Doctor Who – S6E8 – “Let’s Kill Hitler”

When we last saw The Doctor he’d just rescued Amy Pond and her newborn daughter, Melody Pond, from Colonel Manton (a.k.a Colonel Runaway), Madame Kovarian (Eyepatch Lady) and a bunch of headless monks.. or so he thought. Eyepatch Lady made off with the real Melody Pond, leaving Amy with a flesh avatar. River Song shows up after all the action is done and it’s revealed that she is Melody Pond. The Doctor rushes off claiming he knows where to find baby Melody.

And now…

Amy and Rory are back home in Leadworth, making crop circles that spell out Doctor in order to get The Doctor’s attention. It does and he meets them in the cornfield. It’s been all summer, he’s not answering his phone, and they want to know where their baby is. (So much for knowing where to find her.)

Amy and Rory were followed by their super hot best mate, Mels (a black girl who’ve never seen before now). She comes roaring into the cornfield in a stolen car. She knows all about The Doctor from the stories Amy told her when they were kids. They don’t have time to chit chat much as the cops are hot on her heels. She pulls a gun on The Doctor and suggests that since she needs to get away, he has a time machine, and she has a gun, they should go kill Hitler.

Next there’s a montage of Amy, Mels, and Rory growing up: Mels is always in trouble, Rory is constantly ignored by them both until Mels opens Amy’s eyes to the fact that Rory is in love with her.

Back on the TARDIS, shit just got real. Mels has shot the console testing The Doctor’s lie that a gun wouldn’t work on the TARDIS as they were in a state of temporal grace. They’re crashing.

Berlin 1938: A robot that looks human is being operated from the inside by a bunch of miniature people. They navigate the robot to take on the identity of one of Hitler’s followers, shrinking him, and bringing him aboard the robot where he is promptly terminated by robotic antibodies.

The robot goes into Hitler’s office and is about to inflict some “justice” when one of the robot’s operators realizes they’re in the wrong time. They shouldn’t be in 1938. I’m not sure how they didn’t realize this before, with all that technology, but okay.

The TARDIS crashes into the office and knocks out the robot. Everyone piles out of the TARDIS and The Doctor warns that they shouldn’t go back in because the smoke inside is deadly.

Rory notices the knocked out man (robot) and while they check on him, The Doctor starts to apologize to… Hitler. Hitler is all, “Who are you? And what is this box in my office?” The Doctor can’t resist being a dick, because, well, it’s Hitler. He tells him it’s a police box from London and the British are coming. The robot rises and Hitler freaks out, shooting at it.

Rory punches Hitler in the face (yes!) and The Doctor instructs Rory to lock Hitler in the cupboard. The people inside the robot decide to go into surveillance mode and they make the robot faint so that they can observe and regroup.

NOW everyone remembers the lifelong best friend that we’ve never met before. Amy realizes Mels has been shot.

The mini people in the robot scan the TARDIS and one realizes that they’ve got “the biggest war criminal ever right under their noses.”

Mels is dying and she tells The Doctor how, after hearing all the stories from Amy when she was little, she thought she’d marry him. He tells her if she doesn’t die, he’ll marry her. He’ll call her parents and get their permission. She says, “You might as well do it now since they’re both right here.”

Mels starts to regenerate, the first time since she was a toddler in New York City. She tells Rory and Amy that it took her years to find them, but she’s happy she did. It all worked out in the end. They got to raise her after all.

She then regenerates into River Song.

The robot people remark that they are in the presence of Melody Pond, the woman who kills The Doctor.

River is all excited about her new hair and boobs and… other stuff. She doesn’t know who River Song is though. She does know, however, that she was trained to killed The Doctor and she tries to do so in a hilarious, flirtatious scene.

Unable to shoot or stab him, she kisses The Doctor and prepares to jump out the window.  Before she does, she reveals the kiss was a poison one. Her work there is done. And she jumps.

The Doctor, in pain and stumbling, gives Amy his sonic screwdriver and heads for the TARDIS. He tells Amy and Rory to go after River. On the ground, River takes out a few Nazi soldiers with her regeneration juices.

Aboard the TARDIS, The Doctor activates the voice interface which takes on the appearance of Rose, Martha, and then Donna Noble. It finally settles on young Amelia Pond and informs him he has been contaminated by the poison of the Judas tree. He will be dead in 32 minutes. When he asks for something for the pain, the voice interface breaks protocol and tells him, “Fish fingers and custard.”

Fuck yeah!

The robot has taken on the likeness of Amy, and shrinks Amy and Rory inside of it. They’re about to be terminated by the antibodies when one of the robot operators shows up and gives them clearance by activating some doohickeys on their wrists. He explains that the robot is a justice department vehicle and since they’re not guilty of anything, they’re fine.

Robot Amy finds River in a restaurant she has just cleared out by shooting up the place. She’s trying on the clothes of the people she made strip before they ran. Robot Amy accuses her of killing The Doctor under the orders of The Silence. River admits she doesn’t remember much, but she doesn’t deny killing The Doctor.

Speaking of which, The Doctor shows up, pimped out in a tux and coattails, leaning against the TARDIS. The Doctor scans the Robot Amy with his “sonic cane” and realizes there are over 400 people inside. He asks Amy to signal him with the sonic screwdriver if she’s inside. She does.

Robot Amy starts to attack River with her laser eyes, but The Doctor orders them to stop. They explain that they use time travel to “give hell” to bad people throughout history. They don’t kill them, just extract them near the end of their established timeline and punish them. Because Amy is a “relative” she is able to give authorization for them to reveal The Doctor’s file. According to their records, Melody Pond kills The Doctor under the orders of The Silence, a religious movement which believes that silence will fall when the oldest question is asked. What that question is, they don’t know.

