Maria Alexander News and Updates from TheHandlessPoet.com

He must have woken up one morning and said, "I need to make a movie for Maria, who runs my lame yet loving fan website. A movie where I'm a submissive masochist having a torrid affair with a pro domme. She'd like that."

Oh, yes, I would. Thank you, Roger!

Labels: BDSM, Roger Rees

I signed the lease today for a house. The Frenchman and I shall be nesting there shortly. Me first, then him when he returns in August. It's rather pretty inside, although not much to see from the outside. Our neighbor on one side writes for Adult Swim and the neighbors on the other side work for the FBI. A lovey-dovey pair of perverts just makes that row complete, don't you think?

Now if only Uncle Walt would get on the stick and foist upon me all this darned work they said they were about to foist upon me. Dammit.

I'm going to need this new place to recuperate. Everyone's been asking about my transition. So far, it's a mixed bag. Where I am staying now with E/T helps, but I need a more comfortable place to write. That, I think, will make all the difference in the world. Little things are hitting me, like realizing I won't see The Frenchman's family for a while, nor the friends I made there. That chokes me up at unexpected moments. Things like food and climate are definitely impacting me, not to mention scenery. I badly miss seeing vineyards from the freeway. But food definitely has my system upside down at the moment. I'm walking every day and lifting free weights to combat stress. My vocabulary is weird. I've got French words stuck where English words should be, but thankfully not too many. My brain is still not functioning properly. Certain words in English lag behind by about a minute. Like the word "driveway" or even "boilerplate." Why? I have no idea. I don't even know the word in French for either. Mostly, I just feel soggy between the ears and given to moments of intense longing. The Frenchman being away doesn't help.

And now I'm going to think about either falling asleep or writing. Let's see which one wins...

Labels: transition, Uncle Walt, winchester mystery house

It came about suddenly, but I wound up speaking on the BBC World Radio this morning to a girl named Lubna, a 21-year-old medical student in Iraq who is having her birthday today. Unfortunately, she doesn't feel like celebrating much because two of her best friends were killed this month within 10 days of each other. (You can read a transcript of her heartbreaking call with the BBC producer on the WHYS blog.) By tomorrow, you should be able to hear how the call went and what I told her in encouragement to celebrate life -- her life and the lives of those she loves.

She in turn told me some harrowing stories of barbarism in Iraq, totally in despair that democracy or anything like it could ever happen there. The "bad guys" as she calls them just want back into power again and they're doing anything to get it. One father she knows has a daughter who was kidnapped and the kidnappers demanded one of his two sons in exchange for her. They are doing this -- even holding dead bodies of loved ones hostage -- in attempts to draw people out so that they can murder them. She asked me to imagine this kind of situation, to dream of what it must be like for that man who has to choose a son to sacrifice to get back his daughter. I couldn't. I just stood there, my own horror choking me up.

What I also couldn't tell her was about the swell of propaganda in our media, calling the insurgents "Quaeda fighters" when there hasn't been a single report or analysis to confirm that suddenly all of the insurgents are now "Al Quaeda." Glenn Greenwald talked about this in his well-referenced Salon article. It's disgusting, this low swinging sort of manipulation in order to bolster support for an unpopular war. No wonder over 40% of Americans believe that Saddam Hussein was directly involved in financing and planning 9/11. (Thanks to Brian for the links.) I know a lot of Americans feel deeply for Lubna, but a good percentage of them are so jacked in the head by propaganda that they don't see what the real problem is.

On a personal note, I saw off The Frenchman to Vermont today. The dark conversations of the morning made the parting even more sore. Hopefully I'll be able to get to Montreal for a quick visit in a few weeks.

Probably everyone on the Intarwebs knows this tidbit except me but I will torture you with it nonetheless.

