Maria Alexander News and Updates from TheHandlessPoet.com

I'll be out the door to World Horror shortly.

I have a touch of the blues today. Can't say more than that except I'm distracted by bad news. Not the death kind, fortunately, and nothing to do with The Frenchman, but the heart's elsewhere, that's for sure. Oh, and I have another damned ailment. Fuck it -- I'm going to drown in alcohol anyway.

I'm sure I'll feel better when I see my friends. I'll be flung head first into the madness, which is often a cure.

My reading is at 3:30pm Friday. I made naughty fliers with which to annoy the hotel staff.

See some of you on the other side!

I haven't written in a few days, not because I've had nothing to say (lord knows) but rather because I've been busy writing and preparing for WHC.

What's prompted me to break my LJ fast is that I'm outraged over what's happened to high school teacher Connie Heerman. Heerman, for those who haven't heard yet, was officially suspended for 1-1/2 years from teaching at Perry Meridian High School for using a "banned book" -- The Freedom Writer's Diaries. (She was suspended back in November, but her school board appeal wasn't decided until this week.)

Let's not yet discuss the merits of this book (I've never read it, so I don't know) or even the extremity of the punishment dealt to this teacher for "insubordination." What's completely distressing is that:

In Heermann's absence this semester, a substitute teacher filling in for her has allowed students the option of using "The Freedom Writers Diary" for various reading assignments, Heermann said -- this time, with administrators' consent.

So, a teacher's job was taken away -- a job she obviously loves and is probably getting paid fuck all for -- for 18 months simply for "breaking the rules." It's not the book that's important, a book that might or might not be offending students (heaven forfend!) with racial slurs and sexual content (yawn), but that she broke the rules. Because obviously the book isn't a problem, if it's still being used by the substitute teacher.

Connie, here's hoping you find a better job where you don't have to work with hypocritical jackasses who are more concerned with crushing teachers under their flabby thumbs than teaching students.

And why.

Holy crap! I couldn't believe someone actually said this, but it's insanely true:

Because as much as Hillary Clinton the wife and the woman and the mom no doubt hates it, Hillary Clinton the candidate has largely benefited from her husband's extracurricular activities. That's because—and this is the tragic part—America seems to like her best when she's being victimized—by Bill or Rick Lazio or the media. In that sense, her husband is a useful prop who reminds us of the extent of her suffering.

Wow. Just...wow. Read the article in Slate.

It all ties into that business about why the public eats up Britney bashing. They love to see women victimized. It's a national sport. But I'm especially keen on how this article ties it all back into the workings of Hillary's campaign. Unbelievable.

Labels: misogyny, politics

First of all, screw that silly LiveJournal strike. What a bunch of horseshite.

Second, I can't believe the nonsense that continues over the so-called Shroud of Turin. It's merely more evidence of how deluded human beings can latch onto a single explanation of something and pursue it to the frayed ends of reason. The BBC writer says, "The mysterious image of a crucified man has refused to lie down and die." Please! Actually, it's more like the cranks won't lie down and die. They can't come up with a single document -- not one line of writing -- that was contemporary with the supposed life of Jesus, but they have this mysterious "shroud" of the "historical Christ"? What next? The Toothpicks of Turin? The Toilet Paper of Turin?

Thankfully, there's plenty of great work done on debunking this madness. Check out the article about the French scientists who created their own Shroud.

King Arthur: Go and tell your master that we have been charged by God with a sacred quest. If he will give us food and shelter for the night, he can join us in our quest for the Holy Grail.
French Soldier: Well, I'll ask him, but I don't think he will be very keen. Uh, he's already got one, you see.
King Arthur: What?
Sir Galahad: He said they've already got one!
King Arthur: Are you sure he's got one?
French Soldier: Oh yes, it's very nice!

Glad to see the BBC, though, is on top of entertainment, if not science.

Labels: blasphemy, con artist, shroud of turn

A very happy Vernal Equinox to you and yours.

