Interview with a Sex Kitten, er, Vampire

It's rude to ask how old you are but do you remember staring at album covers? For hours? Man, I do. That's the thing about electronic music. There's nothing to stare at. No long, lean bodies tipped into blue jeans with a shoe horn. No tangled, bedworthy hair sliding down any tatted, muscle-bound backs.

And musicians today – don't get me started. Wearing baggy-ass pants around their knees, for crissakes? That's sexy? 

Old-school rock stars, now they know sexy. Led Zeppelin, back in the early '70s, Robert Plant's long curly hair, his tight butt, jeans that were painted on. Keith Richards, always looking like a leftover bender, a guy you'd never bring home to mama but, boysohboys, would you be laying awake some nights thinking about him. Even Tom Waits, looking like he just graduated from the school of hard knocks and sounding like he had a lung full of secondhand smoke from the toughest bars on Wrong Side of the Tracksville.

One of the album covers I used to stare at was The Guess Who's Greatest Hits. Those boys were Winnipeg-purty, rough tough Canadiana rock stars. I loved 'em fierce. Spent way too much time thinking about 'em. I still hear No Time or These Eyes and I get the shivers.

Xan Marcelles makes me feel like that. 

I was looking for a photo of him, just now, and of course I couldn't find one. He's not party to photo shoots. Likes to hang around a bar named Pale Rider, the kind of bar where Waits would hang out in if he was in the neighbourhood. Whiskey's cheap. Beer's cheaper, but not as cheap as some of the chicks who hang out, waiting to meet Xan's eye, maybe meet more than that.

Xan plays bass in a band called Crooked Fang. Nah, you won't find 'em on American Idol so don't bother looking. They're just a bunch of guys, y'know? Dudes, Xan says. When he's not onstage, he's working at the bar, cleaning toilets, making sandwiches, taking out the trash. When he's not doing that? You might find him in a back alley, or in the austere apartment on top of the Rider, sinking his teeth into some nubile young woman willing to give blood.

And I'm not talking about the Red Cross, here.

Yup, Xan's a vampire. Not a pretty boy Robert Pattinson-Twilight kind of vamp. There's nothing twinkly about him. Imagine Keith Richard, or Robert Plant, with fangs. Or Burton Cummings, while he was still with the Guess Who, before he went solo and turned all Vegassy and Mr. Showbiz. Back when his hair was long and his jeans were tight and ...

Sorry, that's how I get when I think about Xan Marcelles. Kinda crazy, if you know what I mean. Pretty, um, hot under the collar for an old broad. Hey, I'm not the only woman with a thing for Xan Marcelles. Carrie Clevenger is WAY worse than me – she even has a Crooked Fang logo tattooed on her back. (I might have put one on my arse ... ) She also writes about him.

Carrie Clevenger

Texas Carrie is as talented a writer as they come. I'm not exaggerating here. I first caught wind of her work through #Friday Flash. Her stories killed me. I'd be, like, all proud of something I had written and then I read hers and I felt like somebody had kicked me upside the head and said, "See? THAT'S good writing!" Carrie was away from FF for a while but she's been back these past few weeks and one of her stories just blew me away. She's so freaking good it's scary.

Right now, as we speak, she's in the final throes of putting Crooked Fang together, a novel all about Xan. I'm looking forward to it and that's no word of a lie. I'd read anything Carrie wrote. Probably her grocery list is prize-worthy. 

In the meantime, there are two other Xan books on the market. Both are collaborations with another fantastic writer, Nerine Dorman of South Africa. Somehow these two dark word queens found each other and found a writing vibe that has resulted in Just My Blood Type and Blood and Fire.

I read both of them. Really fast. That's saying something because these days I don't read anything really fast, for a whole lot of reasons. These two books, though, you'll fly through them, flipping one page after another because you just gotta know how they turn out. Don't believe me? Check 'em out. Just My Blood Type is a free download so if you don't like it, you're not out anything. (But you will.) And Blood and Fire is up at Amazon for, like, $2.99 or something ridiculous. Pretty cheap thrill, I gotta say. 

