I went outside this morning to start some laundry. The rich smell of wood burning in the not-too-crisp air of Provence smelled almost exactly like the perfume of incense in the Greek Orthodox church. White blossoms are already bursting on one of the dead winter trees. I took a moment to just appreciate the amazing smell as it created a cathedral around me in front of the mas under the naked chestnut tree.
Someday soon, I'm going to be home in L.A. and people will be asking me, "How was it?" I will not have a single word. It will be like unraveling a complex dream to someone upon waking.
We just got back home. What a wonderful time in the City of Lights. I've got so many callouses, my feet look like a moonscape.
Last night The Frenchman and I celebrated two years since we first met. We had a terrific time at a highly rated restaurant called L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon in Paris. The chefs refer to it simply as The Workshop. It was this crazy sort of setting where everyone sits at a very elegant black bar that surrounds three sides of the kitchen. You can see everything being prepared, every tasty stroke of artistry as it hits the plate if you care to watch. We didn't. We smooched and drank kyr royal followed by an amazing St. Joseph's wine from 2005 that reminded me a lot of the Ruilly wine we had in Burgundy back in mid December. The food was insanely delicious and enormously attractive on the plate. The menu is a little different in that half of it is devoted to things the size of starters, but you can choose as many as you wish and not even have any of the entrées (although, they're not much bigger than the "starters"). They don't care. And they all have a terrific sense of humor.
Especially the Managing Chef at this location, Phillipe. Feeling nostalgic, The Frenchman and one of the junior chefs decided to change the ice cream in one of the dessert recipes from pistachio to some crazy flavor they had whipped up that day that all French kids have loved since time began. When Phillipe found out, apparently he hung his head is despair, as if he'd heard the worst blasphemy, closed his eyes and uttered "Quand-même." (In this context, that's French for, "Oh dear god, give me a fucking break!") As the junior chef told us this, we all laughed hard. I had only seen the guy once and I could picture it perfectly.
There was an older American woman sitting to my right with her mother. From listening to them talk about her business travel, you'd think they were quite sophisticated. But even though they'd eaten at this same restaurant in London last week, the American woman actually said to the female chef, "Can you recommend something...you know...fishy?" I thought The Frenchman was going to spew laughing as I dug my elbow into him. He leaned over to my ear and whispered, "I bet she'll ask for cheesecake." When the women had finished their meal, Phillipe came by. The woman said proudly, "The dinner was very good!" A smile exploded on Phillipe's face and he said, "REEEally?" It was some kind of cocktail of sarcasm and amusement, slightly stirred with teasing. The sort of response you'd expect from Mozart in response to Emporer Joseph II declaring his opera was "quality work." I found it hilarious. (But then, I'd had a lot of that St. Joseph's wine, too.)
Anyway, they gave us free sorbets, too, along with a small dish of something The Frenchman called "fizzling sugar." I put some "fizzling sugar" in my mouth and said, "That's Pop Rocks!" I then proceeded to make myself sick on fizzling sugar. I even stole what was left in the little bowl and managed to secret it in Trog in a caramel wrapper that came with my fresh thyme tea.
I nearly fainted when I saw the bill. The Frenchman kissed me and said, "For important meals like this, money doesn't matter."
I started reading Dennis Lehane's Shutter Island and it kicks ass on Mystic River. I am frightened for the two main characters like I've not been frightened for any character in a long time. It seems Lehane's using an economy of words in this one that reminds me so much of Michael Marshall Smith. Maybe not quite as brilliant, but the content makes up for it. It's tough to work with this book still in progress. Damn! But try I must...
Dark Arts Books has announced that this summer it will be releasing SINS OF THE SIRENS, a collection of "new stories and rarities" by the following sirens:
And Now We Interrupt This Parisian Promenade to Bitch About James Cameron
It seems James Cameron has intellectually rimmed The DaVinci Code so that he can then turn around and French kiss the viewers of The Discovery Channel with his so-called "evidence" of Jesus' lost tomb, which allegedly includes the ossuary of Mary Magdalene.
Hmmm. Wasn't there just a few years ago another ossuary? Indeed. The "James, Son of Joseph, Brother of Jesus" burial box. Everyone had a big jizz fest over that one, but then it too was discredited by the Israeli Antiquities Authorities, as well as other scientific experts. Further, its owners were arrested for selling other fraudulent antiquities. (I'm not even going to get into the sordid role that The Discovery Channel played in supporting the James ossuary hoax. And they're still ass raping the gullible with their DVD on the subject.)
Oh, but wait! Mr. Terminator is claiming there was an auspicious "space" between the bone boxes in the cave -- and that obviously the discredited James ossuary is the "missing" ossuary in that tomb!
Today, I will spare you all my usual rant about the difficulties of even proving the historicity of Jesus because, honestly, I don't think one even needs to open that can of worms to see the nonsense here. The summary of the show as presented on the DS website reveals such an intellectual mess that no doubt "The King of the World" will have his latest ship sunk by the hard logic of the thinking community, despite the fact that he is obviously trying to appeal to the non-religious.
