Hotlanta!

That’s the biggest joke of a nickname I’ve ever heard for a town. The only heat generated in this town is when they burn down a black church or a cross in someone’s lawn.

Since my reading/signing got cancelled last night, I scheduled a meet and greet at the same book store. So I get in the cab and tell the driver I’m going to the Borders on Peachtree. He says “which one?” And I answer “There’s more than one Borders on Peachtree?” And he says "There’s more than one Peachtree, more than 40 to be exact.”

I say “you have to be kidding me. I don’t know which fucking one it is." He looks at me through the rearview mirror with a look on his face that tells me he doesn’t appreciate my attitude, probably thinks I’m just and uppity woman. So I say “Look, Jethro I don’t appreciate that smirk. Just wait while I call my agent and find out which Borders on which freaking Peachtree I’m supposed to be at."

Already this tour has started out on the wrong foot. My new book, Make Him Feel Good is backsliding in the Amazon rankings and don’t get me started on those male chauvinist buffoons at Barnes & Noble, who couldn’t find their ass, with both hands.

The only good thing in Atlanta is CNN. I love Ted Turner. Side Note: Last week when I was on CNN with Anderson Cooper, I got a little hot headed. I felt bad afterwards and offered him a hand job. I didn’t know he was gay. How embarrassing!

Anyway after finding out which Borders and which Peachtree we were going to, the air was a little tense in the cab. So I decided to ask the driver to put on some music. Why the hell did I go and do that? He starts blaring Lynard Skynard at about 130 decibels. Now I can’t get that damned song out of my head “Give me three steps, give me three steps mister, give me three steps towards the door…” Ugh!

So by the time I get out of the “General Lee” I’m frazzled. I’m supposed to read a few paragraphs of my raunchy cheap chica lit and I can’t get that hillbilly tune out of my head. I went in the store and began listening to my ipod, Enya. But no matter how much I concentrated it was the same inane lyrics coming through “I was cuttin’ the rug down at a place called the jug…”

I don’t wish that kind of self torture on anyone. Well maybe some of those bloggers in Miami that hate me. By the way did you see that Oscar Corral did a nice write up on my appearance in Miami on his blog. Too bad that fucker didn’t write about me in the paper! I mean the difference in readership is only about 399,000.

At least they have my book here, which is kind of the point of these stupid things, to mingle with the regular people a little and hawk a few hardcovers. A girl’s gotta get paid, know what I’m sayin'? It’s hard out here for a [lit] pimp!

Oh I forgot to mention when I had breakfast in the hotel this morning, they offered me something called "biscuits with sausage gravy. " It was all I could do to stop myself from barfing all over the table. I saw someone eating it and it looks like stewed brain. Gross!

More on this backward-ass, hicktown later. I gotta go do my culo shake and sell some books.

Hugs

Not Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez