Okay, so pretend I have a megaphone in front of my face when I say this - Introducing....David S. Grant! *echoes* Today we are pleased to take part in a virtual book tour for Blood:The New Red by David S. Grant. I think you will enjoy his post as much as I did. Take it away David...
My fantasy meet with Charles Bukowski
I recently was asked in an interview: “Who is the one author you would have liked to meet?” Immediately I thought of Charles Bukowski and smiled at the preposterous thought. Here’s how I see this meeting going down…
We would plan to meet at a dark and downtrodden bar just off Sunset. I wouldn’t shave. As I prepared for the night I would stress over looking too much like a writer, knowing Bukowski always hated writers. While making my important wardrobe decisions I would brush up on my gritty poetry. I would elect to not wear the tie.
I would arrive twenty minutes early, but Mr. Bukowski would already be waiting at the bar, drinking his second beer. He would ask me why we were meeting I would say something about race track betting formulas and then quickly order two drinks. (I’m going to assume Bukowski would not like my lanky, nervous appearance so we would drink our first round in silence and then I would order another.)
Items not to discuss: Writing, working in a post office, and writing! I would continue repeating this in my head.
After three rounds we would leave the bar and find ourselves at a table, this is Bukowski’s later years and he is laying off the hard alcohol, after a few beers we are now quickly drinking red wine. At some point Bukowski would steer the conversation to women and his crass language would make me blush. He would call me a pussy, or maybe even the dreaded “C” word. In less than an hour, two more bottles of wine would be consumed.
A man with a beard and no sleeves would approach the table. He would comment on the bottle of wine, the dark tavern, and the old man.
Ten minutes later…we are both shielding are eyes from the sun as it beats down on us. We are outside the bar; inside the bartender is picking out chunks of glass from the wine bottle still in the bearded, sleeveless guys head. Standing next to Bukowski are two women, they look to be a mother and daughter. The “mother” is holding a bottle of red wine. With a girl in each arm, Bukowski walks away slowly; looking and back to give me a wink, and then he would call me the “C” word!
David, thank you so much for joining us today. David is on tour with the Virtual Book Tour Cafe', and you can follow his tour HERE.
In the meantime, here's a little bit about the book.
Blood: The new Red begins at an after party where Mickey, and ex-adult movie star turned supermodel, is aligning himself with one of top Designers of Seventh Avenue. While trying to land a job on the runway Mickey is thrown into the center of a scene where sex is often the motivation, the wine is served by year, and cocaine is back in full force. Juanita, Mickey’s girlfriend is having difficulties staying sober, fully clothed, and off of her famous boyfriend.
Mickey goes to work for Fashion icon Paul Johnson, one of the two top Designers in NYC. The other is Sandy Johnson, another Designer who will stop at nothing including murder to guarantee victory. A runway exhibition has been scheduled for the two to compete in and find out who truly is the best Johnson. Mickey will be Paul’s top model, and Sandy has found a homeless person nicknamed Kung Fu Master to show his line.
In addition to getting his new line in place, Paul Johnson is also buying chain saws, the louder the better, to put the special in this special event.
Did you know that you can’t be sentenced to prison if actively seeking help at a mental facility? Paul Johnson knows this.
Somewhere between the girls, counting Vicodin pills, and show preparation Mickey has grown a conscience and no longer likes what he sees. He believes (and his psychiatrist agrees) that he has the power to change what’s happening around him.
Days before the show Kung Fu Master turns up dead and there is an attempt on Mickey’s life. After a brief period of unconsciousness Mickey is back, is told that Juanita and brother Cheeks are now also dead and that he must continue with the show. After all, what would Steven Tyler do?
The night of the show is laced with celebrities and models on the runway as well as one particular popular day-time talk show host that may or may not be murdered on the runway.
In the end only one Johnson will walk away, although this is temporary as Mickey has the last word.
Right before he pops his last Vicodin.
Always look like a rock star. This is the number one secret on how to be famous. I’m wearing chains, lots of chains. Eye shadow, lots of eye shadow. I wouldn’t say my pants are tight, but then again, my balls might disagree with you at the moment.
I’m standing on the second level of the Grand Hotel, overlooking the bar area. My manager tells me this is where I need to be standing. In five minutes I will move across the room and stand next to a long mirror where one of the Hiltons will walk by and notice my reflection. A photographer will be close by and be sure to get the picture. This mirror has been placed here for this sole purpose. My manager tells me not to stare at the mirror. If you asked me to list my weaknesses, this may be my number one fault.
DJ Shingles, the newest (which means hottest) DJ, is playing on a middle level between the first and second floors. There is barely enough room for him let alone the overflowing ashtray and oversized stocking cap. Rumor has it this is his last show, despite this being his first. There is talk that he is moving into production and will be working with a major player in the hip hop industry, depending on who is hot at the time. DJ Shingles is wearing an Armani black button-down shirt with the sleeves ripped off. Very last year, but this is more a statement than a miscalculation on his part. Last season is the new season.
My manager signals for me to make my way across toward the mirror. A reporter from GQ is following me and asking me questions about who I’m going to sign with and whether or not my past will affect my future. I get her number, tell her I’ll call her later, and then blow her off as I approach the mirror. Always leak your press, never tell. This is secret number three on how to be famous.
Four widescreen televisions are fastened to the wall behind the bar. All are showing TMZ. An orange haired girl wearing a Betsey Johnson dress sees me staring at the television sets. She walks over and whispers in my ear, “It’s the new CNN.”
A waiter carrying a tray of wine from 1980 is walking by. Every 15 minutes another waiter, another tray, another year will walk by. Welcome to the world of fashion parties. Ten percent content, ninety percent presentation.
A man who goes by the name Dontay hands me a coffee cup that is full of scotch. My manager tells me to sip it and not cheers anyone. Any buzz that insinuates I’ve been in rehab and have put my porn career in the past is good press and can only help my modeling career. As scheduled, I’m approached by someone with the last name Hilton.
The Hilton is wearing a blouse that is considered the color Ocean, the new blue, but since Aquamarine blue was in fact the new blue for last season and last season is in this season, no one should be caught dead in Ocean. Unless of course she is being ironic. If so, she will have to mention this to at least three people during the course of the evening.
“Mickey, you’re back! I mean, uh…” Hilton looks at the coffee cup. “Welcome back!” She tips her coffee cup to me.
I glance around at the guest list, wondering who has the most juice at the party, but am distracted by the waiter walking through with wines from 1990.
“Good year for cabernets,” Hilton says, then grabs her blouse. “Last season is the new season, huh? Fuck that.” She laughs and looks fidgety as lights pop around us. At one point Hilton puts her arm around me and kisses me on the cheek. FLASH. Mission accomplished.
“I miss you, Mickey. We should get together sometime, you know, have a cup of coffee, fuck, or something.”
Sure, I tell her and then she leaves because she has a rule about spending over forty hours a week on the Lower East Side and this season many Fashion Week parties have been in LES, the new SoHo.
According to my manager, I need to make my way to a reserved table next to the bar where Paul Johnson is sitting. My manager also says to ignore the temptation of champagne. I have a job to do tonight.
David S. Grant is the author of ten books including “Corporate Porn”, “Bleach|Blackout”, “Hollywood Ending”, and “Rock Stars”. His latest novel, “Blood: The New Red”, is now available. David lives and writes his weekly rock, travel, and NBA columns from New York City.
For more information go to http://www.davidsgrant.com