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He asked for a little sugar with his coffee.
The Housewife Assassin's Handbook
(Book 1) /Signal Press
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My opening scene for The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing, (the second in my Housewife Assassin series, to be released on September 30, 2012) starts out with my heroine, Donna Stone*, foiling a plot on Prince Harry's life while he's in San Diego, celebrating the completion of his Apache helicopter training.
I've excerpted it here, below.
Well, whattaya know? Just the other day, Harry gets caught with his pants down (in truth, off, along with everything else) while partying in Las Vegas. He was there for a charity fundraiser for the air force base on which he trained.
It's almost as if Handsome Harry, the cheeky sod, said, "That Josie Brown is a sweet bird. Why don't I give her a leg up on the sale of her new book, let her readers sneak a peek of what they're in for?"
A peek indeed!
As these pictures show, which were first released on TMZ.com, he's got a lot to offer some fine lass…
But I'm glad to see he's holding tight to the crown jewels.
You just can't buy this kind of publicity.
Read this excerpt of
The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing,
in bookstores on September 8, 2012.
In the US, just $2.99:
In the UK, just £1.96(Kindle UK) and £1.99 (iTunes UK) :
"This is a super sexy and fun read that you shouldn't miss!"
–Mary Jacobs, Bookhounds
The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing
Chapter 1: Breaking Bad Hostessing Habits
Every woman wants to be the perfect hostess, and frets over
her inadequacies when it comes to the gracious art of entertaining. Pshaw! A little forethought and a few hours
of planning makes it easy as cherry pie!
There is, however, one ironclad rule that every hostess must
follow: make all your guests wish they’d never have to leave.
Especially in a coffin. With a bullet lodged in their heads.
“You’re quite a saucy
minx!” Prince Harry’s ale-slurred
come-on can barely be heard over the techno-vibe emanating from a
starship-worthy console of the Ivy
Lounge rooftop’s head-bobbing deejay.
“What say you give me a peek as to where that tattoo ends?”
His head is cocked
downward, as if it might give him the ex-ray vision he’ll need in order to see
the rattle on the faux-tatt’ed snake drawn from my belly, which ends
somewhere in the nether regions that lay
under my thong bikini.
“You’re a cheeky sod. I
do have a face, you know.” I snap my fingers in front of his nose in order to
draw his eyes northward.
I’ve succeeded, sort
of. But come on, already: the diplomacy
born and bred into the Prince of Wales can’t beat two millennia of innate urges
and four pints of Guinness.
His eyes linger below my
neck, albeit above my abdomen.
When, finally, our eyes
meet, I lean in and whisper, “You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”
I’m lying, even if he
doesn’t know it—yet.
His outright laugh is
accompanied with a shake of his head, and a tug at the waistline of his briefs.
“Nothing under these trollies, I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint.”
I finger his briefs
longingly, then sigh. “I’m sure you’ll make it up to me somehow.”
His smile is his vow not
God save the queen…
It’s no secret the prince
has been stateside with his Royal Air Force unit, learning the latest tricks
and treats of the AH-64D Apache helicopter: his vehicle of choice for his
upcoming tour of duty in Afghanistan. Tomorrow the soldiers complete their
training and head home. To celebrate, the soldiers are here, in San Diego,
which is just a couple of hours west of their training base, the Naval Air
Facility at El Centro.
Seems some chatter,
intercepted by MI-6, has led the Cousins to deduce that the prince is the
latest target of “the Leprechaun,” a notorious assassin affiliated with the
Irish terrorist cell known as 32CSM. If the Leprechaun succeeds in picking off
the spare to the throne, then once again the always thin strand of peace
between Ireland and Great Britain will be ripped to shreds.
If it happens on our
side of the pond, the U.S. will have mud on its face, not to mention the bluest
of blood on its hands.
So yep, I have to stop
the Leprechaun before he gets lucky.
My employer, the
freelance black ops agency known in the field as Acme Corporation, paid big
bucks to the club owners so that I could be up close and personal with the
prince. My goal is not to shag, let alone snag, Harry the Hottie. It’s to save
his adorable hide from a possible assassination attempt.
