Testosterone Tuesday with Charlie Cole

We welcome Charlie Cole as this month’s Penis Post for Testosterone Tuesday. Charlie is a former private investigator turned headhunter-by-day, writer by night. Long and storied history of bad habits and coffee drinking. Only son of an only son, and his work can be seen at http://fictionaut.com/users/charlie-Cole.

Paid in Full

​“She’s not coming to dinner, Tom.”

​Tom Norris looked up from his glass of wine. The man standing at his table wasn’t the waiter or the maitre d’ and that was a problem because Tom was ready to order. He had his eye on the Chicken Marsala and another glass of wine.

​“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

​“Tom, are you feeling alright?”

​Tom blinked twice before answering.

​“I… what… yes, I feel fine. Who are you?” Tom leaned forward with the question, jabbing his finger at the man as if it were a loaded revolver and he was prepared to plug him if he didn’t speak up and do it quick.

​A slow smile crept across the man’s face. He was average in every way. Medium build. Not too handsome. His face was shaven, his hair kept. His suit was off the rack, but still fit him well.

​“Thomas Francis Norris, you’re married to Samantha Anne Norris, your wife of over ten years. I’m a friend of the family.”

​“A friend of the family?” Tom asked.

​“Well, I’m your friend, Tom. Your best friend.”

​“Really? That’s odd because I have no idea who the hell you are.”

​“My name is Wilson Walsh.”

​“What do you do, Wilson Walsh?”

​“I paint houses, Tom.”

​“You paint houses?”

​“I painted your house.”

​“My house? When?”

​“Tonight. While you were sitting here ordering the Merlot and looking at the menu, I painted your house.”

​Tom sat staring at Walsh, his finger tapping absently.

​“Where’s Samantha?” Tom asked. “Where’s my wife?”

​“I think you know, Tom,” Walsh whispered, never losing his smile.

​“You son of a bitch, if you—“ Tom started to stand from his chair as he spoke.

​“Sit!” Walsh snapped.

​Tom sat, eyes wide. Walsh’s response was sharp and cold and gone a moment later, replaced by that slow, reptilian smile. He pulled out the chair and settled into it.

​“Please… where’s Samantha?” Tom asked. His hands trembled just above the table.

​Walsh sipped the ice water that sat at the place setting. He smoothed the tri-folded napkin, considering it. He snatched it off the table, let it drop open and spread it across his lap.

​“Let’s order, shall we?” Walsh said. “We have a lot to talk about.”

​“But what—“ was all Tom could manage before Walsh summoned the waiter to the table.

​Walsh leaned toward the waiter as if telling him a secret.

​“I’ll have the gnocchi with the gorgonzola cream, please?” Walsh said. “Tom?”

​Tom looked up, forlorn. “I’m not hungry.”

​“Nonsense now, come on. Eat something. You need to keep your strength up!” Walsh said. “He’ll have the chicken marsala. Oh, and another glass of wine. In fact, leave the bottle. Thanks!”

​The waiter disappeared and Walsh turned his attention back to Tom.

​“You honestly don’t know what happened, do you? Poor bastard.”

​Tom started to protest but didn’t have it in him.

​“Where’s Samantha?” Tom asked again.

​“She’s at home, Tom. She’s in your bed.”

​Tom swallowed hard.

​“Why isn’t she here?”

​“I think you know why, Tom.”

​“Please, just tell me. I don’t understand. I don’t know what happened. Just tell me.”

​“Tom, there’s a reason that you’re here alone and she’s there. There’s a word for that.”

​“What word?” Tom pleaded.

​“Alibi.”

​“What did you do? What the fuck did you do?” Tom seethed through clenched teeth.

​“That’s going to have to wait,” Walsh said.

​“Why?”

​“Because our soup is here.”

​The waiter delivered the Italian wedding soup for each of the men and offered the bottle of wine, more bread, was there anything else they needed?

​“We’re fine.” Tom said at last, his tone final.

​Walsh swirled his spoon through the steaming broth, collecting it onto his spoon, then sipping it.

​“Mmm, so good.”

​“Walsh?”

​The other man looked up over his next spoonful of soup, eyebrows raised.

​“What did you do?”

​“Tom, I did what you paid us to do.”

​“Us? Who is ‘us’?”

​“The firm, Tom. You paid us. Paid us in full. You were pretty clear about what you wanted.”

​“What firm?” Tom’s voice was strained, tense.

​“The divorce lawyer, Tom. You hired us. I was at the office that day,” Walsh said.

​He sipped his soup, watching Tom begin to unravel events in his mind.

​“Is she dead?” Tom whispered, eyes lock on Walsh’s. “Dead?”

​Walsh blew on his soup, swallowed. Nodded. Yes.

​“Oh my god… oh my god…”

​“Tom, it’s what you told us you wanted.”

​“I said I wanted a divorce!”

​“You said you wanted her out of your life. You said she made things unbearable,” Walsh said.

​“I… I… That’s not what I meant…”

​“Tom, do you remember the questionnaire you completed for us?” Walsh asked.

​“Yes, I was told that it was just to serve me better,” Tom said.

​“And it was,” Walsh replied. “But what we found, dear Tom, was that you had a lot of rage.”

​“Who doesn’t?” Tom replied. “I was miserable. Our marriage was broken. Of course I was angry. Who wouldn’t be?”

​“No, no, no… not angry. Rage.”

​Tom shrugged. So what?

​“Our in-house psychiatric consultant felt that you had ‘homicidal tendencies’. Tom, you were on the verge of murdering your own wife.”

​Tom opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

​The waiter appeared.

​“How is everything?” he asked, clearing the plates.

​“Delicious. Absolutely delicious,” Walsh said with a smile.

​Tom sat frozen while his full bowl of soup was taken away.

​“You didn’t care for your soup, sir?” the waiter asked.

​“He’s saving his appetite for the main course,” Walsh volunteered.

​Tom looked from the waiter to Walsh and back. He nodded.

​“Well, you are in luck, sir. Enjoy!”

​The chicken marsala was served to Tom and was glorious perfection. Walsh’s gnocchi was a sight to behold. Either dish could have been featured in a culinary magazine.

​“Tom, you wanted us to do this. You told us as much. We just helped you to not throw your life away in doing it.”

​“I didn’t want her dead,” Tom said.

​“There’s more.”

​“More?” Tom said.

​“When I went to your home, Tom,” Walsh said. “I found something most unexpected.”

​“What? What are you talking about?”

​“Samantha… she wasn’t alone. There was a man there at the house.”

​Tom blinked at the news. His head slowly rotated from side to side as if trying to decipher this turn of events. Walsh forked the gnocchi into his mouth and watched him put it together.

