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

Hello! I’m back home, after two days at the Hotel L&D, where they give you percocet and take your blood pressure at 4am. Freebird and I are healthy and happy, and we’re about to embark on that most romantic of endeavors: first night at home with new baby.

WHOO!

Thank you for all your good wishes - and for all the advice, because a lot of it came in handy! 

Ummm, Sara pointed out that I never posted a formal entry announcing the Birth of Freebird. DOH! Baby Freebird was born around 6 p.m. EST on November 8, 2005. He weighed 8 lbs. 8 oz., and you can see pictures of the happy family in this entry on Sarah’s blog.

And speaking of Sara: she has a pretty interesting conversation going on about her aesthetic sensibility when it came to romance novels. Check it. Yo.

I’m still working on the review for It Happened One Autumn and my Stupid-Ass Serial Story, so to tide you over because I have nothing much of interest to say today, please enjoy this silly little tidbit I wrote today while trying to avoid doing Real Work. It was inspired by a brief e-mail exchange that discussed, among other things, internet advertising, targeted marketing, computers, prescience, and cellphone ring tones.

So, I present before you:

Ballad of the Ring Tone Cowboy

(Copyright 2005 Candy Tan)

He walked the crowds, couched in loneliness that was almost palpable. Motes of dust kicked up around his boots and settled in fractal patterns in his wake. He moved without sound, the sharp lines of his pants and the crispness of his shirt and vest cutting the air in front of him.

Those who saw his holster slinked out of his way. Those who caught the look in his eyes slinked away even faster. His were the eyes of an oracle, of a man who saw too much, knew too much, and the canny ones who knew who he was and what he did prayed that today was not the day they would be touched by the Cowboy.

His holster rang. The chorus for “Evil Woman” filled the hot, heavy air, faithfully rendered in flat MIDI tones. A few men blanched and stopped in their tracks; one particularly well-dressed man touched his wedding band, then gripped it with painful tightness.

The Cowboy passed him by, and instead stepped up briskly to a young couple who were walking along hand-in-hand, infatuation insulating them from the world, the woman’s shiny brown hair bouncing with every step she took.

The Cowboy clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder, “Evil Woman” growing louder in the air. The man whirled around, face slack with surprise.

“It’s for you.” The Cowboy reached into his holster, and handed his tiny Motorola to the man. The man took it, flipped it open and read the screen, forehead creased with puzzlement.

The woman knew, though. She stared at the Cowboy, a deer stopped on the railroad tracks and seeing a light-spangled metal monster bearing down on her, the thought of jumping out of the way not an option. She merely squeezed her man’s hand tighter and turned pale. The Cowboy’s expression never changed.

“What the fuck?”

The woman switched her gaze back to her man. He was clutching the phone, face frozen, eyes blazing. “What the fuck?” he asked again. “You promised...” He stumbled, drunk with pain. He shook his hand free from the woman. Her face crumbled.

“Josh, listen...”

“No. No. You promised. You lying...” He let out a loud grunt, rage distilled in an exhalation, and pushed her, shoved her so hard she fell down and cracked her head sharply against the pavement. People cried out, some moving out of the way, others rushing towards the woman.

The Cowboy walked away, job done. He tucked the Motorola back into the holster. Nobody had seen him taking it back from the man. Nobody ever saw him taking the phone back.

He made his rounds that day in a town drowning in its own heat and stench and sweat. He walked up to a quiet, plump woman sitting at a bus stop, her oversized purse tucked by her feet like an obedient dog, and handed her a phone playing “Everybody Hurts.” She cried, sobbed as hard as on the day she’d found out her sister had died in a three-car pileup on I-5, and by the time she’d turned around to thank the Cowboy and hand back his phone, both were gone.

Another woman, tall and spare and neatly dressed, was handed the phone while it played “Eleanor Rigby.” She had looked at the phone’s screen and nodded, unsurprised.

The phone played “Lola,” and he handed it to a college boy, swaggering with a group of other college boys. The boy had turned pale.

So it went. Old and young, male and female, each with their song handed to them.

It was near the end of the day, midnight just minutes away, but the streets still swarmed with life. It had cooled, though not much, and the air tasted like brimstone and dark fruit. The Cowboy’s holster rang, the tinny sounds of “Enter Sandman” pouring into the thick atmosphere. The Cowboy took the phone out, and glanced at the screen.

He looked up just in time to see the number 20 bus bearing down on him.

All right, everybodies, are you ready for what the real fake title was out of the mind-boggling list?

*drumroll*

It was....

SILKEN SAVAGERY!

I was tricksy with this title, because there IS a Harlequin Presents entitled Silken Barbarity by none other than that inimitable doyenne of Harlequin Presents, Violet Winspear. But as far as I could determine (by the Power of Google, I have the powerrrrrrrr… to look up moronic titles), there’s no HP--nor ANY book--called Silken Savagery.

So: Good job, Shayera, Nicole and Angelle! I assigned numbers to the three of them, and using a random Javascript number generator, the winner is....

Angelle!

I’ll e-mail you the gift certificate later today to the e-mail address you provided. Unless you want me to e-mail it to another address, in which case, before 12 p.m. Pacific time today.

