Minnesota Lynx vs. San Antonio Silver Stars

If you haven't been to a Minnesota Lynx game yet, what are you waiting for?!?! Based in Minneapolis, this women's basketball team is the sister to the Minnesota Timberwolves and started their inaugural season in 1999. After making a few offseason transactions, the Lynx have been declared as the most-improved team as the 2010 season began. Now you can see the Minnesota Lynx play the San Antonio Silver Stars next Thursday, July 8th at the Target Center in Minneapolis!! Ticket King has some AMAZING lower level seats right behind the Lynx bench for just $65 a piece. Purchase your Minnesota Lynx vs. San Antonio Silver Stars tickets today and conveniently pick them up from our Minneapolis office, located right by the Metrodome. GO LYNX!!!Source URL: http://extravagancedeplumes.blogspot.com/2010/06/
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Widespread Panic Orpheum Theatre Tickets

Formed in Athens, Georgia in 1986, Widespread Panic has risen to the elite status among the jam band circuit in America. Following in the steps of other southern rock jam bands such as the Allman Brothers, they are frequently compared to other jam band 'road warriors' such as the Grateful Dead & Phish. The band's name originates from lead guitarist Michael Houser's once-frequent panic attacks. Widespread Panic is known for never playing the same show twice with their show-to-show ritual of choosing the night's setlist. I saw them play at the 10,000 Lakes Festival last summer and now YOU can see Widespread Panic too! They'll be performing at the Orpheum Theatre in Minneapolis in exactly a week from today (Wed. July 7th) at 7:30 pm. Ticket King has a few Widespread Panic tickets left but I can guarantee they won't last much longer so grab them now if you would like to attend the show!Source URL: http://extravagancedeplumes.blogspot.com/2010/06/
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Styx, Foreigner, Kansas Target Center Tickets

Three legendary rock bands will all be playing under one roof tomorrow night... Thats right- Styx, Foreigner & Kansas will all be at the Target Center in Minneapolis tomorrow evening at 7pm. Ticket King still has some really nice seats to choose from starting at just $85 each for lower level tickets right by the stage! That's a steal of a deal to see three bands in one night! Also, remember that your tickets can easily be picked up from our Minneapolis office, located right by the Metrodome at 212 Chicago Avenue. ROCK ON!
Source URL: http://extravagancedeplumes.blogspot.com/2010/06/
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Dear Universal, Could You Allow Me To Screen The Adjustment Bureau In Advance Of Its Release Date?

If you know me and are aware of who I am and how I feel and my views of life and love and the world and the cinema and at the risk of jinxing it and at the risk of assigning it expectations which cannot possibly be reached (though, as I have stated before, I personally do not believe anything can be, as they say, built up too much), well, a man's gut reaction is his gut reaction and I have no choice but to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me movie gods. So here it is.

"The Adjustment Bureau" might just be the greatest preview I've ever seen.

Source URL: http://extravagancedeplumes.blogspot.com/2010/06/
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Guest Post: Bocce Ball

Recently, I came across two bocce ball sets, and they're the prettiest I've seen. The $2800 Chanel one, of course, is for serious players and would take your bocce ball to a whole other level. Which outdoor games do you enjoy playing?

Restoration Hardware Bocce Ball Set; Chanel Bocce Ball Set

-- By Rachel from Black EiffelSource URL: http://extravagancedeplumes.blogspot.com/2010/06/
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Needless Enemas

Whew! New York has been hot!

Hot with temper- atures over 85 degrees. I was walking outside and it was 88 degrees halfway through my walk. I felt faint and dizzy and weak trudging through the heat. I stopped at a magazine kiosk and bought an ice cold water. It refreshed me but it certainly did not take away the bone weariness of my body. When I reached the The Spot I literally staggered through the door, my shirt covered with sweat, and went into the office to tell Snow White that I was home. She said that she would be up tomorrow to check my room. Fine by me.

I stumbled down the hall and ran into Roberto who was coming out of his office. I stopped him, asking if I could get a copy of my lease because I needed it for a mandatory meeting with HRA on Monday. He nodded. This was Friday, so he had three days. I jumped on the elevator and a scraggly old man walked in behind me. I had my headsets on, so when I saw his mouth move, I ignored him. But that was not enough for him. He reached out, waving at the air in front of my face to catch my attention. I pull one of the budsets from my ear canal. "Hot day, right?" He says to me with a grin. What the fuck are you bothering me for with this stupid assed small talk? Who the fuck cares what you think about the heat outside? I nod tiredly and stick my headset back into my ear. Dejectedly he walks off the elevator on his floor. If I'm lucky he'll remember me as an anti-social type of guy and never bother me again.

I just hate small talk with these mental midgets. It's their way of making new friends, which means once you respond to them once, they'll run up in your face every time they see you to say hello, as if suddenly you've turned into a close friend for years. It's an open door to stupidity. Firstly, when I get home, I make a light lunch and then I go through my paperwork, sitting on the edge of my bed, sorting this out and compiling that. HRA documents on my left, 911 documents on my right. It takes fucking hours to make sense out of everything, putting them in date and thematic order. I feel sorry for individuals that lack a decent education trying to deal with this shit because it's quite complicated.