​“Tell me more,” Tom said, and reached for his silverware and began to cut into his chicken.

​“You were gone on business, just coming back for dinner with Samantha. She knew this and had a man to the house. A gentleman caller if you will.”

​“Who was it?” Tom asked, taking a bite of the chicken. The sauce was velvety smooth.

​“Jeff McElroy.”

​Tom dropped his fork and it clanged against his plate. Walsh’s eyes narrowed, darted around the room and his hand covered the knife on the table for a moment, then relaxed.

​“Jeff… I played racquetball with him. He had a great backhand. That son of a bitch…”

​“Indeed,” Walsh replied.  “How’s the chicken?”

​“It’s pretty fucking amazing. So what did you do?”

​“Tom, it’s better that you don’t know all the details. You won’t be able to let something slip if you don’t know.”

​Tom nodded.

​“Suffice it to say. If you had those feelings about Samantha, I can only imagine how you would feel about the man she shared your bed with.”

​“You’re right,” he conceded. “You’re right.”

​“So we had to burn down your house,” Walsh said.

​“You what?”

​“Evidence, Tom. Evidence. She’ll be found in your home. Evidence of a break-in. Arson.”

​“And Jeff?”

​“An unfortunate one man car accident. Car versus tree. Such a shame,” Walsh said.

​“Wow. You guys are thorough.”

​“We try, Tom. We’re always working in the best interests of our clients.”

​“So, is it a two for one deal, then?” Tom chuckled taking another bite of chicken.

​“Hardly.”

​“How do you mean?” Tom asked.

​“Our fee doubled because of the extra work.”

​“Jesus…”

​“No, Tom, Jesus had nothing to do with it. Quite the opposite. We had additional work. Additional fees apply. We accessed the money from your account.”

​“You took money out of my account?”

​“We’re paid in full, Tom. That’s all that matters. You never want us to come to you to collect.”

​“No, I suppose not.”

​Walsh touched the corners of his mouth with his napkin, then wiped his silverware and glass at the table, removing any fingerprints.

​“And Tom, if you should ever think to breathe a word of this to anyone? We have enough evidence to frame you for both murders. Do we understand each other?”

​Tocharlie Cole m Norris nodded, mouth still full, eyes wide. Walsh stood, dropping the napkin on the table.

​“Allow me to get the check, Tom. You have a nice night.”

​Tom raised one trembling hand in farewell and Walsh walked past him.

​“Oh my god…” he breathed.

​“Oh Tom.”

​He turned, seeing Walsh only a step away.

​“Try the tiramisu. I hear it’s killer.”

THE END

Skin Deep

The floor gets sticky from drunken girls unable to walk in their high heels without spilling their drinks. The boys only notice the short skirts. She stands in front of them, her lips stained cherry red.

The pretty girl now.

She takes the drinks they buy for her attention. They watch as her mouth opens, wanting to be what she swallows. Her red lips will know soon enough.

Super Special Saturday Edition Penis Post: Ryan W. Bradley

Due to editorial error, Ryan’s submission got lost in the interwebs for a few days, hence the super special awesome fantastice Saturday Edition of Testosterone Tuesday…ladies and gentlemen: Mr. Ryan W. Bradley!

 

The Chicken or the Egg Disorder    

The compulsions came before the writing. In my relationship with books, however, it’s a chicken and egg situation. The compulsions, the rituals, have been there as long as I remember. I take off dust jackets, can’t read a book if it has the dust jacket on. But to keep it pristine I place the dust jacket it on top of the shelf. Put it back on the book when I’m finished. I always have a bookmark or makeshift bookmark handy. I don’t ever, ever, fold a page. Ever. And, perhaps most paramount, I don’t write in books. I don’t highlight. I don’t take notes. But if I need to I had better hope I have paper and a pen. 

Of all the compulsions I hold, many of which relate in no way at all to books or writing, it is these regarding books and how they are treated that are the most painful. Sure, I’ll check that a door is locked or an alarm clock is set more times than is necessary, but those are almost absent-minded at this point. When, however, I even see someone write in a book it makes me physically ill. Same goes for folding a page. Seeing even the evidence of these occurrences makes me uneasy. Makes me feel like my skin is crawling.

People often think I haven’t read the books I own, because of the shape they are in. I don’t crack the spines when I read. I don’t fold paperback covers too far back. Needless to say, I don’t often buy used books.

And I don’t like libraries.

Don’t get me wrong, they are wonderful institutions. But for me it’s like a form of slow torture. Every book is well-worn, written in, bent and torn. Every book has been held and cracked and read by masses of loving and unloving readers. It makes me downright uncomfortable.

I guess it would be obvious at this point that I don’t loan books to other people very often. And those who have borrowed books from me often opt not to borrow books from me a second time. After dealing with my concern about their potential treatment of the book and my attempts to casually inspect the books upon their return, I imagine I don’t feel too hospitable. Even my wife hesitates to borrow books from me. It has taken a lot of breathing exercises to allow her to take my books into the bath with her. I try to conquer this compulsion because there are so many things I read and want to share with her. And she’s certainly not going to stand for me reading aloud to her all the time like she’s our three year old.

There’s no way I’m the only one. Certainly the very standard for book design came from the mind of a compulsive. Barcodes and prices printed right on the book? It eliminates the need for stickers. The fact that some stores still put stickers on books will forever drive me mad. I can’t not peel the sticker off, but more often than not I’m going to be left with sticker residue, which will taunt me long after the sticker’s been crumpled and thrown in the trash.

I have been a reader my whole life. I started early in toddler-hood, quickly moved through children’s books, and by the time I was eight or nine was raiding my parents’ shelves for reading material. I was lucky to have a mother and a step-father who were avid readers and encouraged me at every turn of the page. But the compulsions have always been a beast of their own making as far as I can tell. I’m not the only one in my family who exhibits compulsive behavior, by any means, but when it comes to books I certainly take it to a different level.

 I can keep it in check… to a degree, for instance the ability to allow my wife to take books in the bath with her. Or that until just recently my books had been out of order (alphabetical by author’s last name). I did, however, retain a shelf solely for poetry during this time. Currently I have multiple sections: non-fiction, fiction, poetry, literary journals, graphic novels and art books, and a special shelf for chapbooks in my office. 

I believe it’s these compulsions that keep me a reader. It would be easy to stop reading. There’s plenty of entertainment in the world. But I can’t stop. I see books and I want, need, to read them. Much in the way that I have come to need the act of writing, or doing design work. The way I used to need to write and record songs, endlessly tinkering in Pro Tools. My compulsions tend toward a collector mentality. If I love a writer I feel an overwhelming need to own all their books, even if there is one I don’t like. 

