Wednesday, September 9, 2015

The Piano Player’s Prayer

Please join me in welcoming a very special guest to the blog today, the one and only Edmond Manning! :-)

* * *

In my series, The Lost and Founds, master manipulator Vin Vanbly enjoys meddling in peoples’ lives. It’s a hobby. He enjoys changing the life direction of those he meets, expanding their hearts toward greater love, toward more possibilities. Most of the time, he does this work alone, wandering the world in search of men to “king.” In my new release, King John, Vin meets a man with some surprising similarities, a man who introduces himself as Alistair Robertson. Alistair possesses the same ability for spontaneous role play, for silly hijinks with strangers. He possesses Vin’s outgoingness and flair for drama. And while he does not possess Vin’s desire to change life direction, the scene shared today reveals he can certainly follow Vin’s lead.

In the excerpt, Vin and Alistair have just left the Temple of Joy, a wooden, church-like construction at Burning Man, the annual desert art festival held in Nevada each August. The Temple of Joy is a place where Burning Man attendees (known as burners) leave prayers on pieces of paper, hopes for the future, and remembrances for lost loved ones. They are dressed as Arabs, with long cotton gowns and a traditional headdress bound with a cord. While wandering through the temple, Alistair spotted a man wedging his paper prayer in between two pieces of wood and decides this is the man he and Vin must help. They must answer his prayer.

* * *

“Mate, hold up.” Alistair speaks as a lazy command, the right inflection to bring a stranger to a halt. He’s got that English swagger down cold.

Holy shit. Wait, wait, wait. What if I’m wrong? What if he’s really English?

“Mate,” Alistair says. “Hold up. You just left the Temple of Joy, yeah?”

The man with brown bangs turns around and acts sheepish, as if he were a shoplifter confronted by department store security. “Yes, hello.”

“Mate, thank you for stopping. We need to talk to you,” Alistair says, clearly stalling.

“Yes, hello, sahib,” I say, stepping up. “We are adventurers searching for the mighty xenoxx plant, three x’s, you see. We witnessed you in the Temple of Joy and realized at once you play an important role, critical to our success.”

“Yes, yes,” Alistair says, nodding at me. “Go on, then. Tell him.”

I shoot him a wry smile, implying he’s abandoned me to accomplish his dirty work.

“Sahib, sahiiiiiib,” I say, because I like saying this particular word. “In our quest for the mighty xenoxx plant, we receive clues through our service to others. Have you heard of the mighty xenoxx?”

“No,” our new friend says, the reluctance on his face revealing he now realizes this is some sort of game. He’s not sure if he wants to play. He thinks we might be making fun of him.

Alistair says, “Xenoxx, healer to broken hearts, balm to many ruined dreams. Healant for lost causes.”

“Plus it’s good for your hands,” I say. “Softens them but with a manly scent.”

Alistair regards me coolly. “Really? Healer of broken hearts wasn’t enough, yeah? It’s also a cologne? Did you like healant, by the way? Made that up, yeah?” I ignore him. “Sahib, we must assist your dream today. Alistair—”

“I believe you meant to call me Humphries,” he says. “From now on.”

“Yes, Humphries, the paper.”

We present his prayer to him. I’ve already memorized the words: I want to play.

He now bears a sullen expression. “Not cool, guys. That was private.”

“Sahib, sahib,” I say.

“Sahib, sahib,” Alistair adds in a pleading tone.

“Mistake not our intention. We wish to help you play. The word sahiiiiiiiib is meant in respect, a word into which you cram a lot of i’s if you say it right, elongating the vowels, so it feels like young brothers, standing tall in a row. They’re grinning.”

Alistair says, “Okay, ignore him. He’s nuts.” He steps in front of me. “Mate, we came to help. In the gift economy at Burning Man, this is our gift. We help people who need assistance. Your prayer says you want to play. How do we make this happen?”

I remove my headdress so the man sees my full face, and Alistair does the same. What the hell was I doing, going off on the word sahib when this guy doesn’t know me?

I say, “You’re right. We should not have stolen your prayer. We intend no disrespect. My friend saw you and recognized you were important. How can we serve you, my king?”

He pulls himself together. “I’m doing fine.”

He’s not.

He puts his hands on his hips. “Thanks, but I don’t need your help.”

He does.

