Julie Anne Long

Holy Cow! Deja Vu!! Also, the tale of a stain...

You may have noticed that today's blog features more than the usual number of illustrations.  You might, in fact, be wondering what that one over there is supposed to be. -->> Far be it for me to leave you in suspense: the other day, I looked at Barnes & Noble online (as you do when you're an author, but not obsessively of course, because that would be sick and wrong)—and what did I see?? THE SECRET TO SEDUCTION has already made an appearance in the B&N Top 10 Historicals — on preorders alone! It was number 5!! My eyes just about boinged out when I saw that. I actually saw it go as high as #167, rank-wise, which struck me as so crazy I had to pester my agent and editor about it, because I thought something might be malfunctioning over there at B&N. LOL. But no. Apparently I'm just wildly, wildly popular. (I'll give you a minute to finish laughing hysterically, while I bask in the rays of my happy delusion. Done yet? OK, then. I'll continue.) The book won't be released for another month and a half—May, specifically—and God only know what this means in terms of actual numbers preorders—ten books? Twenty? A zillion.5?—and we'll never know how truly meaningful this is, but after some mulling, I've decided to assume it's a good thing. It sure looks good, doesn't it?? I've never seen one of my books ranked quite this high this far in advance of publication. Though WAYS TO BE WICKED made it up to #30 in their Top 100 after it was released, so heck, let's root for TSTS to make it up even higher.  This might be as productive as...as...rooting for a dot in those dot races at baseball games (ever see one of those?? where different colored dots go round and round on those big screens and you root for one color?? Absolutely hilarious and surreal), but maybe we can get a pool going. :) If it cracks the Top 10, for instance, I'll give stuff away. (I can dream.) I also like the way my very pink book coordinates nicely with Gaelen Foley's very pink book. Must be a spring thing, the pink.

Meara, our blogger in Germany, also shared a tragically hilarious story with me. It involves alcohol, naturally, and her "Free Thaddeus Morley" JAL T-shirt. Here you see Mear modeling it, but you can read the whole sorry tale, replete with step-by-step illustrations of the events of that fateful evening, on her blog. What's the moral of the story here? That my t-shirts cause one to imbibe red wine with reckless abandon, so you should wear them at your own risk?? That you're bound to have a very good time when you're wearing a JAL t-shirt? Yeah, I think I'm going with that last one. :)

All those t-shirts look pretty cute on, by the way. I was pleasantly surprised. I had to order one of each, you see, to test them out. I particularly like the "Julie's Heroes" one—the heart on the design serendipitously falls in just the right place on my sternum. :) (OK, so it's actually really situated right in the middle of my rack, but I rather like the word "sternum.") I'll model it for you all and take a photo when I can get my camera phone to send photos to me again (are you listening to me, Cingular??) or rope a friend into taking the photo.  Believe it or not, I don't own a digital camera.  Or rather, Comcast sent me this tiny, freaky little free one that worked for about five minutes and then stopped, so I no longer have a functioning one. (It's on the shopping list.) Anyway, a few people who aren't even related to me have bought the t-shirts, which is always gratifying. All proceeds through May of this year go to the HumanE Society of the United States. 

How is everyone?? Spill anything lately?? :) I'll blog something later this week, too, but I couldn't resist sharing these things. And now I have to go finish my taxes. (((((sigh))))).

More than a feeling...

So those of you of a certain generational range have probably heard the news of Brad Delp's passing. I, personally, was caught by surprise — not so much by the death itself, which is sad and "untimely" (the newspapers keep saying that, though as I write this they don't know quite yet why he died, and he was just 55)—but because I had no idea the news of it would throw me quite as much as it did. It, in fact, triggered a bittersweet nostalgia fit nonpareil. Brad Delp was the lead singer of Boston, but I'm not sure my nostalgia fit is about the band, per se. In fact, I haven't decided quite yet whether I think Boston is a band for the ages, unlike, say, other bands who were huge in the 70s, like Led Zeppelin and Aerosmith. For instance: I have a friend in LA who played music in San Francisco in the 90's like I did (he now develops cartoons for Nickelodeon and The Cartoon Network), and his son is just 11 and learning to play drums. His son's favorite song is "Stairway to Heaven," a song about 25 years older than he is. But this is as it should be.:) (And good parenting, Dave!) I think everyone's favorite song, at one time or another, ought to be "Stairway to Heaven." And odds are Dave's son's son will discover "Stairway to Heaven," too, with the same sense of "Holy cow!" It's quite a big song. :) A rite-of-passage song.

