West Of Mars — The Meet and Greet

Forgive me while I stir up a relatively dormant hornet’s nest.

However, if you read closely, you’ll see I’m going to talk about a new breed of hornet. I’m not about to rag on the aspiring authors who send out query letters to agents without doing some investigative work. Nope. I’m not a literary agent. That’s not my job.

Rather, there are two breeds of hornets I want to introduce to this nest of Lack of Knowledge: published authors and publishing house publicists, even though literary agent Janet Reid does mention authors at the end of this excellent post.

I’m about to be stung to death. I know this. Oh, well. Someone’s gotta stand up and say it and why the hell not me? Now that I’ve put out The Demo Tapes via Lulu, many in both groups have looked down their noses at me in utter distaste. (Nevermind that conventional wisdom holds that there’s no commercial value in something previously web-published, and nevermind that my readers all but grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me until I consented to give them The Demo Tapes, but that’s another hornet’s nest entirely for another day.)

Here’s the deal: I am getting an increasing amount of e-mail from authors and from publishing house publicists, asking if I’d like a copy of Book X to review on my blog. Maybe I’d even do a giveaway; that would be great.

This e-mail comes to either my personal e-mail account, or to my Win a Book e-mail. It doesn’t matter which; the answer is the same.

Neither blog has ever published full-fledged book reviews. I use Front Street Reviews or Breeni Books for any reviews, and then it’s usually because Barb or Breeni has asked if I’m interested in a particular book. They know that they shouldn’t offer me, whose fiction centers around a fictional rock band and the people who orbit them, a book about a minister in India who wants more children. Let alone the latest offering, a book described as “dreamy and lyrical.”

In my world, Mitchell is dreamy and Lyric takes care of that lyrical part. How on Earth do you think that I’ll be able to relate to your book?

It’s even worse when the approach from the author begins with, “I am an admirer of West of Mars.” Really, now? Is that so? Then why, in the words of Trevor, are you so fucking clueless about what fills these pages? I’m sure this author can’t even tell me if s/he’s a fan of Win a Book or the Meet and Greet. Hell, I doubt they even know that there are two blogs carrying the West of Mars name.

Folks, this is not the way to start off a relationship. You’re lying to me, and if there’s one thing that’ll get you on my shit list without a second thought, it’s being caught in a lie.

Still, I’m trying to be nice. I’ve been writing responses that explain that neither The Meet and Greet nor Win a Book post book reviews, and that any contests I run through The Meet and Greet are few and far between — and initiated by me. I then go on to explain the whole concept of Win a Book, and invite the sender of the mail to submit links, just as the book bloggers do.

The problem of late is that the requests have been picking up. I have things to do in my life. I have books to write, Demo Tapes: Year Two to work on. I have my own publicity to do. I can’t spend twenty minutes a few times a day sending out the same damn e-mail — an e-mail that wouldn’t be necessary if someone had taken just five minutes to look over my blogs. From now on, I’ll be sending out the link to this post as my reply. Heck, I might even get a better response to it than I have been getting to a thoughtfully composed explanation of something that should have been checked out beforehand.

There’s no substitute for proper research. There just isn’t. Ask any author of historical fiction if there is. And then duck. Fast.

There’s no substitue particularly when the research I’m talking about is as easy as looking over the front page of someone’s blog before sending out the equivalent of spam.

From 2001 to 2003, I did some volunteer work for Metallica. One thing I learned from the band and their staff is one thing I say to my family all the time: Do it right, or don’t bother doing it.

That holds true no matter what you’re doing.

Someone who shall remain nameless *coughbreenicough* nominated me for a couple of awards over at Preditors and Editors and their annual Best of contest.

I’ve been named in the Author Published in 2008 category, as well as the Anthology Published in 2008 category.

Given some of the powerhouses in those categories, there’s no way I’ll win (although I’d sure love to). I’m just hoping I don’t come in last… Please help.

And please show some love for Breeni, too! She’s been unflagging in her support of me and is the reason I’m not just putting The Demo Tapes out into the world without much of a publicity push behind it. She’s the one who had faith that it can reach beyond my inner circle of faithful groupies — and I’m starting to see that she was right. She’s been nominated in the Review Site category, so please show her your appreciation, too, by voting.