I flew through Blood and Fire. Not only has it got hunky rock star vampire Xan Marcelles, it's got an equally hunky magic dude named Ash. The two pair up for a thrill-ride of an adventure, an all grown-up buddy story that'll have you beggin' for more. Carrie writes Xan; Nerine writes Ash. One chapter is all Xan, the next is Ash. There are two points of view, two well-rounded hunks-a-burning lust and enough F-bombs and bad whiskey and spilled blood to put a smile even on this jaded face.

A while back I fired off some questions for Mister Marcelles. I had to wipe the drool marks off the e-mail before I hit send. I hope he doesn't realize I kinda got the hots for him. Maybe it was obvious, though, me calling him a sex kitten and all. 

Here's the interview. See for yourself.

Q: First of all, you scare the crap outta me. OK, not literally, but pretty close. Good thing you hang down there in the Pale Rider and I'm a goodly number of kilometres north in Canada, where we don't see many bass-playing, whiskey-touting, long-haired, sex-kitten vampires. Also, I'm not a sweet young thing, the kind of chick you occasionally like to gnaw on when the hunger hits. So I think I'm relatively safe. Still, you intimidate the heck out of me.

XM: Sex kitten? Lady, I’m not sure how to take that. I’ll assume that means ‘studly-man-types’ up there in the frozen north.

Q: Is it because you're so tall? So strong? So smart? Could it be the length of your hair? More likely the length of your fangs? I dunno, Xan, do you have this effect on all people? Or just silly, wobbly-kneed, middle-aged women who have an appreciation for '70s rock stars as well as the finer things in life?

XM: I dunno, I’m just a dude. That has some weird situations I keep running face-first into. Some are ordinary, some…not so much, but yeah. I got fangs, but really. Promise. I’m just a dude. That has fangs. And a bass.

Q: Where did you come from, anyway? Who's the sire that put you in the spot you are now, and are you happy about eternal life as a vampire or is that just the hand you've been dealt? And why is it an undead dude like yourself, who could pretty much rule the world if he wanted and live in some Transylvanian castle, hang out in a place like the Rider? Cleaning toilets? Making egg salad sandwiches? Sure, it's part of what makes you so appealing in Carrie and Nerine's latest book, but is it really how you want to (not) live?

XM: I lived in Denver before. Stopped for a beer on the way to see my girlfriend at the time, and there she was. Little bitty thing (I politely refer to her as ‘The Bitch’ or maybe Satan’s daughter) with something about her that was damn-near irresistible. Well, I’m here, so you know that already. No, I’m not exactly thrilled with the hand I’ve been dealt. Good analogy by the way, because that’s how it went down. It was out of my hands. She chose me, even though she lied and said it was an accident, I know better than that. She was always good at lying.

I lived a fast life at first after I became what I am now. Did lots of things I didn’t want to do. Living at Pale Rider is me doing what I want. When I walked out of her life after taking her shit for about twenty years? Hell yes.

Making sandwiches, cleaning toilets, playing my guitar? It’s life. Normal life. And though it’s temporary, I’m gonna enjoy it for all it’s worth, sweetheart.

Q: Speaking of Blood and Fire, how's that going for you? I read through it lickety-split – couldn't put it down. Loved the action, but also loved the humour. You've got a self-deprecating style that makes you even more interesting. Sometimes, though, you take a real psychological beating at the hands of that Ash character – throughout a lot of the book he didn't give you much respect for your brain. Although it's clear to me that you're not just muscle and tooth. Did you ever want to just reach out and smack the guy? And once you got a taste of his magic blood, you must be lusting for a little bit more.. tell the truth - would you like to get your fangs into him one more time?

XM: I dunno, after the mess it got me in last time? As good as it was, I’m thinking I’ll pass. But the smacking? I’m thinking he wanted to deck me more than me him. Ha. It was cool running into another immortal, weird as he was. 

Q: And how do you feel, by the way, about Mizz Clevenger and her apparent need for writing about you all the time? Is that OK with you? Are you liking the idea of becoming an increasingly popular subject in increasingly popular books? 

XM: Popular? That’s real generous of you, there. Maybe I chose C.C. for a reason. You know she killed me off in the first story she wrote about me? I’m still a little pissed about that.