Of course, he has every right to refuse us. At his insistence, we will leave. I hope Alistair knows to back off. Still, we must give him every cause to say “yes,” and only then will his “no” feel sincere.

I say, “You’re doing okay?”


“Did you come here to be okay? Or did you come to Burning Man for something magnificent? Didn’t you show up to make glorious, life-savoring memories?”

Our new friend appraises me with surprised hurt, as if I’d insulted his manhood. Glad to see Alistair leaves this part to me.

I say, “I think you came here for more than okay. You came here for more, and it’s not happening. Is this your first burn? No shame if it is, brother.”

“No,” he says coldly.

Virgin burners never bring enough water, or can’t anticipate needing shade for a week in the desert. That’s not their biggest surprise. No, they are shocked to discover the love fest—which Burning Man can be—does not happen without their active participation, their vulnerability and risk-taking. They often arrive ready to participate by watching from the sidelines. “Next year,” they tell each other. “Next year, I’ll be different.” For that reason, “burgins” are considered the lowest on the playa food chain. “It’s my second year,” he says with reluctance.

Alistair starts to say something. I silence him with a gesture.

We three stay silent. Silence will force his confession. While I stare, his eyes shift from mine to Alistair’s and finally to the sun, as if he’s afraid of cosmic eavesdroppers.

“Last year was more fun,” he says. “My group and I planned a big theme camp. Shows for audiences, twice a day. I brought my keyboard and performed a lounge show. I mean, I was the piano player for the lounge acts.” “But not this year.”

“Julie and Larry and a few other people couldn’t come. I know you don’t know those names. They organized us last year. A bunch of us came together again, so that’s fun. At times. Everyone’s off doing other stuff this year, hanging out with new groups. It’s not like last year, spending all our time together.”

We let our new friend’s words thud to the cracked desert floor, the ugliness, the loneliness. Yes, there are worse tragedies in the world than a pianoless piano player who wants to play. But his heart is breaking because he expected love and got none, and that burden, whatever the circumstances, breaks us all.

Alistair says, “That is hard, mate. Rough going.” To me, he says, “We need to find a piano for this man.”

“No,” says our piano player with extra energy. “Don’t. I don’t want to look like some pathetic loser with no friends. I have friends here. We partied two nights ago. I’m just not as good at making new friends as they are. You guys will embarrass me.”

“We would never do that,” Alistair insists.

“We are totally going to humiliate you,” I say.

“Yes, humiliate you,” Alistair says, nodding. With a hint of irritation he adds, “Because apparently this is something we kings do.”

I nod at him. “What’s your name?”


Alistair fires a hard look in my direction.

What did that mean?

I say, “John, we might humiliate you. We don’t know how we’re going to work this. In humiliating you, we’re going to connect you with a camp in need of a piano player. We’ll broker the introduction.”

“No,” he says firmly.

I make my own voice firm. “Stand here and watch the sun set. Or let us serve you and change your destiny. Your choice. Tell us to walk away and we will return your prayer to where it belongs. Unless, perhaps, your prayer happens to be right where it belongs at this second in Alistair—” “Humphries,” he says.

“Humphries’ hand. Humphries saw you first and knew you were special. Now that we’re talking to you, I see he was right.”

He shifts from one foot to the other.

Alistair says, “How good are you? On the piano?”

John looks at Alistair. “Pretty good.”

Howls fill the air around us.

Burners howl at the sunset. It’s something we do. The sun dips low enough that it doesn’t appear undecided anymore, truly ready to end this long day.

Alistair howls, so I howl. Gotta support my partner on the journey.

John attempts to howl but it’s more of a low moan he hopes nobody will notice.

To worship the sun is to worship the very king- and queenship in all of us, the never-ending fire. Lost Ones worship the sun’s rage and indiscriminate destruction. Found Ones worship the life-giving source that blesses all living creatures.

John looks from me to Alistair. “I don’t know you guys.”

I drop to one knee. “My Burning Man name is Vinicio Vanabalay, an Italian expatriate explorer in search of the elusive xenoxx plant. My real name is Vin. If you don’t like what we’re doing and you want me to stop, you use the name Vin. Everything stops. Otherwise, I am Vinicio.”

“I don’t know.”

Alistair drops to his knee. “We’re not drunk. We’re not high. This is what we do. Let us serve you, John. Let us make your night memorable.”