The prince leans in,
close enough to ask in a seductive albeit ale-sodden growl, “Want me to sign
I look down between my
breasts. “Oops, forgot my pen. But you seem to be carrying one, in your pants
pocket. Or maybe you’re just happy to see me.”
He’s laughing so hard
his last gulp of Guinness goes down the wrong way.
“Prince Charming has a
one-track mind.” Jack Craig’s snarl comes in loud and clear through the tiny
microphone in my ear. As the team leader for this Acme Industries mission, he
is close by, but far enough away that no potential assassin can spot him.
Trust me, there is an
assassin lurking nearby.
Jack is also my main
squeeze, which is why he’s growling about my having to play the coquette while
under deep cover (in this bikini, I’m talking figuratively if not literally) as
one of the nightclub’s VIP bottle girls, and more specifically, the world’s
most eligible prince ’s pick-up du jour.
Needless to say, the
club’s real bottle girls are pea green with envy. They can’t figure out how
this newbie became Cinderella of this Century.
If I told them that my
aim and my 1st degree black belt status had something to do with it,
would they believe me? Probably not. All they see is that I’m just this side of
Cougarville, which means Harry is less discriminating than they had hoped.
For once I’m glad Jack
is not here with us, in the cordoned-off VIP section. One involuntary muscle
flex and prince’s all too obvious brawny goon squad—three of his Royal Air
Force mates—would be on top of him, like suds on ale.
At MI-6’s behest, we’ve
kept that a secret from Harry, for now anyway. Which, I’m sure, is why he feels
so cocksure. This mission wouldn’t have been so hard if the prince weren’t so
insistent about partying “like an ordinary surfer bloke,” is how he so
preciously puts it.
Thus far the natives
have been awed as much by his title as his regular dude personality.
Just as the deejay
ratchets up the hip hop club mix, six drunken sorority sisters stroll our way.
One of the girls, a Kate Middleton lookalike, pierces me with a jealous glare.
I stare back and smile,
as if to say Take the hint. Get lost.
Her eyes shift from me
to one of Harry’s RAF buds. She waves coyly at him, and he’s smitten. Smirking
back, he nods her over. She squeals and grabs the hand of one of her
In fact, they’re
snapping their fingers at me with drink orders for their new arm charms.
“Not good.” Jack’s
warning in my ear is just loud enough for me to here.
“Tell me something I
don’t know,” I mutter back.
“How about this?” Jack
is now shouting into my earpiece. “You’ve
lost Prince Harry.”
The prince seems
captivated by a petite, busty blond beauty. Even in heels, she barely reaches
his chest. She had pulled him out onto the dance floor for a throbbing
sex-drenched hip grinder, Andree Belle’s Go Go Gadget
The strobe lights and
smoke machine make it hard to follow them in the crowd. Then I see them,
against one wall. The buxom little tart has draped her arms around his
shoulders and hugs him close, as if she’ll never let him go.
Apparently too close. I
shove my way through the crowd until I’m close enough to I hear Harry’s woozy
cry: “Blimey, you’re no bird! You’ve got
Before I can pull him
away, the prince is pricked on the neck with something his partner has pulled from her cleavage.
Harry’s groan is loud—
Then the smell of smoke,
and the lights go out—
But not before the last
strobe catches the triumphant look on his partner’s face.
“Oh my God, Jack! The woman with Harry—she’s—not a she! She’s—”
“I know, I saw it, too!
Proof it pays to hit the
M.A.C. counter before a night on the town.
And to hang out where the lights are always
Everyone is screaming
and shoving their way to the exits, leaving me room to follow the Leprechaun,
who was shoving Harry in the opposite direction, up against a wall.
“It’s too dark to see
where they went. Does anything show up on the club’s security cams?”
“I’m looking now. In the
meantime, check the wall for a hidden pocket door. The schematic of this club
shows a few of them on every level. I’m sure the Leprechaun had his exit scoped
out in advance.”
While he scans the feeds
from the security cameras, I skim the walls with my hands. Finally I find it: a
tiny catch, waist high.
