A Night At The Video Store, Part Two

If you haven't read Part One yet, I'd suggest starting there. Unless you're just too big a fan of Joseph Conrad, Ford Madox Ford, and Graham Greene, and you need your stories to read achronologically.

Here's Part Two:

The Deferrment

“Just keep moving,” I said, between pursed lips like I was ventriloquizing.

The three Girls Scouts waited for us, like Scylla, Charybdis, and the other monster you never hear about, name of Becky. Okay, I made that last one up.

I felt their tiny little eyes on me. Like an angry mob eyeing a guilty defendant who’d just got acquitted by a jury. Now I knew what it was to be O.J. Simpson.

I didn’t even need to hear them ask. They were capable of telepathy—Would you like to buy some cookies?

But my plan would work. They would know I wasn’t interested if I didn’t look at them. I pictured their cute, little crooked-tooth smiles turn into disappointed frowns as I shattered their entrepreneurial dreams, and my heart broke. But my bank account smiled and laughed diabolically.

The triumvirate of what looked to be girls younger than ten huddled in front of a folding table that had one leg shorter than the others. Yeah, look all the more pathetic so people will be even more compelled to buy from you. The cookie boxes leaned over precariously like little Towers of Pisa. Behind the table was an older woman, definitely one of their mothers. I knew she was a mom because she was wearing a sweater and it was almost eighty degrees out.

We had twenty feet to go before we reached the sphere of solicitation. They weren’t engaged in a transaction, so they had nothing to do but stare right at us as we approached. Fifteen feet. I felt a cold sweat on my back. Ten feet. Ralph slowed down half a step—what the fuck was he doing? He could never keep rhythm when we jammed, but now it was having repercussions in the real world.

Jenn stepped ahead of Ralph. The Girl Scouts didn’t seem interested in her, as if they could sense she was one of their own and they didn’t wish to prey on her. It reminded me of that scene in Alien 3, where the monster is about to kill Sigourney Weaver, but stops because it realizes she’s carrying one of them in her belly.

Did Ralph make eye contact?

Five feet.

“Hi, there.”

Fuck. Ralph had said hello to them. Hung out to dry by my best friend.

“Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?” they asked. I wasn’t sure which one had spoken, or if all three had talked in unison, or if they were using their telepathy. I stopped dead in my tracks.

“We’ll see on the way out.” Because I couldn’t say no.

“Okay,” they said merrily, not realizing I’d just turned them down. “Be fast because we’re leaving soon,” one of them said. They kept smiling at me, but Mom glared at me, as if I’d just told them they were the poster children for abortion.

When I got inside I stared at Ralph till he was forced to look at me.

Finally, he said, “I couldn’t help it.”

“And after you talked, I couldn’t say no.”

“Don’t pass the buck on that dude,” he said.

“You could have said no,” Jenn said before walking away.

“They’re leaving soon,” I said. “Let’s take our time.”

A line snaked around the front of the store to the register. I realized the place was abuzz for a Friday night. Then I felt ashamed because I knew the place was abuzz for a Friday night. The TVs suspended from the ceiling were playing Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, a classic in anyone’s book. My eyes cut through the crowd to see who was working the register.

“Our arch-nemesis,” I said to Ralph, and bobbed my head toward the register.

His name was Rob. Not Robert. Not Bob. Not Bobby. He made sure to tell us that all the time, and we made sure to call him anything but Rob. He’d screwed up our account balance once, trying to charge us for two copies of the same movie. When I explained how it didn’t make sense—no one would rent two copies of something—he’d failed to see the logic. “If it’s in the computer,” he’d said, “it’s in the computer.” I’m still not sure what that meant, but it was in the computer.

So we’d asked for his manager, and the manager explained to Rob, in front of many customers, how Rob was wrong.

Ever since then, his wounded pride had tried to exact vengeance upon us any chance it got.

“Where’s Jenn?” Ralph asked.

I stood on my toes and craned my neck up like a periscope. “She’s talking to some…”

“Didn’t think he was around anymore,” Ralph said.

Gran Torino Is A Western Set in 2008 Detroit

The wife and I recently watched Gran Torino. It's a great movie, alternatively funny, sad, suspenseful, and poignant. Eastwood's film-making style is simple, very reminescent of John Ford's. Put someone in the frame, let them act, and move on.

