Hot Dog, We Have a Winner!

Congrats to Anna Lisa, the winner of my "The Role of a Lifetime" drawing!

And thanks to all who entered!

What's Your Profile?

MENTAL STATUS: "Stressed". Throwing a last minute BBQ together at my house with two other couples and kids. I'm thinking surf and turf.

Over on one of the various yahoo groups I belong to one of the authors posted some interesting statistics on the "profile of a book" buyer from Zogby International.

Here's a small sample of what they said:

The most-frequently named factor in making someone want to buy a book is suggestions from friends and family (60 percent), followed by book reviews (49 percent). Thirty-one percent of online shoppers "depend on online reviews for recommendations" (it's not clear if these are consumer reviews, though).

In contrast to some previous data, 38 percent of the respondents said that "very often" they go into a bookstore knowing what they're looking for while 43 percent said that's the case "somewhat often." Still, 77 percent said they will at least some times make additional unplanned book purchases when were looking for a specific title. The subject is what draws most browsers first (48 percent).

I definitely buy books on recommendations. Sometimes I browse Amazon.com looking for chick-lit or romantic comedies. I always click on the "if you like so and so, try this author". I do and then read the reviews/blurb. (Leaning more heavily on the blurb) I've tried a few authors that way.

I've also bought quite a few books from reading various blogs--Ally Carter and Eileen Cook come to mind, but I know there were a few more, including e-book authors. If I enjoyed what an author had to say and/or how they said it on their blog, I was more than willing to buy their book.

I've bought books because of RITA or other contest wins, too. Usually to see what the fuss was about on a book.

How about you? What's your "book buyer profile"?

Wabbit Season

IN THE NEWS: "Robbie ''Kaptain'' Knievel, son of the late daredevil Evel Knievel, successfully jumped over 24 delivery trucks Saturday night at the site of one of his father's most famous stunts." Read more HERE.

Well, I got to really enjoy about 24 hours or so of being published before the "joy" of enjoy was sucked from my life. Reality has a way of sneaking in and smacking you upside the head when you least expect it. That's all right. It probably keeps me humble. (Somewhat humble)

Anyhew, thanks to everyone who entered/is entering/are thinking about entering my little contest and a BIG ole thanks to those who said they bought my book/are thinking about buying my book. It gives me the warm fuzzies.

So what was I going to blog about? Oh yeah.

I'm having a little love/hate relationship with bunnies right now. Bunnies, rabbits, those furry little creatures with white cotton tails. Yes, I know they're so cute. I know. But they're also eating all my newly planted flowers.

All my newly planted expensive flowers.


I managed to scare one away before he hacked the rest of this lily, but the little bugger did do damage to one stalk on the right.

When I came home from vacation, this is what I saw of my other lily.

Yeah. Nice, huh? You're probably thinking, What lily? Well, trust me. There was--"was" being the key word-- quite a bunch of lilies there before I left.

So I bought some Liquid Fence. It stinks--literally not figuratively. The smell is supposed to "train" rabbits not to come in the yard. Unfortunately, it stinks so much, it's keeping me out of my own yard too.

Any other non-harmful ways to keep bunnies away? I'd LOVE some ideas.

The Role of a Lifetime is NOW Available!

MENTAL STATUS: "Excited". My book is finally released!

You can buy it HERE.

And to celebrate my book release, I'm holding a little contest for a free e-book copy of it.
Please check out my website for all the little details. HERE.
(You have until midnight Friday, May 30th to enter)

Also, I'm over at the Samhain blog today (around 9AM)

Doing what you ask?

Why, pimping my book, of course. :) And telling how the story got started.
Check me out. HERE.

Memorial Day

Feeling Tag-eriffic

IN THE NEWS: The giant Texas sinkhole that formed last week is now a lake big enough to become the home of an alligator. Read more HERE.


Ok. We're playing tag again. Sasha Allgood got me, so here goes...


Here are Alice’s rules.
We’re playing Telephone again, only this time I’m going to call it “Whisper.”
What you do is make a change in the paragraph below. It can be as little as a single word or almost every word, so long as we can still recognize the paragraph you received. I’m talking about the one in the blog of the person who tagged you, not the original paragraph.


Tag three people, and link to them. Also link to the person who tagged you so the chain will not be broken!

Now go to the original paragraph at http://aliceaudrey.wordpress.com/2008/05/11/whisper and let Alice know you did it. She will link to you.

For extra credit, head over to http://aliceaudrey.wordpress.com/around June 9th for the contest based on this meme. You could win a $20 gift certificate.


Here’s my paragraph:

He came from Alabama, a banjo in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. His name was Wilbur, but she’d always called him Slick Willie. She liked his soft southern drawl and his crooked smile. She never did get a chance to kiss him. Instead, he played her a tune and danced her a jig, and ran off with a piglet named Bea.


So now, I'll tag: Angelle, Fionn, and Debora.


Enjoy, ladies...

I Have a Sister! (Uh, sort of)

MENTAL STATUS: "Refreshed". Just got back from... the Bahamas! Atlantis, to be specific.

IDOL COMMENT: Thank goodness David Cook won. I voted for him at least 10 or so times the other night, so I'm really happy for him.

Gee, I know some of my friends reading this are probably thinking, "Good heavens, Atlantis again?"

Yes, Atlantis AGAIN.

Lay off. I love that place. I know I'm in a rut. My hubby realizes we're in a rut. But as one of the mother's in my daughter's kindergarten class said, "I'd love to be in a rut like that." So, I guess it could be worse.

We had a FAB time. And I have to tell ya, nothing makes you look five pounds thinner than getting a nice tan--with tan lines especially. It's like spraying a girdle on yourself. I will post pictures soon. Uh, not of my girdle skin -- but of the Bahamas trip. I'm still getting back in the swing of things--like cooking dinner again (and obviously writing)--but I will download the pictures soon then I'll post a few shots.

And lastly, for some REALLY BIG news: one of my critique partners, Angelle Trieste just sold a story to Samhain Publishing!!! So now, we're not only crit partners but we're Samhain sisters as well. I'm so proud. *sniff sniff*

Anything new going on with you?

I'm back with a TEEN FIRST book

Yes, I'm back from my trip. (Details to follow tomorrow since I'm still unpacking and responding to e-mails)

But first... take a look at Robert Liparulo's YOUNG ADULT novel House of Dark Shadows: Dreamhouse Kings, Book #1. I can't wait to read it!




It's May 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!

