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

A few not entirely blind items:

Rumor has it EC Cavemen behaved like cavemen, with the exception of a gentleman who lived up to that term by the name of Rodney. At least three authors that I know of resorted to physical response to their grabby tactics – a physical response that involved a slap and no tickle. As of Friday evening, no cavemen in sight – they seem to have suddenly and mysteriously disappeared. At least, they’re not wearing their official EC gear and traveling in a pack, and the EC staff seem to have departed as well.

And speaking of EC, a few other authors reported that editors were apt to shoot down EC writers’ careers at point blank range by saying to the author’s faces that their careers had entered rigor mortis with no hope of recovery.

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.

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.

Another blind item landed in my inbox, and each one is more interesting than the next. You like the blind items?  Hate them with a burning, itchy passion? Let me know.

On to the item of limited vision:

This NYT Author’s deviltry won’t come as any surprise to many of her colleagues, as sources say she’s not made many friends in the way of authors, reviewers, or, according to some fans who attended a recent weekend, members of her own fanbase.

The scene: a restaurant, a relatively mellow mealtime during a recent conference. The Author is chatting and, given the gradual increase in volume, possibly arguing with her companions when the waitress approaches to take their order. The Author doesn’t stop her conversation, and waitress is standing, waiting, ignored, for some time. One of the companions at the table invites The Author kindly to relax a moment so the waitress can take their orders.

Commence ruckus at the table: loud crashing and smashing noises and even louder “Goddammit!” as she stands up. By this time, the restaurant is silent and staring, but the still quiet does not give The Author any pause. She hollers at her companions that she will not relax, and that this brash companion has no business telling The Author what to do. The Author then makes her way quickly out of the restaurant.

The waitress, who was understandably shocked and a little embarrassed, tells our source of this fury-tale that The Author’s companions made attempts to apologize on The Author’s behalf and begged that the waitress excuse The Author’s rudeness. But The Author overhears this smoothing-over and bellows from the doorway to a very attentive audience of both her own party and everyone else at every other table in the restaurant that no one should dare apologize on her behalf. Then, The Author departs.

The audience is silent, until a curtain of conversation descends upon every table, each person uttering a variation of, “Did you see that?”