Lovely.

Robot Amy gives River hell once a scan of The Doctor shows that he is not long for this world. Meanwhile, inside Robot Amy, Amy uses the sonic screwdriver to take away everyone’s authorization. The antibodies show up and start killing people. This causes Robot Amy to stop torturing River. The Doctor tells River not to run, even though she’s scared. The remaining crew of the Robot call to the mother ship and asked to be beamed up immediately. When the antibodies realize there are only two life forms left – Amy and Rory – they set off to rectify that.

The Doctor, dying, crawls toward the TARDIS as River asks him who River is.

Just as the antibodies are about to kill Amy and Rory, the TARDIS appears around them. They assume The Doctor has saved them, but it’s River. River says that The Doctor told her she is the child of the TARDIS and that the TARDIS taught her how to fly it.

*This goes back to River saying that she learned to fly it from the best and “too bad The Doctor was busy that day.”

She takes them back to where The Doctor lies dying. He wants to talk to River alone. He whispers something to her before dying, a message for River Song. River asks Amy and Rory about River Song. Since Robot Amy is still there and Amy still has clearance, plus the wrist thingamajig, she asks it to access the file on River Song and show her to them. The Robot transforms into River, who sees herself.

River uses her regeneration energy to bring The Doctor back to life, kissing him with a, “Hello, Sweetie.”

River wakes up in a hospital bed with Rory and Amy at her side. She used her remaining regenerations to save The Doctor. River says that The Doctor said no one could save him, but he must have known she could. From his place by the window, The Doctor says, “Rule number one: The Doctor lies.”

*I love how that line came back.

They leave River at the hospital with those catlady nurse nuns from season 2 (and 3). The Doctor says that River will be amazing before leaving the TARDIS journal on her bedside table.

On The TARDIS, Rory asks who River is in prison for killing in the future. The Doctor won’t answer. He does say that River will come looking for them.

At The Luna University in 5123, River begins her archaeological studies telling the professor she is “looking for a good man.”

The End.

Notes and Questions

• They seem to confirm that the astronaut is River. If the mini Justice League robot people are right (and they seemed damn certain), The Doctor always dies in Utah in 2011 and Melody Pond kills The Doctor. That’s what she’s known for.
• Amy and Rory – Amy especially – seems a little too “okay” with never really seeing her daughter again. “Oh, so, I missed her whole life? No problem. Where we going next, Doctor?” I thought the whole point of him going to look for the baby was to bring her home to Amy. Then again, I guess there was never really an established maternal bond other than that month she was alone with Melody at Demon’s Run. But as Mom, I can say that’s enough.
• The picture of Amy and baby Melody that Amy finds in the children’s home in 1969, when the hell was that taken? Did Amy ever tell The Doctor/Rory about that? If so, they never showed it….
• … in fact, the only indication we’ve had that The Doctor even pieced together that the little girl from the spacesuit is Melody Pond is when he figures out that Madame Kovarian tricked him at the end of A Good Man Goes to War. As she speaks, he has a flashback of River saying how strong the little girl must have been to tear herself out of the spacesuit.
• I guess it’s safe to say that her brainwashing didn’t include Melody learning too much about the TARDIS or what being a Time Lord means.
• When he whispers to her before he dies, was that when he told her his real name?
• Note that Amy and Rory were told that when they left the robot, their memories would be wiped.
• Now that we know The Silence isn’t a species, anyone could be a part of it.
• We now know why River didn’t regenerate in S4.
• I don’t like the neat little tie-up of what happened to the baby, but I know there are still questions to be answered so I’m content to wait for them to revisit this in the next five episodes.

There’s more, but I’ll wait to dissect with my fellow Whovians. I will say this: I bet The Doctor implements a “no fucking on The TARDIS” rule after this.

 

VaginaCon

Due to a falling out with a friend, the wind was taken out of my sails in writing about the New York trip any further. In short, just know that I had a fabulous time with Emily, Niles, Tracey and Sam on Saturday night – I still can’t believe I turned down the chance to see an actual TARDIS – I made some new friends at the Indie Book Event and learned a lot, and I had a wonderful time with the bestest of best friends, Sophie.

Which brings me to…

I’m used to having one good girlfriend. The same girlfriend since I was about 12.

Sophie is the type of person who sends thank you cards. For everything. I’m talking handwritten, on cute stationery thank you cards. She also sends homemade cookies in pretty packaging. Just because.

The day before the Book Event, when I woke up in my hotel room, my feet covered in blisters, I called Sophie. She was two hours away and wasn’t scheduled to come to NYC until the next morning. When she heard me crying on the phone, in pain, homesick, and put off by a conversation with another friend, she offered to come to New York that day just to bring me comfortable shoes.

As tempting as it was to just sit on the pity pot, order room service, and wait for the shoes, I hobbled across the street to a Payless shoe store, bought a cheap, comfortable pair of flats and then wore those to the Duane Reade on the next corner to buy blister pads. Later that day, when I met up with the other authors in the room where the event was to be held, I was the only one without items to set up. Sophie, to make it so that I didn’t have to check a bunch of boxes and bags at the airport, was bringing all of my books and table decorations. On Sunday, we hung out in her kitchen while her husband, Scott made dinner. He told me that Friday night Sophie could barely sleep and woke him up around 3am to ask if he thought the table cloth she’d purchased would be big enough for the book table.