But Boston? I'm less certain about Dave's son's son discovering "More Than a Feeling" with that same sense of epiphany, but I could be wrong. Like I said, I think my nostalgia fit is less about the band and more about how evocative their songs were of a time and place for me and millions of other people: more than any other band, more any other song, Boston and "More Than a Feeling" say "1976" to me profoundly. I wasn't quite a teenager when I first heard that song, but I remember it was EVERYWHERE. Pouring out of my brother's bedroom, out of rolled-down car windows on the street, played endlessly on the Album Rock Radio Stations in the Bay Area, like KOME and KSJO, for years thereafter. In my memories of it, for some reason it's always summer, too. I was at that age where music starts to become very important, and that song just burrowed in.

At the time it was released, "Boston" became the biggest selling record of ALL TIME. That sales record has since been surpassed a number of times by a number of different bands, but that goes a long way toward explaining why it was everywhere. We all LOVED it. Went crazy mad for it. And the names of everyone in that band became household words in my house anyway, because my brother was a guitar player, too. It was one of the very first "real" songs I learned how to play on guitar, too—it's pretty easy. D with a G in it. :) I got my guitar out yesterday to see if I could remember it, and my fingers still know it.

I saw Boston in concert some years later, at a Day on the Green—my very first big concert. Then I went on to become Miss Alternative Music snob, and probably sneered a bit at them. Some years after that I relaxed and decided I could like whatever I bloody well pleased. LOL. And now it's funny: the lyrics of "More than a Feeling" are kind of wistful, but the feel of the song itself is soaring and happy. And somehow I feel a blend of all of those things when I hear "More Than a Feeling" now. Like...the song grew into itself.

So let's all raise our Bic lighters up high for Brad Delp one more time (and marvel at the truly, truly, TERRIBLE hair -- honestly, the 70's were the WORST decade for hair for men—it's like conditioner hadn't been invented), "close our eyes and slip away," and enjoy "More Than a Feeling." And much, much gratitude for the memories, Brad. (The song's below, in case YouTube isn't cooperating).

More Than A Feeling

What about you guys—can you think of any songs, or pieces of music, that are REALLY evocative of a time or place for you? (P.S. the YouTube site seems to down right at this moment, so you may or may not see the video right away. Usually it comes back up fairly soon.)

Pumpkin, Pooh Bear & Bean Toes: in which Jules reflects on nicknames

My nephew, who just turned three, came to visit recently.  I should clarify that he didn’t exactly drive the SUV here himself—his mom (my sister) and Dad came along, too—but given how bloody smart he is, I think it’s only a matter of time before we’ll need to hide the car keys from him. For instance, he takes better digital photos than I do—he gets everyone all lined up and centered in the shot, and then clicks with his teeny tiny fingers. He likes to reset clocks. (Though he’s quite a bit shorter than the counter where my haunted radio sits, so we all pretty much agree he couldn’t have possibly seen it, let alone set it, and he was never alone in the kitchen because that’s where the sharp objects live in my house.) I’ve mentioned before that he likes to get on the computer and IM. He’s also possibly the most adorable child ever born (well, along with yours, of course), and I’m not just saying that.  His eyelashes are like a foot long. Everyone who looks at him dissolves into a puddle of goo.

But it’s really kind of a miracle that the kid actually knows his name, because it occurred to me that I rarely used it when he was here. Instead he got called “peanut” or “sweet pea” or “pumpkin” or “Pooh Bear” or you name it because, look at him—how can you not call him those things? He cracks me up, too, because when he really wants to get his Mom’s attention, he says, “Honey! Honey!” very urgently, instead of “Mom.”  He probably thinks his mom’s other name is Honey.