My compulsions have become more prominent over the last decade, though the book compulsions haven’t changed much. Those were always the worst. But if anything they have actually improved while others have worsened. With these changes I have also become more conscious of my compulsive behavior.

I can already see my three year old exhibiting some similar personality traits. As he gets older I’m intrigued to see if he has similar issues when it comes to books. Children are like a science experiment. You mix your genetics with those of someone else and see what comes out. I already know he can’t be achromatopsic like I am, unable to see colors. In a way a few compulsions might be the most lasting impact I can have on him, at a genetic level.

 

Ryan W. Bradley, when not expressing neurotic tendencies towards books, has pumped gas, changed oil, painted houses, swept the floor of a mechanic’s shop, worked on a construction crew in the Arctic Circle, fronted a punk band, and managed an independent children’s bookstore. He received his MFA from Pacific University and his poetry and fiction has been published or is forthcoming in The Oregonian, Gargoyle, Word Riot, Oranges & Sardines, Pear Noir!, Potomac Review, and Pank. CODE FOR FAILURE, a novel based on his time as a gas station attendant will be published by Black Coffee Press in 2012. He is also the editor of Artistically Declined Press and lives in Oregon with his wife and two sons.

And As If By Magic…

Submitted by Anonymous. Thank you for sharing…

 

one
this isn’t exactly something to be responded to. it’s not something to be acted on, or out. it’s the late-night-office-ramblings of someone who is reeling in the interiority of their own maybe-not-so-benign-madness while soaking wet from impulse and freezing cold with anticipation.

i was lectured about hyphens today by a kid on a quest to be the know-it-all-of-it-all, excuse the novelty.

you’re all writing about the things that aren’t you. you’re manufacturing the songs, photographing the views, and writing the fake-crime novels of the better versions of yourselves.

and i’m so jealous –

i can’t get out of my own brain (even though i come hard-wired for it in the most literal of senses — it’s my second nature, my first being making mistakes), and you’ve all outgrown yours so fabulously.
playing catch up is something i’m usually good at. but my own insecurity keeps creeping up and reminding me that you’re all intangibly outside of me. i can’t use the word ahead, that implies direction. and this is more than just three dimensions.

i type this in-between effortless lines of parameters. conjuring all of the specifics up from some part of the that innately knows, no, this needs to submit first and present the function with the option to spit out what they(?) want.

loops.

// Level 1 existence
foreach ($thought_primary as $thought)
{

if($thought_primary_max >= $thought_primary_count++) {

if($thought['instance'] == $originality[0]['instance']) {
$thought_primary_class = ”;
}
else {
$thought_primary_class = ‘ class=”"‘;
}

} else {
$thought_primary_max = 0;
}

the intention, the potential neuroses, the hesitation, desperation or inspiration of any of the acts in someone’s life are infinitely intricate and interesting to me. why can’t it be ^^^^^ that simple?

and it’s using up all the time i’m supposed to be using doing normal people things thinking up ways to figure out what your processes are.

 
two
my brother, my mom and i stood on the back deck, and listened to the silence. you never really notice the hum of the lights until they’re gone. we blew out the tea lights we had lit around the living room, got in the car, and went to see what happened.

as we drove toward artificial light we saw other families wandering like tourists in their own front yards. i looked down the side streets as we drove along. like trying to keep up with rows of crops on the highway, zipping by veined with black and bare branches. my imagination quickly produced theories. it was all over. some kind of evil had won. and everything would be different from now on. when the low fuel light came on, we did one last lap and went back inside. taking our shoes off, we silentely came to terms with the fact that tomorrow we would wake up and the city wouldn’t know what to do with itself. we’d be giving directions to neighbours we hadn’t spoken to in years, and they would shuffle down the street in slippers and robes, holding maps.

an hour later, a gigantic switch was flipped, and everything came back on all at once. including the streetlight outside my bedroom window that once caused a panic attack so gripping, thinking about it makes my chest constrict. it hit me, the flourescent tone resumed, and the peace i was making with the fact that the information age had ended was destroyed by 60 watts and a chirping smoke alarm. fathers everywhere put their bows down, relieved that breakfast would not have to be hunted in the morning, and that instead frozen toaster pastries would be all they had to provide.

 
three
The nights watching you write for the practice of writing are the slow ones.

Smoking all the while. You don’t know I’m watching, there’s no way you would know. Your room is a cloud of haze, sheltering your motives and dialogue, permeating everything with the unshakable scent of you, it never leaves.

Take one out.

Light.

Inhale and roll your shoulders.

Writing in-between the margins; where you do your best, your plot development, your commentary on what we used to be. You can write for hours without breaking pace. That includes stopping to soften the blows.

Erasing the substance; you mumble there’s no point to the everyday, then you’ll stumble next to the sink, glancing at the build up of dirt and extra soap and feeling the cool tile floor. Stay ahwile and avoid your own gaze, it’ll only cause you uneasiness.

When you catch your eyes, you’re visibly shaken. Keep moving through the motions, the fear and exhaustion. Cut yourself on what you were writing and swear softly. Look around and clear your paper. Ignore the drops of blood that you know I’ll appreciate. Relocate to the bathroom, sitting in the tub. I don’t deserve to see this.

There is some kind of lesson to be found in this exercise. In your destruction of what you created.

When you turn on the shower, you erase everything that’s ever been. You keep writing and erase everything else that will ever be. Lean over your typewriter on it’s tiny table on porcelain, lean back in your waterlogged wooden chair and being again.

Light another. You don’t need to read what you’ve written to keep track of the story. Write with ink running down your hands and ashes everywhere. Bent cigarette hanging out of your mouth. Ashtray on the ledge of the tub. Blood speckling the fixtures. Words washing down the drain past your untied shoes, you turn off the shower. Open the curtain. Step out with water on the tips of your hair, your head bowed.

You need it.

Again.

 

You need it.

Goodnight Tariq, Wherever You Are

When I was a freshman at the University of Texas, I was assigned a roommate. She was a good, sweet, levelheaded, if unfortunately chunky girl from a small, and I mean small, town in Texas. Her graduating class had 60 students. She was both on some of the girls’ sports teams, and a cheerleader. She may even have been in band, I don’t recall. Her name was two names. Think Sarah Lee, or Julie Ann.

She wrote me a letter before we even met. I don’t think I wrote her back, but she never seemed to hold this against me. She was warm and welcoming, I was inept and shy. Somehow we got along.

My roommate and I went to a freshman mixer the third night or so after we met, before classes started. She went back to the dorm early, but I was determined to stay a little longer and break out of my fear. A few boys talked to me, but nothing came of it.

I was 18. I was wearing a modest cotton shirt and jeans. I had schoolteacher horn rimmed glasses. I had frizzy hair. I was rail thin. Think stick. I cowered. And he came over. He is worthy of his own paragraph of description.

He looked, to 18 year old me, like he was 30. Now, in retrospect, I have no doubt he was in his early 20′s. But he was kind of heavyset and had impressive facial hair. His name was Tariq, he said. He was kind, and friendly. He got me talking by asking question after question. He asked me to dance, I refused.

I don’t know why he liked me. Honestly, I was nothing to look at. But he persisted and talked to me and talked to me, and talked to me. He was a political science graduate student. He was confident. He had terrible body odor.

The night wore on. I wouldn’t dance with him. Finally I told him I needed to leave. He asked me for my phone number, and I gave it to him. I did, I was so naive.

It never occurred to me that I didn’t have to give him my number.
It never occurred to me that I could give him a fake number.
And I gave him my number, my real number.

So he had my number and I went back to my dorm.

Over the weeks and months that passed, Tariq called me no less and likely more than 50 times. Do I need to tell you that caller ID, while it may have existed, was out of the reach of college students? I took the first call, and the rest of them, my wonderful roommate fielded for me, saying I was out. Apparently I was always out. She told me that she chatted with him on the phone a number of times.

Having said all this, I leave you with the following questions:

1. Why did he keep calling that many times?
2. Why did my roommate help me out?
3. Why do I always get myself into these situations, even now?

Jennie Lee, thank you. And thank you for covering for me with my parents by telling them I was at the library so often. Nobody has ever been at that library that often. Bless you Carol Ann.

44 Words

He doesn’t shape up so he sure as hell ships out. He goes off to become a musician. He starts a band, wins the chicks and the money, OD’s on heroin. All that rock and roll stuff. He oughta be ashamed.

His mother is.

Riding Shotgun

You draw me in like a deep and slow breath. From you, I lack the strength to turn. I want vanish in your grasp, a kept thing. We’re both in this dream, impervious to what it really is. Like a field of rose petals and fireworks exploding in a midnight sky. This, our delicate dance. A secret and a chance. A taste of something I cannot expel.

You like fire. I ignite the flame.

Meet the Author with Erin Hoffmeyer Zulkoski

(As moderated by the Julia Yeager-Archer)

With great tingling pleasure, revenge was exacted upon the creator of HOSR – Erin Hoffmeyer.  The apple of our eyes and cream in our coffees, Erin was well worth the wait. She was. In fact, we all lit cigarettes after this interview and breathed deep.

Get to know our favorite paramour. Starting…now.

HeartOnSleeve: Erin, thank you for letting us have our way with you. Let’s roll this out nice and easy…tell me…If you could go camping with any literary character, who would it be?

Erin Hoffmeyer:  Common sense would suggest I pick a character who has the know-with-all and experience in the wild, and could cook up a mean can of beanies and weenies, so probably Robinson Crusoe, but I lack common sense, so I am going to go with some beefcake from a Harlequin romance novel. “Oh, nooooo! It’s raining! Whatever shall we do, overly-muscular man?” “I have an idea; let’s have wilderness sex.” “Oh, my hero!”

HOSR: I sense a romance novel in your future. Erin, what is your favorite holiday?

EH:  Being born on the Fourth of July, that should be my logical answer, because who doesn’t love to blow shit up and drink beer for America, but my favorite holiday is Halloween, followed closely by National Butterscotch Pudding Day (September 19).

HOSR: Great choices all around. Who doesn’t love a good scare and some great pudding? Now bringing this back to the topic at hand…how often do you write?

EH: Not as often as I should. I go in spurts. I tried writing every day for two weeks, and made it to six days. You can’t force creativity, and I felt like I was trying to milk the spent cow. So now, I try to not go any more than three days between writing sessions…or whenever Tommy Pluck throws a writing prompt at me and threatens me with violence.

HOSR: What do the boys think about your milkshake?

EH: “God Bless America.”

HOSR: Well played. Since we’re still on the topic of boys, men, what have you, would you make it with Daniel Day Lewis if you had the chance?

 EH: “Last of the Mohicans” DDL: fuck yes. “Gangs of New York” DDL: no.

HOSR: Erin, what kind of clothes are you most comfortable wearing?

 EH: What clothes? Ha ha, I’m hilarious. I’m a laid-back kind of gal. Jeans, some ridiculous t-shirt I made, and Converse sneakers.

HOSR: You seem like the cruelty-free type, Erin. Especially with—wait—why are you holding that rabbit like that?

EH: What, you mean dressed up like a fine British gentleman and cradling him in my arms like a baby? Is the rabbit complaining? I think not.

HOSR: I would not complain either if I was lovingly nestled in your arms. In fact, I’m nodding off right now…And speaking of super-ripped arms, if you were a super-villain what would your powers be?

EH:  The power to bore to death. I’d defeat my enemies by bombarding them with hours of vacation photos.

 HOSR: I can’t believe that would bore anyone. I could stare at your mug for days. Anyway, since we’re on the topic of enemies, if you could plot the perfect murder, what weapon would be used?

EH: My boobs. Smother the poor bastard to death in waves of D cup goodness.

HOSR: I knew it! Ahem. What made you love Jeff Buckley?

EH: Ah, Jeff.  This line from his song “Last Goodbye” made me love him: “kiss me out of desire, not consolation.” When I first heard it, it really didn’t have any relevance to me; just thought it was a brilliant line, but then, as my personal life began to, as the kids say, go down the shitter, it started hitting closer to home with me. And obviously because he was an incredible musician, and it’s a tragedy he was taken from us so soon.

 HOSR: What do you think is the most underrated word that should be utilized more often?

EH: I have list of underrated words that I would love to be a part of everyday vernacular (vernacular included), but I would love to see people start saying “cacophony.” Or “fuckbucket.” Either one.

 HOSR: I vote for fuckbucket. See? I just used it in a sentence. It’s one step closer to becoming the next word added to Webster’s. Now, this may be a selfish question, since I hope to use your answer for personal gain, but what is the cure for writers block?

 EH: I wish I knew. I would bottle that shit and sell it on the street corners for thousands of dollars, become an eccentric millionaire and buy a sea turtle to ride around on. But in all seriousness, whenever I get cockblocked from writing, I stop and read a book in the hopes that reading clears my mind, or I find some source of inspiration from the author. I read Dave Eggers for this reason. I am in love with what this man does with words, and I would sell my grandma to the Devil if I could write like him. Also: booze.