I pull it open it just
in time to see the Leprechaun heaving Harry down a long corridor.
He may not be used to
running in heels, but I am. If only I wasn’t running in a bikini, too.
“Too many wobbly bits,”
I mutter under my breath.
It is inappropriate for
Jack to be laughing now, but he can’t help it. “Just two. And they’re a sight
to behold. Prince Charming will be upset he slept through it.”
The thought of Harry in
the French-manicured hands of an assassin who can start the United Kingdom and
Ireland down another bloody path of un-neighborly relations has me picking up
my pace. Unlike the Leprechaun, I’m smart enough to ditch my high heels—
But I’m still not fast
enough to reach them before the Leprechaun rolls him into the backseat of a
dark BMW and screeches off.
I can hear Jack slapping
the wall with his fist. “Aw, damn! We lost them!”
“Nope, I slipped a GPS
tracker in the prince’s trollies.”
“You did what?…In his—what?”
“Oh, don’t worry, I
didn’t peek. I’ll meet you around the corner.”
What’s a little white
lie between fake husband and wife?
Before he can say
another word, I snap off my earpiece and run down the block.
(c) 2012 Josie Brown. All rights reserved. This excerpt may not be resold or
redistributed without prior written permission from Josie Brown or
Signal Press Books (firstname.lastname@example.org).
The Housewife Assassin's
Guide to Gracious Killing
In bookstores on September 30, 2012.
In the meantime, order Book 1,
The Housewife Assassin's Handbook
Murder. Suspense. Sex. And some handy household tips.
In the US, just $2.99:
In the UK, just £1.96 (Kindle UK) and £1.99 (iTunes UK) :
Sign up for my eLetter
for a chance to win a Kindle, a Nook,
or a gift certificate to your favorite bookstore!
Details to follow, by September 30, 2012,
with the launch of my new book!
As I put the finishing touches on the Book 2 in my Housewife Assassin series (The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing) I'm also having fun re-reading The Housewife Assassin's Handbook. The best thing you can offer your readers is an unexpected–and completely believeable–plot twist. The one you'll read below turns the life of my heroine, Donna Stone*, on her head .
“Mom–” Jeffrey is standing at the door, an ashen look on his face.
I sigh, and shake my head. “Not now, sweetie. Mary and I are–”
“But Mom, someone is here!” Jeff’s eyes are open wide in fear.
“What? Where, at the front door?”
“No. He’s in – your bedroom.”
“My – my bedroom? Where – where’s your little sister?” I try to keep the panic out of my voice as I hurry toward the stairs. Mary and Jeff are right on my heels.
Too late. I see Trisha standing on the threshold of my bedroom door. She hovers there, as if deciding whether or not to go in.
The rest of us freeze, hearing what has drawn her to the door: running water.
Coming from the shower. No…whoever is there has just turned it off.
I make it to Trisha in time to see the master bathroom’s door open slowly. I turn around and thrust my baby girl into Mary’s arms, who is close on my heels. But before I have time to whisper frantically for them to run back down the stairs and out the door, he is standing there, in front of us.
Although I have my back to him, I know this because I see it on my children’s faces: fear, anger—
Slowly I turn around and see him:
He is tall, handsome, and humming off-key. One hand holds the towel wrapped around his taut middle. The other is wiping down his broad, muscled chest as he saunters over to us.
Over to me.
A wisp of shaving cream still clings to the dimple in his jaw. His dark hair has coiled into a bed of damp curls. His seductive grin is totally captivating.
And boy, does he know it.
“Honey, I’m home,” he murmurs casually, as if we’d seen each other just this morning.
Is this a dream? How could this be?
What the hell is happening here?
Before I have a chance to catch my breath, he is standing next to the children. “Ah, so this is Trisha! My god, you’re the sweetest littlest princess in the world! Give me a big, big hug – yes, that’s my girl! Jeff – wow, boy, how about a shake, huh? You’re quite a bruiser, eh kid? – ”
Their wariness melts away under his awed, approving gaze.