That’s a friend.

Especially since I am positive that at the same time, I was sleeping soundly, drooling on my hotel pillow, and dreaming about the fabulous Hawaiian-inspired meal and cocktails I’d had hours earlier with Emily, Niles and Tracey.

It’s not that I’m not used to being treated well by a friend, I’m just not used to having more than one good girlfriend. Over the past few years, I’ve opened up my life to strangers, never once thinking that I’d gain friends from it. I have. I now have a small circle of girlfriends who make me laugh, make me think, and (as you’ll see in a moment) make me cry in a good way.

Today I was surprised to find a package at my door. Yesterday was my birthday, but I was still surprised. It was a very thoughtful package from one of two new friends. Nanea sent the goodies below with a note warning that Meghan’s gift would be arriving shortly.

A cup to enjoy my very own, named-after-me cocktail (Nanea is the mixologist of our bunch) and a tin decorated with something from one of our favorite shows, Misfts.

Inside the tin, more Misfits love in the form of magnets:

As I opened the package and read the card, Kali, who is home sick from school today, asked, “What’s that?”

“Presents,” I said, then started to cry.

Here’s my very public thank you to Nanea and Meghan, who, I’m sure, would put Iwan Rheon in a box for me if they could, and the rest of the girlfriends who have come into my life recently. You’ve shown me that Sophie is not an anomaly. And I’m sure at this point Sophie would like me to add, “Don’t get it twisted; I’m still the bestie.” But it’s nice to discover, at the ripe old age of 37, that there’s room in my heart for more girlfriends.

I very much look forward to laughing, drinking, watching Misfits, and going to see The Hunger Games with you ladies next March. VaginaCon 2012: Shit Just Got Real.

It’s on like Donkey Kong, bitches!

Blog it Out, Bitch the Book

Coming September 2011

 

New York Walker

When last we met I’d just taken my first flight in ten years and almost been abducted by a gypsy cab driver.

I arrived at my hotel, The New Yorker (8th Ave. & 34th St.) shortly before 11am. The doorman helps me with my luggage and I pass through automatic revolving doors into a large, air conditioned lobby. I’m checked in within moments, and make my way up to my room on the 23rd floor.

The hotel was older, but nice, and filled with many contemporary touches. My room was a lot bigger than I thought it would be and as soon as I entered it, I remembered how much I enjoy staying in hotels. The first thing I did was put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. It would remain there for the duration of my stay. If I need towels, I’ll call. Since I wasn’t there for sexy time, there’d be no reason to have my sheets changed during a three-night stay. I like to spread out and pretend I live in my hotel room. (Just call me Dylan McKay) The last thing I need to worry about is someone coming in to clean when I’m not there and all my personal stuff is strewn about.

Even though I was receiving the conference discount (the book event was in the same hotel), I was aware of how expensive the rooms usually were so I was really relieved to be happy with it. I don’t know why, but I have this old school thought process that all articles of clothing should be $20, hotel stays should be $100 a night, and movie tickets should be $5. (Shoes and purses can cost whatever the fuck they want.) It’s like I live in 2011, but my wallet is stuck in 1982.

Anyway, I did a little unpacking, freshening up, and checking in with social media before going to meet my friend Richard for lunch. I looked up the restaurant online and then checked my handy NYC Subway app for the nearest train stop. There’s an A train stop right on the corner so I headed for it.

 

I took the A Train uptown to 59th Street Columbus Circle. It was there I remembered everything I love about my hometown. It was loud, colorful, bright and diverse. Living in the Atlanta suburbs, I’m surrounded by Mexicans and white folk. That’s it. I miss Puerto Ricans! I miss different languages and foods! I just stood in the circle, spinning around like a tourist, taking it all in. I felt like Mary Tyler Moore. If I had a hat, I’d have tossed that bitch in the air.

Here’s a short video I took of a street musician:

Street Musician

The plan was to walk to the restaurant, but when I stopped a cute guy (hey, don’t judge me!) to ask walking directions to where I thought the restaurant was, I realized it was better to take a cab. I met Richard at Whym, a restaurant that looked as if it gets pretty busy in the evening, but that afternoon was very laid back and somewhat empty. We ordered apps, lunch and lots of cocktails.

Before leaving, I had to use the little girl’s room (several glasses of water and three Bellinis will do that to you), and managed to knock a butter knife off the table next to us. Thankfully, the only other couple in the joint didn’t pause to stop staring into each other’s eyes to notice.

 

As soon as I enter the bathroom I notice the toilet’s water level is really low and there’s soggy toilet tissue floating at the bottom. So, what do I do? Flush it, of course. And the water rises and rises and just as it reaches the lip of the toilet I say, “No. No. No. Please, don’t!”

And it does. All over the floor. Can’t take me nowhere.

We hop a cab to Dylan’s Candy Bar, a touristy candy shop owned by Ralph Lauren’s daughter, Dylan. I had no intention of buying a bunch of overpriced sweets, but I knew Kali would get a kick out of the photos and I bought her a cute little bag she can use to carry her dental care products at school (she wears braces). Gotta love the irony.