Thematically, though, Eastwood has over the last 20 years managed to explore important issues without being heavy-handed. And he does so in GT to perfection. Here, Clint Eastwood is playing...Clint Eastwood. Or more appropriately, Clint Eastwood is playing "Clint Eastwood," the man that the audience thinks he is in real life: tough, sometimes mean, uncompromising, outspoken. But his films of the last 20years and perhaps going all the way back to The Outlaw Josey Wales tell a different story of the man. If you've been paying attention, you would have realized that Clint Eastwood is not Dirty Harry. He is not an advocate of violence. He's not interested in making political statements, for one wing or the other. He's more interested in having a discussion.

The people who've realized this are the ones enjoying the films he's more lately produced. The people who have not, the ones that see him as the caricature that Dirty Harry became over the years, are the ones not enjoying the films he's made recently.

Gran Torino could just be his swan song as an actor. And it would be a marvelous way to end that part of his career, the perfect way to, in his typical fashion, make a statement without making a statement.

Ostensibly, the plot summary reads like just another "mismatched couple that learns a lot from each other" story. Or, Finding Forrester with guns. Clint plays a racist Korean War vet who becomes neighbors with a Hmong family next door. He befriends the family and develops close relationships with the two children especially. As John Wayne did for Ron Howard in The Shootist, Clint teaches the teenaged boy how to be a man and about how to survive in the world.

Despite the obviously low budget and unseasoned actors, the film works very well as a contemplation on life and death, and everything in between. Eastwood, as is his way, shows us just how much the younger generation doesn't "get it," but also makes sure to show us just how much the older generation doesn't get it either.

What struck me most when the credits rolled was the realization that I had just seen a Western. The neighborhood that has "turned" is just another imagining of the frontier that Eastwood rode through in all his Westerns--untamed, dangerous, and violent. The police, the only representation of government in this story, are of little consequence at all--the only assistance they are able to provide is at the crime scene, after everything has happened. Women need to be escorted anywhere they go, and their escorts need to be strong, tough characters, or else they are in serious danger. And more often than not, the only way to end a confrontation is by threatening to use a gun. Or by using it.

But Eastwood's universe is never that simple, as the ending, which I won't give away, reveals. Yes, it's a Western set in 2008 Detroit. But it's also so much more. As Eastwood himself has said, the Western is one of the uniquely American art forms, one of the very few. It is only right that the Western, therefore, be used to explore what is the American experience. And that's what Gran Torino is also about--growing up in America and growing old in America.

I recommend it to all with this caveat: don't go in expecting to see Dirty Harry. Because that's not who Clint Eastwood really is.

A Night At The Video Store, Part One

Okay. So I wrote this short story, "A Night at the Video Store," eight years ago. I recently came back to it out of curiosity. What you see below is the first part of the story as written back then, with only minor editing done on my part. Depending on the feedback, I'll post the next part, and the next part, etc.

The story is basically about three college kids that go to the video store one summer night and...well, hope you enjoy it. Oh, it does contain some bad language, so consider this your warning. And please bear in mind I wrote this when I was twenty-two. Not that I've gotten much smarter over the years, but every little bit I hope has helped.

The Ride

“What’re you in the mood for?” I asked Ralph. He barely shrugged, like he was too tired to think about it.

We rolled down the Boulevard in my black Toyota, windows down in the summer heat, radio blasting Springsteen—the only way to listen to the Boss—Ralph riding shotgun like always.

Jenn sat behind Ralph. She was no stranger to the backseat, as I liked to quip.

We were heading to the local video store to rent a flick.

Me and Ralph hadn’t hung in a week. I’d called him a couple times to see if he wanted to shoot some stick or hit the bar now that he was (finally) twenty-one, but he’d declined each time, citing excuses that sounded made-up to me. I knew he was still hurting from his break-up with Michelle, even though it had been two months ago. It was a shame because the girl was a tramp. She wasn’t worth the brooding, I wanted to tell him. But, you couldn’t say things like that to your buddy. And I was trying to be delicate because I understood how he was feeling: I’d been there not so long ago myself.

It was then I remembered that the Girl Scouts would be selling their wares outside the store. So, I said, “Shit.”

“Dude,” Ralph said. Many people think the word “fuck” is the most versatile in the English language—I’ll take “dude” any day.