Apparently the "glass slipper" of Cinderella is the result of a homonym translation snafu. When Charles Perrault, who formalized the telling of certain fairytales for public consumption in his parlor, told his version of Cendrillon, he took the word "vair" (the French word for a type of squirrel skin) and substituted the homonym "vers" (the French word for glass). Originally Cinderella's slippers were made of squirrel skin, not glass. I always thought those shoes sounded damned uncomfortable.

I learned this tonight at dinner with E/T, the couple I'm staying with. I was telling E/T about how Disney Hong Kong had to change the Cinderella story because the Chinese believe that a glass slipper is bad luck. I learned about this from the Chinese woman working at Disney who helped them in the design. That's when E, who is French, remarked that the slipper didn't used to be glass -- something I'd heard before but couldn't remember any details. We checked a French dictionary and it confirmed the tale of vair versus vers in the popular fairytale.

I'm doing better. Still zonking out around 9:30pm even though I slept 9 hours last night. Still, I had a long conversation with E today in French. I can't believe all that I've learned.

Labels: cinderella, French, glass, squirrel skin

Well, I feel like I've been dragged by a jet.

However.

Car is in the shop getting a new battery and other things so it can be smog checked and fully registered. Hopefully I'll have cell phone service by tonight. Changed hair appointment to Saturday.

I am constantly hungry. And tired. And just as luck would have it The Curse -- oh, I mean, the Great Blessing of the Bountiful Moon Goddess that gives me fertility and the magical ability to thoroughly gross out men -- hit me today.

Now, if only my friends could find the WPE key for their Wifi, I'd be even happier...

Labels: car, jet lag, phone, wifi

Last night we spent some time with one of the editors of make/shift magazine and her husband, which was really nice. We had apero on the terrace, then whilst The Frenchman worked I went to dinner with the two of them in town, taking a taxi back around midnight. She gave me a copy of Issue #1 -- a rarity as it's already sold out. I was ever so grateful, as it will infinitely improve my understanding of what they're looking for.

Today, just...madness. I'm underslept, having woken up several times last night. The Frenchman believes -- and we're checking on this -- that the same Express Mail service in the U.S. that allowed me to mail my sword here for around $30 bucks doesn't exist here and that I'm going to pay something hideous to get the sword back if I want to track the package. I'm freaking out because it's not just the sword, but also my utterly gorgeous repaired umbrella from Simone. The umbrella fits in my suitcase sort of, but that's how it got broken in the first place and I don't want to repeat that. Hopefully he's wrong and I can get some kind of tracking service on the package, even if the package doesn't get back to the U.S. in less than a week.

In better news, we went to Moustiers yesterday with friends. It's by far the prettiest village in Provence, complete with a lovely medieval church at the top of a steep hill. People believed that their unbaptized infants who died went automatically to Hell, but that if they brought the dead infant to this particular church, it would come back to life for two minutes, allowing the priest to baptize it. I am not making this up. I can't believe the forehead-slapping stuff that religion drives people to do. I deeply regret forgetting my camera, as the sights were so beautiful. We drove past the famous lavender fields of Provence, spotting the L'Occitane factory nearby. One of our friends grew up there and worked the lavender fields when he was young, so he took us into a field and picked some lavender for us. I just hope I can get it past customs...

Labels: make/shift, Moustiers, sword

Whoever wrote this Wikipedia article on Génépi is out of his mind. I had some last night for the first time and it was simply divine from the first taste. Delicate with a sweetly herbal taste that warms the mouth, I fell completely in love. I'd seen variations on sale in Avoriaz of different colors and with herbs like lavender added. I asked The Frenchman, "What is this liquor sold in delightfully attractive packaging?" He replied, "It's a specialty of the Alps." And that was about all he knew about it. I then came down with the Alpine Death Flu and thought not about it again one whit.

It's threatening to topple absinthe as my favorite liquor. It is that good. Even better than Calvados, and that's good shit, as they say, but a wee bit overpowering compared to Génépi.

We gave back the television last night that we'd borrowed. You know the time is getting close. We'll now have to watch Episode #19 of Heroes on our computers. ::sulk:: But I got in some good time with friends and practiced my rusty kitteh squeezing skills. I came home covered in kitteh fur.