 HOSR: Hmm…sea turtles and booze. This sounds like a bona fide plan. Maybe the makings of a great book, so hopefully your grandma may avoid the Devil. Now my lovely…You grilled me on my Rob Lowe obsession. Fair play m’dear. What is your enchantment with the rugged face and steel-jawed Ron Pearlman?

EH:  I’m not so much “enchanted,” as I am perplexed by him. I’m not physically attracted to him in the least, either. I am just baffled at how a man with that giant of a noggin goes about his daily activities without constantly being forced to the ground by the sheer weight of his head. He defines every law of physics, and we should be studying him.

 HOSR: He does have a cranium a Neanderthal would be jealous of. And you Erin, I ask you the token but most interesting question, do you get jealous of other writers?

 EH: Yes and no. Yes, because how dare anyone express more talent than me?! Inconceivable!! And no, because every dog will have their day. I don’t know what that means exactly. I read it on the internet.

HOSR: Did you also read about just where in the world is Carmen San Diego?

EH: Compton. CARMEN SAN DIEGO IS FROM THE STREETS, SON!

 HOSR: I fear our dear little Carmen may never come home. Now time to get a little kinky…Kill, Marry, Screw:  Stephen King, Bruce Patman, Bruce Wayne/Batman

EH: Okay, I sheepishly admit to spending far too much time contemplating this particular question, but I think I finally nailed it. I also realize how much of nerd this makes me, and that I probably have an unhealthy obsession with Batman. Here goes:

I’d screw Stephen King. Totally.

Kill Bruce Patman for what he did to Jessica Wakefield. You do NOT fuck with a Sweet Valley girl, you dick.

Now, what Bruce Wayne/Batman are we talking about here? Michael Keaton’s Batman/Bruce Wayne, I would marry. Val Kilmer’s Batman/Bruce Wayne, I would kill. George Clooney, I would screw then kill, and Christian Bale’s Batman/Bruce Wayne is trickier–I would screw, marry, then kill his Bruce Wayne, but I would screw and marry his Batman. And I would straight up kill Adam West’s goofy Batman ass. No questions asked.

 HOSR: I applaud your choices and I’m sure Mr. King would be flattered and Patman crushed, but what’re you gonna do? Oh that’s right…kill, marry and SCREW, baby! Um….sorry about that. Just ignore me and answer…if you could rename yourself – what would your moniker of choice be?

EH:  Interestingly enough, I used to hate my name when I was younger, and wanted to change it to Alexandria, but I got over it. I like my name now, but if I could rename myself, I would just go by my initials, like E.E. Cummings.

 HOSR: I do like that. E.E. Zulko/Hoffmeyer, whatever you prefer, just has this great ring to it. Have you ever woken up and not known where you were? Where were you?

EH: I have. Happened just the other day, actually. I was in a hotel room in Denver and woke up in the middle of the night because I didn’t know where my dog was because he usually sleeps right beside me. I remember reaching over to feel for him and him not being there…and then realizing I was in much more plush and comfortable bed than my own. Such a bizarre feeling, to lose all sense of your whereabouts and just have that panicked “oh shit…” moment.

HOSR: That can be a scary feeling. Since I’m feeling pretty scary at the moment, tell me, what’s the name and address of the asshole who recently broke your heart? I’ll make sure we don’t leave any marks where they can be easily seen.

EH: Violence is not the answer….and I don’t know the exact address of where my ex-husband lives. I can give you land marks and street names, though.

 HOSR: That’ll do it. Oh yes. That’ll do. I noticed the “ex” in the “husband”. And I want to ask you, as millions of ladies cross their fingers and hold their breath (almost typed breasts), have you ever considered switching teams?

EH: Is this because I’ve said I love boobs? I do love boobs, but I could never be a lesbian. I am squeamish around my own vagina, so I can’t imagine trying to maneuver around another woman’s lady bits. Team Weiner all the way, baby. I should make a t-shirt that says that.

 HOSR: I would buy it and parade around town wearing it while eating a delicious corn dog. Shit, now I’m thirsty. I fancy a nice glass of wine. Erin, what’s your favorite drink?

EH: My favorite non-alcoholic beverage is coffee with a shot of espresso, cream and two sugars, or as I like to call it “Rocket Sauce.” My favorite booze-y beverage is one of the best whiskeys known to mankind: Buffalo Trace. I also enjoy a glass of port every now and again. I like to drink it because it makes me feel like a big game hunter surrounded by the stuffed grizzly bear I shot while on expedition in the Yukon and the moose I got while in Alaska. I also pretend to be wearing a burgundy silk smoking jacket and puffing away on a pipe, and regaling my fellow hunters with tales of my adventures around the globe. I have a very active imagination.

HOSR: Damn, Port? You, my good lady, are sheer class. I couldn’t choke down a glass of that if I tried. Since we’re on the subject of stuffed grizzly bears, if you could turn one person into an animal, who would it be and what would you turn this person in to?

 EH: I would turn Lynn Beighley into a sugar glider and keep her in a shoebox on my desk at work and feed her bits of chocolate and then let her sit on my shoulder and whisper secrets in her ear. Yes. This is what I would do.

 HOSR: Every one of us HOSR’s not Lynn Beighley are sighing in sadness right now. We want to be in a shoebox. And have chocolate and secrets. We’re still on animals. My natural inclination to nay in response to directives and the allure of Mane and Tail shampoo lead me to believe I was a horse in another life. Do you believe in reincarnation? What and/or who were you?

EH: Hmm…that’s an interesting question. I hate to see what you’re like around a bottle of Gorilla glue. But I’m not sure if I do believe in reincarnation or not. There are times when I feel I was born in the wrong year, meaning I would have loved to have been alive during the late 60′s or 70′s, because people have told me I have a “hippie spirit.” And because I do a lot of cocaine. Wait…what?

HOSR: Don’t worry. I have a tendency to sniff Gorilla glue. Wait—what? So….getting off this subject of illicit activity(although I would really like to find myself in a jail cell with you) Erin, tell me about a time you impulsively went on a road trip. Did you set forth with a destination in mind? Do you like to fly solo or do you prefer to have someone riding shotgun?

EH: This is another question I waffled with…be funny, or take off my Erin jeans and put on my Barbara Streisand in The Prince of Tides ass-masking pantsuit and talk about something serious. The road trip that sticks out in my mind was a year ago, about two weeks after my soon-to-be ex-husband moved out. I got up one morning and decided to drive to South Dakota, so I did. It was an impulsive trip, but I had destination of sorts planned–I was going to intentionally wreck my car and try to kill myself.  I started to veer off the road, but as my tires crossed the rumble bars on the shoulder, I had a change of heart. Obviously, or I wouldn’t be here right now. So there’s that trip. Well. This is awkward now, isn’t it?