I gave him my best Shatner impression to add drama to the really drama-less situation: “The Girl Scouts...will be there.”

“You got money?” he asked a question that should have been rhetorical. The Sahara gets rain more frequently than I have money. It was a strange inquiry too, because I was pretty sure it was his turn to pick up the movie, so he should have had money on him.

“No…only enough...for a movie.”

“Cut the Shatner crap. Jenn?” Ralph asked, twisting his head around.

Jenn was staring out her window. I checked her in the rearview. She’d been tanning down the shore last weekend, so her skin was even more a golden-brown than usual. Highlights streaked her dirty blond hair. She seemed pissed off. Maybe she was mad because none of the life guards had noticed her. Or maybe she was mad because one of them had noticed her. So far, she hadn’t gone into much detail about the weekend’s exploits. Not that I cared.

“I didn’t bring my purse, remember?” she said.

Me and her were supposed to hang out last night, but she had cancelled nearly last minute.

The three of us were in different places. I’d graduated, Ralph had another year to go, and Jenn was studying abroad her first semester of senior year. We’d entered the lazy days of early summer. I was still waiting to hear back from a couple of grad schools.

“We have to buy cookies this time,” Jenn said.

I was ready to go into my T.E. Lawrence spiel about how nothing is written, but instead I said, “How you figure?”

“Last time Ralph and I were here, we said we’d buy some the next time,” Jenn said. “This is the next time.”

Legally, I didn’t think Ralph and Jenn’s promise would hold up as binding in a court of law, and even if it did, there was no way a court would force me, an unwitting third-party, to be bound by their quasi-contract with the Girl Scouts.

“Guess they don’t take a card,” Ralph said.

I didn’t feel the need to address that one. “If we turn them down tonight, maybe they’ll take the hint.”

But I said it in vain. Everyone knows you can’t not buy cookies from the Girl Scouts.

“I’m not telling them no. I was the bearer last time,” Ralph said.

That was the second reference to a “last time” I hadn’t been a part of. Were Ralph and Jenn tired of hanging with me? Now that I was a graduate, I didn’t have anything in common with them, or something?

“Maybe they won’t be here tonight.” Literally as I said it, I saw the little she-devils standing in front of the store. There was a parking space open right in front of them, but I opted for one in the back of the lot, as far away from the Girl Scouts as possible. I could feel their eyes burning holes in my car though. They knew.

We needed a plan.

“It’s like they’re just waiting for us,” Ralph said.

I pulled out my wallet. After I got through the cobwebs, I found three singles. I fingered my ash tray for some change, found a few quarters. “This should cover us.”

But inside I was seething because I had to give my not-so-hard-earned money away. Because in a civilized society, you just had to buy Girl Scout cookies. It was noble or something. Or maybe it was the fact that a man couldn’t say no to a woman, no matter her age.

“What about the movie?” Ralph asked.

That was too much. Societal duty or not. “We came here to rent a movie, not buy cookies. It’s the principle,” I said.

“You’ve got principles?” Jenn asked. What was up her ass?

“Only easy ones I can stick to.” Which was more than I could say for her.

In the rearview, I saw Jenn lean back and stare blankly out the window, crossing her arms. A silence blossomed.

“It’s getting late,” Ralph said.

“It’s just eight now,” I said, wondering why he was in such a hurry.

“I mean, maybe we can wait them out.”

“That’s true,” Jenn said, leaning forward again. “Maybe we could.”

The idea seemed preposterous, three people waiting for the Girl Scouts to close up shop so they didn’t have to buy cookies. But I considered it. I’d reached a new stage of depravity.

“We’re always in here awhile too. We could tell them that maybe we’ll buy on the way out, if we have any change. Then we hole up till they go,” Ralph said.

“Just like John Wayne, Dean Martin, and Ricky Nelson in Rio Bravo,” I said, trying to make it sound more adventurous than it was.

“If we tell them we’ll buy on the way out, they’ll wait for us,” Jenn said. As always, she was full of solutions.

I threw my hands up in the air because our conversation had reached a new level of absurdity even I couldn’t stomach. “Look, just don’t make eye contact. They’ll understand. Nobody has to feel bad.”

I got out of the car, not waiting for another criticism from the backseat or another dumb idea from the passenger seat. I loved my friends.