Presently I find myself in my damn elevator again, waiting as it descends. It stops on a floor and an elderly lady walks in, taking a spot in the corner and rides silently. I breathe a sigh of relief until I see her lips move in the corner of my eye. I feign not to see her lips, but she takes a step from the corner and waves her hand in front of my face to catch my attention. I pull the headset from my ear and look at her. She smiles, returning to the corner of the elevator: "It's hot today isn't it?" I want to paint the walls of the elevator with her blood. No, actually I was going to go out and build a snowman. I nod. The elevator door opens and I walk out, not saying a word. It's time for another walk downtown.

Shit yeah it's hot out, but I make the best of it. I get back achy and in pain. Today is Monday and I have my Mandatory Meeting today. I ride up in the elevator and stepping in with me is a tall, Black dude who looks like he should be in the fucking NBA. He towers over me. I stare at the door to the elevator. His hand waves in front of my face. I take the headset bud from my ear. "Wow, what a hot day." He says with a hit in the head with a hammer grin. I stare back at him for a moment, then nod. I put the headsets back in my ear and watch him leave on his floor.

Just my fucking luck. I mean it. Every needy psychopath in this fucking place has to catch my attention for this silly small talk. It's enough to drive you to bloody murder. It seems that every time I take the damned elevator there will be someone waving their hands in my face to catch my attention. I mean, do my headsets have a big sign on them that pleads to bother me? I mean really, if I was living in a decent residential building, riding up the elevator wearing headsets I bet you a million dollars to your one that a tall, long legged, attractive woman with blow-job lips wouldn't wave her supple hand in front of my face to ask me about the weather. Trust me.

But I bet you some neurotic chick with her hair standing on end will. I go downstairs again and speak with Roberto in his office and get a copy of my lease and bring it upstairs to photocopy it on my little photocopy printer, gather all of my evidentiary paperwork together for my mandatory meeting and a book to read while in the stupid waiting room. I attack the heat a second time today and this time the weakness hits me immediately. My head swoons and I stop at the entrance to my building. This is new. I say to myself, if I feel nauseous I will go back upstairs and lay down in the air conditioning. If not, I'd better drag my corpse to this meeting or they will have a field day on my ass. Hell, they're blaming me for not going to meetings that I have gone to, and I'm going to NOT show up to one?

I gather my wits about me and hit the Way, grateful that the train car is air conditioned. I get off at 215th street and walk uptown to the Job Center and get on a long line. The line moves fast, and I am given a sheet of paper with a number on it 'PM1004'. Walking into the crowded waiting room I take a seat, reading my book. After twenty minutes, and several numbers are called a weak female voice calls out from behind the reception desk a distance away. It sounds like "Ho..." and then some kind of unintelligible, heavily accented garble as if this bitch had marbles in her mouth. Then I notice no one standing up to the name. She calls the long name out again, but this time it sounds like it's emanating from her puckered ass instead of her opened mouth.

I stand up, craning my head to direct an ear at her from a distance. She notices me and calls out: "Are......?" Again, the mouthful of cum reply. I walk up to the counter, look lady, I don't know what the hell you are saying, I can't understand a word coming out of your head. Who are you calling? She walks off, back into the building and I stand there for a moment before going through the glass doors on my left and meeting her just inside of Cubicle Hell standing next to a Big, Black, Burly security guard. He looks as if he's about to punch in my face just for walking though the door unannounced. In a heavily accented West Indian accent she asks in a low tone, "Are you Hobobob?" Is that what you were saying outside? I ask her. "Are you?" She asks again, tiredly. Yeah. She turns and walks off.

I follow behind her, trying to calm down. This is how they mark you as not attending one of their silly meetings when you can't hear your name called out because you are waiting for a FUCKING NUMBER!! And the bitch refuses to call it out louder than the multitude of voices in conversation in the room, even though they have a big, digital board on the wall that's supposed to display the latest number called, but guess what? The shit doesn't work. Typical inanity, right?

I walk into a double cubicle, with two desks, two chairs and four visitor chairs on the other side of the desks. There already is a woman and a mother and child on the setup on the right. I take the setup on the left, sitting in front of the West Indian's lady's desk. I place my heavily filled valise on my lap and wait as she regards her computer screen, then turns to me. With a lifeless smile she says, "You did not attend your drug and alcohol screening on the third of June." Second of June, I correct her. She looks at the screen, presses a few buttons, then returns to me with the lifeless smile. "Oh yes, the second of June."

Super. I zip open my valise and go through the stack of paperwork therein in search of the confirm- ation letter from the examiner at the screening, stating that I was there. "You'll have to provide the court with documentation explaining why you didn't make the screening that is an acceptable excuse," the West Indian says with a crocodile grin. "Have a great day." I freeze, my hand stopping cold in the valise, not finding the paperwork yet. I look up at her, what?

"That's it Mr. Hobobob. You can go now." I don't have to produce the paperwork here? She shakes her head. "That will all be taken care of at the Fair Hearing." But on the confirmation paperwork for my Fair Hearing it also says that I didn't bring verification for eligibility. I root around for the letter. "That's taken care of at the Fair Hearing, Mr. Hobobob." I stop again, look at my watch. It's been just a little less than five minutes. And that's it? "That's it, Mr. Hobobob, you can go now."