Robert Liparulo

and his book:

House of Dark Shadows: Dreamhouse Kings, Book #1

Thomas Nelson (May 6, 2008)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Robert Liparulo is an award-winning author of over a thousand published articles and short stories. He is currently a contributing editor for New Man magazine. His work has appeared in Reader's Digest, Travel & Leisure, Modern Bride, Consumers Digest, Chief Executive, and The Arizona Daily Star, among other publications. In addition, he previously worked as a celebrity journalist, interviewing Stephen King, Tom Clancy, Charlton Heston, and others for magazines such as Rocky Road, Preview, and L.A. Weekly. He has sold or optioned three screenplays.

Robert is an avid scuba diver, swimmer, reader, traveler, and a law enforcement and military enthusiast. He lives in Colorado with his wife and four children.

Here are some of his titles:

Comes a Horseman

Germ

Deadfall

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

“A house of which one knows every room isn't worth living in.”

—Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa






Prologue


Thirty years ago

The walls of the house absorbed the woman’s screams, until they felt to her as muffled and pointless as yelling underwater. Still, her lungs kept pushing out cries for help. Her attacker carried her over his shoulder. The stench of his sweat filled her nostrils. He paid no heed to her frantic writhing, or the pounding of her fists on his back, or even her fingernails, which dug furrows into his flesh. He simply lumbered, as steadily as a freight train, through the corridors of the big house.

She knew where they were heading, but not where she would end up. In this house, nothing was normal, nothing as it appeared. So while she knew in advance the turns her attacker would take, which hallways and doors he would traverse, their destination was as unknowable as a faraway galaxy. And that meant her taking would be untraceable. She would be unreachable to searchers. To would-be rescuers. To her family— and that realization terrified her more than being grabbed out of her bed. More than the flashes of imagined cruelty she would suffer away from the protection of the people who loved her. More than death.

But then she saw something more terrifying: her children, scrambling to catch up, to help. Their eyes were wide, streaming. They stumbled up the narrow staircase behind her attacker, seeming far below, rising to meet her. The thought of them following her into the chasm of her fate was more than she could stand.

“Go back,” she said, but by this time her throat was raw, her voice weak.

The man reached the landing and turned into another corridor.

Temporarily out of sight, her son yelled, “Mom!” His seven-year-old voice was almost lost in the shrillness of his panic. He appeared on the landing. His socked feet slipped on the hardwood floor and he went down. Behind him, his little sister stopped. She was frightened and confused, too young to do anything more than follow her brother. He clambered up and started to run again.

A hand gripped his shoulder, jarring him back.

The boy’s father had something in his fist: the lamp from his nightstand! He past the boy in the hallway. His bare feet gave him traction.

Thank God, she thought.

He reached her in seconds. With the lamp raised over his head, he grabbed her wrist. He pulled, tried to anchor himself to the floor, to the carpeted runner now covering the wood planks. But the brute under her walked on, tugging him with them. The man yanked on her arm. Pain flared in her shoulder. He might as well have tried pulling her from a car as it sped passed.

She caught a glimpse of the bizarrely shaped light fixtures on the corridor walls—mostly carved faces with glowing eyes. The bulbs flickered in time with her racing heart. She could not remember any of the lights doing that before. It was as though the electrical current running through the wires was responding to a disruption in the way things were supposed to be, a glitch in reality.

“Henry,” she said, pleading, hopeful.

His grip tightened as he stumbled along behind them. He brought the lamp’s heavy base down on her assailant. If the man carrying her flinched, she did not feel it. If he grunted or yelled out, she did not hear it.

What he did was stop. He spun around so quickly, the woman’s husband lost his grip on her. And now facing the other direction, she lost sight of him. Being suddenly denied her husband’s visage felt like getting the wind knocked out of her. She realized he was face to face with the man who’d taken her, and that felt like watching him step off a cliff.

“Nooo!” she screamed, her voice finding some volume. “Henry!”

His hand gripped her ankle, then broke free. The man under her moved in a violent dance, jostling her wildly. He spun again and her head struck the wall.

The lights went out completely . . . . but no, not the lights . . . her consciousness. It came back to her slowly, like the warmth of fire on a blistery day.

She tasted blood. She’d bitten her tongue. She opened her eyes. Henry was crumpled on the floor, receding as she was carried away. The children stood over him, touching him, calling him. Her son’s eyes found hers again. Determination hardened his jaw, pushed away the fear . . . at least a measure of it. He stepped over his father’s legs, coming to her rescue. Henry raised his head, weary, stunned. He reached for the boy, but missed.

Over the huffing breath of the man, the soft patter of her son’s feet reached her ears. How she’d loved that sound, knowing it was bringing him to her. Now she wanted it to carry him away, away from this danger. Her husband called to him in a croaking, strained voice. The boy kept coming.

She spread her arms. Her left hand clutched at open air, but the right one touched a wall. She clawed at it. Her nails snagged the wallpaper. One nail peeled back from her finger and snapped off.

Her assailant turned again, into a room—one of the small antechambers, like a mud room before the real room. He strode straight toward the next threshold.

Her son reached the first door, catching it as it was closing.

“Mom!” Panic etched old-man lines into his young face. His eyes appeared as wide as his mouth. He banged his shoulder on the jamb, trying to hurry in.

“Stay!” she said. She showed him her palms in a “stop” gesture, hoping he would understand, hoping he would obey. She took in his face, as a diver takes in a deep breath before plunging into the depths. He was fully in the antechamber now, reaching for her with both arms, but her captor had already opened the second door and was stepping through. The door was swinging shut behind him.

The light they were stepping into was bright. It swept around her, through the opening, and made pinpoints of the boy’s irises. His blue eyes dazzled. His cheeks glistened with tears. He wore his favorite pajamas—little R2D2s and C3P0s all over them, becoming threadbare and too small for him.

“I—“ she started, meaning to say she loved him, but the brute bounded downward, driving his shoulder into her stomach. Air rushed from her, unformed by vocal chords, tongue, lips. Just air.

“Moooom!” her son screamed. Full of despair. Reaching. Almost to the door.
“Mo—“

The door closed, separating her from her family forever.




1


Now

Saturday, 4:55 P.M.

“Nothing but trees,” the bear said in Xander’s voice. It repeated itself: “Nothing but trees.”

Xander King turned away from the car window and stared into the smiling furry face, with its shiny half-bead eyes and stitched-on nose. He said, “I mean it, Toria. Get that thing out of my face. And turn it off.”