And it was right about then that my feet started KILLING ME. I’m not even sure of the hows and whys, but after we left the candy bar, we couldn’t catch a cab to save our lives. You would have thought we were two brothers on the corner trying to hail a taxi. We seemed to walk forever in search of a cab that didn’t have its off duty light lit or already have passengers. It didn’t help that it was hot as Satan’s taint either. I did manage to take some photos and videos along the way:

 

 

 

Here’s a video of the tram you wouldn’t catch me dead on:

Roosevelt Island Tram

At that point, it wasn’t as hot as there was a nice breeze coming off the river, but my feet were still burning and not being able to catch a cab was working my last nerve. When we finally got one to take us, the cabbie explained that it was approaching their 5pm shift change so taxis were all headed to their respective depots. He only agreed to drop us at 7th Avenue and 34th Street. We took it. Beggars and choosing and all that.

When we got out of the cab, Richard pointed me in the direction of 8th Avenue and headed off to do whatever it was he was going to do before we were to meet up for dinner. As I walked up the block, several times I thought I should probably stop someone and just confirm that I was, indeed, headed for 8th Avenue and not 6th, but I didn’t. And fuck me for not doing so.

At one point, a crazy black man who had been yelling into his cell phone, “Why the fuck you keep saying what I said yesterday? I didn’t even talk to your ass yesterday so what the fuck you talkin’ ’bout?!,” turned and saw me walking behind him and did a double-take.

Oh, fuck.

He purposely starts to slow down until I’m walking alongside him and then says loudly, “I’m looking at America’s Next Top Model right here. Forget those skin and bones. This is it!”

Totally forgetting that he was, quite possibly, insane, I say, “Hold up. Did you just call me fat?”

“No! I’m just saying that even the white girls are trying to look like you!”

As you’ve probably guessed, I was walking in the wrong direction. I almost sat on the curb and cried. And for the sake of full disclosure, these were the shoes I wore:

There were not uncomfortable when I tried them on, and I spent a few days breaking them in at home. They were nowhere near as difficult as the shoes I’d started to bring, but didn’t:

 

I think it was a combination of being on my feet since 4am, the heat, and the concrete, that had my feet screaming, “Uncle!”

Once in my room, I closed the curtains, got naked, talked to my husband and kids and then soaked in a hot bath. I met Richard downstairs in the lobby about an hour or so later – which, in retrospect, wasn’t exactly smart because my feet hadn’t received any rest – and we tried to catch a cab to where we were meeting his best friend and his partner for dinner.

I guess cabbies didn’t like my face. Or my shoes. We couldn’t get it together. More walking to another corner, then more walking back to the hotel, and no cab to be had. The doorman even tried for us. No dice. At this point I’m extremely miserable. I’d just spent time bathing and getting fresh and pretty and within three minutes of being outside, I’m covered in sweat and my feet are like, “Really, bitch? So soon?”

At one point, Richard says, “Frankly, I thought you’d be a better New York walker.”

What the fuck is a New York walker? Now, I took offense to this, but I’m on vacation and it’s day one, so I’m swallowing annoyances and really, when you’re dealing with melting face and screaming feet, a comment that rubs you the wrong way isn’t worth it. I’m not an idiot. I knew spending a weekend in NYC would involve some walking, but since when did New Yorkers start walking blocks and blocks to catch cabs? I get the whole, “We’re headed downtown and this traffic is going uptown so let’s walk one block over,” business. I’ve done that hundreds of times. But I felt like we’d walked above and beyond. It being hot as a motherfucker while being 14 hours into 10 hour shoes didn’t help matters, either.

I also tried explaining to Richard that hanging out with women is a totally different animal than hanging out with men. We don’t spend time getting dolled up to sweat our makeup off before we even get to the mode of transportation that’s taking us where we’re going!

We ended up hopping a hot ass train and walking another four blocks to a different restaurant. I’d never been so happy to see a barstool or a glass of water in my life. We had a very nice time. There was lots of laughing and great conversation and we later moved the party across the street to another bar for more food and cocktails (although, at that point, I just stuck to water).

 

 

At the end of the night, Richard put me into a cab that thankfully stopped right in front of the restaurant. Once I made it back to the hotel I was happy with my decision to have the hotel for all three nights instead of staying with anyone. I was grateful for the room, and the quiet, and the aloneness because I was exhausted and sore.

And that was just the beginning.

Next time: Blisters, Tears, More Friends and Lani Kai

Flying Again

Last week I flew on an airplane for the first time since 9/11. I used to fly a lot in my late teens and 20’s, and while I was always a nervous flyer, I enjoyed the experience. After 9/11 – and up until a few nights before my flight – I’d have nightmares about shiny, bulbous aircrafts, sitting at a gate, waiting for me to board and soar me to certain death. I had horrible dreams about being in Manhattan (I’d also not been there since a month before the attacks), looking up at skyscrapers that disappeared into the clouds, casting dark shadows over the streets below before crumbling on top of me.

So, when I won an author’s table at the first annual Indie Book Event in NYC, and friends suggested I fly, I was all, fuck that. Then I noticed that all the people I admire, all of my friends doing big things, flew constantly. You can’t really expect to promote yourself via social media and make the right connections if you’re afraid to travel. Yes, most of the interactions take place online, but conferences and other events are crucial and you need to show your face.

I put on my big girl panties and boarded a flight to NYC last Thursday. I kid. We all know I don’t wear panties, which would have made the full body scan very interesting if I’d received one. My flight left at 7:30am, which meant I had to arrive at the airport by 6am. Donny and the kids dropped me off at the curb. I kissed them all goodbye like it would be the last time we ever saw each other (I even left my wedding band with Donny and only wore my engagement ring. I figured if the plane crashed, there wouldn’t be much of me left so he should have something to remember me by) and was off.

Going through security went surprisingly well and I was probably a tad over-prepared. I was a bit disappointed there wasn’t cause to open my suitcase and show off how well-packed I was. I just knew my curling rods would set off alarms.