I zip up my valise and walk from the cubicle and then exit Cubicle Hell. I step out of the building into the hot summer day shaking my head as to just how silly Social Services is. They actually pay a person to meet with me and tell me that the meeting has absolutely no bearing on my Fair Hearing. The sole purpose of the meeting is to cut my benefits if I did not attend it. Makes sense doesn't it? I burn all the way back home on the train. They actually pay someone to sit in a chair and spend five minutes just to play attendance keeper so that they can delete you from aid. Wild.

I get home and lay across my bed, my entire body wracked with pain from the long walk in the heat. I am really punishing myself with these walks, but I'm feeling the benefits already. I have energy and I can walk and deal with my fellow humans on a daily basis. Stepping out of my front door for any reason is a win/win for me. It really is. Also, I have time to think and think hard, to ruminate. To go over things over and over in my tight little skull to come up with answers to my many predicaments. It's all good.

There is a pounding sound reverberating against my walls and doors. I look around. It's the pounding beat of a drum in a pop song. Billie Jean, by Micheal Jackson. Loud, really loud. I open my front door and the blasting beat is rocking from Paula's door right across from mine. What the fuck? Did she get a new multi-watt stereo recently? And she's playing Micheal Jackson? Who plays Micheal Jackson any more?


Thriller comes on next. I crawl into bed and think of a building full of zombies. Fucking Skeksies! I close my eyes.

HobobobSource URL: http://extravagancedeplumes.blogspot.com/2010/06/
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Summertime and the Living Is . . .

by Jo Robertson



We’ve just reached the triple digits in northern California and I feel like the Wicked Witch of the West screeching, “I’m melting, I’m melting.”

Summer’s definitely here to stay in our little corner of the world. In spite of the heat, mosquitoes, and escalating air conditioner bills, summer recalls those wonderful memories of childhood in my home state of Virginia.

Barefoot explorations. My mother never cared if we ran wild and barefoot all summer long. My standard clothing issue was shorts and halter top and NO SHOES. Our property sloped down the hillside to the banks of the James River and my brother and I spent hours exploring the territory.
Barefoot.
Gives me the shivers now.




Sleeping in. We had a screened in side porch where we always slept during the hot, humid summers. Our old house had a swamp cooler, but no air conditioning, so the meager breeze that swept off the river was essential!
Why is sleeping in still so wickedly delicious?

Fireflies. Not the Nathan Fillion kind – yum – and I’ll again recommend your buying the complete DVD of that amazing Joss Whedon TV series – but the bugs that light up.
As kids we always caught fireflies during the summer, captured them inside my mom’s canning jars, and stared at them all night as they rested on the floor by my bed. I'm still fascinated by the way their tiny bodies flash this amazing green light.

Ticks. Yes, we had tons of those little buggers. I distinctly remember one particularly fat one burrowing its body into my right butt cheek. I was about eleven, I think, and horrified at the thought of some crawly creature sucking my blood out like a vampire. That was also the summer I got interested in Bram Stoker. Mom used alcohol and tweezers and finally snipped off the head, leaving the body deep in my tender flesh.
I don’t remember the rest – I think I passed out.

Accidents. Why is summer always the time someone breaks a bone, gnashes a wrist or knee, or falls into an open sewer? I mention these three things because the summer I was twelve, my little brother Ken, eleven, managed to do all three on consecutive Saturdays.
Really.
The sewer was the worst. And I swear -- I was responsible only for one of the events -- the slashed wrist.

Ice Cream. I know, I know. It’s way cheaper to buy ice cream nowadays than to make your own, but there’s something that speaks of home and mom and comfort during warm summer nights with a giant bowl of homemade ice cream for company.



I’m again offering my super-duper infamous recipe for anyone who missed it previously. It’s easy, quick, and so light you’ll eat the entire canister by yourself. If the other people living in your house don’t beat you to it!


3 cups sugar


2 quarts of half and half


1 can evaporated milk


2 TB vanilla extract


1 TB lemon extract

And finally, making out on a blanket (otherwise known as picnicking). Okay, I’ll keep this PG-13, but summertime reminds me of dates I had with Dr. Big when we picnicked by the river. It was so beautiful and we were so much in love. Nuff said!



What about you? What's your standard "uniform" for the summer? What childhood memories does summertime bring to you? What kind of memories are you making for you children?
Are summer sports your thing -- water skiiing, rafting, sunbathing (hey, that's a sport!) Are you a sun worshipper or do you avoid it like the plague?
Do you enjoy picnic scenes in a romance novel? Do they remind you of a more relaxed time as opposed to our current hectic pace?
Source URL: http://extravagancedeplumes.blogspot.com/2010/06/
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Guest Post: Mini things for mini people...

...that i'd totally wear in grown-up sizes...