Yesterday consisted of great amounts of walking, buses, metro trains, even the RER C. We went everywhere. There were errands and lots of friends to see. I started whining about 5:00pm on our way to Neuilly. The Frenchman just didn't get yet that our feet were reaching Limits. I got in some major kitty love at a painter friend's house who had two kitties.
Tomorrow is the two year anniversary of the night we met. A surprise is planned. I'm clueless as to what it is, although I suspect food is involved.
I have written very little. I did finish the Practical Homicide Investigation manual, which was incredible on every level. The photos will haunt me forever. But now I feel the overwhelming urge to work. It might have to wait until Tuesday as today we have more commitments. And besides, Paris is like a juicy mistress: you can't be here and not spend time with her. It's impossible.
Anyway, when we were at Fnac yesterday, I picked up Shutter Island by Dennis Lehane. It's already an amazing read. It'll tide me over for the TGV ride home.
Paris Shopping Tip
I went to a TATI the other day and bought a new pair of pants for 9€ and a little black vest coat with zippers for15€. TATI is the bargain fashion place. There's a lot of crap there, but the good stuff is priceless.
I'd tried twice before. The first time was in January 2004. I wandered around and around what I thought was the 26th Division of the Cimetière du Montparnasse and never found him. The second time was in October of last year. I returned to the cemetery around dusk, realized where the 26th Division really was, and didn't find the grave due to falling darkness and a sudden terror of being alone -- not because of anything supernatural, but because of unsavory living types wandering the vacant cemetery.
Yesterday, I went back. It started to rain as I paced up and down between the graves and mausoleums. The map says it's in the center of the 26th Division, but I couldn't locate the center. My blood sugar was plummeting despite a snack. The frustration was throttling me. Finally, I stopped and said aloud, "Monsieur Maupassant, j'ai besoin d'aider! Ou êtes vous?" I took exactly three steps forward...
...et voila. There it was.
I was overcome by a surprising amount of emotion. The energy around Maupassant's grave is completely unlike that of Baudelaire's, which is crowded with flowers and prayer jars like old Chuck's grave. Instead, an iron gate surrounds Maupassant's sparse garden of what looked like freshly planted bulbs (and other things I couldn't identify). At the head of the grave, a simple but beautiful prayer is painted onto an open porcelain book, which extends from a tall, off-white headstone. It seemed only one person had left any kind of "offering." Maupassant, the father of the modern short story, the man who wrote The Horla, or Modern Ghosts, which inspired Lovecraft's Call of Cthulhu. A pauvre who died in madness himself a year after attempting suicide.
I stayed there a long time. It didn't feel like I was lingering at a grave. It felt like I was visiting a grandfather. The emotions I felt stayed with me long after I left.
Then that night, The Frenchman and I went to see Bell, Book and Candle. We laughed a lot, and he told me I could call him Shep. Of all the great lines, the best line of that movie occurs at a romantic moment, when James Stewart's character says to Kim Novak's character before he kisses her, "And now I'm gonna smoosh your nose..."
Le Sénat is located at the bottom of Rue de Tournon. The Frenchman had wanted me to take the RER to the Luxembourg station, but I decided it was much more expedient to take the metro to Mabillon and walk down Rue de Tournon. It's an impressive old building that looks like it was carved out of old dun granite. With the help of palace police I was able to find the correct lobby and I proceeded in to find a bench to wait. I was maybe 20 minutes early. I sat down and immediately preceded to change from my boots to my high heels.
I then noticed an elderly couple sitting on the bench on the opposite side of the room. With no small amount of embarrassment, I realized that must be Le Sénateur and his wife, and that I'd just changed my shoes in front of them. Smooth move, Exlax! I never dreamed they would be that early. I pretended that maybe it wasn't them, and waited patiently until The Frenchman arrived. I told him how embarrassed I was, and he communicated to them what happened.
Apparently, this was terrifically disarming -- that is, if I'd needed any disarmament. They were incredibly nice people. The retired sénateur and his wife split their time between Paris and the Ivy League school where The Frenchman got his Ph.D. (which apparently is where they met and the mentorship commenced). They were completely charming, intelligent and big hearted.
Once on the other side of the security check, we entered the courtyard and could see the opening of the lush private gardens for the President of the Sénate, the mini-Luxembourg. We then immediately entered the restaurant, which was filled with good-humored, energetic servers who took The Fabulous Coat and petted Trog on the head as they hung him on a hanger with the coat. As soon as we sat down, I discovered that le sénateur was a bon vivant. He explained the menu to me, describing everything with the heady delicacy of a connoisseur. I settled on the tartine de lapin for my appetizer and then the canard (practically still quacking) for my main course. There was, of course, a cheese course that I tried to minimize but Le Sénateur would not hear of it! By the time desert arrived -- I chose the pistachio macaron with rum-soaked cherries -- I was so full, I didn't need to eat for at least another day.