“I don’t want to be humiliated.” John speaks with a certain pout.

I nod. “Nobody does. Yet you must pay a price for getting what you want. The question is, John, what would you risk to create the kind of night you want?”

More burners howl. Air horns, car horns, bells, gongs…anything that can make noise will make noise, at least for the next hour. The entire city howls.

“Okay,” he says reluctantly. “But I don’t…I’m not great at acting or being weird. I can’t do this thing with fake names and stories.”

“Quiet, slave,” Alistair says, and the vehemence surprises both John and me.

Alistair unknots the golden cord around his keffiyeh and says, “Vinicio, let us bind this slave’s hands. Take him to Black Rock City where we perhaps trade him to a camp with a piano.”

Alistair demands John’s hands, which he offers, and Alistair binds them with the gold cord, not tight, but with enough loops and twists John’s hands won’t slip out. John might protest but it’s already over. It’s shady, the slavery angle, but I guess it could work. My unease is placated by the realization that Alistair now leads us. This could be interesting.

I say, “John, you okay with this? Will you trust us a bit?”

John chuckles and says, “Who are you guys? Why are you doing this?”

Alistair jerks the rope. “Come, slave. We must travel into the worst part of Black Rock City. The seedy underbelly.”

“Actually,” I say, “isn’t all of Black Rock City the seedy underbelly?”

Alistair says in a stiff English affectation, “Quite.”

I glance at the setting sun. “Wait. We should all howl one last time.”

The howling continues all around us. It never stopped. So when we join in again, our voices, neither missed nor remembered, are nevertheless essential to the sunset Burning Man chorus.

Mutant cars honk.

Burners scream and cheer.

I hear cymbals crash together.

We all beat the desert. We live another day.

Alistair bellows out a mighty howl. I follow his lead and amp mine up, bigger, louder, infusing the desperation I sometimes feel escape me.

John joins us.

This time, I hear his true voice.

* * *

Edmond Manning is the author of the romance series, The Lost and Founds. The books in this series include King Perry, King Mai (a 2014 Lambda Literary finalist), The Butterfly King, and King John. King John takes place at Burning Man.

* * *

Where to get your copy of King John:

eBook: King John Kindle edition
Print: King John paperback

King John on Goodreads

King John Blog Tour:

Mon, Sept 7            My Fiction Nook
Mon, Sept 7            AJ Rose Books pre-release excerpt #1
Tues, Sept 8            Thorny, Not Prickly pre-release excerpt #2
Wed, Sept 9            L.C. Chase: Love Out Loud pre-release excerpt #3
Thurs, Sept 10       Facebook Release Party, 7p-9p Central, hosted by Bike Book Reviews
Fri, Sept 11             Reviews by Amos Lassen
Sat, Sept 12             Vanessa

Tues, Sept 15         MM Good Book Reviews
Wed, Sept 16         The Novel Approach
Thurs, Sept 17      Purple Rose Tea House
Fri, Sept 18            Posy
Sat, Sept 19            Zipper Rippers

Tues, Sept 22         Joyfully Jay
Wed, Sept 23         Boys In Our Books
Thurs, Sept 24       It’s About the Book
Sat, Sept 26            Love Bytes Reviews
Sun, Sept 27          Sinfully Addicted to Male Romance

Tues, Sept 29         Molly Lolly
Wed, Sept 30         Coffee and Porn in the Morning
Wed, Sept 30         Stumbling Over Chaos
Thurs, Oct 1          The Blogger Girls Reviews
Sat, Oct 3               On Top Down Under Reviews

Sun, Oct 4               The Hat Party!
Mon, Oct 5             Prism Book Alliance
Tues, Oct 6             Jaycee
Wed, Oct 7             Hearts on Fire Book Reviews

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

A Fortunate Blizzard

Anyone ready for winter yet? ;-D

My latest contemporary romance is coming this November 2nd to Riptide Publishing! Pre-orders are available now. In the meantime, how about a shiny new cover and a little blurb? :-)

* * *

There are worse things than being stranded in a blizzard.

Artist Trevor Morrison has always appreciated the little things in life, treating each day as a gift. And with good reason: he’s been on the transplant-recipient list for too long now. When he learns just how numbered his days truly are, he resolves not to take them for granted. But he won’t be unrealistic, either—which means romantic commitments are off the table.