{left to right, top to bottom: roxy little girls romper, smallable striped tee, j.crew girls dress, giga & zaza shoes, j.crew boy's tie, and trumpette metallic mocs}

-- By Joy from Oh Joy and Oh Joy EatsSource URL: http://extravagancedeplumes.blogspot.com/2010/06/
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Josh Turner Mystic Lake Showroom Tickets

Josh Turner is an American country music singer and actor that began singing early on in his church choir. In 2001, Josh Turner debuted on the Grand Ole Opry with the song "Long Black Train," then in 2003 he released his debut album also entitled Long Black Train. Since then, Josh has released four studio albums and has won awards for Song of the Year and Songwriter of the Year in 2004. Now is your chance to get a great deal on Josh Turner Mystic Lake Showroom tickets and see him perform live on Thursday, August 19th at 7:30 pm. Our seats in the center section currently start at just $90 each. Get yours now before it's too late!Source URL: http://extravagancedeplumes.blogspot.com/2010/06/
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Venice Underground

Recently my best friend and his lovely wife took time out from their festive lives in New York City to visit me which led to a Sunday afternoon brunch which led to wandering about my neighborhood which led to passing a thrift store advertising $3 DVDs for sale which led to my best friend and I browsing racks and racks of DVDs of movies we'd never heard of (and probably wish we'd never heard of) which led to me becoming obsessed with finding a DVD of a movie I'd never heard of for the specific purpose of reviewing it for my blog and, after much perusal, and after also finding "Before The Devil Knows You're Dead" tucked away amidst all the crap, and after begging my best friend to lend me the necessary $6 (thanks, Jacob! This review wouldn't exist without you! You did the world a service!) since I'd just handed over all my money for coffee and overeasy eggs on top of biscuits and gravy, I had the perfect DVD in my hands.

"Venice Underground" (2005). This DVD appealed to me over the others because - despite its hilariously gratuitous cover - its cast and premise seemed to suggest it took itself seriously. That is what I wanted.

The cast is an awesome mix of slumming knowns - Edward Furlong, Jodi Lyn O'Keefe, Mark Boone Junior, Eric Mabius, and the man, the myth, Danny Trejo - and (there is a reason they're) unknowns - Nichole Hiltz, Nicholas Gonzalez, Randall Batinkoff, Carolina Garcia. The premise is painfully, expectedly by the book: the drug trade along the Venice Beach Boardwalk is, like, completely and totally outta control. So the Police Captain (Ed Lauter), who at one point actually declares someone "couldn't keep his hand out of the cookie jar", enlists the "bold" scheme of Sgt. Frank Mills (Batinkoff) who wants to take young pups not even finished with their training in the police academy and have them go undercover. He explains thusly: "Cops think and act like cops. These kids are all instincts and street smarts." After throwing up in his mouth a little, and against his better judgement, the Police Captain acquiesces.

This A-list squad isn't as motley as you'd expect. On the contrary, they are quite glamorous and a couple of them appear to have wandered over from some canceled Reality TV island. It's kinda like "The O.C." meets "Serpico." Gary (Furlong) and Tyler (O'Keefe) are an item. Samantha (Hiltz) is initially in bed with Sgt. Mills but it turns out this sly little minx is also in bed with Danny (Mabius) and, oh yeah, she's pregnant. Yes. Pregnant.

Kudos to Samantha for ceasing to drink liquor in the face of her impending pregnancy but, that said, should she really stay on the case? Should she really be busting down doors with a glock? Should she really be going under deep cover as a hooker? I mean, I hate to be that guy but, seriously, she's PREGNANT!!! Is this the message writer/director Eric DelaBarre yearned to send with "Venice Underground"? Pregnant women can be undercover cops, too?

Regardless of all this activity in the boudoir, though, the Venice Boardwalk drug ring must still be brought down, and so it will, as our intrepid gang wheels and deals its way through a shady music biz exec (Boone Junior) and a riotously unthreatening low level drug dealer named Joby (Bret Roberts) and an ominous dude in a car with no plates (Brian White) and the godfather, sort of, of a southside gang (Trejo) and so on and then, of course, there is the "mysterious" Man With The Golden Gun whose point-of-view we always see as he goes around eliminating the competition.

The acting is uniformly wooden (Furlong appears to have gone on an overnight drunk just prior to filming) and the filmmaking is predictably terrible as DelaBarre employs endless title cards ("Northside Dealer's House. 2:40 PM.") and insipid little flashbacks since I assume that he assumes no one was really paying any attention and awful slow-mo - lots of awful slow-mo - and in one moment of surreal absurdity, during the climactic gunfight and (half the money in our budget when towards this) explosion - the scene switches from late afternoon to night in 2 seconds. And don't even ask how the owner of the "mysterious" Golden Gun is revealed. That's the best you've got? Dude, no one's asking for a "Sixth Sense"-like twist but couldn't you have given it a little more thought?

What did I honestly expect from a $3 DVD of a movie called "Venice Underground"? Uh....this, I guess. What it does is re-inforce the fact that there is this whole other side to the movie business, all these little low budget movies on the fringe that eventually wind up on $3 DVD racks. Its producer was Jeff Most who, in looking at his IMBD credits, produced "The Crow" and "The Specialist" way back in the day, and has since produced the seemingly endless gurgle of "The Crow" follow-ups and a bunch of other movies like "Venice Underground". He must have money to toss at people like Furlong and O'Keefe and Trejo so he must be well off. Probably has a nice house in the cheaper section of the Hills. He's making a living. Respect.

But as someone who genuinely believes the cinema can change lives and re-align the stars re-realizing these facts about the industry just depresses me. Thank God I have "Before The Devil Knows You're Dead" to cheer me back up.Source URL: http://extravagancedeplumes.blogspot.com/2010/06/
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Guest Post: Magical Bubble Photos

When I came across these photos by Romain Laurent, I let out an audible *gasp." I wonder how he was able to capture such a magical moment? What are your thoughts?