Back to the insanity.

Labels: genepi, heroes

Last night, a bunch of us ladies went to L'Elfike to whoop it up. I drank a ridiculous amount of alcohol and survived to tell the tale. The drinks on their menu are crazy. After I had a pint of cider, I then had something called Le Snake, which I think has Creme de Cassis, beer and cider in it. I then drank something insanely yummy called Le Lycanthrope, and I'll be damned if I remember what was in that. Then Special K's boyfriend came by and he started buying rounds. As yummy as his drinks were, I couldn't begin to finish them. Four cocktails in the three hours nearly put me under the table. (I think Drink #4 was called Le Tsunami, aptly enough.) Some of their cocktails have champagne and even mead. I wish I'd taken a photo of the menu, but I feared getting busted.

After one of the women announced she had a thing for Asian men, The Fabulous B took a surprisingly big mirror out of her purse and helped her use it to "discreetly" check out the Asian guy with long hair working the restaurants across the narrow street. She then announced that The Frenchman and I should have a baby girl so that she could be the godmother. Can you imagine?

Special K got a good kind of shock. When she went to the bar to ask if they sold cigarettes, the bartender offered her one of his own. She said that's never happened in her life. I said, "See? I told you people here are sweet." Because you can drink at 16 years old in France, young people come into the bar all the time. However, what's adorable is that they are often drinking a Coke and reading science fiction and fantasy novels. I took several photos of the place with permission of the owner, but he only allowed me to photograph certain things and I promised I wouldn't put them online, that they were just for my book, SECRETS FOR MELUSINE. However, if you're curious, they have a Flickr account. (This one is a picture of the owner in a girlie sandwich.)

When it was over, The Fabulous B drove me home. The Frenchman took good care of his wobbly, underfed woman in her shameful condition and put her to bed.

A storm of biblical proportions is pummeling Provence, so I can't do what I wanted to do today, which was continue my research in town. It's just as well, since I'm a bit hung over. Tonight, another going away party. Eesh.

Labels: l'elfike

France has guns.

In fact, they've got plenty of guns. Even handguns. Compared to other European countries, they have a high rate of gun ownership.

One of the differences between France and the U.S. is that France's gun license requires stringent training and testing in addition to a background check for both criminal records and mental health problems as well. Let it be noted that, while there have been two cases of hostage-taking in schools (only one with a gun, and that was fake), the French have never had a school shooting. As for other gun problems, when Richard Durn killed eight people with a handgun in 2002, the mass murder incited calls for greater gun restrictions. However, some viewed it as a failure in the system to keep firearms out of the hands of a person with a history of mental health problems. The French are fanatical about preserving their privacy, but they accept this invasion as necessary to save human life. With the exception of Durn, they've succeeded.

Finally, the House took a step yesterday in the right direction. They passed a new gun control bill that requires states to automate reporting of mental health and criminal records to a database used to check gun buyers.

Of course we need to get the states on board with how and when they report mental health issues to said database, but one step at a time. We can't all be as orderly and sane as France and other countries about this now, can we? We first have to run the gamut of paranoia about what mental health issues and where and when, then run around in circles clutching our semi-automatics to our chests and gritting our teeth as we swear at the liberals who are tampering with our freedums before we finally settle down and accept that arming everyone so that the Virginia Tech massacre could have turned into the Quentin Tarantino Mexican Standoff Multiple Massacre Jamboree is, in fact, a bad idea.

Like I said, one step at a time. But this is a sane one and it's working over here. Definitely a good idea we should steal. Let's hope the Senate agrees.

Labels: France, french stereotypes, guns, legislation

I don't know, but last night, Neil Gaiman lived in our basement. He came out once to say "Hi" and do a signing. Then, he went back.

There were a lot of kittens crawling all over the house, too. Don't ask why.

