Smart Bitches Trashy Books | All of the romance, none of the bullshit.

And what in my magical inbox should appear, but Christine Feehan, and eight tiny reindeer of rational prose. Ok, no reindeer, but prose? Got it:

The story as I know it:

The camera did in fact belong to me, not my daughter.  Heather and I are friends and have been for many years.  I’m old and body part photos don’t really work so well for me as a joke and I was concerned that perhaps someone else might post the pictures on the internet.  No, my son never saw the pictures, the ones he saw were of our home so he knew the camera was mine.  He knew the camera was mine and never would have left them there for me to see as he knows what an old fashioned woman I am.  The girls apologized and that should have ended it.  The police were never called.  There were no tears by anyone I know of.  I’m pretty certain all the fictional accounts are far better than anything either Heather or I could have written but it was fun to read them all.

No tears, no police, no drama? ARMPITS?! That’s it? Funny how rational grownup behavior is so very entertaining. Thanks, ma’am!

Now, do we need to have an armpit photography contest? 

Heather Graham contacted me regarding the great “What What In My Camera” debate with the following statement:

The story as I know it . . . .

A bartender had a camera and insisted, as the bar was closing, that someone there take it, as he knew it belonged to our group. (Of hundreds.) Some of the kids--assorted kids, as in children of participants, models, not “camps!"--took silly pictures of armpits. Someone had discovered that close-ups of pressed pits resembled other body parts. The pictures were in bad taste, but then, again, it is a convention where we do have erotica, chocolate penises, ribbed, scented, and neon colored condoms, I don’t suppose one can condemn them too harshly for thinking that armpit pictures that looked like more sexual zones were very funny.

They were then with a member of the family who owned the camera, a member of the family who saw the pictures and laughed as well, then realized that the camera belonged to his family. Everyone thought great, we know who owns the camera. Why they didn’t erase the pictures then, I’m not sure, except that they had just showed them to the owner’s brother. They were all amused, I suppose, and thought little of it. (Once again, think of some of the stuff given away at the convention. Someone left a gift basket in my room with many items that might have been considered extremely bad taste by some.)

The camera was returned. The pictures were seen by the camera’s owner, who was upset, believing them real, so I believe her brother forgot to show them to her and tell her what they were, then erase them. The girls accused of taking the pictures were not in them at all, but since they were in other pictures on the camera, it was assumed that they were in the offensive pictures, and that the pictures weren’t armpits.  The girls, who, as I said, were not even the ones in the pictures--they were MALE armpits--were asked to apologize for being in any way associated in what was being considered bad taste, since the owner was upset. They did. From there, it should have ended. But people are touchy. Things were said. Hostility escalated. Now, I admit to being incensed that such aspersions were cast upon “The Princess of Fire,” and I am hoping very seriously to set the record straight. Equally, I want to say that I admire tremendously and have long been friends with “The Carpathian Queen,” and that I still consider myself a fan and a friend.

Hopefully, putting it all to rest . . . .

Then again, if it blew up really, really, big, maybe the Carpathian and Fire queens could get People and Time and a few other publications in on it, and get super rich and famous! Oh, wow, maybe even Oprah and Entertainment Tonight and . .

So! Queens and princesses are in the bar, words were exchanged, and then CAME AN ARMPIT. But now, it appears all is well after suitably being blown out of proportion on the internet. Well, that’s why we’re here, folks.

And speaking of why there is an internet, wanna see the best ever OMG not work safe armpit va-cleavage shot ever?

No really, it’s awful.

A certain pub of the vowel variety was seen approaching one of their former authors, now a big double-diamond star in her own right for another publishing house. Despite proclamations that said author was persona non grata at their house since she departed, the pub rep present at RT was begging said author for a few books - e-rights only, no need to worry about that printy type business. Things must be rotten in Denmark for begging to supercede earlier vilification.

Meanwhile, a number of authors from one ePub had a marvelous time at the party of another ePub, even though in previous years, the first had drawn virtual barbed wire fences around their authors to prevent fraternizing (or sororitizing?) with the other group. And yet, when the grown ups got to socialize, a good time was had by all.

However, a good time was not had by every single attendee. From the RT Police blotter, a three-times-the-drama tale of a very pitiable cover model. Seems one of the Misters Romance had a history of instability, and his behavior caused a very big stir most of the weekend. First, he scored the room key card of an RT staffer, admitted himself to her room and waited for her return so he could serenade her. He was removed from the premesis soon after - but wait, there’s more. Said contestant returned, and was forcibly removed a second time, this time, according to witnesses, on a gurney.

And then it got interesting.

Yesterday I went from wings and chiffon and a line for the breakfast buffet that was 1400 people long, to a dinner table for 1400 with matzo and wine and references to oppression and an obligation to recline and relax and celebrate. As I was sitting at the longest damn table I’ve ever seen, it occurred to me - seder is one hell of an effort for my inlaws, and that effort is one reason why I left RT early and rushed home to then travel upstate for Passover dinner. That effort, and my acknowledging that effort, is important, and worth - almost - missing the opportunity to have Fabio graze MY left boob (scroll down on the right).

The same can be said of RT. A convention of that size is definitely the results of many, many sleepless hours on the part of the convention staff, from the people who stuffed bags at the last minute to those who opened the doors a bit early so people who were disabled could find a seat nearer to the doors. Someone was hanging that purple sparkly fabric all over the room, and the person who took that effort made the entire venue seem more special, and I noticed that effort. I’m sure other convention attendees noticed too - just like they noticed the ceiling decorations and light effects at the underwater faery ball, the table-scape decorations at the Vampire ball that would have made Sandra Lee proud, and the combined glitz and ongepotchket that communicated one thing: there is no one guest of honor. It’s not a bat mitzvah, or a wedding, or a quince-gone-wild. All this crazy is for each and every one of the folks dressing up and gettin’ down. That’s a lot of effort to make 1500 romance readers feel special.

While I didn’t entirely get on board with each and every moment of the RT wings-and-teeth-o-rama, the effort that went into the convention deserves acknowledgment, just like my mother in law setting a table for 25. So to all the convention staff who didn’t sleep much this week: thank you.

I have finally been reunited with my full size keyboard and laptop and I have uploaded the photos I snapped at RT. Alas, I was sporting the little camera, which doesn’t take the really hot photos, so some are grainy due to poor lighting or bad flash. I will endeavor to bring a more beefy and appropriate camera in future efforts, because DAMN was there a lot to photograph.

Behold, the gallery of photos. Enjoy.