In the meantime, other sénateurs stopped by our table. Le Sénateur knew everyone, it seemed. As we were leaving, even more politicians approached him -- including the President of the Senate, Monsieur Christian Poncelet. (If anything should happen to Chirac, he would become President of France.) I was already a-twitter because one of the gentleman who approached Le Sénateur was clearly a high-ranking military official. I heard that none other than Nicholas Sarkozy, the Minister of the Interior and favorite in the Presidential Election, was on his way. They were all there to greet him. The Frenchman told me later that I was standing in the midst of some French political Who's Who. He recognized a lot of people, but didn't remember their names. I wanted to stay and see Sarkozy, but it just couldn't be done.
I didn't get 30 yards down Rue de Tournon before my high heel stuck in something and nearly tore from my shoe. I changed my shoes somewhere outside on the sidewalk.
I've learned that a French stereotype of Americans is that we're not very political, that we don't interest ourselves in politics or get involved. I kept wondering why The Frenchman's friends were so surprised and impressed when he told them I had the phone numbers of my California senators stored in my cell phone. The French love, love, love politics. They argue, they debate, they watch programs, call, vote, whatever. They even protest -- lordie, do they protest. Les manifestations as they are called are so common in France that everyone takes them in stride. It's a way of life.
Anyway, I did something right with Le Sénateur and his wife because they told The Frenchman jokingly that I was too good for him. Ha!
Lunch at the Imperial Senate or When Louis Quartorze Got Down on All Fours
It took a long time to get over the dream hangover I had yesterday from that nightmare about the man in the car. I didn't entirely shake the dream until I left around 12:30pm to do yet more unglamorous Parisian grocery shopping. Teeth clenched, I had to step into that insanely good boulangerie across the street. I nearly keeled over again from the absolutely knee-weakening odors of fresh baked breads and apples.
By the time I had lunch, I had totally shaken the unease of the nightmare and decided to go to Le Château de Versailles. Oh, le château! The palace built by Louis XIV is one of those magnificent, hysterically historical places you absolutely must see whilst here in Paris, although I admit that hopping on the RER for the ride out there is a bit intimidating. (It was to me, anyway, the first time I came here.) The RER to Versailles Rive Gauche takes you through the business centers of Paris and out to the suburbs until you reach Versailles (which is where The Frenchman was born, incidentally). As I was walking down Rue de Paris towards the palace, I was startled by how immense it is. "Of course it's immense," you say. "It's a palace!" But really, I wasn't prepared.
My favorite part of the entire place was not any specific room in the palace, although there were many that knocked the wind out of me. The best part was the time I spent alone in the queen's dark, lush garden, Bosquet de la Reine. It was once decorated by none other than Charles Perrault, Mr. Fairytale himself, with a labyrinth he allegedly helped design, as well as 39 fountains depicting Aesop's fables. The fountains and labyrinth are gone, the latter destroyed specifically because it was considered unfashionable by Louis XVI. Still, there was something magical about the place, perhaps because I knew that Perrault spent so much time there.
Today, we are having lunch at the Senate with a retired Senator who was The Frenchman's mentor long ago. (I'm not sure if this was when The Frenchman was a cultural attaché in the U.S. or not. If so, that would have been a loooong time ago, indeed.) So, I must now run and iron my Phillipe Adec suit. I jokingly said we'd be eating in the "Senate cafeteria" this morning, which made The Frenchman laugh. ("It's in the Senate restaurant, which has a maître d', not the Senate cafeteria, chérie.") Which I followed up with my version of the Eddie Izzard skit of Darth Vader in the Death Star cafeteria. ("This one's wet. This one's wet. This one's wet.")
Yesterday, after almost finishing the homicide manual, I went out for lunch and some unglamorous Parisian grocery shopping. When I returned, I discovered a ridiculous power outage in our building that required me to walk up six flights of stairs in the dark. Me? Daunted? Forfend! I then literally wore out the heels of my boots as I walked to La Duréeto pig out on macarons to get a whiff of the fancy pastries and take a healthy stroll on the Champs Elysées, where I found a post office to send some things I'd forgotten to mail just before we left. After I returned, exhausted and swooning from sugar, I cracked and walked into Princess Tam Tam just around the corner from our apartment. They actually had two whole bras in the store that were cute and fit me fine. (They were Divide and Conquer, but I overlooked that for the lace and cuteness.) As they were very expensive, I only bought one with matching panties. The Frenchman was mighty pleased, too.
But then sleeping was nightmarish. Literally.
Around dusk, a white man in his early 30s -- good looking, clean shaven, dressed as if for camping -- was driving fast down a rural sort of highway lined with tall vegetation.
Someone ran out onto the highway in front of his car.
The car struck the body hard. Jarred by the impact, the man swerved off the road. His head swarmed with panic as he got out and searched for the body. He found nothing. He noticed on the other side of the vegetation there was a big diner and rest area. He ran to the car of a woman who just pulled in. She was black, with a tousled pony tail. He knocked on her window, realized he was crying as he frantically begged that, if she had a cell phone, she call 911. "I hit someone on the highway! I think they're dead!" The woman eyed him dubiously, reaching into her purse. The man left her to run inside the diner. He looked everywhere for a pay phone to call the police.
Instead, he found a gang was taking over the rest area, threatening people with guns and knives for their wallets. Inside the diner was a horror as they hurt families, individual travelers, anyone who might have money.
The man hoped beyond hope that the woman had called the police. But he was pretty sure she hadn't.
He went back to his car and found a steak knife from some picnic gear in the back seat. He carried it into the diner, where he fended off a couple of gang members who wanted his wallet. They were sufficiently intimidated by his build and strength to not fuck with him.
By now, the gang had done their worst. They were clearing out. The man found a terrified family -- father, mother and child -- bleeding and shaking with terror as they huddled in a small closet. "Are they gone?" the father whispered to the man. He shook his head. "I'm not sure. Stay here and I'll check."
It was nightfall now. The man found three people who seemed newly arrived, although they looked like leftovers from the gang -- two guys, a girl. They were having a romantic spat. As the man surveyed them surreptitiously, he became convinced that they were there to make sure no one was left or calling the cops.
Instead of going back to the family, the man went back to his car. He scanned the dark. No body. He got into the car, legs and hands trembling, then turned the key. The car started okay, but as he pulled forward it felt like something had been damaged.
As it turns out, I hate bra shopping in Paris more than in the U.S. Who knew?
I went to a few of the big stores on Rue de Rivoli not far from the Louvre. This is where the much-touted H&M is, as well as a giant Etam, C&A, and other stores that are flocked to by school girls and working women alike. I really need a new soutien-gorge, especially since I've lost some weight.
I found only two kinds of bras: the adorable and carrément jolie bras for women with A and B cups, then what I call the "Divide and Conquer" bras for bigger chicks like me. The D&C bras are incredibly ugly, cleavage-depriving shoulder grabbers that literally pry apart the tits of a well-endowed woman and purposely destroy the cleavage by compartmentalizing them. It's like, the better cleavage you would have, the less likely there will be a bra in your size that will give it to you.
As you can imagine, I was pissed. I went to five different department stores and didn't find a single bra in my size, let alone something that wasn't a D&C bra. I tried a slightly smaller bra, and that worked pas du tout. I've considered ordering bras online, but I really don't like doing that. However, I might have to.
Putain.
On the bright side, we discovered that Bell, Book and Candle -- one of my favorite films of all time -- is playing on the big screen here. We're going to try to see it some time this week. I'm so excited! This was my defining movie before I'd even seen it. (Um, if that makes any sense.) The Frenchman is going to love it, I know.
Some research this morning, then I have a city to love this afternoon, bra or no.
It's All Fun and Games Until a Serial Killer Puts an Eye Out
Two serial killer dreams last night. The second one was infinitely more frightening, as I got to discover my whole family had been killed after I shot the killer in my old bedroom with my dad's fifty-something year old rifle. The killer even set up a trap on the front door so that, when I opened it and ran out, it triggered this thing that dumped my family's blood on my head. I ran from the house looking like Stephen King's Carrie, howling at the top of my lungs. I knew that the authorities would think I did it since I was covered in their blood.
No more homicide manual for me before bedtime. I'm just finishing up the disorganized serial murderer profile.
Actually, the rifle might have been inspired by the Gendarmerie yesterday. As we were returning home from Sacré-Coeur and Montmartre, the Gendarmerie (that is, the French military police) were flanking the street as they walked up and down. One carried a huge rifle. I've seen American military in the airports with enormous rifles, but never on a public street. So, it was a wee bit impressive. (As my subconscious proved last night.)
Without further ado, I've uploaded the photos of Sacré-Coeur and Montmartre, especially for my pals who want to get their Amelie freak on. The funny thing at Sacré-Coeur was that, as we hiked up the stairs, I asked The Frenchman if we could take a short break so I could get a photo. I managed to walk straight to a place in the crowd by a bench where a friend of ours was sitting without even realizing it! I love when that happens. And I loved Montmartre except that it was absolutely crammed with people. The weather was unseasonably gorgeous and it was a Sunday afternoon. The Frenchman showed me where he used to live and his favorite plaza. I had never been to Montmartre before, strangely enough.
And this is what greeted us at the end of the day:
I figured it out. Sort of. I have to plug in the cable and then press the Reset thingy in the back of the modem with a pencil tip.
Anyway.
First off, major congrats to and for making the Final Ballot in Short Fiction for the Bram Stoker Award! I'm also very pleased to see that Corrine de Winter is up for her second Stoker nomination with the touching Valentine: Short Love Poems, and that Bruce Boston's incredible collection Shades Fantastic is also being recognized. Congrats also to on her nomination for her collection, The Commandments. Way to go, chicka!
I'm sorry for overlooking anyone last night. I glanced quickly at my Flist and saw 's announcement, then had to blast out all the nonsense eating my brain and give The Google back to The Frenchman.