 HOSR: Never awkward just honest. Thank you for sharing, Erin. Do you want a sticker or a cookie? And don’t think I didn’t notice the amazing Arrested Development reference above. Kudos. Tobias Funke has been known to carry a tune in his band Dr. Funke’s 100 Percent Natural Good Time Family Band Solution and you have the gift of song – if held at water pistol-point and forced to audition for American Idol, what song would you sing and why?

EH: I would sing “What’s Up?” by the 4 Non-Blondes. I love that song, I’m not really sure why. I just  hope the Idol judges don’t mind me being slightly drunk, as that’s the only way I can hit the high notes.

 HOSR: I know I wouldn’t mind you slightly drunk. Okay, okay, I’ll get serious and ask you a writing/reading related question. What book resides in this exact spot on the bookshelf in your bedroom–the third shelf from the bottom, second from the left. How did you come to own this book? Who is its author? When and where did you read it?

EH:  I have three bookshelves, so I will name the book in this specific spot from each: 1) “Oryx and Crake” by Margaret Atwood. My ex-sister-in-law was telling me about it about five years ago, and I just remember thinking, “dude, that sounds crazy,” and as luck would have it, it was in the clearance section of my local big chain book seller, so I bought it. I read it over the course of a weekend and was mesmerized by it.  2) “The Talisman” by Stephen King. Freshman year of high school and once a year since then. 3) And honest injun: The Pocket Kama Sutra. It was a wedding gift from one of the members of my wedding party. Very educational. Congress of the Crow, anyone?

HOSR: Suddenly , I am very scared. And Googling….

And done.

Erin, you’re known to be a music lover, or maybe a fanatic?…where would you most like to attend a concert? And by that I mean, where (if money and time were no objects) and who would you like to see play? 

EH: Ooh. I have seen some brilliant shows in my day, the number one still being Nine Inch Nails at the Red Rocks Amphitheatre in Denver, but if time and money were no objects, I would absolutely love to see Radiohead. I don’t care where it is. I would fly anywhere in the world to see them play.

Erin Hoffmeyer proves that boobs do exist and that a butterscotch-pudding-covered-Batman is what her dreams are made of.  And not those freakshow dreams like the ones Robin Williams has in that late 90s movie but splendid, fantastic, karaoke singing dreams. It’s been an enjoyment prying her brain open (we’re laying the ice pick and chisel down now) and hope you tune into more Erin Hoffmeyer here: http://polishsnausage.wordpress.com

(It says by Harley May below, but she doesn’t know how to take that down. It was Jules that set this up. Jules. All Jules)

One Click

With one click, I deleted all of your emails, all the things you wrote to me that I foolishly believed…or wanted to believe. I didn’t read any of them before I did it, either.

Select all, delete.

Erased.

Nothing Rides Like A Harley: Meet The Author with Harley May

It is with great pride I begin this last Meet The Author interview with Harley May. Pride for Harley, as she stole my heart from the first time I was introduced to her. Charming, funny as hell, and one class act, please join me in getting to know one of my favorite people on this rock we call Earth: Harley May.

HeartOnSleeve: Harley. Harley, Harley, Harley. Welcome to your interview, and thanks for the pineapple. That’s, uh…very…thoughtful of you. Tell me, do you know the way to San Jose (la la la la laaaaa)?

Harley May: No, but the voice on my GPS is that of Dionne Warwick.

HOSR: She’s Whitney Houston’s aunt, dontcha know? Terrifying woman. Harley, I enjoy your writing very much. It’s open, honest, and at times, gut-wrenching . What is your favorite genre to write?

HM: I’m a genre jumper. I adore reading many genres and tried writing most. I wrote a science fiction novella about a robot girl. It sits in the “to be edited” pile. My first manuscript is an urban fantasy for young adults. The second is a pretentious, coming-of-age, bit of lit-er-a-chure. I have an idea for a middle grade novel. I’ll try anything once. That’s what she said.

HOSR: I tried genre jumping once. My instructor was this really hot Australian man with the sexiest accent…ahem. Sorry. Harley, what did you want to be when you grew up?

HM: A teacher. I still do

HOSR: I think you would make the perfect teacher. I bet all the boys would give you big apples. Wow…I am definitely in the wrong line of work. Anyway, I know you had a very unique childhood. What is one of your favorite memories from growing up?

HM: My brother and I are only a year apart and we grew up in a smallish city in South Korea. I say “smallish” because to American standards, it would seem a bustling metropolis, but by Korean standards was in the country.

Anyway, my brother and I were given a lot of freedom. Our apartment was in front of a mountain with a lot of hiking trails and we would explore them for hours. We gave parts of the mountain Narnian names, built shoddy forts, and carved magic words into trees. We played a lot of make believe.  

At the bottom of the mountain was a man who kept several trampolines with mesh netting around them for all the neighborhood children to use. We’d pay him the equivalent of a dollar and jump. When there weren’t other kids around, he’d let my brother and I jump for longer than anyone else.  

After jumping, we walked to an outdoor market down the road. We looked at all the dried squid hanging under awnings. The storefronts were lined with overcrowded tanks of eels and small fish for sale. Eventually we’d end up at a candy store. This is what we saved our allowance money for: trampolines and candy.     

HOSR: That’s incredible. How fortunate it was to experience such an amazing upbringing. My childhood was spent outdoors, mostly, but mainly I’d sit in my room and read, or come up ridiculously elaborate plot lines with my Barbie dolls. Let’s just say, Ken and Barbie did not practice celebacy. I tried dried squid once–chewy. Fishy. Stringy. I’m glad you used your money for jumps and sugar. Harley May, what helps you remain sane as a writer?

HM: I’m not trying to be cute with this answer, but I honestly don’t think sanity is an option for me. The outdoors, time spent in and around water, bring me happiness. I’ve noticed a direct correlation between my mood and my exercise. If I haven’t gone for a run in a while, I’m bluer than normal. If the writing stresses me out, I take a break. I move to a project that I will see completed from beginning, middle, to end. Crafts with the children, baking cookies, or cleaning the kitchen from top to bottom are popular diversions. Work with my hands that bring instant gratification.

I love people, but am seldom by myself so I’ll leave the house to be alone, even if it is to sit in a chair and read. Social networking, twitter, and facebook are all great. I’ve found many a kindred heart on here, but can only take so much of it at a time.