         All this got me thinking about endearments, and nicknames. Anyone who’s known me for more than about a decade calls me Jules. Or Jewels. Choose your spelling. The high-school-and- earlier friends usually opt for the “Jules” spelling, but I see numerous and creative variations on the front of my Christmas cards when they arrive. Sometimes I hear “Jul,” but that’s mostly from my friend Kevin.  In short, I hardly ever hear my full name anymore from my adult friends. LOL. When I was growing up, there was “JuJu,” used primarily by my mom, perhaps most famously at Capwell’s department store when I was just out of high school. The precise moment is seared upon my memory—my mom singing out from the far end of the lingerie department: “JuJu! What’s your cup size now?!” Then me looking across to see her holding aloft a sturdy beige brassiere with what appeared to be steel girders embedded in the cups. A good dozen or so people in the vicinity furtively moved their eyes from the bra, to my bosom, back to the bra, assessing, because I guess it was impossible not to. Good lord. (I was much more easily mortified back then.)

The genesis of nicknames is sometimes obvious, and sometimes c omplex, and sometimes unrepeatable. For instance, when I was growing up, I hung out with a big pack of friends, both boys and girls, and one of them was named Scott O’Neal, whom we always called “O.” Easy to figure out how that one came about, right?  Then there’s my friend Marbs. That one’s a little more intricate. Somehow—I forget how or why, but I do know it began in high school (a good long time ago now)—we started calling her Marbles Figlips. (Her real name is Marla Phillips).  So she became Marbles for a time. Then Figs. Then the two became interchangeable. Over the years the nickname sort of settled into the breezy “Marbs,” still in use today (at least by me).

And then there’s the arcane nickname “Wipe,” which was shared by Greg and Mark in our little group of friends. The origins of that nickname were a ferociously guarded secret—they never would tell us how it came about, as apparently the truth was simply too ghastly (but allegedly hilarious…to them) to repeat  (and knowing them, I believe it)— but it stuck, so we had two Wipes in our gang. They even called each other Wipe. So on any given weekend night, the answer to the question, “Who’s going to that party?” might have been something like, “Jules, Marbs, O, Wipe, Wipe and Deano.”

Then there are the nicknames we give to our pets. My cat is named Domenic, but you’d hardly know it. On any given day he might be Dommie, or Dommie Salami. Or Peapod, a nickname leftover from when he was half of a set of twin kitties (they were like two peas in a pod, so somehow I ended up calling them Peapods.) Or Bean Toes. (What? His toes are pink. They look like little beans. Ergo, Bean Toes.) My neighbor once caught me calling Domenic "Huggy Pants," which was a little mortifying. And yes, he gets called Pooh Bear, too, because he’s orange.

Why do we do it, the whole nickname thing? Half the time, with my cat at least, I do it because it amuses me. But why do we give each other nicknames? Do you have one or more nicknames now, or did you have one or more growing up? How did you end up with those nicknames? How about your friends or loved ones or pets? (P.S. —I have a Myspace page which is still sort of work in progress, but here's the link if you want to be my Myspace friend: http://www.myspace.com/julieannelong).

Haunted Radio

            The weirdest thing happened to me to me a few nights ago. Or rather, it happened in the wee hours of the morning a few days ago. (Oh, now. See where your imaginations just went?? Then again, I’d expect nothing less of you. :) )

            But wait—I have to set this story up a little bit, which means first I should tell you about the clock radio. I have a clock radio that’s about…oh, 25 years old. It still works, bless its circuits, but it’s big, ugly, complicated (you have to move like three different buttons to set it), and makes a sound like a boat horn when it goes off (when it’s not set to play music)—which, granted, never failed to bring me to full and immediate consciousness in the morning when I used it (it's been years since I used it as an alarm clock, though). When I moved into my new flat a few years ago, I decided to put this sucker in the kitchen, and I tucked it on the far side of the counter next to the microwave. Every now and then when I’m cooking or baking I’ll turn it on low and listen to it for a few minutes. And since I put it in the kitchen, it’s never been set to any station other than KLLC, or “Alice” as its called by everyone—97.3 FM, a local radio station that sometimes feels like All-Sarah McClachlan-all-the-time. Until they discovered Kelly Clarkson, that is, and now that's all they play. Well, OK—every now and then the play Train, or the horrifically overrated John Mayer. Overall, it’s a lot of strummy mid-tempo guitar-and-vocal stuff, and they’re playing almost EXACTLY the same songs today as they were ten years ago, which is why I can’t stand to listen to it for more than a few minutes at a time. 

(Sorry. But it wouldn’t be me if I didn’t digress, would it?)

Anyway, to turn this radio on, you have to give a switch on the top a good hard push to the right. And I haven’t listened to it in weeks.