Must run now and get ready for lunch with Papa Loup and family. But before I go, just have to say that I finally saw The Illusionist last night. I enjoyed it tremendously until, well, silly things started happening. And then the last three minutes wrecked everything. Everything. Massive plot holes were blown open, leaving the audience's feet dangling in the void.
I Lost Me The Google (and Almost My Temper)
Night #1: The Frenchman's computer gives the "low or no connectivity" warning when he tries to plug his computer into the studio cable modem. My computer, however, works fine.
Night #2: Now my computer gives the "low or no connectivity" warning when I try to plug my computer into the cable modem. His computer is fine. (I'm using it to write this.)
Night #3: I'm absolutely, totally pissed. My computer refuses to work any longer with the cable modem (or whatever the hell this thing is).
****
Anyway, since I don't have much time, I want to quickly congratulate my peeps who made the Final Ballot for the Bram Stoker Award. Especially Lisa Morton, although there are others. Woo! You go!
****
Today, I narrowly avoided setting a table of Americans on fire at my favorite cafe near Pere-Lachaise. I watched the poor French waiter very graciously try to help a table of four stupid cunts who were both mocking him and his language. He totally kept his cool, too. Then, after he left with their order, one of the stupid cunts starting going on loudly about how upset she was that she couldn't find cheesecake in Paris.
Cheesecake. In Paris.
I came **this close** to standing up and screaming, "Put your fat, ignorant, tasteless ass on a plane back to whatever fucking crack in American soil you crawled out of. Cheesecake? You don't even fucking deserve to be here, you stupid cow. Just...fucking...go. NOW."
The Frenchman was so embarrassed by the women at that table, he nearly gave back his American passport. (And believe me, he loves his American passport.) I was so livid, I had a salt shaker in hand ready to hurl it.
Americans are embarrassing.
****
Late yesterday afternoon, we went to Cris et Chuchotements, the last standing BDSM club in France. C&C has an amazing atmosphere, as it's a series of real caves. I wore my Philip Adeck suit and spiked heels with my hair up (picture pending). My only problem there was that it was really too dark for safe play. We started in The Writing Room, where they had this marvelous antique French writing desk complete with quill and ink. Beside it was a large ornate chair. We played quite a bit in that room with rope bondage and the cane before moving into the medical room, where I put The Frenchman in stirrups and performed all kinds of torturous "gynecological" exams on him. (Hee!) The French pervs were polite and friendly. We even met up with our pal "Iva" from the ErosZine article.
Okay, must sleep now. Will not have The Google again for a bit.
I can't take my eyes off the damned thing. And this is my fourth time here!
Something is playing havoc with my stomach this morning, but otherwise everything is fine. Hopefully this afternoon we'll be going to un goût at the last standing BDSM club in France, Cris et Chuchotements. The TGV was interesting in that I don't think I've ridden a train before, and certainly nothing that approached the speed of a plane on land. Towards the end, I made myself motion sick with reading comics on my computer. I felt immediately better when I stopped and just rested my eyes. The stomach must be a bit under siege in general. I just bought some of those special yogurt drinks with live bacteria. A couple of those seemed to help.
(Just because I'm near L'Hôtel des Invalides doesn't mean I have to be an invalid, dammit! I must get out and play.)
Sweet, Crazy, Speed
We had an exquisite lunch yesterday at a place called Le Formal. It was all nouvelle French cuisine where the chef -- Jean-Luc Le Formal -- created artistic masterpieces on the plates. I started with the brouillard au truffle, a dreamy light egg dish with insanely delicious truffles. My main course was an equally delicate dish of dorade, an herbed white fish sitting on a tasty tomato dish that reminded me of cacciatore. It was surrounded by perfect criss-crossed sticks of gently fried sweet potato each covered with a tuft of alfalfa. There were painter's streaks of various sauces on the plate, which were all very tasty. For desert, well, I totally overdid it with a small desert platter. Although all three deserts were slight and demure in every way, they were crazy sweet. I couldn't finish them. Afterwards, the chef made us two amoureux special little heart-shaped raspberry tarts to have with our coffee. They were as adorable as delicious. As we were leaving, the chef greeted us. This guy had created all this incredible food, but the thing he seemed most proud of were the little tarts he made for us. I was bowled over by his modesty.
I pitched another nonfiction project to my agent yesterday. It doesn't have a name yet, but essentially I've crafted myself a character who combines my love of blasphemy, a tribute to Stephen Colbert, and shades of Dana Carvey's Church Lady all in one. My agent was sufficiently freaked out by the fact that a Mormon is running for President that it had immediate appeal. We'll see what happens.
Meanwhile, we're getting ready to leave tonight on the TGV for Paris. See you all on the other side!
It just came in the mail today directly from Avalon Publishing for my story, "Veil of Skin," which appeared in the anthology Blood Surrender.
And it was almost twice what I was paid for the story. Nice!
Now, if only I could get paid for the other novelette that appeared that year in another anthology...
Sleepless in Provence
Ever since we moved the bed downstairs, we've not gotten a decent night's sleep. Myself, I woke up at 4:30am with a stomach ache and didn't get back to sleep right away.