-- By Rachel from Black EiffelSource URL: http://extravagancedeplumes.blogspot.com/2010/06/
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Kissing Frogs

by Susan Sey

It’s 1994. I’m twenty-one years old, student teaching 9th grade English. In the four months I’ve been on the job, Tonya Harding has put out a hit on Nancy Kerrigan’s knee & Kurt Cobain’s committed suicide. It’s a pretty accurate barometer of how my pursuit of a teaching certificate is going, actually. But since my dad has recently informed me I can’t be a camp counselor forever, I feel compelled to augment my imminent English degree with an actual skill set. Hence the teaching certificate.

My cooperating teacher is napping behind a barricade of books on his desk. I am three inches shorter & twenty pounds lighter than my smallest student, a fact that has not gone unnoticed. Kids are actually singing & dancing in the aisles. I have completely lost control of my class, which is bad enough. But then something in my head snaps—what the hell am I doing spending my senior year of college in high school??—and I lose control of myself, too.

At the top of my surprisingly formidable camp counselor lungs, I bellow, “STOP!”

There is an instant of shocked silence. I find this immensely gratifying & am about to perform a hostile take over of my own class when somebody gets there first. Two beats into my hard-won silence, a girl yells, “Hammer time! Doot, doot, doot-doot…”

(It’s a song, for those of you too young to get the joke. MC Hammer? See, there were these crazy pants, too, & this little dance he did, and...okay, never mind. You'll have to trust me on this. It was a big thing.)

Anyway, the class about injures itself laughing—admittedly, her comic timing is exquisite—and there goes my brief flirtation with efficacy.

Okay. So. Not a teacher. Sorry, Dad.

And why am I telling you this story?

Because I got invited to my 20 high school reunion this week.

Because in my high school year book, I predicted that by now I'd be living on my own private island with an iguana named Issaac writing best-selling novels. (I have a husband, two kids & a house in the suburbs, in case you were wondering how that worked out for me.)

Because while my dad didn't specifically include writing romance novels in the "camp counseling is not a career" talk, I understood it came under the same heading.

Because after thirteen years of trying other things, I sat down & started writing anyway.

Because after five years of writing, I sold a book.

Because after two years of waiting, that book--Money, Honey--is finally going to hit the shelves.

In exactly one week.

Ladies (and gentlemen, I know you're out there), today I am here to testify. If yesterday's post didn't convince you (and congrats again, Suz), maybe today's will tip the balance.

Dreams aren't impossible. Only improbable. And this is coming from a woman whose toddlers used to blurt out, "Rejection letters!" every time they saw a mailbox.

Sometimes you have to kiss a lot of frogs, people. But you kiss the right one?

Worth it. Totally worth it.

So what about you? Have you ever dreamed the impossible dream? Longed for something so outlandish you didn't really allow yourself to hope for it? (I include Hugh Jackman, Christian Bale, & a tremendous singing voice on my list, so don't be shy.) Did you ever pursue it? Even a little? How did that work out for you?Source URL: http://extravagancedeplumes.blogspot.com/2010/06/
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Guest Post: Picnic Ideas

I love Joanna's idea of having a picnic club. What a blast that would be throughout the warming spring and summer months! I envision delicious food picked up a a local deli or nearby farmer's market and lots of outdoor games like bocce ball and croquet and just having fun hanging out with a group of friends. Here are a few things to bring outside. Happy picnicking, everyone!

From top left: Disposable wooden forks; Portland picnic plates; Weber Smokey Joe Grill; france cheeseboard; Belvoir fruit juice A.P.C. dress; John Lewis picnic hamper Anorak kissing rabbits picnic blanket

-- By Rachel from Black EiffelSource URL: http://extravagancedeplumes.blogspot.com/2010/06/
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The Birth of A Story...

by Suzanne

In case you're one of the few people on the planet that I haven't told, and trust me, I'm pretty sure I've shouted it from the mountain tops, I sold my first book this month!

Now, this wasn't my first book. Nope, it was actually my ninth. I've been writing seriously for about 15 years. Over that time I've tried my hand at many romantic sub genres. At first it was American Historical...the market fell out from under me. Then contemporary, then contemporary small town, (not much market at the time for those). Then romantic suspense...oh, wait the market went really dark, plot-wise.

Hmmm, what was a girl to do? I'd always had good lusty sexy scenes. So when my CP Jo Davis started writing erotica, I thought...okay, why not give that a try?  Here's where I ran into a problem. I wanted to write an erotica where the sex was integral to the plot. One would not exist without the other. Geesh, exactly how was I going to do that?

As I am want to do in the middle of the night, I picked up a pad of paper and a pen and let my creative forces free write, with a focus on how intense sex could not only be a major part of the plot, but also propel the story forward.

Well first I needed a character. A heroine in need of saving, whether she knows it or not. Next a hero to come save her. Wait. This is an erotica....I can have TWO heroes. Oh boy!! I'm suddenly liking this very much! Okay, so what kind of heroes do I like? Tall, dark, strong, cowboys....no....wait...Lawmen. (Have we discussed how TOMBSTONE is one of my all time favorite movies? Tom Selleck and Sam Elliott in THE SHADOWRIDERS made me drool? How I adored all the bad guys in THE LONG RIDERS? How much I loved the romance and the gunfights in OPEN RANGE?) And hey...a western historical erotic romance? Well, that's taking a unique twist to a genre.