His sister’s hands moved quickly over the teddy bear’s paws, all the while keeping it suspended three inches in front of Xander. The bear said, “I mean it, Toria. Get that—”

At fifteen years old, Xander was too old to be messing around with little-kid toys. He seized the bear, squeezing the paw that silenced it.

“Mom!” Toria yelled. ”Make him give Wuzzy back!” She grabbed for it.

Xander turned away from her, tucking Wuzzy between his body and the car door. Outside his window, nothing but trees—as he had said and Wuzzy had agreed. It reminded him of a movie, as almost everything did. This time, it was The Edge, about a bear intent on eating Anthony Hopkins. An opening shot of the wilderness where it was filmed showed miles and miles of lush forest. Nothing but trees.

A month ago, his dad had announced that he had accepted a position as principal of a school six hundred miles away, and the whole King family had to move from the only home Xander had ever known. It was a place he had never even heard of: Pinedale, almost straight north from their home in Pasadena. Still in California, but barely. Pinedale. The name itself said “hick,” “small,” and “If you don’t die here, you’ll wish you had.” Of course, he had screamed, begged, sulked, and threatened to run away. But in the end here he was, wedged in the back seat with his nine-year-old sister and twelve-year-old brother.

The longer they drove, the thicker the woods grew and the more miserable he became. It was bad enough, leaving his friends, his school—everything!—but to be leaving them for hicksville, in the middle of nowhere, was a stake through his heart.

“Mom!” Toria yelled again, reaching for the bear.

Xander squeezed closer to the door, away from her. He must have put pressure on the bear in the wrong place: It began chanting in Toria’s whiny voice: “Mom! Mom! Mom!”

He frantically squeezed Wuzzy’s paws, but could not make it stop.

“Mom! Mom! Mom!”

The controls in the bear’s arms weren’t working. Frustrated by its continuous one-word poking at his brain—and a little concerned he had broken it and would have to buy her a new one—he looked to his sister for help.

She wasn’t grabbing for it anymore. Just grinning. One of those see-what-happens-when-you-mess-with-me smiles.

“Mom! Mom! Mom!”

Xander was about to show her what happened when you messed with him—the possibilities ranged from a display of his superior vocal volume to ripping Mr. Wuzzy’s arms right off—when the absurdity of it struck him. He cracked up.

“I mean it,” he laughed. “This thing is driving me crazy.” He shook the bear at her. It continued yelling for their mother.

His brother David, who was sitting on the other side of Toria and who had been doing a good job of staying out of the fight, started laughing too. He mimicked the bear, who was mimicking their sister: “Mom! Mom! Mom!”

Mrs. King shifted around in the front passenger seat. She was smiling, but her eyes were curious.

“Xander broke Wuzzy!” Toria whined. “He won’t turn off.” She pulled the bear out of Xander’s hands.

The furry beast stopped talking: “Mo—” Then, blessed silence.

Toria looked from brother to brother and they laugh again.

Xander shrugged. “I guess he just doesn’t like me.”

“He only likes me,” Toria said, hugging it.

“Oh, brother,” David said. He went back to the PSP game that had kept him occupied most of the drive.

Mom raised her eyebrows at Xander and said, “Be nice.”

Xander rolled his eyes. He adjusted his shoulders and wiggled his behind, nudging Toria. “It’s too cramped back here. It may be an SUV, but it isn’t big enough for us anymore.”

“Don’t start that,” his father warned from behind the wheel. He angled the rearview mirror to see his son.

“What?” Xander said, acting innocent.

“I did the same thing with my father,” Dad said. “The car’s too small . . . it uses too much gas . . . it’s too run down . . . ”

Xander smiled. “Well, it is.”

“And if we get a new car, what should we do with this one?”

“Well . . . .” Xander said. “You know. It’d be a safe car for me.” A ten-year-old Toyota 4Runner wasn’t his idea of cool wheels, but it was transportation.

Dad nodded. “Getting you a car is something we can talk about, okay? Let’s see how you do.”

“I have my driver’s permit. You know I’m a good driver.”

“He is,” Toria chimed in.

David added, “And then he can drive us to school.”

“I didn’t mean just the driving,” Dad said. He paused, catching Xander’s eyes in the mirror. “I mean with all of this, the move and everything.”

Xander stared out the window again. He mumbled, “Guess I’ll never get a car, then.”

“Xander?” Dad said. “I didn’t hear that.”

“Nothing.”

“He said he’ll never get a car,” Toria said.

Silence. David’s thumbs clicked furiously over the PSP buttons. Xander was aware of his mom watching him. If he looked, her eyes would be all sad-like, and she would be frowning in sympathy for him. He thought maybe his dad was looking too, but only for an opportunity to explain himself again. Xander didn’t want to hear it. Nothing his old man said would make this okay, would make ripping him out of his world less awful than it was.

“Dad, is the school’s soccer team good? Did they place?” David asked. Xander knew his brother wasn’t happy about the move either, but jumping right into the sport he was so obsessed about went a long way toward making the change something he could handle. Maybe Xander was like that three years ago, just rolling with the punches. He couldn’t remember. But now he had things in his life David didn’t: friends who truly mattered, ones he thought he’d spend the rest of his life with. Kids didn’t think that way. Friends could come and go and they adjusted. True, Xander had known his current friends for years, but they hadn’t become like blood until the last year or so.

That got him thinking about Danielle. He pulled his mobile phone from his shirt pocket and checked it. No text messages from her. No calls. She hadn’t replied to the last text he’d sent. He keyed in another: “Forget me already? JK.” But he wasn’t Just Kidding. He knew the score: Out of sight, out of mind. She had said all the right things, like We’ll talk on the phone all the time; You come down and see me and I’ll come up to see you, okay? and I’ll wait for you.

Yeah, sure you will, he thought. Even during the past week, he’d sensed a coldness in her, an emotional distancing. When he’d told his best friend, Dean had shrugged. Trying to sound world-wise, he’d said, “Forget her, dude. She’s a hot young babe. She’s gotta move on. You too. Not like you’re married, right?” Dean had never liked Danielle.

Xander tried to convince himself she was just another friend he was forced to leave behind. But there was a different kind of ache in his chest when he thought about her. A heavy weight in his stomach.

Stop it! he told himself. He flipped his phone closed.