I turned and waited for them to get out. They took their time. Then they gave each other a look and shuffled past me fast. Ralph said, half under his breath, “You’re heading up the rear, pal. Just in case.”

I agreed, not knowing why the one in the rear would have to do the talking if all went awry.

Once more into the breach, dear friends.

Nate Green Interviews Emma Wayne Porter

Nate was lucky enough to interview Emma Wayne Porter, about her role as Editor-in-Chief at Lyrical Press and the publishing industry as a whole. I am forever indebted to Emma because she said "Yes" to my novel, The Unearthed, after many others had politely or impolitely said "No."

Just a short post today, because I don't want to steal any of Nate's thunder. Make sure you check out the interview when you get a chance!

Phil Stiefel Makes A Great Pizza

Back in March of 2008, a good friend of mine, Phil Stiefel, opened up his own Fox's Pizza Den in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania. I'm happy to report that he and his wife are doing very well for themselves and are just about to pass the dreaded one-year mark for restaurants.

Phil had the misfortune of sharing a room with me my senior year of college at Widener University. So naturally, he was forced to endure my wretched guitar-playing, drunken ramblings about the state of literature, and my annoying habit of forcing everyone to listen to Bruce Springsteen.

But Phil took it all in stride and managed to survive our one-year co-tenancy mostly unscathed.

The wife and I stopped by Phil's restaurant last Saturday for lunch. We ordered the garlic bread with cheese and the Big Daddy pizza, which is a rectangular behemoth, dimensions of 24" by 12". So it amounted to a lot of bread and cheese, and more bread, and more cheese. Hey, we were hungry.

The food was delicious, and we shared a couple hours of good times with Phil and his wife. They even let me wear the head gear of the Fox's Pizza Den mascot (yes, that's me in the pic with Phil). I only wish Kennett Square were closer to us, because then we'd swing by once a week or more. I'd put on another twenty pounds I don't need, but it'd be worth it to hang with Phil and eat his pizza. As an added bonus, my wife would get to hear for the umpteenth time about how Phil got me to stop chasing cars in the Widener student parking lot with my shirt off in the middle of February, after I'd had a few too many to drink.

Paraskavedekatriaphobia

or, fear of Friday the 13th.

According to this article I read a few years ago, 9% of Americans think Friday the 13th is jinxed. I guess that not's that bad, statistically speaking. In that same article, this oxymoronic gem appears, "Religious authorities have often warned against putting faith in superstition."

Hmmmm.

It seems from what I've read online this fear of Friday the 13th didn't crop up until the 19th century, and it's an extension of the fear of the number thirteen, or "triskaidekaphobia." The Friday and the 13 were brought together in a novel from 1907, appropriately entitled Friday, the Thirteenth, by Thomas William Lawson. If you're feeling really adventurous, you can read the book through Google book search.

E-Book Text-to-Speech: A Legal Quandary

I'm not sure how I feel about this. There's a debate brewing over whether the Sony Kindle 2's Read-To-Me feature infringes an author's copyrights.

Here's the issue. The Kindle 2 offers a feature called Read-To-Me, which is a text-to-speech option that enables the Kindle read the book out loud. Sounds harmless, right? The problem is this. Sony has a right to sell you a copy of the book, but Sony does not have the right to sell you a recording of the book. In other words, Sony's contract does not permit them to sell what are in effect audiobooks. Publishing contracts specify what type of rights the author or copyright owners are giving away in exchange for compensation.

This legal issue is one of the starker, recent examples of the problems inherent in creating equitable laws, especially where new technologies meet dated, but well-intentioned and certainly reasonable, legal principles. On the one hand, an author has every right to profit from his labors, and if he hasn't contracted the right to produce an audiobook to anyone, then no one should be permitted to produce an audiobook of the author's work. On the other hand, the text-to-speech feature is very similar to just having someone read the story aloud to you, like a parent reading a bedtime story to a child, for example.

LOST Returns In A Big Way

The quality of the show, not the show itself.

Up until last night, I was having serious doubts about LOST's vitality for the rest of this season and beyond. The time jumping, flashes, time travel, whatever you want to call them, were a contrived plot device and lazy writing: the characters were miraculously saved from deadly situations, or just as annoying, right before a vital piece of information was disseminated to them, the sky would flash and they'd be pulled into another time.

