I got sudden notice that I need a for-real author photo today for le book (due out May, kiddos, s'official) and called Dan, who obliged me on an hours notice, letting me pull him away from the project we are both working on. We faced down the issue of my butch hair don't, and tried to resolve it by cropping from bangs down, with arms up and my much jewelried hands piled atop my head, baubled Carmen Miranda avec doorknockers and mass $2.80 rings from F'evs 21 and extra helpings of lipstick, tattoos not visible. The guiding factor: If I was a hockey maahm with a 13-year-old daughter into metal, would I buy my book without fear that there is some indoctrinating or corrupting info in it? Safe but fun, rock but not punk. And It worked until Dan noticed something "Dude. Pits." Despite my femme'd charms working overtime, from the clavicle down I looked like I'd been harvesting tubers out in the midday Georgia sun.