hey, we’ve all gotta have that distant star to stretch for).

As disappointed as I was by the agent’s remarks, I wondered if they had a ring of truth to them. Sure, there have been those who’ve made their mark in a small press then gone on to bigger publishing companies. But how often does it happen? And when it does happen, is the event the exception that proves the rule?

My goal is to someday make a living as a writer. I want to enjoy the work I do, (what’s the point otherwise) but at the same time, I want to reach the biggest audience possible. I know to achieve this goal I must believe in myself and have dogged persistence. I also know I must be flexible in my notions of success. Being a writer isn’t an easy road, and having a publishing company (big or small) take a chance on you should be considered an honor.

I’m an infant in this industry—maybe even an embryo considering I don’t have my name on a cover yet. As such, I have more questions than answers. And today I have one for you.

Is there a stigma associated with being a small press author, one that closes the door to the bigger publishing companies?

ON THE BUBBLE – PERSONS OF INTEREST

It’s gonna be a good interview day today. I can feel it in my bones. I know I’m getting closer every minute to solving this case. I can see that ‘ole light at the end of the tunnel – and I’ve got a pot of fresh coffee and a box of lucky doughnuts at my elbow (three apple fritters and three plain). That’s always a good sign. Yeah, this group will break things open for me. I’m employing my secret weapon -I’ve got second sight – did you know that? Hey, they don’t call me Evil for nuttin’.

SCENE OF THE CRIME: ON THE BUBBLE – DAY FOUR – 2006

THE CRIMES: Writing some of the best damn fiction out there.

THE SUSPECTS:

IAN RANKIN http://www.ianrankin.net

One does not introduce Ian Rankin. His name says it all.

Well, I could tell you that he’s wonderfully witty, charming and erudite – but you know that. I could also mention that he’s broodingly handsome – and that his dangerously mysterious eyes just drive me nuts (yes, even old broads like me can still feel the heat in eyes like his) – but you know all of that too. So before I melt away – here are a few things we chatted about last July.

EE: We’ve all got a bad habit or two, what are yours?

IR: I have plenty of bad habits. I am an irascible drunk. I bite my fingernails. I listen to progressive rock. My diet is a distaste – I am a chocolate junkie.

Ohhhh…my kinda guy…wish we lived closer.

EE: Is it true ‘The Belles of St. Trinian’s’ with Alastair Sim is your favorite movie? Or, is it really ‘Bela Lugosi Meets a Brooklyn Gorilla?

IR: My favorite movies include: ‘Goodfellas’, ‘Godfather’, ‘The Big Chill’, ‘Clerks’, ‘Gregory’s Girl’…I do like those St. Trinian films though…all of those skirts and stockings…are those films still legal?

Goodfellas? The Godfather? Oh, yes – you are truly a man after my own heart. Sorry to say – the St. Trinian films have been banned now, but-uh-I know a guy who can get them for you. 🙂

LOUISE URE http://www.louiseure.com

I adore Louise -but damn, it’s just not fair to be this talented. Her prose is entrancing – and her imagery of Arizona is so exacting you can feel the blistering heat bounce off the page. Oh, here’s more to feel under accomplished when you’re around this gal – she speaks seven languages, races Shelby’s and has a pilot license. But don’t hold this against her -she has her good points. Hell, she’d have to to put up with me.

EE: Since I’ve let the cat out of the bag about your flying skills – how about explaining why Pari hired you to take her over the desert in New Mexico? Was it to check out those new circles allegedly made by UFO’s?

LU: Oh, I’m not trying to hide the pilot part; I’ve been flying for about thirty years now. But I have few takers for passengers these days, ever since I ran out of gas and had to land on 1-10 near Picacho Peak. And then there was the time I forgot to tighten the lug nuts on the engine cowling. I think Pari was very brave to have asked for that New Mexico flight.

Brave? I’ll say she was brave! Bet she won’t go up again with you after reading this!

EE: Driving race cars is – well – a pretty tough hobby. How hard has it been for you to show up all those macho race car divers when you take to the speedway in your 1966 Shelby 350 GT? I mean, they must really have a few testosterone fits.

LU: At first, they were a little unnerved when I suggested we repaint the car from it’s original black and gold to match my new driver’s suit. They finally came around when I offered to file my fingernails into the shape of Phillip head and regular screwdriver shapes to help with their repairs.

You did what?? Oh, how utterly brilliant of you!