When I finally did, two teenagers showed up who we hired to take care of our big backyard garden. I told The Frenchman that they seemed a bit young and inexperienced, but we decided to give them a chance. When they finished, the backyard was transformed into this incredible enchanted garden with water lilies and willows. We were a bit stunned, saying, "Well, um, it's not exactly what we'd had in mind, but..." As I paid the two teens, they had brought with them their helper, an old-ish round-ish man with lots of face wrinkles in his golden skin. He was very cheery and spoke in a language I was pretty sure wasn't Russian. In fact, I wasn't sure it was human at all. When they left, a stranger started coming to our door knocking who wouldn't identify herself. We never let her in. As it turns out, the two teens were faeries who were not supposed to have worked our backyard. They were in big trouble and nastier faeries were trying to find them; this one was a witch. Of course, we were somehow caught in the middle of this.
Stomach still hurts. We visited friends yesterday who live in a small seaside town that was having its annual sea urchin festival. We ate all kinds of sea food, including urchins and something called "coronet," which was a squid filled with chopped beef and pork in a yummy sauce. I'm thinkin' this was all a delicious mistake.
When I moved to San Francisco in mid 1996, there was this billboard somewhere in the North Bay of Anna Nicole Smith in her underwear, laughing, legs pulled up double in front of her. I was stunned. I'd never seen an underwear ad that didn't feature a praying mantis-like creature whose ribs jutted out in bony tiers under her airbrushed skin. But this woman was full figured in every sense. For the first time I saw something me-sized on a billboard. I had to drive past a couple times before I realized it was truly a Guess ad and not something else entirely.
I've never seen anything as cool as that Guess ad since. Which is a shame. There were those damned Dove soap "Real Beauty" ads, but they always made me want to hurl. (I think it was the white undies.)
So, in case you've somehow missed the media hoopla, I'm musing about this because Anna Nicole Smith is dead.
In the REM wars last night, the wife of Jeff Layhee called our house as we were having a party to tell us that Jeff Layhee was badly injured, found lying flat on his back on the concrete of the new home they were building. She asked me to tell everyone at the party. I tried, despite one woman in an azure blue suit dissuading me. Someone explained later that Jeff and his wife were millionaires, the wife lived in Riverside during the week for her job, and that they had "like, 10 kids," which I knew was an exaggeration on all counts.
Incidentally, have no fucking clue who Jeff Layhee is.
The last couple of days have been spent socializing a great deal in town and gathering photos for MELUSINA research. Today, I'm reading the homicide manual. I skipped the chapter on narcotics-related homicides and went straight to evidence gathering. The most disturbing chapter by far has been on homosexual murders. There are details about homosexual homicides -- such as the overkill slashes to the throat and ruptured bowels -- that were very difficult to read. The photos are graphic. The only other chapter that's been especially difficult was the serial murders, but not for the reasons you'd think. A lot of serial killers use bondage equipment to commit extremely sadistic murders. Seeing equipment that I normally associate with fun and sensuality used by these extremely sick individuals to torture and kill people really brought home why law enforcement doesn't look at BDSM practitioners with such a kind eye. But to Vernon's credit, he includes pictures of people who are willing participants in BDSM "sex games" so that the reader learns the difference.
But the pictures of people in bondage gear who've been tortured to death are haunting.
Yesterday, the Surface Gods demanded a tribute every time we wanted to eat something -- the floor, the counter, inside the microwave. One spill after another. Geesh! You'd think one tribute would suffice! But nooooo.
I didn't get a lot of reading done. I'm reading about DNA forensics and, despite the fact that this subject totally rocked my socks in college, this chapter is killing me with boredom.
When I eventually went to meet The Frenchman in town for dinner and a play, I decided to chance the Evil Dog Road because my dress was too nice to put through the other path. And lo! I ran into none other than the owners of the Evil Dog and its companion, Wanna Be Evil Dog. The owners were walking on the path above and parallel to my road, when Evil Dog ran down to my road to confront some people walking their dog. Now Evil Dog was holding up foot traffic both ways on the road. The owners weren't going to do anything except call to their stupid dog unsuccessfully until I told them "Excuse me, but there's a toddler there, too." They caved and came down to our road to control their stupid dog. I explained to them as best I could that their dog is too mean and sometimes prevents me from using this road. They gave me some lame excuses about the dog just protecting its territory. I asked them to keep the dog by the house and not let it wander into the road. Apparently, for reasons I couldn't translate, they can't do that. But they did hold the dog and had me pet it a couple of times. The dog acted like being petted was punishment. They told me how to talk to it when it's being hostile, but I doubt that's going to work. Evil Dog's name is "Black." Wanna Be Evil Dog was super friendly and sweet with he's with his owners. I guess Wanna Be Evil Dog (whose name I didn't get) just imitates Black's obnoxious behavior. Doggy peer pressure.