 

Once I got to the gate, I posted this pic:

 

I tried not to look as terrified as I felt as I boarded the plane and noticed how fucking tiny it was. Holy crap. It was like, one step above a propeller plane. And the seats were super small. My Amazonian ass was not happy or comfortable. My knees were touching the back of the seat in front of me. Are plane seats made for women without hips? Thankfully, my seat mate, a guy who looked like Jean-Claude Van Damme, sat next to the window and quietly played on his phone. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I was scared, pissed, and uncomfortable.

Once the plane started taxing to the runway, I started making deals with God.

Please, don’t let me die like this. I promise to be nicer to people. Even the douchebags.

I hoped that was enough. It didn’t help matters that there were NO babies on the flight. I like babies on flights. I want babies on my flight – loud, new-to-the-world, milk-breath babies with big, soulful eyes. I want God to think twice before he gets in a smiting mood.

Take-off is the worst: it’s all rumbling and loud and the moment the plane is no longer touching the ground you marvel that something so heavy can stay in the air. Once we reached our cruising altitude and the fasten seat belt light went off, Jean-Claude Van Damme leaned over and whispered in a heavy Brazilian accent, “I’m sorry. I hate to do this, but I’ve been holding it for an hour.”

It sounded like a I’m-about-to-piss-on-you warning, but then I realized he was looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to move so he could scoot into the aisle. Grrrr. When you’re 5’11 and weigh approximately none of your fucking business pounds, the last thing you want to do is move around on a tiny plane. I got up so he could go to the bathroom and as soon as I sat back down, the man in front of me reclined his seat. And then his wife reclined hers. Now, I didn’t catch their names, but for the duration of the flight I dubbed them Mr. and Mrs. Inconsiderate Motherfuckers.

How you just gonna lean your shit back like you home watching TV?

I considered accidentally on purpose standing up and hitting Mr. I.M. on the head with my laptop bag, but I just made those God promises, and you don’t want to go fucking with your karma 32,000 feet in the air.

By the time Jean-Claude got back, I was relieved to stand just to get my knees off my tits. He sits down and as I awkwardly lower myself into my seat, I say the first thing that pops into my head.

“I thought it’d be bigger.”

Then I bit the inside of my mouth to resist the urge to add, “That’s what she said.”

He sighs and nods his head towards business class, just two rows ahead of us. “They wanted $70 more for business class…”

I nod vigorously. I know what he’s going to say. Seventy bucks is a small price to pay for comfort, I think. It has to be cheaper than knee surgery.

“… but I couldn’t see paying that for an hour and a half flight. Three hours, maybe, but not ninety minutes.”

I stop nodding. We are NOT on the same page. He is clearly insane.

Turns out he’s an aircraft mechanic for the military and he starts telling me all about the plane we’re in – how it operates, how it came to be and how and when they changed the cockpit from analog to digital.

“Although, I cannot call it that any more. It’s now the flight deck. People got offended by the old name.” He smiles a super Van Damme smile and adds, “Like, these…” He holds up a package of salted nuts. “… I probably can’t call these nuts any more.”

I snort. “We should start calling them balls.”

He blinks.

And just like that I’m a fucking idiot.

I spend the remainder of the flight trying not to look at him.

 

When we landed at LaGuardia, I got a slew of text messages sent while my service was down. One was from Donny letting me know that our AC repair had turned into a full blown AC replacement. I tried calling him for details as I headed to the exit. Just as I was about to leave a voicemail for him, I approached the exit where a short, olive-skinned man stood. He was wearing a dress shirt and slacks and I thought he worked at the airport.

“Exit?”

“Um… yes.”

He gestures towards a door, leading outside, and asks, “Where are you going?”

“Manhattan.”

“Can I take that?” He nods towards my suitcase.

“No, I got it.”

I don’t mind tipping, but I’m not going to pay for some guy to pull my suitcase 12 feet to the curb. I figured he was going to hail a cab for me, or at least show me to the taxi queue.

He walks ahead, reaching the curb and then crossing the street, all three lanes of traffic. I stop at the curb because the ‘Don’t Walk’ light was on. Also, I’m dealing with some very important shit. Unable to reach Donny, I’d moved on to checking into Foursquare. Hey, don’t judge me! I want to be the mayor of something besides my neighborhood Kroger.

The whole time little dude was crossing the street he never turned back to see if I was with him, so I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be following him. Once he reached the other side, in front of the parking garage, he turned and signaled for me to follow. The light changes and I meet him on the other side and this time, I let him take my suitcase. I try calling Donny again as we approach a Town Car with the trunk open. He puts my suitcase in the trunk and it’s not until I’m in the backseat that it hits me.

“Hey, how much is this going to cost?”

“Sixty dollars.”

“Uh, no. I’d rather have a real cab. With a meter.”

He starts backing out the parking space.

“OK. Fifty.”

“No. Let me out.”

He locks the doors.

“Fifty is very good price.”

“No. Really. Let me out.”

He whips back into the spot and this time it’s up to me to get my own shit; he was done caring about my luggage.

I take a legit yellow taxi to my hotel.

It cost $31.

Motherfucker.

Next time: Being a better NY walker and blisters on my feet.

My Life, My Book

Things have been pretty quiet around these parts because things in my day-to-day life have been anything but. It occurred to me that I never really did a big “announcement” of any kind, and that a lot of you may not know about the most exciting thing to happen to me in a long time. (At least since Jack was born.)