On his mental list of the reasons to hate the move to Pinedale, he moved on to the one titled “career.” He had just started making short films with his buddies, and was pretty sure it was something he would eventually do for a living. They weren’t much, just short skits he and his friends acted out. He and Dean wrote the scripts, did the filming, used computer software to edit an hour of video into five-minute films, and laid music over them. They had six already on YouTube—with an average rating of four-and-a-half stars and a boatload of praise. Xander had dreams of getting a short film into the festival circuit, which of course would lead to offers to do music videos and commercials, probably an Oscar and onto feature movies starring Russell Crowe and Jim Carrey. Pasadena was right next to Hollywood, a twenty-minute drive. You couldn’t ask for a better place to live if you were the next Steven Spielberg. What in God’s creation would he find to film in Pinedale? Trees, he thought glumly, watching them fly past his window.

Dad, addressing David’s soccer concern, said, “We’ll talk about it later.”

Mom reached through the seatbacks to shake Xander’s knee. “It’ll work out,” she whispered.

“Wait a minute,” David said, understanding Dad-talk as well as Xander did. “Are you saying they suck—or that they don’t have a soccer team? You told me they did!”

“I said later, Dae.” His nickname came from Toria’s inability as a toddler to say David. She had also called Xander Xan, but it hadn’t stuck.

David slumped down in his seat.

Xander let the full extent of his misery show on his face for his mother.

She gave his knee a shake, sharing his misery. She was good that way. “Give it some time,” she whispered. “You’ll make new friends and find new things to do. Wait and see.”

Getting organized

IN THE NEWS:Legally blind man, 78, bowls 300. Read more HERE.

Well, I'm taking some time off now. I feel I really deserve this since I put such hard work into my Fast Draft.

Now I'm hard at work trying to get ready. I don't know about you, but there a few things I absolutely must do in order to prepare for a trip.
(If I mentioned these before, just humor me.)

1) Wash all the sheets. (I like to come home to fresh clean sheets)

2) Run and then empty the dishwasher. (I don't want any thing around that could possibly smell up the house)

3) Empty the trash and recyclables. (see reason #2)

4) Do laundry. (I'm going to have to do laundry when I get back, so I like to have a low load waiting)

5) Throw out all food that might spoil in the refrigerator

6) Leave out fresh towels in the bathroom

7) Clean the toilets. (I don't really know why I have to do this. But it probably goes along with the whole "fresh" problem I seem to have)


What about you? Do you go through any "must do" rituals when you leave for a trip?

This and That

MENTAL STATUS: "Happy". Taking some well deserved time off very soon.


Well, firstly, thanks to this fast draft challenge, I'm a little more than a third of the way done with my new work in progress. (See word meter right--->)


Yay!!

And secondly, my excerpt to The Role of a Lifetime is now up on the Samhain website. That's pretty cool. Gee, I'd like to direct you to my own website for that, but I've been so busy with this Fast Draft challenge, I haven't had time to figure out how to do that.

Ooops.

So if you want to check out my excerpt, click HERE.

Have a great day!

Field Trip!

IN THE NEWS: A New York City man is suing JetBlue Airways Corp. for more than $2 million because he says a pilot made him give up his seat to a flight attendant and sit on the toilet for more than three hours on a flight from California. Read more HERE.

FAST DRAFT PROGRESS: 8 pages yesterday!

Going on a field trip today with my kiddo's class. The zoo. Hence the picture of a train up there. Oh, a train doesn't make sense? Well, apparently that train is at the zoo we're going to.

So there.

Should be a fun day. Um, I said should.

Wicked Weather

MENTAL STATUS: "So-So." My mood should be more on the high end of that so-so range, but who can really explain why you feel the way you do sometimes. I'm just kinda "there" today.

FAST DRAFT PROGRESS: 7 pages yesterday. Woo-hoo! We're coming into the final stretch of this FD. By then I should be about 1/3 done this first draft. :)


Well, we had some wicked weather yesterday. HEAVY rain. HIGH gusts of wind--sometimes reaching 70 m/hr in some parts of our town. I got a call from the kiddo's school, too. They were sending everybody home early due to flooding. I looked out in my backyard and our heavy duty gas grill was blown right over--the gas line waving in the wind.

The worst part of this mess? We were really caught off guard by it all. None of the weather stations had warned us of this awful storm. Had we'd known, we (meaning the hubby) would have battened down the hatches a bit.

Oh well. The grill may be on its last legs now. When the weather clears we'll be able to have a better diagnosis. It's sad. We've had "bluey" (our grill is royal blue) for over 8 years. It's cooked some mighty mean burgers and pizzas for us. I hope it's ok.

How was your weather yesterday?

The Highs and Lows of my Mother's Day

IN THE NEWS: According to World Magazine, "Mike Hammond had no trouble finding respondents to a poster advertisement he pinned up in his village post office in southern England. In the ad, Hammond sought a drinking buddy for his 88-year-old retired father who resides in a nursing home." Read more HERE.

FAST DRAFT PROGRESS: 2 pages for the entire weekend, but, hey, weekends are bad for me--especially holiday weekends. I've made my peace with it.

Well, Mother's Day was... interesting. Here's a summary of the highs and lows of the day.

LOW: Kiddo got me up some time before six AM. Grrrr...

HIGH: Apparently the kiddo was excited to give me her Mother's Day gifts and see what Daddy got me. Awww...

LOW: Two seconds after I she got me up, she told me she was starving--even though I told her as soon as Daddy got up, he was going out for donuts and muffins since I WAS NOT cooking. Grrr...(She won out, but I only made her toast with peanut butter to hold her over)

HIGH: Kiddo bought me (with her Webkinz money) 3 pencils ( a Dalmation, a butterfly and a funky design one), a leaf pin, a paperweight, and a homemade bracelet. Bought all by herself. :) Awww...

LOW: Was not feeling that great all day. Grrr...

HIGH: Hubby bought me a lovely Mariposa entertaining platter with spreader. I just adore this stuff but it's a bit pricey so I would never buy it for myself. Here's their website. (if you wait for the pictures to scroll, mine is the striped seahorse platter) Aww...

LOW: Had nursery duty at church. Normally not a big deal, but I knew we'd have a full house. Adn we did. I needed a little nap afterwards. Ugh...

HIGH: Went out to dinner with my family--nine of us--and had a fantastic meal and great conversation. Yay!

HIGH: Brother and sister in law enjoyed FIVE caramel apple martinis at dinner between the two of them. But I enjoyed the look on my brother's face when he found out later that they were $13.25 a piece. Happy Mother's day. (Sorry, I'm still chuckling over that. That really sobered him fast.) LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL...