Marcus Roberts seems to have it all. He’s handsome, financially sound, and on the fast track to partnership at a prestigious law firm. In reality, though, his drive for success has meant no time for friends or relationships. Add in the fact that his family discarded him long ago, and he’s facing yet another holiday season alone.

When the biggest snowstorm to hit Colorado in decades leaves Marc and Trevor stranded at the same hotel, a chance encounter and a night of passion leads to more than either of them expected. Finding comfort in each other is a welcome surprise, but time is not on their side. Either they find a way to beat the odds, or they lose each other forever.

* * *

Want more? Head on over to Riptide Publishing to read an excerpt.

Saturday, August 1, 2015

A New Cover and a Print Edition

I've re-released Riding with Heaven with a shiny new cover, and it is now available in paperback as well as ebook. No changes were made to the story itself, but if you haven't read it, or have and wanted a paperback copy, you can find it here:


All Romance Ebooks
Barnes & Noble

Saturday, June 27, 2015

Hashtag Love Wins

So very happy to see marriage equality finally arrive in the USA. So many feels... So much LOVE <3 What a beautiful day!

Thursday, December 4, 2014

A Little Art Challenge

A few weeks ago I was wandering about close to sunset, looked over my shoulder, and stopped dead in my tracks. I was near the docks, and even though the temps were in the 30Fs and my fingers were freezing off, it was so gorgeous I had to just stand there and soak it up. I snapped a few photos. Had to. I shared them with a few friends of mine and then spontaneously challenged one of them to a little bit of an "art off". I thought it might be fun to see how our different styles tackled the same image, pretty much the same as seeing how 40 authors tackle the same prompt. ;-) Thorny took me up on the challenge, and if you haven't seen his painting of the photo, you really need to go check it out now. I'll wait. Go on.

He rocked it, right? So did. :-)

As for me, I'd started to do an 8" x 8" acrylic painting of the photo, but well... me and acrylics have a love/hate relationship. Usually it doesn't have much love for me. Or me it. Regardless, I'd started with paint and got more and more frustrated with it, so buh-bye acrylics. Perhaps we'll meet again when you're feeling a little more chipper. After yet another sad break up, I pulled out my tried and true got-nothing-but-love-for-me graphite pencils. I really do love working in graphite. :-) So, here are a couple works in progress of the drawing and the final artwork.

And now... a winter sunset in three parts!

The sketch with sky and water background shaded and blended in.

Starting in some detail. All those cables... Yes, I used a ruler. ;-)

...and the finished piece.
Original 8"x10" graphite pencil on acid-free Strathmore Drawing paper.

If you'd like a little West Coast in your art collection, you can find giclee fine art prints in my Big Cartel store.

Copyright © 2014 L.C. Chase. All rights reserved. No part of my artwork may be copied, imitated, reproduced or republished in part or in whole, online or offline, without my written and signed permission.

Monday, December 1, 2014

The Heavens of My Heart

A Flash Fiction Holiday Blog Hop:
One prompt, 40 stories

“Come on, Trey.”

Dylan’s voice had a familiar edge to it—frustrated, tired of the same old argument. I didn’t care. We’d been through this every year for the last seven of our eleven years together. I shook my head and turned to walk away, but he wrapped his arms around me from behind, pulling me tight against his chest, and dropped his head on my shoulder. But I didn’t need his arms to hold me in place, the shock of such a public display did that all on its own.

I did a quick scan of the store where we’d been shopping for last-minute gifts on the worst possible day to be at the mall—Christmas Eve. A large, lavishly decorated tree blocked the main entrance from view, and we were near the back of an empty aisle. There was no one in our immediate area to witness—gasp—two men embracing. Of course. Dylan would never do anything to give away our relationship as more than friends.

“I love you. You know that.” His voice was a breathy whisper against my neck, and I couldn’t help turning into the warmth, to feel the silk of his lips brush my jaw as he spoke. I did know he loved me, but sometimes it seemed…not enough.

“We have an image,” he continued with the same old excuse. “We have a responsibility to the rest of the guys, to the fans. We can’t risk destroying everything we’ve worked so hard to build by coming out.”