One of the other titles was a fake-in-disguise, though, and it was entirely my fault. See, when I was looking up titles, I saw The Boss’s Virgin, but Amazon.com had it listed as Boss’ Virgin. Stupid me, I didn’t bother to check the cover to confirm the title. They’ve since added the ‘s to the title, but notice how the possesive ‘s is capitalized. Ha. I’ve noticed that other “The Boss’s [insert female sexual state or occupation here]” titles have also been amended using the same weird capitalized S at the end. Heh.

Anyway, I feel really, really bad about that title, so there’s a runner-up prize of a Smart Bitch title for one of the five people who made it their guess. And the winner is....

Katy! Yay Katy! Behold, thou art crowned:

Those of you going “NUH UH! NO WAY is that title real!” here are assorted links to all the others, proving that yes, at some point in time, the marketing department at Harlequin thought it was a k-rad idea to name a book “Bedding His Virgin Mistress.” Go ahead and boggle your minds some more, my pretties.

Enter My Jungle
Thai Triangle
Dearest Demon
Angry Desire
Bedding His Virgin Mistress
Blackmailing the Society Bride
The City-Girl Bride
The Sheikh’s Virgin Bride
Brittle Bondage
Time of the Temptress
Tender is the Tyrant
The Deserving Mistress
His Virgin Mistress
The Judas Trap
Strange Intimacy
Boardroom to Bedroom
The Sex War
Satan’s Contract
Satan’s Master
Gold Ring of Revenge
Adam’s Rib

Thanks to all for playing, and try not to keel over laughing at some the covers, eh?

Stephen tagged me almost a week ago with this meme, but I just didn’t get around to it until now. Ooops.

Three screen names that you’ve had: misshepeshu, pillsbury doughgirl, zehitrer

Three things you like about yourself: My knockers (I have a very nice set, if I do say so myself), my evil sense of humor, the good care I take of my cats

Three things you don’t like about yourself: the fleabite scars on my legs (GODDAMN BASTARD FLEAS RAR), the size of my ass, my tendency to be a whiny-ass beyotch

Three parts of your heritage: Passive-aggressiveness from me ma, a tendency towards corpulence from dad’s side of the family, and cancer, heart disease and diabetes from both, whee!

Three things that scare you: The idea that Intelligent Design may actually be taught as a scientific theory in schools, reanimated dead people (I thought Resident Evil was scary, which is a sad reflection of the extent of my paranoia), being eaten alive

Three of your everyday essentials: My morning yogurt, purrs from ze kitties, checking the comments on this blog

Three things you are wearing right now: A V-neck sweater with bright blue, pink, yellow and white stripes; a tan wool skirt; beat-up brown clogs. I am a FASHION MAVEN.

Three of your favorite songs: This list changes from day to day, but for right now: Nada Surf’s version of “Au Fond du Rêve Doré,” “One” by Three Dog Night, “Space Oddity” by David Bowie (this song gives me chills no matter how many times I listen to it)

Three things you want in a relationship: fidelity, good sex, being similar in the ways that really count

Two truths and a lie: I’ve eaten head cheese and loved it, I’ve eaten pig’s feet and loved it, I’ve eaten pig’s ears and loved it

Three things you can’t live without: food, music and books

Three places you want to go on vacation: Marseilles, to visit my friend Edouard; St. Croix, to visit my friend Jen; and some place in rural England (Sussex? Why can’t I remember? Grrr) to visit my friend Katie

Three things you just can’t do: Whistle properly, laugh softly, arm wrestle worth a damn

Three kids names: Jablocks, Larksong, LaMonJello. These are all names that have been inflicted on real kids. Poor mites.

Three things you want to do before you die: See the pyramids, make an assload of money doing something I love, adopt more cats

Three celeb crushes: Matthew Caws, Beck, Jonathan Togo

Three of your favorite musicians: Again, this changes from day to day, but high on the list right now are The Shins, Nada Surf and Franz Ferdinand

Three physical things about the opposite sex that appeal to you: Slimness, a sweet face, deft hands

Three of your favorite hobbies: Reading, making insane messes in the kitchen, fucking around on the Internet

Three things you really want to do badly right now: Finish that chapter of my Stupid-Ass Serial Story (SASS), have an orgasm, take a nap

Three careers you’re considering/you’ve considered: Writer, English professor, veterinarian

Three ways that you are stereotypically a boy: I laugh at fart jokes; if you ever see me looking off thoughtfully into the distance, odds are high that I’m not pondering the meaning of life so much as imagining some filthy, dirty, wrong sex; I really couldn’t care less about girly matters like make-up and haircare--I don’t even own a hair dryer

Three ways that you are stereotypically a girl: I love romance novels, I have a passion for girly clothing and shoes, I love to cook

Three people that I would like to see post this meme: SB Sarah once she gets back, Bam and Meljean. Bwahaha.

Sarah headed off to the hospital first thing this morning to induce baby Freebird to come out. Since the romance novel covers E.D’Trix sent us didn’t work, I’m not sure I have much faith in anything that medical science has to offer, but she has to give it a shot, eh?

She has my number and I told her to give me a call when she has a moment to give us the details, and I gotta tell you: It’s peedance city in this here joint. But realistically, I probably won’t hear from her until tomorrow, because much as I want to think I’m the center of the universe, Sarah’s family has more important things to deal with right now other than her blog partner who lives across the country.

Anyway, everybody: think good things about Sarah and her Hubby and baby Freebird, and as soon as I know, you guys will know.