Be prepared to do a lot of clicking, liking, and voting. (All links should open in a new tab.)

My book, The Twin Prophecies: Rebirth, is now available for the Kindle, Nook, other e-readers and in paperback. This is the official website for the book. You can subscribe to the blog so that you’re sure to get news on book-related events as soon as possible. There’s a cool prequel chapter that introduces you to a character you meet in Rebirth as well as a link to the book trailer. The media tab has links to interviews I’ve done to promote the book. You can read a short synopsis here and early reviews on Amazon.com here.

If you could take a moment to “like” the book’s official Facebook page and my author page on Facebook, I’d really appreciate it. You can also find me on Goodreads and Shelfari. If you’re a tweeter, you can follow the book on Twitter, too.

Now for the fun stuff. Next week, to help celebrate the book’s official launch, I’m giving away three fun prizes. Everyone who purchases a Kindle OR paperback copy of the book has a chance to win either:

• a signed paperback copy of Rebirth
• their name as a character in book two, The Twin Prophecies: Origin (Dec. 2011) or
• a Kindle with Special Offers

The contest is for any Kindle or paperback copy purchased between Monday, May 16th and Wednesday, May 18th, 2011. Purchase confirmations must be forwarded to twinprophecies@gmail.com to enter and must be received by Friday, May 20th. You can get all the details and official rules by reading the press release.

Finally, I have a great opportunity to attend the Indie Book Event in NYC this summer, but I need your help. If could go here and cast your vote for me, Nina Perez, to win a free table, I’ll love you forever. You can read more about the Indie Book Event here.

 

I know, it’s a lot of stuff, and THAT is why I’ve been missing in action. I have no complaints though. None. This is a very exciting and fulfilling time for me and I want to thank all of you who’ve been along for the whole ride. Don’t get off yet. There’s more to come.

 

Nina

 

Scream 4 – Movie Review

You know I liked a movie if it inspired me to do something I haven’t done in years: write a movie review.

I loved the first Scream. I saw it 7 times in the theaters in about 5 different states. It came out in 1996 when I was 21 and filled with wanderlust. Whenever I hit a new state and found friends that hadn’t yet seen it, I’d insist we go.

What made Scream so great was that it was the first scary movie to poke fun at everything we loved to hate about horror films, and in the process it managed to be pretty damn scary without excessive gore and peppered with smart, biting, dialogue. No one called the ending. No one. If they said they did, they’re lying.

Scream 2 and Scream 3 were not as good, but each had their fair share of enjoyable moments and neither left me feeling like I’d wasted my money to go see them. In fact, I was so looking forward to Scream 2, I had dreams about it almost every night leading up to the premiere and had to sit on my hands to keep from reading the leaked script that had found its way to the internet. The parody, Scary Movie, was inevitable and it is pretty much responsible for the slew of spoof flicks that followed.

Even though S2 and S3 failed to completely recapture everything that made Scream so great, I was happy that they’d always included the triad original players and worked off the history of the first – even when it was ridiculously far-fetched. Long-lost brother? Seriously, S3? I hate when movie franchises become unrecognizable, completely filling each new installment with fresh faces who bring no emotional ties to the original.

Scream 4 could have been a mess. It should have been a mess. But it wasn’t. It came along at just the right time. Like the first Scream, it managed to be fresh by spoofing… itself! And not only that, but the numerous spoofs that followed. The opening – which any Scream fan knows usually contains some of the best stuff – was wonderfully meta, cast with familiar faces who, we just knew, were going to get it. It also played off the current online/Twitter/Facebook social media craze and incorporated it brilliantly.

Oh yeah, and it was scary. Ghostface could have been anyone, anywhere, at any time. There were plenty of suspicious characters, red herrings, and “no, don’t do that!” moments. I love that the character of Sydney continued to evolve and how can you not root for Dewey and Gale?

I found Hayden Panettiere’s (Heroes) Kirby to be the most likable character in the movie – and that surprised me because I was certain we were set up not to.

And I didn’t guess the identity of the killer. In fact, I was so sure it was one person I fell for a bit of sloppy writing that I’m now sure was done on purpose, just to feed the suspicions of people who felt the way I did. I don’t know if I can forgive that, Kevin Williamson. But I can, and will, forgive some of the cheesy one-liners; they’re par for the course. The shrieks, jumps, and chills down my arm every time the phone rang made it all worth it.

- Nina

P.S. Courtney Cox-Arquette and David Arquette? I really hope those crazy kids work it out.

P.P.S. I own the box set DVDs of 1, 2, and 3, but I will have to upgrade to the four box set in BluRay.

P.P.P.S. (Minor spoiler): I’m so happy I got to see two of the most annoying TV characters get killed, finally: Julie Taylor from Friday Night Lights and Sookie Stackhouse.

Growing Pains

My daughter is 12 today. A pre-teen. A young lady.

Mama needs margaritas.

Long-time readers may remember me mentioning this before, but right before each birthday I notice a change in my children. I don’t know if it’s natural or if, as parents, we automatically start looking for signs of change. Whatever it is, I notice.

I’ve spent the past month or so preparing for the release of my book. I could go whole weekends without seeing Kali except for the few times she’d poke her head into my bedroom and ask what we were having for breakfast, lunch or dinner. My response? “Go ask your Dad.” Any guilt I felt was assuaged with, I’m doing this for them. What kind of mother can I be if I’m miserable, waiting for others to see fit to make my dreams come true? Why not take my fate in my own hands and make them happen? And what better way to start than with a book that my daughter inspired?