“What about the risk of losing us.” To my dismay, my voice cracked, and I slipped out of his embrace, turning to face him. He was the quintessential bad boy, everything a rock star represented with his shaggy dark hair, obnoxious grin, mischievous glint in his hazel eyes, and that FTW lift of his chin. He swaggered rather than walked, and people noticed that danger-danger vibe he wore so well.

Except behind closed doors, when it was just us—like it had been in the very early days when we’d first met through an ad in the “Musician Seeking Band” section of the local music rag—and he could be himself, leaving all that heavy attitude armor at the door. We’d clicked from the very start, first as bandmates, then best friends, and finally as lovers. I couldn’t imagine a life without Dylan, without the band, but more and more the band had started feeling like a wedge between us.

“The band will survive and thrive. I know it will,” I told him, my voice back under control. “It’s no secret that I’m gay, and that hasn’t hurt the band any, has it?”

“One member of the band being out isn’t the same as two members being out and involved. I’m the front man. The rules are different for me than they are for a bass player.” At my raised eyebrows he added, “or a drummer.”

“Nikki Sixx and Tommy Lee were the stars of Motley Crue,” I said, as if that would make my case.

“So was Vince Neil.”

“And Phil Collins was the star of Genesis.”

“None of them are gay.”

“Rob Halford’s gay and he was the star of Judas Priest.”

Dylan snapped, “And he didn’t come out until after Priest split.”

“But they reunited,” I said a little quieter, hearing the pout in my voice, but that didn’t stop me from plunging on as Dylan opened his mouth, cutting him off. “Metalheads are far more accepting than you give them credit for, and you’ve read the fan fiction online about us. I know you have. They’re ready for us. We are ready for this.”

Dylan shook his head, as tired of this fight as I was. “Stop it, Trey.”

I pursed my lips and clenched my jaw, biting back the shit I wanted to keep flinging, but knew wouldn’t do any good. I’d said everything there was to say over the years. What more could I say?

I just want to hold your hand when we’re walking down the street. I just want to lean over and kiss you whenever the urge strikes, no matter where we are, just because I can. Because I love you so goddamn much, and I want the whole world to know I’m yours and you’re mine. But of course, I didn’t say all those things. I couldn’t. Dylan wouldn’t hear it.

He glanced at his watch. The one I’d given him for our first Christmas together. The face was heavily scratched, it was always ten minutes slow, and the battery and leather strap had been replaced more times than I could remember. It wasn’t brand name or even expensive, but there wasn’t a day went by that he didn’t wear it. Because he did love me, and we would continue the way we always had because I loved him too much to ever walk away.

“We’re going to be late for sound check,” he said flatly, and brushed past me and out of the store.

Well, that was a bust. Again.

* * *

We didn’t speak at all on the drive from the mall to the legendary Whisky A Go-Go on Sunset Strip, where we were performing later that night. We only spoke out of necessity during sound check. Short sentences, clipped words. The side-eye glances the rest of the band shot each other didn’t escape my notice. They’d known about us for years, but as supportive and loyal as they’d been Dylan still remained guarded around them.

Finally it was show time and we quickly fell into our groove, like we always did. In all the years since we’d first formed Starlight Sixty, we hadn’t had a single lineup change. These guys were family. My brothers.

Being on a stage once graced by the likes of The Doors, Led Zeppelin, and Janis Joplin was such a charge that the earlier argument with Dylan faded from memory. I reveled in the music, the atmosphere, the crowd… Fuck, I loved this.

Our set came to an earsplitting, heart thumping close—always too soon, it felt like, but instead of our usual wave-and-bow routine, Dylan dragged a stool out to center stage and sat down. One of the roadies ran out and handed him his acoustic. Dylan played guitar, but he’d never played on stage—only when he was writing songs or just kicking back daydreaming, his thoughts wandering on the strings.

I looked over at Jake, our drummer, who just smiled at me before returning his focus on Dylan—as did a single spotlight.

“I have something special I’ve been working on, that I’d like to share,” Dylan said into the microphone. “It’s a little different, so if you’ll all indulge me…”

The answer from the audience came back in enthusiastic cheers, whistles and shouts. When the crowd volume settled down to a dull roar, Dylan turned to me, smiled warmly, and said, “This one is for you, baby.”

My heart stuttered. Froze. Exploded up into my throat and threatened to cut off much needed oxygen to my brain. He couldn’t be…

Back to the audience he said, “I call this one The Heavens of my Heart.”