SARAH WEINMAN http://www.sarahweinman.com

Sarah’s Confessions of An Idiosyncratic Mind is a one-stop snoop for what’s going on in BookBizVille. Razor sharp observations, delectable books featured and an international readership.

EE: Word around Manhattan is that you turned down a dinner date with Mel Brooks to discuss the intricacies of short story writing. This can’t be true, can it?

SW: He wanted to go to Elaine’s. I wanted to go to Michael’s. We had to agree to disagree, unfortunately.

Well, hell – I don’t blame you. Too bad Mel didn’t know Michael’s was THE place for the literati. But then, what do movie people know, huh? Listen chickie – you’re better off without him.

EE: Whispers are rampant that a certain hunky new writer is sending you roses and chocolates so he can become a Cabana boy. What say you about that?

SW: Rose, yes. Chocolates, no. I can be bribed, people, so please, make it chocolate, preferably 70% dark and up.

Hey guys? Are you listening out there? Forget Godiva, okay? zChocolate.com is the place to go. Try that nifty mahogany box from Pascal Caffet. It’s a bargain at $171.40. What price to be immortalized as a Cabana Boy?

RAYMOND BENSON http://www.raymondbenson.com

aka JAMES BOND. And he’s dressed for the role. Imagine wearing a tux all the way through the many (Nine!-six original and three movie novelizations!) James Bond books under his belt. Er, cummerbund. But there is much more to Raymond’s writing career than Bond – and it would take an hour just to type his credits. His new book – SWEETIE’S DIAMONDS is living proof there is life after 007!

EE: So, Raymond – I imagine having to don a tux while writing those Bond books became annoying after a time. I’ll bet your neighbors did a double-take when you took out the garbage.

RB: Ha! Most of the time I write wearing only underwear or (gasp) less. That’s the luxury of working out of one’s home. My commute from the bedroom is ten feet. I must admit, though, that when I do interviews like this, I dress a bit more formally. I have on a white shirt, but no pants.

Ahem. I do hope the shirt is at least buttoned.

EE: Is it really true you were bored to tears while doing research for your latest – SWEETIE’S DIAMONDS? Gosh, I’d think checking out the adult porn industry would have been rather exciting, er…illuminating.

RB: Research? Who needed research? Seriously, folks, I do take pride in the amount of research I do for all of my books. For Bond, I had to get the weaponry and technical and British-ness right. For TOM CLANCY’S SPLINTER CELL, I had to get the military jargon right. For SWEETIE’S DIAMONDS I had to…you know.

Uh, yes – well – uh, we’ll just have to use our imagination I suppose.

P. J. PARRISH http://www.pjparrish.com

Double trouble! And don’t laugh – these two sisters: Kris & Kelly are so full of life and mischief-they’re addictive. Mega-nominated for their great Louis Kincaid series-they are never still – always on the move – deeply involved in the mystery community-and always ready to help a newbie. And their latest – AN UNQUIET GRAVE – is -naturally – superb!

EE: Here’s a chance to squash a rumor – word is – Louis Kincaid is a real person under the witness protection program and he feeds you two all of his real life stories.

PP: Damn, another truth exposed. Louis is really Kelly’s four husband Karry, and an old white dude who was a delivery guy with UPS until his looks went and he caught on with FedEx as a lost package tracer. He lives in a double-wide near the Memphis airport and emails Kelly about his adventures. "Larry is currently at work on his own novel, "The UPS Man Always Comes Twice." Larry says it’s a thriller, but Kelly says it’s strictly fantasy.

Aha! Finally! I’ve got some spy’s who are on the ball! But gosh, the poor guy is delusional, huh? Good thing Kelly dumped him.

EE: My best spy tells me that both of you have been approached by the producers of "Housewives" to be regulars next season. – and you’ll be portraying your real life roles as best selling authors. Are your husbands good with this?

PP: You know, Lee Goldberg got us a reading but we were rejected for not being desperate enough. Or maybe it had to do with how we looked in the stilettos and thongs.

My insider source tells me it wasn’t the stilettos or thongs – it was because your parts were on the table to be expanded as co-leads and it caused a major hissy fit. Expect a call any day now…but you didn’t hear this from me, okay?