HOSR: I think perhaps the better word to use would have been “grounded” instead of “sane,” or perhaps elaborated on the “sane” as not the clinical definition of it, because this isn’t a psych eval, but just a general question: what keeps you level-headed? All of those things you listed–outdoors, being in/around water, running, etc; we’re quite similar in almost all of these aspects, with the exception of baking. I burn chocolate. I kid you not. How in God’s green earth does a person burn chocolate? And also like you, and quite the opposite of you, I like people just fine, but I am alone almost constantly–by choice, mind you. If I don’t get what I affectionately refer to as “E Time,” I go stir-crazy. Bonkers. Irritable. I guess that’s why I enjoy the social networking, as well–you can connect with people, but at your own leisure (and yes, I say leisure like “leh-zure. Very British). Harley, just who do you think you are?

HM: I am a woman, blessed beyond measure, and hopelessly flawed. That’s not true. My flaws have hope. When I read this question, I heard Christina Perri’s song “Jar of Hearts” in my head. The song really doesn’t have anything to do with me, but the following lines stuck out:

“Who do you think you are? It took so long to feel alright, To remember how to put back the light in my eyes”

I’ll admit to getting defensive with this question. That in itself is telling. I harbor a lot of guilt. Guilt for being a wife and mother to a beautiful family, for having so much, more than I deserve, and still wanting to be more. I begrudge even wanting to write.

HOSR:  I’m sorry if you took offense to it–I meant it purely in jest, but I appreciate your answer, and to be quite honest, it made me tear up, mainly at your admission of guilt. This breaks my heart, and I’ll tell you why: I know you love your husband and your kids with every fiber of your being, I can see your love for them in everything you do. Do NOT feel guilty for wanting more for yourself. You need to have something that is just for you, you know? If you don’t have something you can cling to and possess as your own, you start begruding those around you for keeping this from you. I am making not one bit of sense, I bet. It makes sense in my head…which, we all know, is quite the playground at times. So. How about a question to break up this seriousness? Do you like your sandwiches cut diagonally or horizontally?

HM: Whole, no crust.

HOSR: Me? Peanut butter and jalapeno jelly on wheat bread, full crust, horizontal. I loves me some horizontal action. I may or may not be referring to sandwiches at this point.  I adore your post called “Pool Toys,” and how you struggled with the act of asking the group of teenagers for your children’s golf ball back. Do you consider yourself a pushover?

HM: Absolutely. I hate this about myself, but am working to be more assertive in a loving way. I can’t stand rude people and have a difficult time responding with rudeness. I want to be the better person and show people what kindness looks like. But I don’t want to be a doormat, either.

HOSR: Don’t worry, Harley; I’m the same way. Eager to please, eager to do whatever it takes to make everyone happy. However, as I’m getting older, after all, I am the wise old age of thirty now, I’m starting to not care so much. I mean, manners are important, because being rude really solves nothing except me thinking you’re a douchebag, but I think I’m becoming more “politely assertive,” if I may coin a phrase here.  I think you and I should be the poster girls for being kind with sassitude. New topic: where do you get your inspiration for your stories?

HM: People and pain. Mistakes I’ve made. Sometimes it’s a setting. I wrote one short story after sitting in my car, alone, parked outside of Wal-Mart on a rainy evening. My urban fantasy came from staring out the window at lush Alabama forestry. I’m often inspired after reading a great book.

HOSR: There’s always a story in Wal-Mart. Always. So, do you research your stories, or just go in, guns a-blazin’?

HM: For my longer pieces, I will do some form of outline. I plot and timeline in notebooks with fancy outsides. I want to get the bones of a story out on paper before I begin. This doesn’t mean the bones will stay as they are. My bones change. I just like flexible parameters.

HOSR: You know, I’ve never outlined/plotted/graphed/pie charted any story, except in high school when forced to, but even then, I would write my essay or whatever it was, and then write my outline afterwards, never beforehand. Odd. Having the childhood that you did, how much impact does it have on your writing?

HM: I’m sure more than I realize. How can it not? Your writing, even the evil characters, should have a lot of yourself in them. That’s what makes writing and reading relatable.

HOSR: Do you admire your own writing?

HM: Meh.  Sometimes. More often than not I want to eat it and poop it out. My doubt is constant. Being critical of your own writing isn’t a bad thing. It means you care.

HOSR: As our first Testosterone Tuesday writer Thomas Pluck and I are fond of saying to each other when discussing this craft of writing, “we are our own worst enemies.” And it’s true–everything I write, I mostly hate. Hyper critical and judgemental of myself, but like you just said, it means we care. Even though we tell ouselves and other writers not to write for someone else, but to write for ourselves, I think there’s an inkling of truth to writing for others; we want to make our words resonate with everyone, and to do that, we have to sometimes cater to our audience. That’s just me, though. So, how do you feel about being interviewed so far?

HM: A lot of these questions have kicked my butt. “Who exactly do you think you are?” “What do you do to stay sane as a writer?” And “How do you find time to write?” I took my children to an indoor play place one afternoon and my mind wandered to this interview. While mulling over just who exactly I thought I was, the oddest thing happened.  A little girl came up to me, bold as day. I’d never seen or met her before, and she asked, “Why do you look so sad?” I smiled and told her I wasn’t sad, just thinking. But honestly, at that moment, I was sad. I saw who I was deep inside. The woman I don’t let other people see makes me hurt. She’s selfish.

HOSR: Well, trust me, you’re doing fantastic. And damn it, woman. Stop it. This is the second time I’ve been reduced to tears by you, and I’m starting to get sick of it. Perhaps I can say this because I don’t have kids or a husband to think about, but be selfish. I know it’s hard. It’s one of the hardest things for people like you and I to do because we constantly think of other people first, but damn it, Harley–be selfish. If action at the craft table gets to be too real, walk away and write (that, by the by, remains one of my absolute favorite story about any child EVER. For those in the dark, Harley’s five-year-old was working on an art project at the crafts table, and stood up and firmly decreed all of those who are standing in the way of her vision, to please leave. Magic. It warms my heart every time I think about, Harley). Be like your child–IF YOU DON’T REALIZE MY VISION, GET OUT OF THE WAY. Alright, you are taking a lot out of me, May.  Can I have a snack?

HM: I don’t know, Erin. It’s so close to dinner. If you don’t think you can make it another 45 minutes, eat these grapes.

HOSR: Grapes are like Nature’s candy! Thank you. Fact: I hate frozen grapes. I do. I don’t care. Do not disguise this grape as a frozen confection, when clearly it is not a frozen confection. Moving right along: how do you find time to write?