Q: I'm hoping you like it, because I'm hoping for more. Your character is rather addictive and I'm looking forward to more tales with you in it. What's next? Dying to hear…


XM: Next stop is Crooked Fang, baby. The book I’ve been through Hell and back for. It’s been a long time coming, and I’m stoked to see what everybody thinks because it’ll just be me you’ll be riding with. Oh, and one more thing: It’s not the last you’ll see of me.

Thanks a million Cathy, for your hospitality and your time. Really appreciate it. I know we’re all busy, but if people are interested in knowing more about what I’m up to for some reason, best stop is my Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/CrookedFang

And I also got a website, strangely enough it’s crookedfang.com, how about that? Along with a twitter station at @crookedfang

And Blood and Fire, yeah there’s a story you can pick up for the price of a beer over at Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Blood-and-Fire-ebook/dp/B006SD3F2S/ Don’t worry, I’ll put that money to good use, promise.

The writer ladies, Carrie Clevenger and Nerine Dorman are also on Twitter, respectively as @carrieclevenger and @nerinedorman. Telling you, they got no creativity.

Thanks for checking out my shit and for your time.

Lates,
X 

THIS JUST IN: Mizz Clevenger just sent me a photo of Xan. More eye candy, ladies. Enjoy... (No, that's Keith Richards, back when he was just born, practically... Xan is the long-haired beauty below.)

Ferris Bueller lovers unite!

Later today I have a real treat for everyone, an interview with a genuine hunk of burning lust (not Dave, he's love, not lust, well... sometimes he is.. umgh, sorry.. where was I?).

For now, here's another real treat. GP Ching had this link on Facebook and it made me laugh out loud, no kidding. YOU MUST WATCH. You must! You will smile, or your money back, guaranteed. (Gen, get well soon, OK?)

AND NOW, MY FRIEND, LAUGH!

Linda Simoni-Wastila – Letter from a Friend

Once upon a time, when my jean size was enormous somewhat larger, Linda Simoni-Wastila sent me a jar of homemade peach jam. I gobbled it up, so fast the postage stamp wasn't even dry yet. It looked, and tasted, like she had reached out into the sky and captured sunshine with a butterfly net, then mixed it with crystalline sugary sweetness and preserved it, with love, in a pretty glass jar. 

The jam is long gone but its flavour lingers. When I think of Linda, my thoughts are tinged soft with peach.

I know a number of Lindas (when I was in school there were as many Lindas as Cathys and Susans) so sometimes Dave has a hard time knowing who I'm talking about. "Which Linda?" he'll say, when I mention a story she has written, or something witty she has posted on one of her blogs, leftbrainwrite or bluetruedream. All I have to say is, "The jam Linda," and he nods and says, "Ahhh."

Funny, isn't it, how we come to identify our blogging friends with such labels. I'm glad that it's jam that labels Linda with Dave, because I have a much more sobering label that forever links me with her. We've both lost our fathers; me, a few years back, hers, not all that long ago. Whenever I write about my dad, Linda is there with a reassuring comment. The same when she writes about hers. I realize that everyone in the world can be connected by grief, but somehow our own connection has solidified over the last couple of years by this sadness.

We understand each other. And that's good.

While I feel like I know her intimately, what I actually know about Linda wouldn't fill more than a couple of paragraphs. She lives in the United States, somewhere near Baltimore, Maryland. She's a part-time writer, like me, only she's way more committed and has actually finished a book, and we hooked up through Friday Flash. She's a mom, she's an academic, she's a minister's wife and she's a fabulous cook. She takes writing classes, she's on board with the Weight Watchers program (but I mean, pffft, she's like Twiggy next to me) and apparently she's as bad at cross-country skiing as I am. She struggles with the business of the everyday, like all of us, and somehow she keeps the many and varied aspects of her life in balance. 

Linda is observant, intelligent and sensitive. She has a quality of dignity about her; a gentle strength, that shines through every word she writes. 

One of the words she writes the most is "peace." She signs every comment with it. And when you see it, that signature word, that peace, you feel her spirit, her quiet goodness, her offer of friendship, and sometimes, when you're feeling low, it is powerful enough to make you weep.

Hello friend!