He strummed a few intro chords—slow, melodic, heartfelt—closed his eyes, and the first tenor of that smooth silky voice I loved so much filled the hushed spaces, caressed my soul like it had the very first time I’d heard him sing. The day I’d fallen irrevocably in love with him.

I traced the shadow of your face
In the silent hours of darkness
I felt the beat of your eyes
And saw the color of your heart

He turned to face me, opening those warm hazel eyes—mesmerizing me, entrancing me. The crowded club faded away. The band disappeared. There was only me and Dylan and his song.

Heaven lives in each day
Yet so many never see
The little things you gave
The world on a key

Words faded until there was only the sound of his heart, the love in his voice. It washed over me, cocooned me. His eyes never once breaking from mine.

You are the
brightest star
In the heavens of my heart
You are the
brightest star
In the heavens of my heart

He stopped singing. A smile overtook his handsome face. The last echo of the final note he’d plucked drifted into the night. He held out his hand.

I couldn’t refuse. It was impossible to even consider yet I felt oddly disembodied as I walked across the stage. Toward Dylan. Into the single spotlight. The crowd a distant rumble on the edge of my consciousness.

He stood and took my hand in his. Held it. Then he pulled me into his arms, our bodies flush, fitting together as one like they always had, and kissed me. Right there, center stage.

Dylan Jacobs, lead singer for the popular rock band Starlight Sixty, came out in dramatic fashion tonight by kissing bass player and longtime boyfriend, Trey Templeton, before a packed house at the Whisky... I almost laughed at the announcer-voice in my head.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” Dylan said, and still standing close to the mic, his voice carried to the back of the club. The cheers grew louder. “I love you, Trey.”

“I love you too. So damn much.” I smiled and my vision blurred with tears I wasn’t ashamed to let fall freely. “Best gift ever.”

* * *

Want to read more wonderful holiday flash fiction from some of your favorite authors? Click over to our holiday hop Link-Up page and enjoy! :-)

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Flash Fiction Holiday Blog Hop

Grab the badge and spread the word! :-)

Who doesn't love a little flash fiction blog hop with holiday feels by some of your favorite authors? :-)

Thorny Sterling and Kris T. Bethke had so much fun writing their photo-inspired short stories and were so intrigued by how different just the two of them used the photo, that they wanted to see what a whole bunch of writers might do with a single photo. And what better time to offer free stories than during the holidays? :-)

Because Thorny and Kris are all kinds of awesome they invited me to help them get this done, and after some fun brainstorming, here’s what the three of us came up with.

All stories must be inspired by this photo:

All stories must include in the text:

  1. A winter holiday theme,
  2. A “bad boy” character, and
  3. A gift of some kind (author’s choice).
Try to limit your writing to no more than 3000 words, but 500 to 1000 is preferred. This is flash fiction, which is defined by being brief. Think of it like a specific moment in the characters’ lives instead of their whole story.

We’re asking that it fit under the umbrella of LGBT Romance, so if you want to write about any two characters on the gender and/or sexuality spectrums, go for it. Anything goes as far as genre too, so scifi, mystery, paranormal, contemporary, etc. is fine, just make sure it’s a romance first and foremost.

Have an idea to use characters you’ve already written about? Well, OK, but make sure we know who you’re talking about by giving us a summary of their original story that this flash fiction is spinning off of as an introduction. (And buy links because, you know, tis the season for the one-click clickety.)

Sign-up Begins: TODAY, October 21
Sign-up Ends: October 31

You don’t have to be a published author to participate. But we ask that you make an effort to be professional by having others read and critique your work before you post it. Remember, it’ll be internet-permanent in an instant and you wanna look awesome!

Use the InLinkz system below to sign-up and make sure to complete all the required information. (It doesn’t matter who’s blog you sign-up from because everything’s connected in InLinkz.)

An InLinkz Link-up

Post stories to your own blog starting December 1 and no later than December 7.

If you don’t have your own blog, you can use the “Writings” section of your Goodreads profile. If you don’t have a blog or a Goodreads account, contact Kris to get on the “Host Me” list and either she, Thorny, or I will host your story for you on our own blogs (limited availability!).

Questions? Problems? Contact Kris Bethke (kristbethke at gmail dot com)

So... How excited are you? :-D