HM: I wait until my children go to bed at night and it is best if I leave the house entirely. I used to try and piece meal my writing. Five minutes here or fifteen minutes there, but that frustrated everyone in my family, including me. Imagine being arms deep into something glorious, something you enjoy. You love everything about your arms being coated and then someone needs you to stop and aren’t at all finished. You’re not even close.

My writing is like that. My children would ask me to help them with a puzzle, find a lost Lego man helmet, read them a story. I would get impatient, angry, and aggravated. And for what? After we did the puzzle together, found the Lego man helmet, and read the story, we’d all be smiling. They enjoyed it. I enjoyed it. I remembered my aggravation and felt horrible. I don’t want to feel that way about my family. They’re great kids, so I write a lot less now. I don’t mind writing here and there, working towards whatever it is I’ll be. I’ll get there.

My mother is an incredible (well-educated) musician. When my brother and I were young, she stayed home with us and taught piano lessons. After we graduated and left the house, she went back to school. She always wanted to be a nurse and graduated Magna Cum Laude. (Can you hear me beaming?) She still plays the organ every Wednesday and Sunday and is a great testament to reinvention. People can be whatever they want to be, whatever they put their minds to. I remember that on a regular basis. Julia Childs – she didn’t become the JULIA CHILDS we all know until she was fifty. That’s something to consider.    

  HOSR: So, what you’re saying is you won’t help me find my Barbie shoe? And you will get there, and I think you’re nearly there right now. That’s just me, though. And I agree 100% with your last point: I am a firm believer in going at your own pace. Too often I think we’re forced to hurry through things because you should accomplish this at such-and-such an age, and that’s bullocks. The greatest thing I’ve ever been given the opportunity to say to someone was when I was in college for the umpteenth time (long story): I was twenty-six, so by “today’s standards,” not really a “traditional” student. I was a tutor at the college, and helping a student with her anatomy and physiology homework, which she was finding extremely difficult to understand. Patience is my middle name, but this chick was grinding my gears something awful. She kept saying that she was never going to get this crap, she should give up, she’s going to be in school until she’s TWENTY-TWO. Only losers are in school for that long.  FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY. TWENTY-TWO YEARS OLD AND STILL IN COLLEGE. THE ABSOLUTE HORROR OF IT ALL. I made her stop talking, and said, “listen, you will understand this, you are not going to give up, and personally, I take offense to what you just said about ’only losers are in school for that long.’ I’m twenty-six. There’s a woman here who is sixty-six years old and decided she wanted to get a degree in accounting. She’s sixty-six. Are you going to tell her that she should give up because she’s too old? No, you’re not, and shame on you for having such a shitty attitude. Now shut up, listen to what I’m trying to help you with, and it will make more sense.” I swear to you, I said that verbatum. She stared at me, blinking maybe once or twice, then feebly said, “I’m sorry. I’ll work harder.” And boom. Guess who got an A on her next test? Uh, that kid did. Booyah. So, as you can see, big fan of people doing what they want, no matter what age they are. And your mom sounds like the absolute coolest woman alive. Good lord, I have no idea what I even asked you that evoked such a strong response from me. Damn. Well, how about this question?  What is the loveliest thing you’ve ever seen?

HM: My husband, holding our children after their birth. He wept each time.

HOSR: Maybe your kids were pinching him, and that’s why he cried. Sorry…couldn’t resist. I had to humor the joint up a bit.  Harley May, if you were stranded on a deserted island, how would you entertain yourself?

HM: By living. I’d probably dance and sing differently. I wouldn’t feel self conscious of my stretch marks and make myself a bikini out of twine. It’s been a long time since I’ve worn a bikini.   

HOSR: Twine bikini? Where would you get the twine? I personally would make like Tom Hanks in “Castaway” and grow a wicked sweet long beard. Pop quiz, hotshot: can you still do long division?

HM: Death first.

HOSR: Weird fact: I do long division sometimes just to prove I can still do it. And I can. High fives to me. Please tell me who is your favorite author?

HM: Do I have to pick just one? John Greene, Libba Bray, Margaret Atwood, Jane Austen, and C.S. Lewis make my heart ache.  

HOSR: Good choices, Harley.  What’s your favorite book and/or book(s)?

HM: There are too many to name. How about books that have changed my life? Jacob Have I Loved by Katherine Patterson, Looking for Alaska by John Greene, The Chronicles of Narnia and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis, Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, and A Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood.

HOSR: The question everyone “dies” for (har har har), if you were to commit the perfect murder, how would you go about it?

HM: I would fuck the person to death. Next question.

HOSR: ……………………..uh…wow. Okay then. Moving quickly on before I get fucked to death, are you jealous of other writers?

HM: Somewhat. I say that with a shrug. Most of the time, if these writers are my friends, I am more happy for them than anything else. I know my time will come.     

HOSR: It will. I know it. Harley-bo-Barley, if you could meet a musician, who would it be?

HM: If my mother were standing behind me (and she is), I’d say, “BACH, OF COURSE.”  

HOSR: Goooooood save, lady. You forgot the sweet, innocent smile to accompany the blatant butt kissing you just did. So, we know what you write about, and what inspires you to write, but why do you write?

HM: I love stories and have always, always been a reader. If a writer can take me into a world/town/era nothing like my own and give me something to relate to and care about? Swoon. This is what I want to do to others.

HOSR: Sounds like as good reason to me. And I agree. I love Stephen King purely for this fact: that man can make me explore the depths of my imagination that probably should be left untouched, but I’ll be damned if I don’t love him for it. Final question, and a bittersweet ending to a fabulous interview, and in all seriousness: Who is the better captain of the Starship Enterprise? Captain Kirk, or Captain Picard?

HM: Well, I grew up watching Jean Luc Picard (AND ADORE HIM AS PROFESSOR XAVIER). All the recent Shatner shenanigans make it difficult to take him seriously as Captain of the Enterprise. May I have Chris Pine instead? Be still communicator-covered heart, if he approached me in a bar and said, “Tea? Earl Grey?” combining my love of Picard and Pine together, he would have my panties.

HOSR: You may have Chris Pine, and apparently, he may have your underpants. Harley May, you beautiful bastard you, thank you so much for this.

Well, ladies and gentlemen, and by that, I mean our moms and the pervert who will accidentally found this post by googling “fucking Captain Picard with Earl Grey Tea,” this is Harley May. I told her earlier today that she is “elegant and crude, all at once,” and by golly, I think she proved that in spades today. If you want to ride more of the Harley, do us both a favor and check out her personal blog site at http://harleymay.com.