And as a last word in this random post, I plead with you all to NOT use translation programs like Alta Vista. If you want to translate a French word, please go somewhere like Word Reference. just discovered that the French word for "pigs" (cochons) is translated in Alta Vista as "porc," which is so utterly and flatly wrong it makes me shriek. Porc is the same thing as the word pork in English: it's a kind of meat that you eat. Cochons, as one can see on Word Reference, means "pigs" and has various obscene and other slang meanings.
Turn that Frown Upside Down (Or Stab Someone Trying)
I finished the 3+ page synopsis for THRILLED last night and sent it to the agent. I'm ridiculously happy about this. I abandoned the chapter by chapter outline because it was too bulky. I needed something more streamlined that just covered the spine and major nerves, rather than the whole damned body, because I was getting bogged down in the details.
It worked! Hooray! It's done. And I giggled half to death writing it. At least we know I can keep myself entertained. I have a feeling the agent will want to move forward with it, as comedy is her thing.
Reading today. A lot. Rejoiced much with the Frenchman last night that he was home. We got groceries, had a wonderful dinner of fish, veggies and rice with mushrooms I'd picked out at the store. The French have these stores called Picard that remind me of a really upscale Trader Joe's stores but where everything is frozen. And I say "upscale" because you won't catch me dead eating that frozen fish at TJs. It always looks like it was vomited by an ice monster. But at Picard they have very tasty looking fish and many other delicacies.
The only bad news is that poor was too sick to finish preparing my second article on the BDSM scene in France for ErosZine.com. It'll be delayed until February 20th. A week from Thursday we're leaving for Paris again.
And Mercury turns retrograde on Valentine's Day, friends. Aren't you glad?
A Muslim group here is suing. It's better than torching, bombing, burning and slaying over it.
In what appeared to be an at least semi-staged TV event, Presidential hopeful Nicholas Sarkozy managed to say some pretty stupid, racist things the other night. A pissed off young Arabic woman in the audience rightly called him on it. I'm not convinced Sarkozy is totally racist, though. He's fought hard to get too many mosques built, and secured other rights for immigrants. (At least, that's what I'm hearing.) But I do think he's just another politician trying to get as many votes as he can be stretching himself philosophically too thin in every direction. What's interesting is that he's proposing lots of economic changes to follow America's model. He's got some great ideas to get the economy stirring. The Socialist Party nominee, Segolene Royal, has been painting the U.S. as evil. I might add, it's not gotten her very far. The French intensely dislike Bush. They tend to like the U.S. itself quite a bit.
But I liked that TV event because it was so unlike the U.S. "town hall" meetings we have around our elections. In our shows, people are pre-selected to ask pre-screened questions for the potential Presidential candidate. Once someone asks their question, they have to sit down and shut the hell up. The moderators take away their microphone and that's that.
Not in France. Everybody gets to keep their microphones. And then they interrupt the Presidential candidate and argue with him or her whenever they want. The French like to debate, argue, hash things out. They don't hide their disagreements. And since obviously no one faints from the mortal blows of words, they keep doing it. It's way healthier than burying conflicts.
Well, I just had yet another terrifying experience on my way back home this morning from my jog because of a loose dog. The people here in Provence don't seem to see the need to keep their dogs on a leash -- or for that matter, gated on their property. There is this really vicious dog who occasionally wanders into the rustic road I walk to go into and out of town. On my morning run, I go into town through the woods on The White Path, but come back to the mas on this road. The dog was there, teeth bared, snapping and snarling at me. He was close enough to his gate that I took my chances and skirted a wide circle around him. He kept after me as I went. I had a feeling that, if I just kept moving, he'd eventually leave me alone. I know he's just protecting his property, but he should be doing that on the other side of the gate, not in the road. Two days ago, a similar incident happened with some random people walking their very large dog on the same road. I was walking into town when I encountered them. The dog freaked out. I could see in his eyes he was fixed on Trog. He started snapping and snarling at me, then he charged past me, turned, and started all over, tentatively lunging at me. Never once did these people grab his chain collar.
I love dogs, but this is fucked up. I guess it's over the hills and through the woods for me from now on if I want to go into town.
I'm about 1/3 through the Lee Child's book, One Shot, and I can't continue. While I greatly admire Child's plotting and police procedural knowledge, he does something so completely obnoxious I want to punch him. I kid you not: He constantly inserts the sentence, "Reacher said nothing." (Jack Reacher is his hero.) This little sentence appears up to five times on a page. It appears intermittently with "Helen Rodin said nothing." (another character in the book) and simply "He said nothing." Over and over and over.
And over and over and over. In Chapter 4 alone, it appears 22 times.
A handful of people on Amazon mention it, too, and agree that it's maddening. One guys says it's so bad you could create a drinking game out of it. I just can't believe more people didn't say something about it in their reviews. There must be some kind of ultra-forgiving cupcake mentality when it comes to these books. But I'm personally pissed at Child and his publisher for this. It's not only obnoxious, but it's unprofessional.
The good news is that The Frenchman called and he'll be home in two hours. Whee! I'm off to shower.