And this did the trick up until this past weekend when Kali admitted that she kept forgetting her birthday was Tuesday. She was not excited about it. Anytime we asked what she wanted or what she wanted to do, she would shrug and say, “I can’t think of anything I want or need.” I joked that this was a good thing. When I was her age, if someone asked me what I wanted, I’d respond with a list as long as a New York City block. “When I was your age, I didn’t have shit!” We both laughed.

But I felt horrible. She may be turning 12, I thought, but that’s still a child. Children should be excited about their birthdays whether they have a wish list a mile long or not. Everyone wants to feel like their birthday matters and I’d done a piss-poor job of doing that for Kali. If she can’t think of something she needs or wants, then it’s my job to come up with something. To surprise her with things she didn’t know she wanted or needed. It’s my job to create magic because this day matters. This day, twelve years ago, changed my life and it should be celebrated every day, but especially today.

Yesterday, when she got home from school, we went to my nail salon and got our nails done. I did not cringe (outwardly anyway) when she chose black polish.

 

We went to Claire’s next and I bravely endured the constant nose tickling as it seemed everywhere I turned, a feather-adorned accessory was invading my nostrils. I did not pass judgment on the fingerless gloves or the belt with skull and crossbones on it – I simply thanked God the skulls were surrounded by rainbows.

Next we went to Aeropostale for new shirts and then Charming Charlies where she picked out the cutest zebra print slip-on shoes and purple hat.

As I watched her beautiful fingers with their black nails brush over fabrics and patterns, and her face react in either pleasure or distaste, I realized she was well on her way to being her own person with her own tastes and style. And sure, I could say no and only agree to buy the things that we both liked, or worse, the things that I liked whether she agreed or not, but doesn’t that defeat the point? Hadn’t I raised her these past twelve years with the desire and knowledge that she’d eventually become her own person? How can that happen if I insist on lots of pink and frills in a vain attempt to keep her “my little girl?”

Her mood had lightened considerably. She even tried convincing me to buy something for myself, but I declined. As much as I wanted the bag, this shopping trip wasn’t about me.

 

This was about Kali and (I didn’t tell her this) the plan was to not say no to anything she wanted. When she spotted a t-shirt she wanted in Aeropostale and asked, “If I put back one of the other shirts, can I get that one?,” I replied, “Why not get them all?”

“I can do that?” “Yes, you can.”

I did it because I could afford to. I did it because everyone should have a shopping spree once in awhile. We went to Best Buy last and I bought the two things that I had planned to buy her anyway: an iHome system for her bedroom so she could dock her iPod at night and listen to music while it charges (it’s really cool – it changes colors) and an iTunes gift card so she can download all the Japanese music she’s into now that she’s also into Anime.

When we got home, she excitedly pulled her new clothes, shoes and accessories from their bags and showed them to her Dad. She couldn’t wait to go to school today and wear her new shoes, belt, and fingerless gloves. And here’s the cool thing about my kid: she won’t expect this from now on. This wasn’t about buying her love, acceptance, or happiness. I’d been in her shoes, thinking no one cared enough about your birthday to make a big deal. Some years the big deal may be a home-cooked meal of your choosing with cupcakes made with love for dessert. And some years the big deal may be a shopping spree with Mom as you both giggle over how pretty your nails are and drive with the windows down, singing “The Dog Days are Over” at the top of your lungs.

I watched her walk into the school this morning with a knot in my stomach. The kid has a funky style, for sure. But it’s hers and I worried if I’d done enough to teach her to own it. Then a boy in front of her stopped to hold the door as she adjusted her new white tote bag with the black butterflies and she flashed him a braces-lined smile of gratitude. And he blushed.

She owns it alright.

We’re going out to dinner tonight to celebrate. And she gets to pick the restaurant. And I just pray they serve margaritas.

Big ones.

Dread of Night – Book Review

When fellow indie author Joshua D. Boeringa reached out and asked if I would review one of his books, I immediately said yes. I was in the process of preparing my own novel for publication and I knew how much the support of fellow authors is needed and appreciated. He told me that one of his books was a collection of short horror stories for middle-grade readers. I chose it because I thought it would be a quick read while navigating my own murky indie publishing waters, but mainly I chose it because I love to be scared and I think scaring our kids from time to time is a good thing. Maybe it’s the writer in me, but I feel that a good scare works wonders for your imagination and creativity. What is writing fiction if not a series of what ifs? Why not spark our teens’ imaginations with a little what if there really is something under the bed or what if that little old lady is not what she seems?

I settled in to read Dread of Night: Vol. 1 on the one night that a) I was sleeping alone and b) there was a terrible thunderstorm assaulting the windows and cutting out the power. I thought, “It’s for teens so how scary can it be?”

The answer? Very.

Dread of Night is comprised of 13 short stories and is a very quick read – not just because of the number of tales, but because you won’t be able to put it down. I told myself I’d read one or two and then go to sleep, but instead I read more than half. (And then found myself peering into the dark shadows of the master bathroom from my bed, making sure no one was standing there.) Each title perfectly captures what is so great about the short story: they’re snapshots of a few moments in time in a bigger story. They should provide you with enough history so that you feel as if you have a sense of who the players are and leave you wanting more – or at the very least, leave you thinking about what you just read Snow-Blind, about a young motorist who finds herself stranded in a snowstorm, will have you wondering about what happened on that isolated road long after the last word.