I have extra "sproing" in my bottom like Tigger this morning because The New Doctor has given a clear bill of health. She's doing one test just in case, but it seems everything is absolutely clear. We'll know by next Monday for sure. Otherwise, she's taken me off 90% of the medications that Mad-ame Scientist put me on. Everyone was incredibly nice, too.

Sproing!

And the best part? I can go back to eating like a normal, healthy human being. I'll always be cautious about sugar, but a handful of cocktails at WHC isn't going to be a problem.

SPROING!

Oh, joy! Oh, rapture! Food, wonderful, delicious, delectable, mouth-watering food!

::flings about in a tail-wagging, schnozzle-tipping delirious Opus dance::

Here's hoping you all get wonderful news, too, if not just a little tipsy today.

And Mr. Ointment used my Snapple cap that I gave him in his video today. Hilarious!

Labels: health, joy, spring, texas, the ointment

Arthur C. Clarke's Childhood's End was my highly formative first experience with science fiction.

And now he's passed. But at least he'd lived a full, amazing life. Rest easy, AC.

Labels: death

For lots of obvious reasons, people love to ruin and misrepresent BDSM. It's titillating. It's weird. It's there for the storyteller's taking to destroy, distort and exploit for whatever effect they seek. Here are two great examples.

The Frenchman and I last night watched the really terrible Roger Rees movie, Going Under. I was surprised to see Roger Rees' hard cock at least three times. Not peeking out, either, but bobbing in the breezes. Woo! Sadly, even this generous revelation was not enough to save this truly appalling film. The BDSM scenes were tepid at best and certainly not remotely realistic. The woman who played the pro domme was annoying to watch with her atrocious acting and unbrushed hair. It would have been okay if it was actually a movie about a therapist curious about BDSM who makes an appointment with a dominatrix and winds up discovering his true sexuality. But no. It had to be this confused mess about a kinky therapist with a wife who apparently lets him see pro dommes, even when it's clear that he's fallen in love with the one he's been seeing for the last two years. It starts at the point where he and the domme have already crossed lines. Roger's character is this sniveling, sneaky bastard who takes advantage of his open-minded wife by trying to seduce his domme as soon as his wife goes away for the summer to write. The BDSM players are all emotionally screwed up jackasses, wrecking every relationship they have with their runty intimacy skills.

And then someone recently pointed this one out to me: "Writing the Whip." It's a "diary" by a supposed professional dominatrix on the site where the 6 Word Memoir thing was born. My pal asked me specifically to read the entry about kidnapping. Are you fucking kidding me? This woman claims to have drank "several flutes of champagne" before commencing a kidnapping scene -- get this -- in a foreign country with a guy who doesn't speak English. Sorry to piss on your stilettos, Mistress 21-year-old Asian Pro Domme Ivy League School Graduate*, but you're romping in the floaty dandelions of a Ridley Scott fantasy flick.

Of course now we're getting onto the topic of how we live in a world of "reality" victims who gorge themselves on whatever excrement someone puts out there as long as they say it's "real." This is just beyond silly and dumb. Can't we just acknowledge the fantasy and say, "Yes, but I like it anyway"? Whatever happened to loving soap operas and calling them "my stories," taking the characters to heart because they're people you can care about? It's just baffling.

Now back at it.




* HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

Labels: BDSM, memoir, morons, Roger Rees

What happens when Slate lets some jackass rip apart Gary Gygax and his contribution to RPGs before the dirt has barely settled on his grave?

A huge reel of gamer backlash in the forums is what.

Oi.

Barraged by all kinds of health stuff -- not the flu, thank goodness, but enough other stuff that I considered staying home today. Somehow I was able to write a little through it all, although I can't figure out how I managed.

Will post pictures and videos from the Victorian Ball, which was lovely. I actually had dress envy, which is rare for me. I'm usually eying what the men are wearing in any given time period before 1900. But with the Victorians, I have one word: BUSTLES! And sometimes three words: BUSTLES WITH BOWS! The outfit I wore looked positively dowdy compared to the adorable bustle dresses I saw. For the first time ever, I actually looked around and thought that a black dress just wasn't right.