I actually wound up doing lots of research last night before I went to bed for the current book, and a bit of rewriting. I also managed to secure a hair appointment in L.A. before I leave. I suspect I'm going to have to lose my long locks for the sake of everyone's sanity if I do this red thing. But at the rate my hair grows, it's temporary.

When I return, I'm picking up a copy of FREE CULTURE by Lawrence Lessig, as it was just recommended to me by this guy. My brain is in hyperdrive about all these ideas regarding creative commons and inventive use of copyright. Maybe something useful will come of it.

Speaking of whom, he posted a link to this BBC test: "Can you tell a fake smile from a genuine one?" I got 15 out of 20. So, mind yourself if you're tempted to flash me a falsy, baby.

And now to do more research in town today for the other book. Fairies, fountains, fables -- oh my!

The Alternate Reality Game called "Save My Husband" sponsored by CourtTV and Applebees is ending today, and I must say, what a massive frelling disappointment.

The company who designed the ARG is Deep Focus -- not a game design company at all, but rather a publicity and marketing company for films. Obviously no one there has any understanding of how players actually play these games, much less how to create a challenging game or even how to protect their game assets. The designers were crapping their pants after Day 1 because lots of people figured out that, if Day 1's video has the ending 1.1 in the URL, all you have to do is change it to 2.1, etc., to see the next day's video. Within 24 hours, all of the videos and clues had been found. This meant Deep Focus had to scramble to change codes and clues so that no one could get ahead...

And, boy, did that screw things up in a hurry.

The ending is a disaster. It doesn't remotely hang together and even the dimmest member on the Unfiction forum has figured out that something has gone haywire. And not just because of the asset liability. Some clues they never delivered (like the incriminating, missing video footage identified Day 7) and other clues were just so damned stupid (like the killer leaving a briefcase with $2 million dollars and his fingerprints at the crime scene) I wanted the last seven days of my life back. This company was paid undoubtedly a hefty sum by these fairly major corporate sponsors to create something not just below par (that might have been a requirement, in fact) but something so ridiculously flimsy that it ultimately broke a wing and waddled into the emergency room with a tapped out credit card and no insurance.

As a player, I want to kick them in the shins repeatedly. As a former game designer, I'm howling that anyone was paid for such incompetence. I'm sure DF was absolutely wetting themselves over the opportunity and didn't think twice -- like many filmmakers -- that they didn't have the skills to pull this off. Having an idea or opinion doesn't make someone capable of doing the work.

I'm going to bed. And I swear, I'm never eating at Applebees (like I would anyway) or watching CourtTV. Life is too short.

Unsuccessfully, I might add.

I'm feeling a wee overwhelmed by the pending transition. But I did speak to my former hairdresser, who referred me to two gals who used to work in her salon. I remember their work, which was awesome. I just didn't remember their names and I hadn't any idea where they went. They're both at a salon & spa up in Burbank. I dropped the salon an email, but I'll definitely try to call Tuesday.

There are other details floating out there. Damn, I hate it when details are not nailed down. It's much more fun when I can watch them squirm and bleed!

For example: Feral sent me a generous box of ritual supplies -- mostly herbs and a vial of special water. That box somehow made it through French customs unharmed. I now need to come back with said box and bring her in return some tasty dried ritual goodness. I can't decide how to do this, though. Either way I risk confiscation of everything, including what she originally sent me. It seems the best way to minimize this is to make sure everything is well dried and put in zip lock bags. But still.

The sword and the umbrella will be fine, methinks, but it will be vastly more expensive to send those back than it was to bring them in. (Especially the umbrella, which used to be broken and fit just fine randomly stuffed in my suitcase.) Both fit nicely together in the original box the sword blade came in.

I just need to make sure that my P.O. Box place accepts those big bags of books sent by boat.

And then there's the social race. Almost every night there's another social gathering to say goodbye. I'm looking forward to Sunday night, as we'll be meeting one of the editors of make/shift. I have an idea to pitch to her that night for an article. They only have one issue out, and I can't subscribe at the moment. Maybe she'll be able to give me a better idea of what they're looking for.

I've had completely ridiculous encounters with so-called feminists who denigrate the BDSM lifestyle and any form of casual sex. Isn't feminism about women having power over their own lives? Women being recognized as having equal rights to men, equal pay, equal recognition, equal social standing? Sometimes I have great difficulty with the movement, even as it evolves over time. Call me an equalicist, not a feminist. I'm not saying that there are no physical distinctions between the two genders, just that no moral, social or financial distinctions should be made.

Okay, back to whatever was waking me up.

Labels: feminism, moving

Tomorrow I throw all sanity to the Mistral winds and go sailing in the Mediterranean.

That excursion sounds nice, but only to someone who wasn't savagely injured the last and only time they were on a boat 15 years ago. (Okay, maybe "savagely" is a bit strong, as I didn't lose any limbs, but I was pretty badly hurt and the pain didn't go away for about a year until I was treated for a month by a chiropractor.)

Hopefully I won't have to worry about anything more than wearing enough sunscreen. The Frenchman has been alerted that I do not like boats as a result but that I'm willing to give anything a second try. Especially if the Mediterranean is involved. I'm leaving the camera at home as I don't want to worry about anything but me getting wet.

Yesterday, I was having lunch with Special K and we spotted tourists with a dog covered in black and brown dread locks. It had so many of these nasty ropes hanging in its doggy face that we couldn't even see what breed it was. Clearly it must have been a Rasta Beagle or something they don't grow in L.A. because of fire hazards.

Right. Back to whatever it was.

Labels: injury, Mediterranean, rasta beagle, sailing

The TOC went off to said editor at Enormous Publishing House. My lit agent loved it and had a very good suggestion as to something I might add. Now we wait, as it turns out the editor is on vacation until early next week.

To cut into the stress, I have been wasting some time with the Alternate Reality Game (ARG) sponsored by CourtTV and Applebees. The gamer sprouts over at Unfiction have scurried ahead of me but I don't care. It seems there's some question as to whether or not the designers purposely let them "hack" into future videos that have now been removed from the server. I mean, there's solving the game, and then there's "solving" the way to get at more than they're supposed to see (that is, cheating). To many people on the Unfiction forum there's no difference. At least they share all their information, which is interesting because there's a $25K prize that will be split between winners. What is that? I don't understand it. Actually, I do in a way: gaming is a social experience. I knew that when we ran Dead Earth games, and especially when I was part of the creation of The Dreamscape. That would explain it, definitely.

At least I solved the problem of carrying The Fabulous Coat, as well as almost all other packing issues. Hooray!

I've been walking the hills and lifting weights every day, too. It feels glorious.

And now more writing.

During our Mother's Day lunch with The Frenchman's mother Sunday in Cannes, his mother announced that The Young M -- The Frenchman's hawt 17-year-old nephew and godson -- is considering becoming a Catholic priest.

I said, "Bad idea! Bad bad bad idea!"

Fortunately, Grandma thinks this is a bad idea, as well. She also believes Jesus is a myth and that the entirety of Christendom is a waste of time, but even The Young M's parents who are devout Catholics think this particular career course is an unwise choice. That said, his parents are vastly liberal Catholics, the kind that love homosexuals and deviants like us. Not just tolerate but love with absolutely zero judgment and total acceptance. Their political and emotional agendas occasionally puts the most liberal Americans to shame. While they are very active in church, I have no doubt that, when they heard this, their morning pain et confiture soiled their pants. The thing is that, unlike in the U.S., once you're locked into a schooling path in France, you're doomed. At the college level, there's no course correction. You can do it, but it's very tough if you change your mind.

We saw him perform in a very good play that weekend we visited, and he played the piano for us -- he's completely self taught and now writes his own music. He's amazingly talented, that's for sure. Maybe he'll figure out soon that he's got looks to kill, charm enough to tame a thousand Amazons, and far too much creativity to last in a dusty old monastery. Otherwise he's going to turn into Joaquin Phoenix's character in Quills and that's just all messed up.