But a few days ago, I woke up for some reason at around three in the morning. I live alone, unless you count the cat, and the cat and I share the bed. And I normally sleep with a white noise machine on, a habit I got into when I had very pleasant but thumpy upstairs neighbors, and it does a fabulous job of blocking just about every sound out.

Once I was awake, I discovered I was quite thirsty. Too thirsty to go right back to sleep, as it turned out. So I decided to get up to get a drink.

When I got to the doorway of my bedroom, out of range of my white noise machine, I heard something, and it took me a moment to realize what it was:

That clock radio was...on.

Not only on. On LOUD. Echoing through the whole flat in the dark.

I stood frozen in disbelief, as the chorus of a song rose up: “How do I LIVE withOOUUT you…” 

LeAnn Rimes. Clear as a bell.

And Alice doesn’t play LeAnn Rimes.

So….knowing what you now know about this radio, you can imagine how I felt at that moment: My old, very hard-to-turn on radio had turned itself on, turned the station, and turned itself way UP. Either that, or a burglar was in my kitchen and had decided to switch to the Easy Listening station to soothe himself while he filled sacks with my belongings.

I stood there and listened, a bit too shocked to be truly frightened, at a total loss as to what to do. It was pretty bloody eerie, truthfully. But a few moments of hard listening later, I still heard nothing but LeAnn Rimes. Then again, that radio could have been effectively drowning out robbery sounds.

I decided to take my cues from the cat. I figured he’d be a trifle freaked out if another person was in the house. Instead, he hopped down from the bed, yawned, stretched, stared at me quizzically for a moment, then jumped up onto the bathroom sink for his own morning drink (he waits for me to turn the faucet on). He wasn’t phased at all.

Just to be on the safe side, in case he wasn't a Watch Cat after all, I grabbed the phone in case I needed to call 911 or perhaps hurl it at a robber, and flipped on the hall light. The brilliant light flooding a large part of the flat was a bit of a relief. Then I ventured down the long hall toward the kitchen, the song growing louder and louder the closer I got.

Finally, quite bravely, thank you very much, I quickly and gingerly flipped on the light switch in the kitchen.

No robbers in there. No open doors or windows. Just the radio blaring away. The song ended about then, and a mattress commercial began. In the moment, somehow it was less eerie than LeAnn Rimes.

I released the breath it seemed I'd been holding.

Was there a...short, I wondered? Could an electrical short cause the radio to play?? I peered. The switch was set to “on.” Would a short flip the switch to ON?

I reached over and slowly turned the radio off. And stared at it.

And in a second, I decided I mostly I was kind of delighted, rather than freaked out.

Because, you know, it would have taken a rather complicated series of events to get that radio to turn on like that, let alone for a dial to roll significantly upward to increase the volume, and a different dial to roll sideways a bit to change the station. It was kind of marvelous, in a way. Was someone, or something, trying to send me a message through LeAnn Rimes (I watch The Ghost Whisperer, after all, and ghosts seem to like to send symbolic messages all the time), and, having despaired of ever hearing an appropriately worded song on Alice, decided to change the station? But who, and what sort of message? I read the lyrics to the LeAnn Rimes song online. They aren't tremendously profound. No clues there.

Or maybe I have a ghost who was in the mood to hear something mellow? I mean, I suppose it's possible. My flat was built in the 30's or early 40's or thereabouts, and a number of people have occupied it, and the same family has owned it pretty much since it was built. And they're a very nice family, every one of them I've met, anyway, so I imagine it would be a very nice ghost. I suppose I can ask my landlord, who used to live here, whether he ever experienced anything odd.

But thanks to watching the Ghost Hunters on the Sci Fi Channel, etc., the idea of a ghost mostly doesn't trouble me. And I've witnessed a few tremendously mysterious things in my day, and none of them seemed harmful or very scary. Just difficult to explain, and ultimately kind of magical in retrospect.

A friend of mine said, "Man, I would get rid of that radio!!" But I don't think it's the radio's fault, really. And truthfully, I'm kind of curious to see if it'll happen again.

So what would you guys have done? Would you toss that radio, or unplug it, or leave it be?? Ever experience something eerie like that? Any electronics experts out there who think they know what happened with my radio?? Do you believe in ghosts?  Do you think you've ever gotten a message from the great beyond?? :)