And now it’s Mary’s turn:
Mary, the most jaded – and yes, the most traumatized – of all my children. He seems to know this instinctively, which is why he does all the right things: the tantalizing smile, the warm hug, and the gentle pat, as if she is a fragile piece of china that might break if he’s not careful . . .
“Ah, Mary,” he murmurs softly, gently. “You beautiful little heartbreaker, you–”
But none of this takes her in. Instead, she looks over to indicate that she’ll take her cue from me.
It’s my call.
So, what do I do now? Embrace him with open arms, or put him on the spot in front of the ones whose approval counts the most: my children?
Then, before I know it, he has me in his arms. I feel his lips gently brush over mine, too quick to resist –
The kiss is sweet . . . deep . . . tempting.
Jeff and Trisha, their radar always in tune, seem to pick up on this and shove us all, including Mary, into a group hug. They too are confused; but thrilled nonetheless.
Finally, their father has come home to them.
We stay suspended in the clinch for what seems like forever.
Then, one by one, the children break away.
Mary, her face a kaleidoscope of emotions, is the first. Slowly and awkwardly, she backs out of the room. The others, less out of doubt than natural shyness, follow suit, closing the door quietly behind them.
I wait until I hear the click of the knob.
Then I turn to him, and with a shy smile, I give him a sidekick to the solar plexus that lands him flat on his face, gasping for breath.
His pain is doubled when, a second later, I’ve wrenched his arm behind his back, straight up and out.
“So tell me, you audacious son of a bitch,” I whisper. “Who you are, and what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
*Not her real name
© 2011 Josie Brown. All rights reserved. This excerpt may not be resold or redistributed without prior written permission from Josie Brown or Signal Press Books (email@example.com).
FREE! Apple iTunes Bookstore
"This is a super sexy and fun read that you shouldn't miss! How do I love this book, let me count the ways: (1.) A kick ass woman that can literally kick ass as well as cook and clean. Donna gives a whole new meaning to "taking out the trash". (2.) The book is set around Los Angeles, mostly in a gated community suspiciously like Coto de Caza, full of housewives that could be 'real" and for the setting alone, a big giant WIN! (3.) Super sarcasm, snarky dialogue and making fun of all that is wrong in the OC, politics, as well as current world affairs."
— Mary Jacobs, Book Hounds Reviews
"The chemistry between the two of them is enough to set water on fire. Add in a healthy dose of humor and ridiculousness, some mayhem, and some really cute kids, and you've got a book that won't be putdown – so go pick it up now!"
— Cat's Thoughts
I'm just talkin' dessert now, the amuse bouche, when I rhapsodize about James Bond…well really, the James Bond, as epitomized by Daniel Craig. He's the perfect 007 for these times.
He's so spot on in the role, that I don't even mind his girly-man routine in THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO.
Check out this new trailer for SKYFALL, the latest Bond flick, which will be out in November.
Love this line:
007: Everybody needs a hobby.
Bad Guy Javier Bardem: So, what's yours?
Shaken and stirred,
Murder. Suspense. Sex. And some handy household tips.
"This is a super sexy and fun read that you shouldn't miss!"
–Mary Jacobs, Bookhounds
As if 2011 wasn't?
Three high-profile, well received movies in one year (four, if you remember that Blue Valentine was a limited release last Christmas) and another three on the way—
Can it by the year of the Gosling, two years in a row?
Of all the young turks in film today, Ryan Gosling has the depth and breadth and height (at 6'1") that merits a long-lived and celebrated career.
He is 3D cinematic star power, no CGI needed.
If you wanted to see a man who can lose a woman because he loves her too much, and for all the wrong reasons, as he did in Blue Valentine, go to Gosling.
If you want a tough guy with a soft center who can make a movie so much more than mayhem and violence like Drive might have been without him, go to Gosling.
If you want an actor who embodies a player like the one he played in Crazy, Stupid Love, but then can turn the role on its head by showing that he lost his soul when he broke his heart, go to Gosling.
If you want a guy who can play a cocky political operative yet be ethical and still be believable, as he was in Ides of March–AND hold his own against George Clooney–
You got it: go to Gosling.
Yup. Time to change the Chinese calendar.