Because of that, the on-island characters seemed to be going through the motions, thrown into random predicament after random predicament. Because the time jumping happened so often and so "randomly" enough, not much suspense was ever built up on the island, and LOST was starting to play out like a bad action movie, with its plot built around set pieces that didn't necessarily relate in any meaningful way. Add to that some redundant character development, like reminding the audience that yes, Sawyer really misses Kate, and the on-island plotline was becoming downright boring.

With regard to the off-island characters, the plot threads were so scattered that the show seemed to lack any direction whatsoever. I guess that happens when you've got a principal cast of nearly twenty characters, and they're not all in the same place geographically speaking anymore.

But the show came back in a huge way last night. I won't spoil it for you if you haven't seen it yet, but I will say a few things. If I may be so bold, I felt like I was watching Season One again. There were some great dramatic reversals. A few off-island threads came together (thank god). Some new mysteries were introduced, but they didn't overshadow the narrative drive of this season--that of getting back to the island. And yes, finally, the time jumping became less of a plot convenience and caused major problems. Last night's episode gave us plenty of action, plenty of oh-wow moments, and did plenty to push the story forward after it had been slogging along for four or five episodes.

E-Books: What They Are and Why You Should Read Them

A moment of truth: before I tried to get published, I didn't know anything about e-books, e-publishing, e-this, e-that. As I explored the various publishing options for The Unearthed, i.e. received polite rejections, nasty rejections, or no responses whatsoever, I learned more about the digital print format and how it has changed and will continue to change what we know as publishing.

No, I'm not one of those people who's going to tell you that in three years there won't be any more print books available. The concept of "book" or "novel" is just too firmly rooted in our collective conscious as something that must be held, or at the least, as something more tangible than a PDF. However, e-books are changing the way novels are not only read, but also the way they are chosen for publication, written, and promoted.

Simply put, an e-book is an electronic file that can be read in a variety of ways:

-on a personal computer,
-on a laptop,
-sometimes on a cell phone,
-sometimes on an iPod, and
-always through an e-book device, such as the Kindle or the Sony Reader

It's no secret that e-books originally did not enjoy the best of reputations. However, e-publishing has grown in both popularity and critical regard over the last ten years. They're getting better, and more people are reading them, in other words. And because of the low production costs of e-books, e-publishing has some unique advantages over traditional publishing:

-more unknown authors get their big shot through e-publishers,
-niche markets get the fiction they're looking for, and
-e-books are cheaper to buy.

So just think, you could find a cheap book by an up-and-coming author before he or she makes it big.

My publisher, Lyrical Press, Inc., is releasing The Unearthed in e-format on March 2, 2009 for $5.50. A print-on-demand version will become available if, and only if, the digital sales warrant the investment in additional production costs.

Last pitch (of the post!): for only $5.50, you can read a fast-paced, intelligent story and help a new author build a readership.

It's Official, The First Home Brew Is Drinkable

A few weeks back, I posted about how I had tried home brewing for the first time. Which really consisted of Nate reading the recipe and telling me what I needed to do.

It was my intention to whip up a red ale, something both the missus and I enjoy. I'll save making a stout for when I have more than one batch going.

Anyways, we bottled it up a couple of weeks ago and I've been not so patiently waiting for it to mature and carbonate since. To be honest, I cracked a few open before it was technically ready, so I've had a sampling of it in various stages of drinkability.

Well, today makes it official: one can actually drink it and enjoy it. Not the greatest thing I've ever tasted, but hell, it tastes like beer. Nate, however, has yet to drink it, so I don't know if I've made it into the club yet or not.

The pic is of, obviously, the red ale I'm about to drink. As far as a red goes, it's pretty dark. I've got a wheat beer fermenting in the bucket right now, and hopefully in a few weeks I'll have something that tastes like a Blue Moon. And yes, it's no coincidence that I turned the glass so it proudly displayed "Phillies," the current World Series Champs. Or as Chase Utley would say: "World Effin Champions!"

The World Has Finally Caught Up To Nikola Tesla

This wasn't on my February "promote the book" list, but it was so interesting I had to post it. Several companies have discovered ways to safely transmit power through the air. That's right, we might not need wires for much of anything in ten or twenty years.