I hope this letter finds you happy, writing like a mad woman on your novel, and not pondering funeral songs. I am, per usual, in the midst of chaos, but what else is new? Busy suits me, the alternative not a healthy one. Mostly I am consumed with work and this smorgasbord I am hosting for church folks. A friend is helping, but when we came up with the idea, we forgot the point of a smorgasbord is a LOT of food, which means a LOT of baking and curing and saucing. So, I write to you in between bread risings and cookie batches. Please forgive me if I sound confused—I likely am.

*

It is late here. Three loaves of Pulla cool on wire racks. The house smells of yeast and cardamom and I want to saw off an end, smear butter over the still-warm bread, but I think – what would Cathy do? You would walk-away; after all, you can walk away from Christmas cookies. You are a better woman than me, so I compromise: a small piece, no butter. Good enough for company, and still within my daily points.

Tomorrow will tempt me. But to be safe, I planned low-fat options (ta-da!), like cucumber rounds topped with salmon and a dab of wasabi-infused cream cheese. Tomorrow I will blow Weight Watchers, but that is what bonus points are for. Come Sunday, back to salad and veggies. By the way, I don’t think I would have returned to Weight Watchers without your public bravery, so thank you. Knowing you are battling similar temptations helps, a lot. And now the oven timer is dinging, I thought I was done baking…

*

It is early morning. The sun slants low over the treetops. Lea, my baby girl, practically a tween (when did that happen?!), sits beside me while I write to you (she says hi), watching robins pull worms and grubs from the grass. There are a hundred birds at least. A red-headed bird flies into their midst. The flock rises in a chattering cloud and flies to the safety of the pear tree. Lea runs upstairs for ‘the bird book’ and finds the woodpecker page. We deduce, based on size and shape, the intruder is a red-bellied wood-pecker. My aunt gave me that book when I was my daughter’s age. I feel the tug of family and history, of people I have loved in this life, and the morning turns bitter-sweet.

*

To sit, at last, to sit. The smorgasbord went well—the guests laughed and talked, their tongues looser from the beer and glogg. They left with full, happy bellies, the best I could hope for. My family has scattered to other corners of the house. I sip a small glass of white wine while I write. Peace. Yes.

Making this meal took more work than I ever imagined. Preparing these foods, many for the first time, I felt kinship with my grandmothers and grandfathers, aunts and uncles, cousins. Kneading the Pulla dough, infusing the milk with cardamom, braiding the tubes into loaves, I imagined Mumu beside me, whispering the steps, guiding my hands. Brewing the glogg reminded me of my grandfather simmering the mixture of wine, port, and brandy in a soup pot in the week before Christmas. After he died, my mother continued the tradition, and now I make the ancestral potion. The sweet smell of glogg on the stovetop will always connect me to my mother and her father.

Food plays such an integral role in my memories. I love food, to make it, to eat it, to write about it. In one novel, my character Phoebe makes Pulla and remembers her mother, dead over a decade, and feels overwhelming grief. But as she massages the dough, sadness turns to the realization that everything she needs from her mother she has already received—a strength she can invoke anytime by the simple act of making bread, by remembering.

Preparing these ‘memory’ foods feels like small sacred acts, like resting flowers at gravesites. A way to honor my family and how they have shaped me and, in turn, passing memories to my children.

Anyway, enough of this sentimental mush. One more week before classes start, enough time to research snipers, Afghanistan geography, and hammer out Jeremiah’s story. Who is Jeremiah? You’ll find out soon enough, once I get down his bones. And I can’t wait to meet the characters you have cooked up this past year. So lucky, aren’t we, to love who we love, and to live as we do. For that I am grateful, just as I am grateful for your friendship. So take care, you. Hug your boys close, then tell them to hug you for me.

Love and peace, Linda

Delores - Letter from a Friend

Where did Delores come from? Other than the glint in her daddy's eye?

I'm thinking here.. she's been hanging out on the banks of the Muskoka River since practically forever, or maybe last year's April A to Z Blogfest, whatever came first. Argh – this is bugging me now. Hang on while I find out...

OK. Back. I just spent the last half an hour reading old blog posts from last April to find Delores' first comment and found myself laughing out loud at the ridiculousness of my doofussy damned door contest. Coincidentally, that's where I first had a comment from Delores: "Been browsing around your blog...love it. Thanks for dropping in on thefeatherednest."