I must really be ill.

And here's another review for Sins of the Sirens. Although not the most favorable review of my work, it's a very positive review for the book as a whole. I'm fascinated with what anyone takes away from my contribution because the three stories are so incredibly different -- "Pinned" is straight erotic horror, "The Dark River of His Flesh" is historical dark fantasy and "The Last Word" is a Borges-like tale -- that whatever story they "choose" says a lot about the reader's general tastes. And, for the record, "The Dark River of His Flesh" is about what happens when a good person encounters his Shadow, and the transformation that occurs as a result. Self-imposed isolation is just a prelude to the necessary transformation. It also mirrors the process of recovery from addiction. (A therapist friend read this early on and very loudly went "Yippee, this is exactly right!" Good to know, eh?)

Carry on.

Labels: review, Sins of the Sirens

I got the best laugh of the week listening to this NPR program this morning, called "Class Teaches Virtues to Children of Many Faiths."

Essentially this Jewish lady is teaching a classroom of children from 14 months to 6 years old to respect other religions and to exhibit virtues -- all good, right? At one point in the story, she asks her at-home class, "Did anyone exhibit contentment this week?" To which a little boy replies, "Not me!" Which was hilarious enough.

But the best part isn't in the article. It's when the NPR reporter asks another little boy what his favorite virtue is.

He confidently replies, "My favorite virtue is T.V."


Awesome.

Labels: atheism, npr

Math is hard...even harder when the numbers aren't remotely in your favor.

(Thanks, Mr. Ointment.)

Just forget all the imaginary conflict hyped by the media to keep you coming back to the news television shows and websites for your advertising impressions. They want you to think Hillary's having a "comeback" and that there are "battles to come" so that they can keep your attention and make money off of you.

Turn off the TV. Forget CNN.

Just let everyone vote. Weird concept, eh? As soon as the media knows that we know, then we'll be able to move on.

ETA: Slate has updated their Delegate Calculator, but they are -- very unrealistically -- "split(ting) the remaining 10 delegates evenly between the two candidates." A lesson to you: Even Slate can't stay out of the hoo-hah.

Labels: politics

Just a warning to everyone that I've exceeded my 24-hour limit of jackasses, hacks and frauds. Why don't they just put themselves in the ground rather than other people? (And is this happening every other fucking day now or what?)

Oh, and Margaret B. Jones can triply fuck herself, as well as the gullible dopes at Penguin who didn't fact check her story, making it more difficult for someone with a real story to tell. Salopes et cons touts.

Labels: fraud, hack, jackass, memoir, murder

I spent four hours in a Victorian Ballroom dancing class yesterday preparing for The Victorian Ball next Saturday night. While the dances themselves aren't that physically challenging, after four hours with only three-minute breaks between the six or so dances we learned, I was ready to become one with my pillow. It's sad because I was younger and more fit than most of the people in that class -- or so I thought! That'll learn me.

I dug dancing with The Marquise and The King of the Nachoheads. That was rockin'. But The Marquise and I are both wondering how our dresses are going to survive the pummeling from people's heels. People aren't used to being around those trailing bustle skirts, yo. And they're expecting about 250 people at this thing! I think my dress might be doomed unless I make some alterations. My friends were also telling me that the Regency dances are much more friendly and fun. Apparently the people were far more reserved at the Victorian dance classes. Kind of fits with the period, though, don't you think?

Very little writing happened this weekend, which pisses me off. Hopefully I can make up for lost time this week. In the meantime:

Labels: obama, victorians

Fresh up on the Intarwebs is a cool little interview that DOC at New Voices in Horror did with me for the March 2008 issue. Ever wonder what the real story is behind "When Gods Die"? Well, there it is. Sort of.

(If you need to turn off the music, the switch is waaaaaaay at the bottom of the frame.)

There's also an interview with Elizabeth Massie and Roberta Lannes.

I almost finished my taxes today and a load of correspondence. Thrilled! is screaming along. All's good over here in the mist and fog of sunny L.A.

Labels: interview