So now I have my cast of characters, my time period, and a spark of a plot. I flesh it out, (pardon the pun), and send the idea to Jo with a "what do you think of this story idea?" e-mail. Her return e-mail was very enthusiastic. I decided I'd give it a try, but if the story didn't hold together, I would put it aside as an experiment gone wrong.

But here's the thing. I fell in love. Yep, with all three characters. I wanted the men...uh...yeah, I wanted the men to capture the bad guy. I wanted the heroine to get justice. I wanted the bad guys to get what they deserved. So, the book kept growing, building, until I couldn't stop. Nope. Had to finish it.

Okay, now I needed some feedback and a title. So after some brainstorming, I came up with a title I loved, The Surrender Of Lacy Morgan. It had so many connotations that fit this story I just had to go with it. Next, I entered Miss Lacy, as she has become affectionately known in the Lair, in a writing contest or two. Dang, if she didn't win both erotica categories! Yippee!! Those contests also garnered her a request for the full manuscript by one big NY publisher and a request for the partial from another--alas, sadly neither panned out.

So here comes my middle of the night what-the-hell moment. I e-mailed a query off to Ellora's Cave. I immediately got a standard auto reply that they'd received my query and it was in the queue to be read and that I'd hear something in 1-3 months. Okay, cool.

Two days later, on Thursday, I get another e-mail that looked like a repeat auto reply, until I reread it. This was from a pre-reader who liked what I'd submitted and put in the queue for the acquiring editors to read. I would hear something in 1-6 months. Okay, even cooler!

The next Monday I receive a very enthusiastic e-mail from an editor who loved what I'd sent and requested me to send the entire manuscript by e-mail for her to read. And she'd be getting back to me in....1-6 months. Okay, super cool!

A month went by.

Two.

Now I was getting worried. Things had been going by so fast, then poof. Did this bode well for Miss Lacy? Was it an ominous warning off the port bow?

Then the week before Memorial Day...two months from when the process started, I see another e-mail from the editor in my inbox. OH NO....poor Lacy is about to be rejected. Because if the editor wanted the story she'd call, right? Isn't that what everyone says?

So, with hands over my eyes, I click open... It's NOT a rejection, HALLELUJAH!, but an apology for taking so long, and a question re: was the story still available?

Well, yes it was! After a deep, calming breath, I replied as professionally as possible, that yes it was and I'd look forward to hearing her thoughts after she had a chance to read it.  (Even if it took 1-6 months.)

A week later, I get another e-mail. She loved the book! The editor not only loved the story, she loved the idea of the other brothers in the book having their own stories, too! But she didn't think she could buy it as is, because, "There was too much story" in it. Would I be willing to revise and resubmit, so that the really good sex in the book be more of the focus?

Here's where some people make a mistake. They say, "No. Take it as it is or not at all."

Blink.



Okay....cut to the chase, after a week or so of e-mails about how I was proceeding, did she have any suggestions, etc. I got another e-mail.

Jillian Bell, the editor with the most excellent judgement and taste, wanted to contract the book for Ellora's Cave! I still hadn't completed the revisions, but I seriously think the professional effort I was making to comply let her know she could work with me and that I meant business when it came to getting my book published.

Okay...I only read the first paragraph of that e-mail, then went calmly into the living room, stepped in front of the baseball game on TV and did my version of the happy dance! Hubby lifted one brow and said..."Uh...I take it you have good news?" "Duh! Yes! They want to buy a book!"

Then after much hugging I made him read the e-mail to be sure I wasn't seeing things. This is where I learned I'd have to change one character's name. Okay...no problem! Hawke became Dakota. Yippee!!!

Next came phone calls to my CP's Sandy Blair and Jo Davis, and of course our Bandita Joanie. Then e-mails to my Texas girls, the Foxes and then the Bandit Loop! Oh yeah, and then my Mom! And after three glasses of champagne from one of the bottles I'd been saving for this occasion, I called my boss, who is my beta reader! Oh yeah, and the girls at work!

Honestly, you know when it really hit me? The next night on my way to work. I started grinning from ear to ear, doing the happy dance in the car at all the stop lights. Yep! I had received the contract by e-mail that day, read it and was going to sign it.

So, the call, wasn't really a call....but
I am a contracted, soon to be published author!



So, tell me what's the best party you ever threw! What was the occassion? Did people cram in and leave the place a disaster? (Uhm...let's make sure Sven and the boys have a reason to complain tomorrow!) Oh....and how do you feel about Western romances...both the regular and erotic variety?


LET'S PARTY!!
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Writing on the wild side or... Where do you come up with this stuff?

by Tawny

I'm so jazzed to welcome one of our favorite authors, Pamela Palmer, back to the Lair. Today's she's hanging out with us and talking about that ever-exciting topic that keeps all writer's going hmmm... Imaginations. I know, you can't wait to hear what she has to say (okay, read what she has to say) so without further ado... Here's Pam!!!

All fiction writers have imaginations, big imaginations, or we’d never come up with the stories we do. We’re the ones walking around with the voices in our heads. But these big imaginations can take different forms. I think all novelists love the quesiton ‘what if?’ But not every writer looks at a plane in the sky and wonders, “What if it exploded?” or “What if it just disappeared? Or morphed into an alien spacecraft?”