All in all it was nice day. Although I did ask my hubby on more than one point during the day if it was wrong to want to kill my only child on Mother's Day. But I guess if she's an angel the rest of 364 days out of the year, I can deal with one day of craziness. :)

How was your Mother's Day?

Happy Mother's Day

My daughter got me up at the crack of... six AM. (My hubby is still sleeping) No time off for me--even on Mother's day.

I do happen to see some pretty wrapped gifts on the counter for me, though. Curious to see what's in them.

Going to church later and then we have a 2PM (lunch/dinner) thing going on.

Have a great Mother's day!

The Perfect Gift for Mother's Day

MENTAL STATUS: "Pleased". Getting a lot of writing done, Mother's Day is coming up, and we're going on vacation soon.

FAST DRAFT PROGRESS: 8 pages yesterday! Yeah, I know, still not goal, but don't be a Captain Bring Down on me.

Hey, all you Moms--or those with mothers: Um, are you asking for anything in particular this Mother's Day? Did you get your mommy something special?

My mom is really hard to buy for. She has EVERYTHING. I'm not just saying that either. And things she doesn't have, she wouldn't want. So it forces me to get creative--but not too creative. (She's very practical, too)

Well, I opted for something easy this year. I sent a card and ordered flowers. Not just any flowers--organic flowers. One dozen Crown Majesty Pink Organic Roses, to be exact. :) Seeing that my mom barely remembers I have a website let alone a blog, I feel safe posting it here.

I haven't asked for anything for myself. Chocolate is always welcomed, though. Good chocolate. You know, in a fancy box with fu-fu frilly wrapping. That's right up my alley. Hubby, do you see this? Hint, hint.

Then I saw this: Chocolate Covered Bacon.

Now, if you can get beyond the laughter, I suppose it's a pretty novel idea. I mean, I like chocolate. I like bacon. Why not? But then again, I like tuna and I like ice cream, but that doesn't mean I want that combo whipped together as a delicacy.

Would you try chocolate covered bacon? Have you ever had any other crazy food combinations?

Teacher Appreciation

IN THE NEWS: Illinois man orders custom beer-can coffin. Read more here.

FAST DRAFT PROGRESS: 7 pages. Still not my goal, though. Wah!

Well, it's Teacher Appreciation Week this week.

My little girl painted that little flower pot holder. She'll take it to her teacher today with a nice card she made. (She even even cut off some fur from her Webkinz to glue on the card)

Now that's love.

Nothing says "we appreciate you" like some flowers, a homemade card with dog fur--and an Applebees's gift card.**cough cough**

(All the room moms chipped in for the gift card) :)

Have you told a teacher how much they're appreciated this week?

Deep Thoughts on Fast-Drafting

MENTAL STATUS: "Happy." Still running--er, walking/running, made ANOTHER new delicious meal yesterday, and have been making some great progress on my Fast Draft story.

FAST DRAFT PROGRESS: 7 pages yesterday. (Hmmm, I think I did better when I was ill.)

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Well, despite the fact that I haven't made my ten page writing goal in days, I have been making a serious dent in this new story of mine. As I mentioned, I'm a sloooooooooow writer. I usually write a few words, think and check my outline, rearrange the wording, write a little more, then go back and tinker some more. (Yeah, I know, I drive myself crazy too.) This FD concept of "writing and not looking back" is completely foreign to me.

But I'm liking it. :)

I think I'm slowing down because I needed to outline a little more before I started. I basically heard about this challenge and decided to just jump in feet first without really giving the story much thought beyond a Goal-Motivation-Conflict for the hero and heroine.

Oh well. Live and learn.

So today, I will actually think about this story and try to jot down what kind of scenes need to be written--maybe make a loose outline that I can refer to. This Fast Draft challenge ends May 14 and I really want to have a good chunk of it written by then.

What's Cookin'? #3

IN THE NEWS: According to World Magazine, "A small-town Brit has a challenge for himself: Eat nothing but what he can forage for a year. Fergus Drennan, 36, says he'll still live at his Broad Oak home near Canterbury but will each day collect nuts and wild fruit in a 10-mile radius from his home." Read more here.

Fast Draft progress: Wrote 8 pages yesterday. Not my goal, exactly, but considering I felt like something that had been run over a few times, I'm pleased.

I made this chicken recipe last night for dinner. It's from last month's Cooking Light and man is it ever good. No, not good. DELICIOUS. My little girlie loved it too. I served it with warm pita bread.

Chicken Orzo Salad With Goat Cheese

Ingredients

1 1/4 cups uncooked orzo pasta
3 cups chopped grilled chicken breast strips grilled chicken breast strips (or use Tyson)
1 1/2 cups trimmed arugula
1 cup grape tomato, halved
1/2 cup chopped red bell pepper
1/4 cup chopped red onion
2 tablespoons chopped fresh basil
1 teaspoon chopped fresh oregano
2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
1 tablespoon olive oil
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon black pepper
6 tablespoons crumbled goat cheese

Directions:
1 Cook pasta according to package directions, omitting salt and fat; drain well.
2 Combine pasta, chicken, and the next 6 ingredients (through oregano) in a large bowl; toss well.
3 Combine vinegar, oil, salt, and black pepper in a small bowl, stirring with a whisk.
4 Drizzle vinegar mixture over pasta mixture; toss well to coat. Sprinkle with cheese

I'm just sorry there isn't much left over for tomorrow's lunch.

Weekend Recap

MENTAL STATUS: "Fuzzy". Went to a birthday party last night and had a pomegranate martini. ONE. That's all. It's not sitting well with me.


Well, my dance card was pretty much filled this weekend, which tells me that summer is quickly approaching. With all that, I still managed to crank out 2 pages on Saturday and 6 pages on my FAST DRAFT. Not great, but I consider the fact that anything was written at all a HUGE accomplishment. (Go me)

I will tell you the highlight of my weekend was the annual Stainton Society brunch held at the Caesar's Casino in Atlantic City. Robin Roberts of "Good Morning America" was featured as guest speaker.

I confess, I really didn't know of Robin Roberts before this brunch. But she was a truly inspiring speaker. One of the main reasons she was chosen was because in 2007, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. While undergoing chemotherapy treatments, she covered the topic in addition to her regular assignments on GMA.
She's still undergoing care and treatments (but looks PHENOMENAL even with a shaved head) and wanted to express what a wonderful job the hospital in our area is doing because contributions to this year's Stainton Society campaign will help our hospital acquire a $2.5 million PET/CT Scanner, the most advanced cancer detection technology available.