Zeus, strike some sense into this boy who is heartbreak-on-a-plate. Then again, maybe it would save the World of Girl some pain if he were stuffed into a shapeless robe...

Today is Mother's Day in France, so we went to Cannes and took The Frenchman's mother to lunch at a lovely jardin, which is an outdoor restaurant.

It's the last time I'll see Cannes for a while. The city resembles Beverly Hills so strongly that I almost felt homesick, except that Beverly Hills reminds me of everything that's wrong with L.A. -- or, at least everything that isn't sitting right with me these days. Still, I felt sad to leave it and his mother.

We're tackling some serious packing issues over the next few days as we figure out how to get our artwork home with all of our other affairs. It's expensive to move everything back. Of course I'm bringing my shoes! How's a diva to live without them? They require their own suitcase naturally.

I became a bit sick today thinking about going back to the U.S., but it's for the best. Who knows? Maybe something will materialize that can bring us back to France, especially to Paris. I suspect nerves and not enough sleep were the primary culprit of unease today, though.

I hope to have some publishing news in the next few weeks. I'm crossing my fingers but it's hard to pack that way. So, please everyone cross their fingers for me?

Merci. :)

Labels: Cannes, Mother's Day, moving, shoes

So, if you haven't heard already, a minor was gang-raped in a college house up in Alameda County. From Salon:

Another witness, April Grolle, said, "I saw that this young girl did not want to be in there, and that's when we just went 'We're getting this girl out of there.'" They managed to break down the door and found the girl lying on the bed with "vomit dribbling down her face." Chief Elk said, "We had to scoop vomit out of her mouth [and] lift her up. Her pants were completely off her body." She continued, "She had her one shoe on, her jeans were wrapped around one of her ankles and her underwear was left around her ankles. To the left of the bed there was some condom thrown on the ground." The women then dressed the alleged victim and drove her to a local hospital.

The vomit, as it turns out, wasn't even hers.

But the D.A. doesn't think there's enough evidence to go to court, even though there were the three female witnesses who rescued the girl and who can describe the last man brutally fucking her. (The jocks, of course, aren't talking.) At least the Sheriff thinks there's been a crime...

Let me remind you that there's a man on Death Row in San Quentin because of the "eye witness" testimony of one woman and another woman who says he confessed to her. They both later recanted their testimony. No DNA evidence. Nothing. He remains on Death Row after appealing to the Supreme Court.

This means we can send a man to his death, but we can't punish a roomful of sadistic, evil young men to prison for rape. Because, you know, eye witness testimony is sooo unreliable.

Repeat after me: Our justice system is a joke. A big fat stupid joke told by dirty old men pissing against a tree in the park.

Labels: Death Row, injustice, rape

Yesterday morning I covered a lot of details for my return regarding my car and credit cards. I also went to Monoprix with a measuring tape. Tomorrow we'll go to Carrefour, where The Frenchman says there are cheaper suitcases. I've decided the answer to my problems is to simply get as big of a handbag as allowable and put The Fabulous Coat, the laptop and Trog inside. Heck, maybe even a book or two! Woo!

I spent two hours at L'Elfike yesterday afternoon chatting with Ange. She had no idea there were so many haunted houses in the U.S. I thought I'd faint trying to do it, but I managed to tell her all about The Winchester House and Lizzie Borden...in French. ("Tu sais? Elle utilisais un grand couteau pour couper le bois et elle a tué son père et sa nouvelle mère." "C'est une vrai histoire?" "OUI!")

::wobbles dizzily::

More strategizing today. Tonight, dinner with The Fabulous B. I might go back to L'Elfike tomorrow evening while The Frenchman watches soccer, but I might just write, too.

Au demain!

Labels: car, l'elfike, lizzie borden, winchester mystery house