Thanks, guys. And thanks, Breeni. I really didn’t want to have long fingernails or anything… nope, not me…

Yeah. Did you like that rant?

Okay, on to the best of the 87 books Susan read last year. Instead of doing this in my usual Book Talk method, I’m actually going to list ‘em. Sort of boring, I know, but after that last book I wrote about, it’s all I can handle.

Be smart and read these:
State of the Onion — Julie Hyzy
St. Barts Breakdown — Don Bruns
A Day of Small Beginnings — Lisa Pearl Rosenbaum
Bad Blood — Linda Fairstein
Disobedience — Naomi Alderman
Nine Princes in Amber — Roger Zelazny
Master — Colette Gale
The Rabbi’s Cat 2 — Joann Sfar
Jinx — Jennifer Estep
The Weather Warden Series — Rachel Caine
Killer Solo — David Hiltbrand
Bobbie Faye’s (very very very) Bad Day — Toni McGee Causey
The Rapture of Canaan — Sheri Reynolds
Dancing with Werewolves — Carole Nelson Douglas
The Vlad Taltos series — Steven Brust
The Kommandant’s Girl — Pam Jenoff
George and the Virgin — Lisa Cach
Sweet Man is Gone — Peggy Ehrhart
War for the Oaks — Emma Bull
Making Chase — Lauren Dane
Stray — Rachel Vincent
Parable of the Sower — Octavia E. Butler
The Last Days of Dogtown — Anita Diamant
Life Without Music — Jeanette Clinkenbroomer
Murphy’s Law — Rhys Bowen
Club Dead and Dead to the World — Charlaine Harris
A Blessing on the Moon — Joseph Skibell
What A Scoundrel Wants — Carrie Lofty
Intimate Beings — Jessica Inclan

So. That’s 29 books I think everyone ought to read. You’ll note I didn’t rave about all of them here on the blog. That’s not because the books aren’t worthy; they are. It’s that time and space are limited. You all know how that is… you’re living it right along with me.

On to 2009, which currently is watching me read Greg Iles’ 24 Hours. It’s nice to see the good guys beat up on the bad ones.

Keep on reading, my friends. Keep me posted of the good stuff you’re discovering and I shall continue to do the same…

I’ve been putting off doing my annual reading roundup for a couple of reasons. One is that I’ve been telling you guys about the spectacular stuff as I’ve closed the back cover of each and every one. One is that I’m sad I only read 87 books this year (down from last year’s 97, let alone my high of 147 in 2006 and 2005, each.

A lot of that is due to EntreCard, which drives my traffic so nicely and has made me new friends. So… the piles of books here in my office continue to stagnate, sad to say.

My final reason for my heel-dragging is simple: since my last roundup in October (read it here), not only have I not fallen in love with anything, I read a book that shook me a little bit deeper than to my foundation. That’s probably why I was lukewarm about such potentially great reads as Carrie Lofty’s What a Scoundrel Wants and Jessica Inclan’s Intimate Beings.

I’ve never had a book shake me up like this. Ever.

I don’t like to say negative things about books I don’t finish — and of the 87 on my list this year, I didn’t finish 21 of them, which is WAY too high a percentage — but this time, I’m going to make an exception. Maybe you’ll have some insight that I’m lacking.

Let me start off by saying that I didn’t choose to read this book. I didn’t want to read this book, but my book club insisted. (Last month was only the second time in our eight-year history in which we cancelled the meeting to discuss the book because none of us could talk about it.) I tried overruling them, but they’re older than me and even though I’m the leader, every now and then, they pull rank.

I doubt they’ll do it for awhile. As I said, I was against it. (If you’ve followed the past adventures of my book club, I try to steer away from Holocaust lit — but hey, this was a memoir. That’s not literature!)

The book in question was The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million, by Daniel Mendelsohn. It’s a memoir by an award-winning journalist that chronicles his quest to find out what happened to six members of his family during the Holocaust. A simple, “They died,” isn’t enough for Mendelsohn, and that’s fine.

The story had great potential.

The first problem I had was the writing style. I swear, on average, sentence length was 50 words. Ideas were repeated until you became numb — or outraged at how many times you had to revisit the same fact, character trait, detail, what have you. It held the pacing of the story up.