I won't even try to explain the science of it to you, because I hardly understand it myself. But I do know that Nikola Tesla was trying to do this, and almost succeeded over a hundred years ago. Two years ago, I read an excellent biography on the man, Tesla: Man Out of Time, after watching The Prestige for probably the dozenth time. In a film that had many things going for it, one of the nice surprises was just how good David Bowie was in portraying Tesla.

Reverie Celebrates Its One Year Anniversary

Next Thursday, Feb 12th, Reverie will be celebrating its one year anniversary and all are invited!

Reverie is a store of vintage furniture, wearables, and collectibles and is located on Girard Avenue between 2nd and 3rd Streets. Jenna and I are good friends with one of the owners, Brady Sanders. It's hard to believe that the store has been open for a year, as we both still remember when Brady was still thinking about opening it.

The five owners of Reverie share many interests, one of which is the arts. Every second Thursday of the month, Reverie hosts "A Reveal," featuring all kinds of art by local artists. It's a great way to meet interesting people, shop for those things you just can't find anywhere else, and meet up with old friends.

Jenna and I usually grab a bite to eat at a pizza shop run by Greeks two doors down. The pizza shop houses a working Ms. Pac-Man, believe it or not! And no, that's not my high score on there. I had it for awhile, but somebody must have pulled the plug and reset the scores. Bastards.

The doors open at 6:00 p.m. next Thursday! Come by for food, drinks, cool vintage stuff, and good times.

You're Cordially Invited...

...to Rita Vetere's chat on Monday, February 9th at 8:00 PM EST.

Unfortunately, I was unable to attend last month's event, but I did make it for the inaugural chat back in November, and it was a blast. Cindy Jacks and John B. Rosenman, both Lyrical Press authors, are the guests this time around. Cindy Jacks is author of the Point of Distraction series. John B. Rosenman, an English professor at Norfolk State University, is author of five books and over 300 short stories, and his novel Dax Rigby, War Correspondent is now available through Lyrical Press as well.

In case you hadn't heard, Rita's novel, Ancient Inheritance, is now available in digital format. I purchased my copy today for only $5.50, and I'm really looking forward to reading it!

The Faces of Belmez

I was going to save this one for last, because it was the most interesting story I came across while researching for The Unearthed, but it's just so fascinating I had to write about it now.

The Faces of Belmez, or the Belmez Faces, whichever you prefer, have sparked intense scientific and pseudo-scientific debate.

A little background is necessary. In 1971, Maria Gomez Pereira noticed that a strange image had spontaneously appeared on her kitchen floor, that seemingly of a face. The part of the floor containing the offending face was ripped out and re-laid with cement. A week later, another face appeared in the same spot.

As it turns out, the house had been constructed over a cemetery. I know, sounds like a bad horror movie, but apparently this is all "true." Needless to say, an excavation ensued, bodies were reburied elsewhere, and life went back to normal. For two weeks.

Then another image appeared, and another, and eventually as many as 15 other faces appeared. Some would disappear and reappear in the course of a day, while some would remain in place for much longer. The floor was torn out a number of times and replaced, but the faces kept coming back no matter what was done.

Over the course of 35 years, the faces were photographed and documented by various reporters and scientists. One investigator sealed and covered the floor with plastic so it couldn't be tampered with, but new faces appeared underneath the plastic. Other tests were performed to determine if there were any chemical traces that would suggest that the faces had been drawn, and these tests, depending upon who you ask, yielded some surprising answers.

Some believe these images to be thoughtographic phenomenon. According to paranormal experts, this is a form of psychokinesis, in this case caused wittingly or unwittingly by the owner of the house, where the person psychically burns an image from the mind onto something else. Think The Ring. Others have claimed that there is chemical evidence of forgery.

This blog, My Favorite Monsters, provides an excellent detailed summary. And, there's this gem on youtube, complete with its own Matrix-soundtrack.

In One Month...

...you can pick up an electronic copy of The Unearthed. It's part old-fashioned ghost story, part new-fashioned procedural. The story follows a team of paranormal experts as they try to unravel the mysteries behind the inexplicable phenomena plaguing a family in their home.

It's a good, fast, and intelligent read. But don't take my word for it. My editor, Emma Wayne Porter, tells me that The Unearthed is structurally and syntactically perfect.

Fair warning, but I'll be heavily promoting my book this month, leading up to the e-release on March 2, 2009. I'll be giving away some cool things and sharing some of the more interesting paranormal stories I came across when I was doing research for the novel.