There were TONS of other comments on that post (which makes me think I need to do another contest soon. Maybe I'll do a Damned Office Contest, as per Deanna Schrayer's suggestion) and Delores' was rather small and quiet and dignified, hardly standing out amongst the madding crowd. But you know what? Almost a year later, I rarely see some of those commenters, while Delores is a faithful and enthusiastic friend. Don't get me wrong – I'm definitely not criticizing other commenters. I know how things work. You drop by for a while, you have a nice visit, and then you're off to visit new friends or old friends or just different friends. There's not enough time in the day to visit every single blogger on your list every single day.

But Delores, she almost always drops by. I really appreciate that about her. Even when I have absolutely nothing funny, or interesting, or even cogent to say, she is there with a nice comment. (Oh please, Delores, don't feel obligated now.) Not that I'm the only blog she follows. FAR from it. Everywhere I go, Delores is there, spreading her cheerful self through the blogging world. Everyone loves her. Don't believe me? Check out one of her blogs – she gets more visitors than good-looking lifers at the penitentiary. 

Delores blogs at three places: The Feathered Nest, which has insightful personal commentary, some fabulous poetry and fiction, as well as all kinds of cool stuff. On Robbie Burns Day, for example, she had photos of Woodlawn Park Cemetery where the great granddaughter of the famous Scottish bard is buried. You never know what you're going to find in Delores' fine feathered nest.

The Tormented Scribe is a tad on the spooky side. The top photo is a cemetery and there's lots of dark-edged poetry and stories and things that go bump in the night.

Delores even has a blog full of poems and stories for children. It's called Youngish and she is currently running a limerick contest where the prize is a big box of crayons! I LOVE new boxes of crayons... I may have to enter this. How about:

There once was a girl named Delores

Who gargled with spearmint Lavoris

Her breath smelled so sweet

That she leapt to her feet

And eloped with a young stud named Boris.

Annnnnnd that's why I don't write poetry, folks! I'll leave that up to Mizz Delores.

Most of my bloggy friends live a long way away, some as far as Australia. Delores is actually one of the few people who live nearby – just a couple hours in the car, as a matter of fact, in a part of southern Ontario I used to know fairly well. It would be fun to pay her a visit some day, steal a cup of coffee or two, and see what she really looks like! As you can see from the photo she sent, and the lack of last name, my friend Delores is a woman of mystery. Maybe her letter will reveal a few of her secrets ...

Dear Cathy:

Here we are, half way through the first month of the New Year. It’ s a sobering thought isn’t it? How quickly time moves along. Christmas seems so long ago and so far away and yet experience tells us it will be here again long before we are ready.

The New Year stretches before us blank and exciting as an artist’s canvas waiting for that first splash of colour. How will we paint the New Year? Will we use the same old brushes, strokes and colours as last year or will we break free and try something new?

Looking back I can see there are some things I definitely want more of. Certainly I want more grandchildren time (if my body can handle it), more time holding a camera, looking at antiques and collectibles, writing poetry, watching the birds, prowling cemeteries, definitely more blogging..... Oh yes, there are things that bear repeating for sure. Some things, however, could go by the wayside. We have already taken some steps toward change for this year. One thing we have decided to cut way back on is eating out. Small changes to things that were not enhancing our lives will be made. This is our promise to each other. This year we will enlarge upon the things we know we love to do, discard the things that fail to make life better and keep ourselves open to new ideas, activities and people.

We have a few plans for refurbishing our nest this year (our feathered nest). Nothing too grandiose, just a few tweaks and improvements are required. A little paint, some trim, a new carpet will breathe life into the old house. We are blessed to have this roof , this shelter from the storms of life, over our heads.

I must say, Cathy, I have been impressed and encouraged with your success in weight loss this year. I am going to make an attempt myself. You have inspired me.

Anyway my dear, the day calls; the hectic, harried life of a retiree (lol). Important things need to be done; bathing, dressing, eating...you know the drill. It snowed last night and I want to take some pictures. Decisions need to be made about what to do with that lump of raw meat on the counter. I feel the faint flutter of a poem in the back of my mind; something about bed and rest and rise to the test, best, nest, dressed, stressed, oh well...I’ll think about it later.

I thought you might get a hoot out of this most recent photo of myself (self portrait by the artist lol). It is so typical. In most photos I am headless, or just a hand, or most likely behind the camera.