Adults may find some of the stories predictable – especially if horror is their thing, but this book isn’t for us. I think it provides the perfect introduction to horror novels for your teen reader if you’re not ready for them to dive into the worlds of Koontz or King. There’s a bit of gore (Teddy – a little boy does the wrong thing and lets in a stranger when he’s home alone), but nothing too heavy. Boering does an excellent job of leaving some bits to your imagination. And even to a seasoned horror fan like myself, a few stories like The Yard Sale offered up a nice surprise ending.

I enjoyed how Boering displayed a different writing style throughout the book. Some stories like The Fishwife may call to mind Stephen King as Boering expertly places us in the minds of young kids who go looking for trouble and find it. There are some that are straight out of Creepshow like It Reminds Me of You (a young man is followed by a mysterious woman) or Their Father’s Grave (a trio of siblings are plagued by their father’s madness even after he has died). One – the book’s opener, Crunched For Time – will even make you laugh as the end scene is like something straight out of a Choose Your Own Adventure book should you make all the wrong decisions.

My favorite was a piece titled Turning the Soil - a widow becomes attached to her quiet young boarder. I love the way it was written and went beyond a scare and caused me to think about unhealthy attachments, mourning and loneliness. Robert Forest’s black-and-white illustrations provide the right amount of fright with their tone and shadows. One image in particular – the man in Teddy – almost had me toss the book across the room and call it a night!

You can head over to Boeringa’s site and hear audio recordings of some of the shorts included in Dread of Night. You can purchase it for your Kindle here.

Soap Death

I just saw a tweet that All My Children is probably/possibly going to be cancelled later this week after 41 years on the air. I immediately called my best friend, Sophie.

We were both sad, but also confused. Why were we so upset over the cancellation of a show we both stopped watching a long time ago? Sophie summed it up best. “I don’t watch it, but I like knowing it’s there.”

I think this has a lot to do with what I’ve always believed made soaps so special: they are tradition. I don’t know anyone that discovered soaps later in life. OK, one exception seems to be the men that have admitted to either currently watching a soap or watching one in their past. They discovered soaps when they were in college, in the middle of the day when they didn’t have class and there was nothing else on TV.

But for most women, soaps are passed down from their mothers and their grandmothers. I know for me, ABC soaps played a big part in my childhood. I grew up in the late 70′s and 80′s when most of the households had one television and mothers stayed at home. Whatever your mother, grandmother, or after-school provider was watching when you walked in was what you were going to be watching, too. Don’t even think about asking to turn the channel until Mama’s “stories” were done.

In our house it was Edge of Night, Ryan’s Hope, Loving, All My Children, One Life to Live and General Hospital. This was back before DVRs, and hell, even VCRs so when there was a 30-minute overlap with AMC and The Young & The Restless, I remember my Grandma used to flip back and forth during commercials. I also did my own channel flipping from 2pm-3pm to watch OLTL and Another World. (I loved me some Cass!)

Then we lost Edge of Night, Ryan’s Hope, and Loving became The City, which later became Port Charles, and then that was gone, too. All My Children, One Life to Live, and General Hospital have always been there and the thought of either of those three going away makes me deeply sad. Over the years, I’ve read about other soaps on other networks being cancelled, and I’ve felt for those fans (NBC has ONE soap left), but I never imagined it would happen to one of mine.

So, what happened? I suspect that people like Sophie and me are to blame – people that don’t watch (even though we TiVo every day) unless there’s something major going on like a beloved character dying or being brought back from the dead. If people were still watching like they used to, surely soaps wouldn’t be cancelled – seemingly – left and right. Or is that the people are still watching, but it’s no longer enough to justify the costs of keeping these shows on the air?

And for those of us no longer watching, why not? I used to think it was that I simply outgrew them, but there are women a lot older than me still watching – and loving – soap operas. But I think it’s that and then some. I know I started to feel like it had become too formulaic and predictable. Characters rarely learned lessons. How many times can it be considered entertaining to watch the same vixen sleep around and manipulate her away into a crisis, yet never evolve? I’m looking at you, Blair Kramer! Then there was the almost cavalier way pregnancies were conceived (literally) and then terminated by awful means to jerk tears and boost ratings. I’m looking at you, General Hospital! I mean, really. BJ and Maxie all over again in 2011?

You can almost forgive them of their staple cliches because they kinda made them the iconic shows that they are:

• If you’ve done something awful that would ruin your life should anyone find out, why would you talk about it… out loud… to yourself?
• Why does everyone insist on referring to each other by their first and last names? “You’re a son of a bitch, Adam Chandler!”
• And the looong storylines? Come on!

With so many other things competing to be our escape (Twitter, Facebook, TiVo’d prime time shows, instant streaming and video games), do we really have time to give to an industry that just doesn’t seem to be changing? Or are they not changing enough, fast enough? I cannot remember the last time a soap opera surprised me with a storyline I simply didn’t see coming.

And what is it about soaps that make them so dispensable? What other family of television programming has been decimated like this? Talk shows? Still around, though we’ll see what happens after Lady O. leaves the stage. Game shows? Still kicking. They didn’t even consider axing The Price is Right after Barker’s retirement. Prime time dramas? Not going anywhere. Sitcoms? Check. Hell, we’ve even made room for a new genre: reality shows.

Even though I don’t watch anymore – at least not as regularly as I used to – I hope All My Children (and the other ABC soaps) stick around for people like my mother and grandmother who still watch every day. They still call me and ask, “Girl, did you see what Clint did to Jessica and Natalie?” And even though I find their summary enough to keep me updated on what’s going on in Pine Valley, Llanview, and Port Charles, it would still break my heart to see those shows go.

I guess, like Sophie, I just like knowing they’re there.

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