Cooking the Hook - NEW

                      She was not accustomed to driving in commuter traffic which made her a menace. While everyone else was rolling on autopilot, she had a death grip on the wheel and was riding the brake, hanging back from the car in front of her. Being stoned did not help the situation. It was cold and the car's heater was mocking her, blowing cold air in her face, or was that the AC? The controls made no sense.  He was slouched down in the passenger seat, ankle crossed over a knee, foot keeping time with the music from the cassette player, oblivious of her jitters.   Traffic slowed to a crawl then stopped, and she started groping in the depths of her bag. “What are you looking for?” “Lip gloss. My lips are chapped.” “C’mere. He put his hand around the back of her neck, pulled her toward him like he was adjusting a lampshade, and planted a firm kiss on her mouth.  “There. You got the last of it.” His...

  The phone rang four times before I could grope the handset out of the cradle. Groggy and hoarse, a muffled “Lo?” was as much as I could offer, my head still on the pillow. “Is Kitty there?” I heard the door of a phone booth screech a few inches and thud shut. I needed to hear his voice again. Immediately. “Who did you want?”  “Kitty. I don’t know her last name. We met at the Hi-Lo the other night.”  “Hmmm. The Hi-Lo, huh? She gave you my number?”   “914-232-5646?” He was off by one. Close. So close. The acoustics of the phone booth were intimate. His voice was like melted butter and dark syrup swirled together. Salty, sweet, smoothly overwhelming.  “No. No kitty here. Just me.” I yawned. If I could purr, I would have.  “So, what number is this?”  “And why would I give you my number if you weren’t looking for me in the first place? I snuggled deeper into the warmth of my nest. “Hmmn?”  “Solid point, but can I have some slack 'cause I’m glad I got...

 "Evil draws dark hearts like a corpse draws flies."         ~the Caretaker from "The Monkeytown Murders. It's time to start rounding up the rabbits. Culling, sorting, putting some on ice. This may not be the most efficient way of writing a novel, but it's how I do. No wonder they tend to get out of hand. I was gifted this 4ft wide roll of paper years ago. It's what's leftover when gift cards are printed- the backside coated with a shiny, waterproof plastic. Great gift for big ideas.

  I took a set of the paperbacks over to my son's house yesterday. As I handed the books to Missy, Charlie said "Oh. Prophets Tango!"  He held it close as if he was trying to see the rest of the woman's face. Put his finger on her cheek. "Is this Bea?" "Yes, but she's all grown up in this one. Calls herself Anna. Annabea or Bea was her little girl name." He took that in without comment. I was writing this with my right hand while I held him cradled in my left arm. He turned seven last week. I've been storytelling with him. Making up adventures for Little Bea and her invisible sidekick Ace who is a smart-mouth Barbary ape. They get up to all kinds of no good and get away with most of it.  The story I'm stealing from is actually not for children although I may have to write one just for him. I dearly hope his parents keep him from reading this one until he's old enough. Like 21. If I'm still around, I'll have some explaining t...

Disco was the least of the 70s. It was the lipstick on the pig of an out-of-control wedge of years caught between the wishful thinking of the 60s and the heart-wrenching chaos of the 80s. A truncated decade limping on platform soles between the wild abandon of Woodstock and the Death Card whispering "AIDS" from every dark corner. The sex cost too dearly, drugs took more than they gave, and rock 'n roll waited patiently in the wings.   But not everyone was standing behind velvet ropes desperate for approval. Not everyone spent their last dime on the latest polyester guaranteed to get them In. That was in the movies.  The economy was in free fall, the oil crisis strangling the working class the hardest. People dropped their credit card bills in the trash, unopened. Goals were sketchy, mutable. For a few, survival on their own terms was slipping through their fingers.  Prophets Tango—S1: Out of Step      What happens when a drug-dealing psychic ...

  There is ecstasy in paying attention. There is also salvation. She hadn’t expected the drug to come on so strong, so quickly. Past the point of remarking on it, past the point of asking someone else to drive, but honestly, she couldn’t have let any of these mongrels take the wheel. She knew her friends hadn’t really turned into dogs but Baker was a much better looking Collie than he was a human, sitting at alert in the passenger seat, his pink tongue hanging out of his mouth.  Thank god for standstill traffic. Her plan was to drift along, focusing intently on the triple rubies of the taillights of the vehicle ahead of them until the road widened enough for her to slide over onto the shoulder and wait it out. Climb over the guardrail and puke. Sit in the tall grass and trash until she felt better. For now, focusing on the mechanics of staying upright in the seat and keeping the car in the lane was all she could manage.  Air, she needed air, and she hit the butt...

 Nothing like little early publicity to get me up and dressed before it was absolutely necessary. (a lie. I'm still in jammies). Thank you, Grace . 

  Launch!  ~(bodywide horripilation)~ The word gives me equal parts of terror and delight.   Book launch adds the wicked need to pee! The process is complex and time-consuming, especially when I've only just enrolled in Marketing 101 for Dummies. And the actual launch of Prophets Tango is still weeks away .  If you want to be kept in the loop, see that glowing blue box top right? You know what to do, and I promise not to be a pest or peddle your information.