May you have a fulfilling New Year,

Bye for now,

Delores.

Squinty McGuinty

When I'm sitting here blogging? This is how I look.

"Aren't I attractive?" I ask Dave.

"No," sez Dave.

My one eye is SO BAD that I catch myself closing it tight, slamming it shut, anything to look at this damnably blurry computer screen. (You should see how big I've got it blown up. And I can only stand looking at it for a few minutes at a time.) Thirteen more days until my cataract surgery. 13 DAYS! I can hardly WAIT for that doctor to poke a hole in my eyeball with a scalpel, mash the lens around before he yanks it out, and stick the new bendable umbrella-ish lens through the hole. Then he'll stitch it up with a needle and thread. Like stuffing a Christmas goose. The idea of having stitches in my eyes is a little daunting but I am definitely looking forward to seeing again.

It's not that I can't see. I just can't see details. It's like looking through a window that's clouded up. Like, when you've been out at Make-out Hill necking in the back of your boyfriend's Buick and there's a knock on the window and you're not sure if it's a cop or a serial killer because you've steamed up the glass. Here, I found this image on the web that shows you what I mean:

(It's from Lighthouse International.)

Anyway, I'm getting sick and tired of squinting at everything. I was at the hairdresser's today, getting my eyebrows plucked because I sure as hell can't see them (I now wear make-up like 90-year-old ladies wear make-up, with blue shadow over half my face and lipstick smeared up my nose. I know. Disgusting). The hairdressing ladies were teasing me that after the surgery I'll know what Dave REALLY looks like. (God, I hope he's cute. Word to the wise: never marry someone BEFORE cataract surgery.)

I found out tonight, on Facebook, because everything I know about my family I learned on Facebook (pretty soon we won't need family reunions, we'll just set up a FB event and nuke our own hot dogs), that my cousin Karen just found out SHE has cataracts. And she's younger than me! Poor thing, she just had surgery for glaucoma (the eye disease I can never pronounce) and she went in for a post-op check-up and the doc says, "Your glaucoma is gone but keep an eye on those cataracts you got going." Talk about not winning for losing! Hey Karen - I'll loan ya my white cane when I'm done with it! And then we'll go and beat up on our mothers for handing us down the blind gene!

Speaking of mothers, I had lunch with mine today. She paid, which was AWESOME. We went to the hairdresser's. Mom got herself a fancy new do and she looks like a million bucks. Seeing as how I'm usually at work when my Mom is gallivanting, this was a real treat. We had coffee and gossiped and chatted and ate and gossiped and, you know, it was just fabulous! Thanks Mom!

On a different note, I'm pretty stoked about how Letters from a Friend is going. Hope you're liking it, too. I love how every letter is different. I love all your comments. Some of them make me laugh. Some cry. All of 'em make me squint. Oh, didn't you love Jamie Woodman's handcrafted letter? She is SO talented. Me and her and Dave and Donna Brohm had a helluva good time having coffee at her house on Monday. Nothing better than seeing old friends. I got there and announced, truthfully, "You guys haven't changed a bit! You look amazing!" And they were, like, "Says the blind girl." Yeah. Well. I bet they looked fetching. They always did. Likely always will.

I've got lots more letters coming up. Tomorrow I'll be posting a letter from Delores of The Feathered Nest fame. She is one of my most faithful blog readers – I've gotta give her credit for that. Even when I post the worst shite, she is there to cheer me on. Delores is also one of the most prolific bloggers I've come across – she posts like a zillion times every day. OK, so maybe not a zillion, but ALMOST. (Gotta stop writing about her now so I have lots to discuss tomorrow.)

I've got letters from some of my very favourite blogger friends. You won't want to miss them, I swear.

One more thing: we went cross-country skiing on Sunday. There's a spot around the corner from us where you can ski-for-free. It was gorgeous and we had an awesome time. I am NOT a great skier anymore, since I got old and fat and all, but I used to be, when dinosaurs roamed the earth. I was feeling brave until I went down the first hill, yelling, "SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!" all the way.

Next hill, I took off the damned skis and walked.

I may be blind but I'm not stupid.

Remind me to buy Sam some snow pants.