Her book, "From the Heart: 7 Rules to Live By," was released last year and it looks to be a great read.

The food was delicious and despite my friend getting a whole mimosa poured down his back, the afternoon was lovely.

But now it's back to Fast Drafting today. So after I go to do the "room mom" thang, my butt will be in this chair for the rest of the afternoon.

Fast-drafting

IN THE NEWS: According to Middle East Online, "When Hassan Amin al-Bana gingerly steps on the gas pedal of his bright yellow taxi, a strange smell wafts from the exhaust: deep-fried fast food. Faced with chronic fuel shortages due to an Israeli blockade, dubbed by human rights groups as “collective punishment”, taxi drivers in the Gaza Strip are filling their tanks with cooking oil, often scrounging leftover fat from street vendors." Read the rest of the article here.
(Thanks, Chicki!)

Right now I'm in the throes of a FAST DRAFT challenge with my critique group the Passionate Critters and the Romance Divas forum.

What is "FAST DRAFT"? It's a Candace Havens workshop that basically includes writing 20 pages a day for 2 weeks.

20 pages? Eeek! you say? Yeah, I did too. I'm a slow writer, basically because I have a strong willed internal editor. But I have pledged to do at least 10 pages a day for 14 days on a completely new storyline.

So far, I have 17 pages completed. Woo-hoo!

Now, I'm off to the writing cave again. Have a good weekend!

Finding Hollywood Nobody by Lisa Samson

It is May FIRST, time for the FIRST Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!

Today's feature author is:

LISA SAMSON

and her book:

Finding Hollywood Nobody

Navpress Publishing Group (February 15, 2008)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Lisa Samson is the author of twenty books, including the Christy Award-winning Songbird. Apples of Gold was her first novel for teens

These days, she's working on Quaker Summer, volunteering at Kentucky Refugee Ministries, raising children and trying to be supportive of a husband in seminary. (Trying . . . some days she's downright awful. It's a good thing he's such a fabulous cook!) She can tell you one thing, it's never dull around there.

Other Novels by Lisa:

Hollywood Nobody, Straight Up, Club Sandwich, Songbird, Tiger Lillie, The Church Ladies, Women's Intuition: A Novel, Songbird, The Living End

Visit her at her website.

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:


Chapter One

Hollywood Nobody: Sunday, June 4

Well, Nobodies, it's a wrap! Jeremy's latest film, yet another remake of The Great Gatsby, now titled Green Light, has shipped out from location and will be going into postproduction. Look for it next spring in theaters. It may just be his most widely distributed film yet with Annette Bening on board. Toledo Island will never be the same after that wacky bunch filled in their shores.

Today's Hottie Watch: Seth Haas has moved to Hollywood. An obscure film he did in college, Catching Regina's Heels (a five-star film in my opinion), was mentioned on the Today show last week. He was interviewed on NPR's Fresh Air. Hmm. Could it be he'll receive the widespread acclaim he deserves before the release of Green Light? For his sake and the film's, I hope so.

Rehab Alert: I've never hidden the fact that I don't care for bratty actress Karissa Bonano, but she just checked into rehab for a cocaine addiction. Her maternal grandfather, Doug Fairmore, famous in the forties for swashbuckling and digging up clues, made a public statement declaring the Royal Family of Hollywood was "indeed throwing all of our love, support, and prayers behind Karissa." The man must be a thousand years old by now. This isn't Ms. Bonano's first stint in rehab, but let's hope it's her last. Even I'm not too catty to wish her well in this battle. But I'm as skeptical as the next person. In Hollywood, rehab is mostly just a fad.

Today's Quote: "It's a scientific fact. For every year a person lives in Hollywood, they lose two points of their IQ." Truman Capote

Today's Rant: SWAG, or Party Favors. Folks, do you ever wonder what's inside those SWAG bags the stars get? Items which, if sold, could feed a third-world country for a week! And have you noticed how the people who can afford to buy this stuff seem to get it for free? I'm just sayin'. So here's my idea, stars: Refuse to take these high-priced bags o' stuff and gently suggest the advertisers give to a charitable organization on behalf of the movie, the stars, the whoever. Like you need another cell phone.

Today's Kudo: Violette Dillinger will be appearing on the MTV Video Music Awards in August. She told Hollywood Nobody she's going to prove to this crowd you can be young, elegant, decent, and still rock out. Go Violette!

Summer calls. Later!

Monday, September 15, 4:00 a.m.

Maybe I'm looking for the wrong thing in a parent.

I turn over in bed at the insistence of Charley's forefinger poking me in the shoulder. "Please tell me you've MapQuested this jaunt, Charley."

She shakes her tousled head, silhouetted by the yellow light emanating from the RV's bathroom. "You're kidding me right?" She slides off the dinette seat. Charley's been overflowing with relief since she told me the truth about our life: that she's not really my mother, but my grandmother, that somebody's chasing us for way too good of a reason, that my life isn't as boring as I thought. We're still being chased, but Charley can at least breathe more freely in her home on the road now that I know the truth.

Home in this case happens to be a brand-spanking-new Trailmaster RV, a huge step forward from the ancient Travco we used to have, the ancient Travco with a rainbow Charley spread in bright colors over its nose.

"Where to?" Having set my vintage cat glasses, love 'em, on my nose, I scramble my hair into its signature ponytail: messy, curly, and frightening. I can so picture myself in the Thriller video.

"Marshall, Texas."

"East Texas?"

"I guess."

"It is." I shake my head. Charley. I love her, I really do, but when it comes to geography, despite the fact that we've traveled all over the country going to her gigs ever since I can remember, she's about as intelligent as a bottle of mustard. And boy do I know a lot about bottles of mustard. But that was my last adventure.

"If you knew, then why did you ask?" She flips the left side of her long, blonde hair, straighter than Russell Crowe, over her shoulder. Charley's beautiful. Silvery blonde (she uses a cheap rinse to cover up the gray), thin (she's vegan), and a little airy (she's frightened of a lot and tries not to think about anything else that may scare her), she wears all sorts of embroidered vests and large skirts and painted blue jeans. And they're all the real deal, because Charley's an environmentalist and wouldn't dream of buying something she didn't need when what she's got is wearing perfectly well. She calls my penchant for vintage clothing "recycling," and I don't disagree.

"Is this really a gig, Charley, or are we escaping again?"

She shakes her head. "No phone call. I really do have a job."

I feel the thrill of fear inside me, though there's no need right now. Biker Guy almost got me back on Toledo Island. (Yeah, he looks like a grizzled old biker.) To call the guy rough around the edges would be like saying Pam Anderson has had "a little work done."