I think those of us who write speculative fiction (paranormal/sci-fi/fantasy) tend to have brains that serve up the strangest what-if questions. What if that dude in front of me in the check-out line were to suddenly shift into a jaguar? What if I could suck the life out of someone with the touch of my hand? What if I were immortal? All three of these questions came to me at one point or another in the creation of my latest Feral Warriors shape-shifter novel, RAPTURE UNTAMED, which hits stores Tuesday (June 29th). It’s the story of a pair of immortals -- a jaguar shifter with a ripping bad attitude, and a non-shifter who has a secret -- a forbidden ability that could make her a danger even to the Feral Warriors. The shifter, Jag, is the last male on earth she could ever trust. And, ultimately, the only one who can save her soul.

So, where does this stuff come from? Honestly, I wish I could give you the secret. I think we’re born with brains that serve up the surreal. When my son was four, he woke up one morning filled with the memory of a dream -- a dream about a magic ring with incredible power. His detailed explanation of the workings of this ring took a solid ten minutes and made eerily logical sense. Yes, he enjoyed books and he watched t.v., but I read the books to him, and was almost always nearby when the t.v. was on. I’d have known if he’d heard about this ring somewhere. He hadn’t. It was the creation of a four-year-old’s imagination. How does a brain that young come up with something that intricate, something that doesn’t exist? It amazed me at the time, and it still does.

Do non-writers dream like this? I don’t know. You tell me. My son has no desire to be a writer, but I’m convinced he has the imagination for it if he ever changes his mind. And I absolutely dream crazy, exciting, high-action dreams along with the more mundane and frustrating I’m-late-but-I-can’t-remember-how-to-get-there dreams.

What if I could shove my hand through that table...without breaking it? What if the Dupont Circle fountain in D.C. was a gate into the fairy world? What if I could see the future? The questions come almost fast as I can type them. There’s a fine line between weirdly creative and crazy, trust me. So where do these ideas come from? The best I can figure, they’re all a function of some weird quirk of the brain. If there’s a cure, I don’t want it! If it weren’t for the strange paths my mind wanders, I wouldn’t be able to tell the stories I love.

Do you dream? Do you remember your dreams? And if you do, are they strange or pretty normal (for dreams)?

In celebration of the release of RAPTURE UNTAMED (in three days!), I’m giving away three signed copies of the first book in the Feral Warriors series, DESIRE UNTAMED, one each to three random commenters.

Sweet dreams!
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Overbearing Father Figure

Shit, I've done it again!

For the past four days I have been walking down to 59th street, Columbus Circle and back home for the exercise and exposure. I've picked up a new pair of headsets for my MP3 player and now I have music as I stride along the moderately filled blocks of the city streets, oblivious to the world around me. I'm also oblivious to the area around my slacks, namely the zipper part. I know you know by now that I go commando wherever I go, just in case I have to pull my pants down in public. I want that extra embarrassment that men that go commando get whenever such an event arises.

Well today, like normally when this shit happens, I am looking at the faces of the women who are looking in my face. I know, I know, I look like a madman with my beard and crazy hair (oh, I also forgot to take my cap this morning which when I'm wearing it makes me appear at least a little bit normal). I know I'm not the sexy beast that they wish to find in their lives, so what the fuck? That's when I recognize the cool breeze blowing in my slacks. Not around my slacks, IN my slacks. Now, I continue to walk and as you know there are hundreds of women walking on the streets in the afternoons between rush hour and lunch hour, the in-between time that I go walking simply because there are fewer people on the streets.

For some reason, during these hours, there are mostly women on the streets and very few men. I believe if there was a man walking past me he would have given me the XYZ sign...oh XYZ meaning 'X-amine Your Zipper'. You know the move, the hands go to the groin and imitate zipping up the zipper. But no, nothing. Now I get to thinking, what if these women did not even notice that my zipper was open and the worst was happening to me? By reaching down to investigate the issue with my fingers, I would be drawing attention to the area. I shake my head and think as I stroll and come to the conclusion that if my Johnson is out and greeting the world, well it's been doing it for awhile now. I'd better put him away before some hard up old lady sees it, jumps on her cell phone and calls the cops. Indecent man walking!

I reach down and Sho'Nuff there he is, my life-long pal greeting the New York public like a politician running for office. With a finger I shove him back into the pants and with the other hand, zip up the zipper. Then I walk faster down the block, looking to the left and the right for the 'HEAT'. I duck through the thin crowds and zip around vendors to lose any tails. When I felt that I had done enough I stroll calmly again, knowing that someone rushing through the streets would draw attention. I was just so grateful to get home and shut my door behind me that I almost passed out.

I checked my account and noticed that my benefits were restarted, which is good. I can make it through the month. I am also assaulted with a blizzard of mail, mostly from Social Services. One is a four page letter stating my benefits have been continued. Another is a one page letter stating that I have a confirmation of my Fair Hearing request and that my benefits have been continued. Now I wonder, why the need for the four page letter? Oh, of course, to really fuck with your mind! To wholly confuse you with a with a fucking hurricane of useless paperwork so that you are so turned around that you are ineffective in pointing out HRA's errors.