After reading the third "Planet France" cheese article on Strange Horizons, I had to write an email to the Editor in Chief, copying the Articles Editors, because the article is chock full o' misinformation about French culture. And some things are totally wrong, as in wrong as wrong gets.
If they don't do something about it, I'm going to have to pull my fiction submission. I love my French partner and his family too much to even entertain the idea of letting something of mine appear in a publication that promotes stereotypes and misinformation.
We'll see what happens. My fingers are crossed they'll do the right thing. (Whatever that might be, I'm not sure, but I'll know it when I see it.)
Made much better progress yesterday on the outline. Things are finally coming together.
When M. et Mme. Grand Maison decided to not re-open the Petit Casino grocery on time yesterday afternoon, I wound up going into town to get groceries. I stopped off at the British bookstore where I picked up a Lee Child's book (another writer my agent had recommended I check out as I create my Rules). So far it's occasionally frustrating to read. In some places Child is really great at describing what's going on and the environment, yet in other places the text entirely fails to place the reader. In the first chapter as the psycho sniper is taking out civilians at a business plaza, it was nearly impossible to understand what the physical setup was. It drove me nuts trying to figure out where the killer was in relation to the people getting picked off shell by shell -- was this in the building courtyard? In front of the business building? Where? All I knew was that it was next to an "ornamental pool" and that when people were leaving at 5:00pm, the flow of the crowd backlogged next to this "ornamental pool" about 35 yards away from where the sniper was. I re-read whole sections thinking I had missed something, but there just wasn't anything there. And, true to The Rules of Psychological Thrillers, the homicide detective has the personality of corrugated cardboard. Hooray!
I then made vegetable stew and the best steak I've ever made. I ate it all with a glass of red wine. Not the Pallette, though. Seems we're out of that.
Back to the words now. Or at least the outline of the words...
EVERYBODY PANIC!!!
My parents bought a brand new foreign car.
A Toyota.
::clutches heart, hyperventilates, peeks out window to watch for galloping apocalyptic horsemen::
You must understand. My father turns 84 this month and he's a crotchety old brick-brained Republican. This is not unlike the news I got a few years ago when he and my mother told me they were helping the nurses in their county form a union. I almost shrieked on the phone, but instead asked, "When did you guys get all Norma Rae on me?!?"
Really. You have no idea how shocking that was. That and the Toyota just go to show that you can never tell with people. Not even your own parents.
Anyway, lost great swathes of time yesterday to the previously mentioned issue and other kinds of work that was not writing. I did however make great progress on reading the Homicide Investigation Manual. The problem I'm having with THRILLED is that it's more like The Pink Panther than The Day of the Jackal, and I'm having a hard time just letting it be silly as hell. I think I'm going to let up now and see how that goes.
The Frenchman is gone. He went to the States for a few days to be part of a Big Important International Committee.
See? This is what having a knighthood gets you. Big Stupid International Committees.
I'm making crepes by myself tonight. Whee! Now I get to be a workaholic without apology all weekend.
The upsetting thing about today was that I just spent hours documenting a formal complaint against an editor in the HWA for nonpayment of a story and breach of contract.
Hours.
And it's not clear if there's a formal complaint process or not. I might have to take it to the streets. Hopefully not.
Okay, must make up for lost time. 3/4 of the way through the outline for THRILLED. Some parts are flapping in the wind but the spine is there...
Yo! Brigit! I used that dopey "Color Pulse" stuff on it and now I have this amazing bunch of bright red hair mixed in with the black bangs, and a sweep of fire engine red down the side. My roots are a fabulous shade of red, too. I suspect a picture can now be taken that you can actually see. (Sorry, . I tried to get the lavender!) Anyway, what a fantastic way to celebrate the light of Imbolc, eh?
Last night, I went to my first choir practice. Except it wasn't like real choir. It was like choir in 4th grade, where we got lyrics only and sang along with popular songs. The Frenchman loves it. I was dubious. I'm a Real Musician, man. I sight read music and stuff! What's this karaoke crapola? It was a lot of fun, though. It's going to help my French tremendously and I get to sing. I was highly amused to hear that the three old ladies in front of me were very happy to have me behind them, helping them with tunes I myself was just catching on the fly. The Frenchman has one of the songs on CD. He popped it in the player this morning in the kitchen, and danced with me to it. I think I fall in love with this guy every day, I swear.
Meanwhile, my fingers are flying today. I've been writing and passing off synopses to my agent of all the stuff I've either already written or am currently working on. She's not about to give up on my secret project. She just sold a book yesterday that had been rejected by 27 publishers. She's tenacious, I tell you. And she's sold a ton of books, so I guess she's got a trick or two up her sleeve. But I'm already tired. I wrote the two-page synopsis of SECRETS FOR MELUSINA (the fantasy book set here in Aix), and it just about wiped me out. I'm still only 4000 words into the chapter outline for THRILLED. Hopefully over the weekend it will all come together.
Blessed Imbolc to those who cherish it in whatever way you do!