I've been looking over my shoulder ever since.

But more on that later. We need to get on the road. And I need to get on with my life. I'm so sick of thinking about how things aren't nearly what I'd like them to be.

I mean, do you ever get tired of hearing yourself complain?

I flip up my laptop, log on to the satellite Internet I installed (yes, I am that geeky) and Google directions to Marshall, Texas, from where we are in Theta, Tennessee—actually, on the farm of one of Charley's old art-school friends who gave her some work in advertising for the summer. Charley's a food stylist, which means she makes food look good for the camera. Still cameras, motion picture cameras, video, it doesn't matter. Charley can do it all.

"Oh, we've got plenty of time, Charley. Five hundred and fifty miles and . . . we have to go through Memphis . . ."

My verbal drop-off is a dead giveaway.

"Oh, no, Scotty, we're not going to Graceland again."

The kitsch that is Graceland speaks to me. What can I say?

And you've got to admit, it's starting to look vintage. Now ten years ago . . .

I cross my arms. "Do you have cooking to do on the way?"

Yes, highly illegal to cook in a rolling camper.

"Yeah, I do."

"And do you expect me, an unlicensed sixteen-year-old, to drive?" Again, highly illegal, but Charley's a free spirit. However, she refuses to copy CDs and DVDs, so in that regard, she's more moral than most people. I guess it evens up in the end.

"Uh-huh."

"Then I think I deserve a trip through the Jungle Room."

She rolls her eyes, reaches down to the floor, and throws me my robe. "Oh, all right. Just don't take too long."

"I'll try. So." I look at the screen. "65 to route 40 west. Let's hit it. And we'll have time to stop for breakfast."

Charley shakes her head and plops down on the tan dinette bench. The interior of this whole RV is a nice sandy tan with botanical accents. Tasteful and so much better than the old Travco that looked like a cross between a genie's bottle and the Unabomber cabin. "You're going to eat cheese. Aren't you?"

"I sure am."

And Charley can't say anything, because months ago she told me this was a decision I could make on my own.

Freedom!

"I've rethought the cheese moratorium, baby. I know you're not going to like this, but three months of cheese is enough. I can't imagine what your arteries look like. I think it's time to stop."

"What?" Cheese is my life. "Charley! You can't do this to me."

"It's for your own good."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I am."

"Why?"

"Because summer's over, baby, and we've got to get back to a better way of life."

I could continue to argue, but it won't do any good. Charley acts all hippie and egalitarian, but when push comes to shove, she's the boss. However, I'm great at hiding my cheese . . . and . . . I'm going to convince her eventually.

But still.

"This isn't right, Charley, and you know it. But it's too early to argue. And might I add, you have no idea what it's like to have a teen with real teen issues. You ought to be on your knees thanking God I'm not drinking, smoking, pregnant, or"—I was going to say sneaking out at night, but I've done that, just to get some space—"or writing suicidal poetry on the Internet!"

We stare at each other, then burst into laughter.

"Just humor me this time, baby," she says. "We'll come back to it soon, I promise."

I don't believe her, but I hop into the driver's seat, pull up the brake, throw the TrailMama into drive, and we are off.

Six hours later

I pull through Graceland's gatehouse at ten a.m., park near the back of the compound's cracked, tired parking lot, and change into some crazy seventies striped bell-bottoms, a poet shirt, and Charley's old crocheted, granny-square vest. Normally I go further back in my vintage-wear, but I'm trying to go with the groove that is Graceland.

I kiss Charley's cheek. "I'll be back by noon."

"When will that put us in Marshall?"

"By six thirty."

"Because I'm not sure where the shoot is."

"Please. Marshall's small. Jeremy and company will make a big splash no matter where they set up. Besides, growing up around this, I have a nose for it."

She awards me one of her big smiles. "You're somethin', baby. I forget that sometimes." She puts her arms around me, squeezes, pulls back, then smacks me lightly on my behind. "Tell Elvis I said hello."

"Oh, I will. He's one of the groundskeepers now, you know."

I've seen computer-generated pictures of what he would look like now, in his seventies. Scary.

I jump down from the RV, head across the parking lot, over the small bridge leading into the ticketing complex and walk by Elvis's jets, including the Lisa Marie. Gotta love anything with that name. Don't know why. Just has a nice ring to it.

Banners proclaim, "Elvis Is."

Is what? Dead? A legend? What? Because he isn't "izzing" as far as I'm concerned. Present tense, people! If the person's not alive, "is" can only be followed by a few options: Buried up in the memorial garden. Rotting in his casket. Missed by his family and friends. Not exactly banner copy, mind you.

Still, you've got to admit the name Elvis wreaks of cool. Perhaps the sign should read, "Elvis Is . . . A Really Cool Name."

But it's not nearly as cool as my name. You see, my real mother loved the writer F. Scott Fitzgerald. And that's my name: Francis Scott Fitzgerald Dawn. Only Dawn's not my actual last name. I don't know what my real last name is. My real first name is Ariana. Being on the run, Charley renamed us to protect our identity. So she honored my mother by naming me after Mom's favorite novelist. More on that later too.

It sounds fun, traveling on the road from film shoot to film shoot, never settling down in one place for too long, but honestly, it's very sad.

I always knew Charley lived with a sadness down deep, and when I found out why this spring, her sadness became mine. See, my dad is dead and my mother, Charley's daughter Babette, is too. Or we think she must be, because she disappeared under questionable circumstances and never came back. Learn that when you're fifteen and see where you land.

When I thought Charley was my mother, I had such high hopes for who my father might be. Al Pacino was number one in the ranking. Don't ask.

Okay, Elvis, here we go. Let's you and me be "taking care of business."

I hand over my money to the lady behind the reservations counter. I called thirty minutes ago on my cell phone, compliments of my mother's friend Jeremy, and reserved a spot.

"You'll be on the first tour."

Yes! More time amid the shag carpeting and the gold records. And the jumpsuits. Can't forget the jumpsuits. I want a cape too.

The gift shop calls to me. Confession: I love gift shops. They even smell sparkly. Key chains dangling, saying, "You can take me with you wherever you go!" Mugs with the Saint Louis Gateway Arch or the Grand Ole Opry promising an even better cup of coffee. Earrings that advertise you've been somewhere. That's exactly what I choose while I wait for the tour, a little pair of dangly red guitars with the words Elvis Presley in gold script on the bodies, and how in the world they put that on so small is beyond me. See, gift shops can even be miraculous if you take your time and look.