I would so enjoy looking down onto a placemat with that face on it.
Yum yum yum,
I guess my invitation got lost in the mail.
That's okay. I probably would have gotten lost on the way there, anyway. My cell phone is too old for any GPA app, let alone one that shows some Aman-i-khas resort on the edge of the Rajasthani nature reserve.
Besides, I thoroughly understand it was a small, intimate affair: just those two crazy kids, 85 of their closest friends and family, a Hindu guru,a Christian minister, two elephants named Laxmi and Mala ("Mala is a bit skittish and hates crowds but she managed to behave herself," a source told PEOPLE), a fortune-telling parrot–
Oh yeah: and a tiger that, supposedly, has already killed three people.
I still have a wedding gift for them: a few ground rules for ensuring that their union will be one that lasts forever. Usually I'd give it to them face-to-face (you know, these things are personal) but since I wasn't invited on the honeymoon either, they'll have to read it here:
I've got a premonition about these things: this one's gonna last.
But if it doesn't, I presume I'll be invited to Katy's divorce party. If so, my gift to her will be a little more expansive, and, I'm sure, much appreciated: a copy of The Complete Idiot's Guide to Finding Mr. Right.
To use Russell's parlance, it's my very own booky wook.
In bookstores June 1, 2010. Order it TODAY!
"Hollywood's got nothing on the cast of characters living in the bedroom community of Paradise Heights, who have the secrets, sex, money and scandal of an OK! Magazine cover story. Josie Brown is a skilled observer whose clever dialogue and feisty style make for truly entertaining reading." –Jackie Collins, Hollywood Wives
We all have our favorite authors. One of mine happens to be the British columnist, Allison Pearson, who, in 2002, wrote the penultimate way-we-everywomen-live-now novel, I Don't Know How She Does It.
If you haven't read it, well shame on you. It is a witty, subversive book in which the heroine, Kate, is, by all societal measures, "has it all": a high-falutin' job in international finance, a loving husband who's willing to pick up the slack whenever she has to fly around the world to cut a deal, children who only want more of their loving mom at their side–
And yet…and yet… she knows something is missing from her life . . .
Ah, yes: balance.
Perhaps that would allow her to appreciate her guy both in and out of the sack; and to be there for her kids; and to quit all those dirty little political one-ups-manship games we play at work in order to appease inconsiderate bosses who play favorites and forget all we've done for them.
And it will leave you asking the same question I did, eight years ago: "What's next, Allison?"
Floating around Facebook one day, I found my answer. Allison has a fan page there. Lo and behold, her second novel came out recently, in England. Called I THINK I LOVE YOU, it chronicles the tale of a woman whose life has been less than she'd hoped–all because of a missed opportunity involving her teen crush on the pop singer, David Cassidy.
In other words, Allison's new book channels my youth.
Okay, yeah, I'll admit it: I too papered the walls of my bedroom with pages from Tiger Beat that bore David's dimpled smile.
There on Facebook, someone else, also from the US, commented that they'd just discovered I DON'T KNOW HOW SHE DOES IT, and had tremendously enjoyed it. I ditto'd that–and bemoaned the fact that I THINK I LOVE YOU would not be released here in the States until February 2011.
Low and behold, a few days later I got a sweet message from Allison, offering to send me an copy of the book from her personal stash.
It arrived on Friday, and I can't wait to dig in.
As it happens, I did a library fundraiser last week with Jane Smiley, Joshilyn Jackson, Tatjana Soli and Eileen Goudge. During dinner, Jane casually asked what we were reading. I'm in the middle of Tatjana's book, THE LOTUS EATERS, which has gotten rave reviews. Then I added (a bit guiltily, because it seems that "serious" books are bandied about more than those that make us laugh) "–and I'll soon have Allison Pearson's latest. It's not released here, but she's sending me a copy. I so loved her first book."
"Oh, yes, 'I Don't Know How She Does It'. I liked it too," said Jane.
"I don't know her," Joshilyn responded.
Both Jane and I strongly recommended Allison's novel. The discussion then shifted to why funny books get overlooked for awards and accolades (shades of Franzenfruede!), and other female British authors who write with a satiric wit, like Nancy Mitford. Joshilyn named another whose name I now forget, but she sounded like an excellent read. (Joss: please email it to me, so that I may look her up!)
Allison, you'll be happy to know you're in good company.
I don't know how she does it, but I'm glad she does,
In bookstores June 1, 2010. Order it TODAY!
got nothing on the cast of characters living in the bedroom community
of Paradise Heights, who have the secrets, sex, money and scandal of an
OK! Magazine cover story. Josie Brown is a skilled observer whose clever
dialogue and feisty style make for truly entertaining reading." –Jackie Collins, Hollywood Wives
Forget the cabbage patch. I'm sure I was born between the stacks of the Decatur (GA) Public Library. It was a great place for a prodigious reader such as myself to read, dream and learn.
I still make my home in my in my local library system — Marin County. It's where I conduct the research for my books. My children know its various branches by heart: the tall leaded windows in the soft mauve Sausalito branch, where the playground outside beckons; the Mill Valley branch, located deep in the redwoods, with its large hearth fireplace; the Corte Madera branch, with its fabulous reference department; tony Tiburon-Belvedere, with its welcoming wingback chairs and lots of quiet alcoves; the Larkspur branch, cozy and friendly, as is the San Anselmo branch, in its classic town hall. Marin City branch librarians always have welcoming smiles for their patron, and the Civic Center branch is stately and always fascinating. Fairfax reflects its community: funky, friendly and full of joy.
All libraries need a financial lift.
In fact, I've helped organize an event, happening in on September 16, 2010, 7:30pm, in Seattle: Between the Pages will benefit the Kitsap Regional Libary Foundation, which serves the islands in Seattle Bay. It takes place on Bainbridge Island (Bainbridge Performing Arts Center, 200 Madison Ave, N).
I hope you can join me, along with Pulitzer Prize winner Jane Smiley, and New York Times bestselling authors Eileen Goudge, Joshilyn Jackson, and Tatjana Soli for this wonderful event. We'll be reading from our books, and answering your questions.
In order to garner attention, libraries have to get creative, too. I like the way Brigham Young University students have taken matters into their own hands and created a great video ad that is catching on virally with us webheads. It's a spoof on the new Old Spice commercial currently on the air. Whereas it's message is why the school's library is a great place to study, the message I get is….
Um . . . what were you saying again?
"Hollywood's got nothing on
the cast of characters living in
bedroom community of Paradise Heights, who have the secrets, sex, money
and scandal of an OK! Magazine cover story. Josie Brown is a skilled
observer whose clever dialogue and feisty style make for truly
Turns out Richard Gere and his lovely wife, Carrie Lowell, have turned their 18th Century farmhouse in the upstate New York town of Bedford into a B&B and yoga loft.You can read about it in the this link. which takes you to the article about it in W Magazine.
If he's doing room service delivery, I am so totally in. Particularly if he throws in breakfast in bed.
Oh yeah, and, um, a yoga pose: say, the utthita supta padangusthasana?
Talk about an über-DILF!
Then pause and ask: "What's a DILF?"
Hmmm….So, how do I explain this?
The easiest way is to say, "It's the opposite of a MILF. Get it?"
If then I get the glazed I-don't-know-what-the-heck-you're-talking-about-stare, I'll give it one more stab: "You know, a stay-at-home-dad who's…well, who–is cute."
If someone then says, "But–wouldn't that be 'DWIC''?" at this point, I'm thinking that my friend is..well, is DWIC'ing with me.
Having been put on the spot, I'll level with them: "What it stands for, exactly, is 'Dad I'd Like to…um…Flirt With.'"
And if by then they still don't get it, or they ask "So, why doesn't you acronym have that last W?'"… I'll just refer them to this very succinct article by TheDadJam.com
Coz, yeah, that dude gets it,
Hunka hunka burn'in' luv, George Clooney, has had a loss in his family.
His Vietnamese potbellied pig, Max.
Georgie, I feel your pain. Hey, can I kiss it and make it better?
Okay, to be honest, I'm no Renee.