Such as accusing me of not attending the Drug and Alcohol screening after I did and got the confirmation letter from the examiner that day. So now I'm running around showing them that they fucked up...oh, and of course dealing with pounds of paperwork regarding this. Hey, and masturbate with this brand of Vaseline if you'd like. On the very SAME confirmation of my Fair Hearing letter, on the bottom they have the issues to be addressed at the Fair Hearing. Nothing really descriptive, just a brief comment. You should know what should be happening there, because you called for it! So I read it. It reads:

"SNA-Failure to cooperate with drug/alcohol screening/ assessment", yeah, that's it. I've got that covered. I've got my confirmation letter that I was there right in my hand. But right under that one, there is another one...a single tiny line like the one above it. "FS-Failure to verify any aspect of food stamp eligibility." WHAT IN THE FUCK? I went through that whole shit! I was told that everything was cool. So why are they attaching this complaint, which I never made, onto this case? The only thing that I didn't produce is a lease, and they never asked for me to produce one. I shake my head in disbelief and open another letter.

The next one, also from Social Services, states: "This notice informs you that, prior to the Fair Hearing, you MUST attend a Mandatory Dispute Resolution interview to discuss the issues relating to your public assistance benefits that you intend to raise at the Fair Hearing." Okay, this is a first. A mandatory meeting before the Fair Hearing. Makes any sense to you? This meeting has absolutely no affect on the Fair Hearing, but to miss it "this could affect your benefits." A nice way of saying that they will cut you off on that hour of that day.

This wouldn't be so incredibly stupid to me if not in the opening of the very next envelope in the mail is another letter from Social Services. Dated the same day as the other two. This one states: "Your public assistance case has been RECERTIFIED for the period August 1, 2010 to July 31, 2011. The following individuals will receive Public Assistance: Hobobob." So here we are, getting confirmation for something that I'm being accused of failing to verify any aspect of. I shake my head. This is the insanity that you go through just to get aid. That's alright. It won't last forever. I see the day soon that I'll be completely off public assistance. Soon.

On a good note, another envelope has my tax records in it. I sit down and open the documents carefully, flipping through them. On the records they show that I worked for a small technology firm before it was bought out by the larger firm that I was fired from. The tiny firm has it's address on my Tax report...111 Fulton Street...below Canal Street, near Ground Zero. Actually, my building was closer at One Liberty Plaza, but this is close enough. I am happy because this is the only proof that I could come up with. My tiny firm is long gone, and the new firm? Their address is in fucking Boston. I swear that conglomerate isn't worth shit.

I feel good, because now I can send documentation to the 911 Bureau and get Psychiatric and Substance abuse help from professionals dealing with the workers in the disaster. I am happy. At least there is some agency in New York that has their shit together. I feel something run up my spine. I reach back for it but nothing is there. It's the bugs all over the place again. No, please. I get up and walk around as tiny pinpricks wrack my body, from head to toe. The bugs are biting me to no end. I go and pop two pain killers and in time the misery ends. I live in fear of this event. It's making me crazy. I can scratch and scratch to no end, and it'll still itch. That's fucked up.

I make my appoint- ment with Doc. A. and he checks my blood pressure and my blood work, giving me a clean bill of health. Keep up the walking and the exercise, and eating beans. I need the potassium. I nod, will do, Chief. Then he looks me square in the eye, "How is that itching going?" Still bad Doc. I don't know if the painkillers are working, or is it that I just THINK that they are working. "Well, have you been taking your LAMICTAL twice a day?" I frown. Twice a day? I thought I was supposed to be taking it once a day. He frowns: "How about your WELLBUTRIN, are you taking that twice a day?" Am I supposed to? On both medications I have been taking them once a day. "Well, how do you feel?" He asks me. I'm fine, Doc. But when I stopped taking them I felt fine. It took my close friends to convince me that I was flipping my lid. He nods: "That's the problem with being bi-polar. You can't tell these things on your own. Many people stop and think that they are just as fine as they were when they were on their meds, but obviously not." Well, I'm on them to stay doc, simple as that. Should I go back up to the maximum dosage? "What do your friends say? Are you better or worse?" Better in fact.

But couldn't I be better than better? "Stay with what you are doing, and if you think you need more, take them." Cool. He smiles, "Oh, and another thing...basically almost all of your medications can cause itching and rash, so I'm going to chose one to discontinue, and we'll see how that goes. If it continues, then we'll drop another one until we find the culprit." Okay, which one? "The NORVASC."

I get home that night and look at the bottles. The WELL- BUTRIN says on it, once a day. The LAMICTAL says twice daily. I pop another one. We'll see how that feels. I sit in my dark room, hungry. I have recently found a store downstairs that has rather professional knives for two dollars a knife. I go nuts for some reason. I buy steak knives, and cleavers, and long bread knives, and butcher knives. I bring them all home and cater to my new addiction. Chopping vegetables. Yes, I love chopping vegetables down to fine bits. I just love it, I don't know why. Maybe it forces me to concentrate, which I miss doing since I've stopped working on computers.

Or maybe it's my new OCD? My Obsessive/ Compulsive Disorder. I seem to have to be obsessing over something, why not chopped vegetables? Oh, and cleaning my room. I'm chopping away with my new knife, long, wide, like something in a horror movie.

My neck starts to itch.

HobobobSource URL: http://extravagancedeplumes.blogspot.com/2010/06/
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