Okay,okay – so I didn’t break the case today. I’ve still got five more to go after this crazy bunch. So my lucky doughnuts didn’t work. It happens. But hey – I’m an old pro, remember? I always get my man or woman…or whatever. But these nuts today? Whew. A Scottie who bites his nails and whose diet is a shambles? A lady race car driver who flys a plane and runs out of gas? What about the dame who wouldn’t break bread at Elaine’s and has Cabana Boys? And how about those two sisters who wear stilettos and thongs? And then I get a guy who thinks he’s James Bond! I tell you – some of these people are two paragraphs short of a full page. But never fear – I’m on to them and their games. And I know I’m getting closer and closer. We’ll see who has the last laugh. I’ll have this case broken on December 27th if it’s the last thing I do.

I’m taking off next week to see my therapist…it’s not headaches this time – it’s the eye twitching this group has reawakened. But stop by anyway. Naomi Hirahara will be dropping in.

Until December 27th – MERRY CHRISTMAS and HAPPY HANUKKAH!

There’s no “I” in inspiration… wait, what?

There I was, all set to give you a little piece on short story writing.

Then I went and saw ZAPPA PLAYS ZAPPA, aka The Tour De Frank.

Now, I know Frank Zappa is an acquired taste.

But I’m not here to talk about the music specifically.

See, I’ve seen some shows in my time. Probably more than most normal people. And I’ve seen some great ones…

Springsteen and the E Street band; U2; The Rolling Stones; Prince (during the Purple Rain tour); The Cure; Level 42; Billy Joel; Elton John; Van Halen (before they went crazy); Phish; Oingo Boingo; Eric Clapton; the Flaming Lips; Lucinda Williams; Pink Floyd; Santana; Miles Davis; Moby; Etta James; Big Head Todd & The Monsters; David Bowie; Bob Dylan; Elvis Costello; Neil Young; Cheap Trick; the Police; the Kinks; the B-52’s; the Pixies; the Scorpions; Steve Earle; Red Hot Chili Peppers; Tom Waits; Steely Dan; Garth Brooks; Ice-T; REM; Indigo Girls; KISS; BB King; The Mats (Replacements); and many more.

I list all that so you have the context of what I’m about to say…

Zappa Plays Zappa was the single best show I’ve ever seen.

Dweezil Zappa leads an incredibly talented band that includes "guest" performances by Steve Vai and Terry Bosio. Side note: those of you that think the world’s greatest drummer had the last name of Peart or Bonham or Rich…nuh, uh. It’s Bosio. Trust me.

What the hell does this have to do with writing? I’m getting there.

Talking with Dweezil after the show, I learned the band was smack in the middle of a 23-city tour. It was their 5th show in five nights,
in the 5th different city. A three hour (yes, three hours) extravaganza
of sound and energy, performing some of the most complex rock music
ever written. But their energy and commitment was so high, so intense,
you’d have thought it was the opening night of the tour.

He talked about how hard it was – not just the touring, but getting the music right, the politics of each venue (wow, is the musician’s union a tough bunch!), and being away from friends and family. Cap all this with the fact that the tour is not sponsored. Dweezil funded getting the thing started, and it has been grassroots since – making enough money one place to afford to go and play another place.

Those that know me, or used to read my Bog (RIP), know how important music is to me and my writing. Probably 75% of my inspiration comes from music, in one way or another. And yes, as I sat there watching this great, great show, I was inspired.

But I was even more inspired when I spoke to Dweezil after the show and he talked about what a difficult thing it is he and the others are doing. But he’s doing it for the love. To expose new generations to his father’s music. To become better himself, by learning to play the music exactly as his father did; to honor his father; to give back.

Steve Vai, possibly the greatest living guitar virtuoso, started with Frank Zappa, and was so excited about the idea of joining this tour he cut his own (very profitable) G-3 tour short. Terry Bosio and Napoleon Murphy Brock basically came out of retirement to go on the road for very little money.

This time, not just from the music itself, but I am truly inspired by these artists and their passion, their dedication. It’s similar to why I love sitting around talking shop with other writers. Sure, it’s fun to sit and dish at conferences – don’t lie that you don’t do it – but my favorite thing about going to a place, anyplace, where writers are gathered is to get inspired. I get inspired by some because of their talent, by others’ discipline, others by their passion and commitment.

What inspires you? Music? Passion? Booze? Mike MacLean’s thighs? Tell me.

Guyot

And, as always: Floyd Landis is innocent. if anyone knows an investigative journlaist looking for a story to make them famous, please send them here.