Or even Teri. (Okay, in the klutziness department I'm closer to Teri than any of your other former flings; but I've read BRIDGET JONES'S DIARY at least three times, so that should count for something….right?
Oh, this should seal the deal: I own a shitzhu.
Not exactly a pig, but hey, they have long lives, too. And they're bug-eyed, and therefore apt to go blind, just like Max did…
In fact, Lucky has a cateract. Does that count?
No, in all seriousness, I'm in love with your mind — AND your body….of work.
Three Kings: U rock.
Solaris: Yep, got it. (Dylan Thomas. GENIUS….)
Welcome to Collingwood is a perennial in my view corridor.
Syriana? Sadly, the essence of truthiness.
And O, Brother, Where Art Thou? Truly a classic. It will be your masterpiece…
As for The Good German? It's got everything I love: a '40's feel, filmed in black-and-white…
and you. So, yeah, I'm there.
Bottom line, George: Thanks for always pushing the envelope…Or sealing it back up, which in some cases, may be more appropriate.
Always in awe,
Hey! Order My New Book, IMPOSSIBLY TONGUE-TIED!
What's it about?
Sex. Celebrity. Scandal. Just another fun day in Hollywood…
over Hollywood, men are dialing O. Her steamy naughty talk fills them
with lust and longing, and helps them perform like the studs they claim
truth, the industry’s favorite phone sex operator is Nina Harte, a
struggling actress who has put her career on hold so that her husband,
Nathan, can pursue his own dreams of stardom. When Nathan's career
takes off, so does he, leaving Nina and their four-year-old son, Jake,
for his diva costar, Katerina McPherson. Then "Kat ‘n' Nat" are crowned
the media's newest celebrity sweethearts, and Kat labels Nina an unfit
mother in order to win custody of Jake, just so that she can have that
highly-coveted celebrity accessory—an adorable child—sans any unsightly
stretch marks.The one person who does care about Nina is
Nathan’s agent, Sam Godwin. In fact, he’s in love with her. And because
he has both a heart and a conscience, Sam feels guilty for having put
Nat in Kat's path in the first place….
So how will he feel when he finds out that Nin and O are one and the same?
Of course, he needed a spot on screenplay, too. I’m happy to report that the film is jam-packed with great action, and just the right amount of sly humor, so kudos to screenwriters Neal Purvis and Robert Wade. That’s not to say that editing twenty or so minutes of plot wouldn’t have made it a perfect 10, then again, who goes to these movies for the story?
You’ll know what I mean when you go see it.
I happen to live in Marin County, which is just across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco. Those of you who have been here know that San Francisco is a beautiful place. So beautiful, in fact, that it has been used as the backdrop for numerous movies.
Well, I was flipping channels a few minutes ago when I came across another James Bond movie, A VIEW FROM A KILL. It was released in 1985, and is the last Bond flick starring Roger Moore.
Despite costarring Christopher Walken as the bad guy (was there ever a movie, other than Michael Cinimo’s THE DEER HUNTER, in which Walken wasn’t the evil seed?) and the final fight between the two takes place over San Francisco’s glorious skyline; while hanging from a rope trailing Walken’s blimp (we get a lot of blimps here in SF) first Walken tries to castrate Moore on the tippy-top of the TransAmerica Tower, then he tries to hang Moore on one of the spires of the Golden Gate Bridge…
(Sigh!) Stupid plot, albeit great scenery. Maybe that’s why it was Moore’s last Bond movie. (Actually, he claims that when he realized he was older than Bond girl Tanya Roberts’ mother, he knew it was time to move on…)
Par for the course for San Francisco, right? At least, it is always ready for its close-up. It has hosted the Hulk as well as an almost otherworldly Reese Witherspoon, and has had James Stewart, Clint Eastwood, Nicholas Cage and Richard Gere as its leading men.
So, which is your favorite San Francisco movie? Comment here, or email me at JosieBrownAuthor@yahoo.com.
Wish I were a Bond girl,
PS: Hey! Read an excerpt of IMPOSSIBLY TONGUE-TIED, my new book, here…