But I could have dealt with that. I can skim when I have to.

No. What rattled me so deeply — in fact, it’s hard to even write about it and revisit the emotions the book keyed into — was the brutality. Holy shit.

I mean, look. I’m Jewish. I grew up with the Holocaust hanging over my head. Men did unspeakable things to their fellow men — and women and children. I’ve known this my whole life. I’ve met survivors; I married into a family with a survivor. You can’t be Jewish and not know the story of the Holocaust.

After reading the details that I’d been sheltered from throughout my life until this point, I don’t know if I can look at the Tour Manager’s Grandmother without wanting to throw up.

That’s the way I’ve reacted to The Lost. I want to vomit. Just thinking about the book makes my gut churn, my bowels threaten to loosen. This book brought me to my knees. I can see the horror these people faced all too clearly. I have nightmares even now, weeks later. Sometimes, I wonder if maybe I was there in a past life and what I’m feeling now is a flashback to that.

But c’mon… past lives? Flashbacks? For real?

I don’t know.

What I do know is that I can’t face Holocaust literature right now. Two weeks ago, I started to read the beautifully written The Book of Blam. Someone at BookCrossing had requested it as part of a trade, and heck, I’d managed to read the beautiful (but bizarre) A Blessing on the Moon without being too badly bothered. I wasn’t so lucky with The Book of Blam; I gave up about 75 pages into a 250-page book and mailed it on its way.

What I do know is that when I read brutality in fiction, it generally doesn’t bother me much. The Kite Runner’s scene with the Taliban bothered me; it rang of truth. And there was this one fantasy book that opened with a very detailed account of a disembowling that made me put the book down. In that book, the violence had been gratuitous. Stupid, even (which was my reaction to both American Psycho and Hannibal). It’s fiction, a part of me is always reminding my innocent core. It’s not real. Someone made it up.

But The Lost… it’s the story of what happened. It’s real, boys and girls. People actually treated other people this way. Some survived to document it.

And I close my eyes and can conjure the horror of a rabbi being made to dance naked on a table in front of a town’s population of Jews, blood streaming from his recently abused eye sockets while his congregation cowers, afraid of what they’ll have to endure next…

I don’t think I’ll ever be the same again.

And forgive me for what I’m about to say, but I’ve got to:

Damn you, Daniel Mendelsohn. I liked being innocent of these details. You stole that from me.

I often talk to other authors who are trying to promote themselves. Go here, I’ll tell them. My friend Breeni has interviewed a number of book bloggers. You can look through the profiles and choose who to approach about sending out review copies, or doing a guest blog, or an interview, and/or a giveaway. And don’t forget to drop me a note at Win a Book so I can plug it and get you even more attention.

Those authors have a luxury I don’t: they get free copies from their publisher.

Me, I’ve got to pay for each one I send out, so I’m being stingy (that said, if you’d like the .pdf of The Demo Tapes for review, give a yell. Those I don’t have to pay for).

Still, I think I’m doing pretty well. Not only have I done three guest blogs now, I’ve had friends and book bloggers (and both) plug The Demo Tapes. And in J. Kaye’s case, she’s plugged it more than once.

Check ‘em out:

J. Kaye
And J. Kaye again.
Three times … a charm, right?
Thomma Lyn
Lakota Phillips
Ashley

And have you seen the front page of Front Street Reviews? Barb has outdone herself this time!

Huge thank yous to these ladies who’ve blogged about The Demo Tapes so far. Huge thank yous to you who’ve opened your wallets in this tight economy and bought copies — especially those of you outside the US. Shipping The Demo Tapes to you isn’t cheap!

Now, if you’ll excuse me (not while I tend to how I feel), I’ve got the rest of the Internet to conquer…

Come join the Trevolution!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The house wasn’t his.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes, being a dick sucked.

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

Still. Sometimes, being a dick sucked.

So did hangovers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not yet!” Eric yelled over his shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Springer wondered how this affected him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How cool is all of it?”

“I’m Trinity.”

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

“Eric knows you.”

Springer bobbed his head. “Seems to.”

“I need to hang around you more often.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fozzy got up and stalked across the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gecko picked up the drawing.

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

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

And a tear escaped from its head.

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

“Maybe,” Scott said.

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

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

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

Pure professional.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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