A voice over the loudspeaker announces my tour number, so I stand in line. By myself. Just me in a group of twenty or so.

Okay, here is where it gets hard to be me. I know I should be thankful for my free-spirited life. But especially now that I know my parents are dead, it feels empty all of a sudden. I shouldn't be standing in line at Graceland alone. My mother and I should be giggling behind our hands at the man nearby who's actually grown a glorious pair o' mutton-chop sideburns, slicked back his salt-and-pepper curls, and shrugged his broad shoulders into a leather jacket. Really, right? My father, who was an FBI agent the mob shot right in a warehouse in Baltimore, would shake his head like a dad in a sixties TV show and laugh at his girls.

We'd get on the bus like I'm doing now, each of us putting on our tour headphones and hanging the little blue recorders around our necks in anticipation of the glory that is Elvis.

The driver welcomes us as he shuts the hydraulic doors of the little tour bus with its clean blue upholstery, a bus in which an assisted-living home might haul its residents to the mall.

It smells new in here, and my gross-out antennae aren't vibrating in the least like they do when I go into an old burger joint and the orange melamine booth hasn't been scrubbed since the place opened in 1987.

In my fantasy, my dad would sit beside me. And Mom, just across the aisle, holding onto the seatback in front of her, would look at me as we pass through those famed musical gates, because she would have introduced me to Elvis music. According to Charley, my vintage sentimentalism comes from my mom. I've learned a little about her this summer.

Charley said, "She'd wear my cousin's old poodle skirt and listen to Love Me Tender over and over again while writing in her diary." She became a respected journalist, loved books as much as I do. I pat my book in my backpack, looking forward to tonight when I can cuddle into my loft and get into one of Fitzgerald's glittering worlds. "She was different from me, Scotty. I tried to change the world through protest. Your mother wanted to build something completely different and much better." She sighed. "All my generation could do, I guess, was tear apart. It's going to take our children to put the pieces back together. Babette was a very careful person. Very purposeful."

If it drove my freewheeling grandmother crazy, she doesn't let on.

"I could try to describe how much she loved you, baby. But I don't think I could begin to do her devotion to you justice. I was so proud of her, for how much she loved and gave away. She was amazing."

So in May I found out she existed, the same day I found out she is dead, or most likely dead. And now I'm going into Graceland alone, truly an orphan. Who wants to be an orphan?

We disembark from the bus—me, Elvis Lite, some folks from a Spanish-speaking country, and a lot of older people. I miss Grammie and Grampie right now. More later on them, too. And you'll get to meet them. Like the waters of the Gulf Stream, we seem to travel in the same general direction. I spent a week with them this summer in Tennessee. Yeah, we did Nashville right. They're loaded.

Standing beneath the front porch, my gaze skates up and down the soaring white pillars and comes to rest on the stone lions that guard the steps. My father was a lion. That's why he ended up with a bullet in his chest. Speaking in very broad terms, the story goes as follows:

Dad, undercover, worked his way into a portion of the mob, or mafia if you prefer, that was heavily financing the campaign of a Maryland gubernatorial candidate. When they discovered him, they shot him on site, in a warehouse in the Canton neighborhood of downtown Baltimore. My mother watched, gasped, and a chase ensued. She hid in a friend's gallery, called Charley and told her to keep watching me. (Charley had kept me the night before because my mom and dad had some glamorous function to attend.) And then she disappeared.

The Graceland tour recorder tells me to look to my right into the beautiful white living room with peacock stained-glass windows leading into the music room. This room really isn't so bad, I've got to admit. A picture of Elvis's dad hangs on the wall. He really loved his parents.

I've toured this house at least seven times before, and I'll tell you this, Elvis's love for his family soaked into the walls. A girl that lives in a camper, has dead parents, and is being chased by someone from the mob who knows my grandmother knows what went down, well, she can feel these things.

Charley thinks someone's trying to kill us. This guy is always trying to find us, but Charley's really great at evasion. She said the politician who won the governor's seat all those years ago just announced his candidacy for president and—oh, GREAT!—he's probably trying to make sure nothing comes back to haunt him and sent Biker Guy to finish off the entire matter.

The thing is, he seems to be after me too. And what in the world would I have to do with all of that?

I'll bet Charley's back in that camper shaking in her shoes because I'm over here by myself; I'll bet she's figuring out more ways to be utterly and overly protective of me. I wouldn't be surprised if she's wondering whether locking a kid in an RV is child abuse.

But I love Charley. I really do. I know she's scared back there, and despite the fact that I would be no real help if Biker Guy caught us, I can't leave her there so frightened and alone for long.

Elvis dear, I can only stay a little while. So love me tender, love me sweet, and for the sake of all that's decent, don't step on my blue suede shoes.

I hurry past the bedroom of Elvis's parents, decorated in shades of ivory and purple, very nice, and through the dining room—a little seventies tackiness I'll admit—into the kitchen with dark brown cabinetry and the ghosts of a million grilled peanut butter and banana sandwiches, then on down into the basement. Okay, I admit, I've got to just stand for a second in the TV room and admire the man's ability to watch three TVs at once on that huge yellow couch with the sparkly pillows.

I shoot through the billiard room, which is, honestly, truly beautiful with its fabric-lined walls and ceiling, up the back steps and into the Jungle Room, probably Graceland's most famous room. Green shag carpet overlays the floor and the ceiling, and heavily carved, Polynesian-style furniture is arranged around a rock-wall waterfall at the end of the room. It really defies the imagination, folks. Google Jungle Room Graceland and see what I mean.

The second floor of Graceland is closed off to the public because Elvis died up there. On the toilet. Wise decision on the part of Priscilla I'd say.

Out the door, into the office building, down to the trophy hall, I whiz through all the gold and platinum records, the costumes, the awards, and even a wall full of checks he'd written for charity. According to my recorder, Elvis was an active community member in Memphis. And he obviously didn't care what race or religion people were. He supported Jewish organizations, Catholic, Baptist. Pretty cool.

Of course, this recorder isn't going to tell of the dark side of the man. But Elvis Isn't, despite what the banners say. So why drag a dead man through the mud?

I hurry through the racquetball court, more gold records, the infamous jumpsuits, back outside to the pool and memorial garden where Elvis has been laid to rest.

An older lady cries into a handkerchief. I don't ask why.

Good-bye Elvis. Thanks for the tour. Maybe one day I'll do something great too.

A few minutes later . . .