Looks like I'll be chatting (or maybe not) with the folks on WHYS about Obama and how racism is or isn't hurting his campaign.
Just go to the World Have Your Say blog and click the orange "Listen Live" button on the right if you want to tune in. I might be reading my times incorrectly, but I believe it starts at 10:00am Pacific Time.
I've recently made a couple of story sales that I can't officially announce yet -- one because the contract is pending but the other because I promised the publisher that I'd hold tight until they make their public announcement of the TOC.
The latter is interesting because the main character of the story is a fashion journalist. The day after I signed the contract, I received for free and totally out of nowhere a copy of the fashion magazine, New York Look. I don't ever name the designer diva who appears in my story, but from a quick browse of the glossy pages I can see one or two designers who could have been the inspiration for her. For a woman with no name, she's one of the strongest characters I've ever created.
Meanwhile, we just got back from seeing the Israeli magical realism film, Jellyfish. For some reason I have a very hard time watching a film where the main character is badly dressed and slovenly. It's visual nails on the chalkboard. So I had to watch the film through a prolonged wince as I watched the main character droop, wrinkle, muss and mope all over the place. The actress character wasn't any better with one lapel haphazardly tucked under her cardigan collar. Does no one in Tel-Aviv know how to dress? Although the little red-haired girl who walks out of the sea was absolutely amazing to watch, she couldn't save the film from the dangers of being too much like a jellyfish -- shapeless, transparent, and lacking direction. Many critics have referred to it as "moving," but I didn't feel a thing watching it. (On the other hand, the trailer for Live and Become nearly killed me.)
For what it's worth, The Frenchman completely disagrees with me. But I won't kick him out of bed for it.
I want to thank Yvonne Navarro for writing up how the Republican Bastard Brigade just defeated the Fair Pay Act. For those who don't know, women today make up 56% of college graduates and nearly half of the labor force in this country. Yet women make only 73 cents to a man's dollar, and mothers only make 60 cents, for the exact same job. McCain actually had the gall to say this was because women needed "more education and training."
McCain is out of his nut-licking mind.
When I was working at Peoplelink in 2001, I requested that they hire a second writer to help me. When we got R's resume, I remembered working with him at another company back in 1997 and liking him a lot. In terms of work experience, I had the more intense technical background. In the first wave of layoffs, they let R go and he told me that he was pretty sure he was making a lot more money than I was. He was right -- I found out he was making 20% more a year! I was outraged. I complained loudly and got a moderate raise, but not anything close enough to narrow the gap.
So, sign the online petition to send McCain the message that, thank you very much, women already have the education and training, you stupid sexist bastard. It's time we show the world that we walk our talk about equal rights.
Also, post in your blog your own experience of pay inequality or that of a woman in your life and be sure to link back to the previous blog. Let's show how far the trail of inequality runs.
Heidi (aka Super Heidi) Martinuzzi over that the fabulous Pretty-Scary webzine just last night posted a very nice review of Sins of the Sirens. Heidi is a major figure in the Shriekfest Film Festival. The entries I saw when I went a few years ago were quite impressive.
I encourage women who love horror and men who love women in horror to run, don't walk, to Pretty-Scary. It's estrogen with a chainsaw. Raaaawwwrrrrrr!
Yes, I poured over the charts of both Obama and Clinton weeks ago for tomorrow's primary. I saw major stuff for both of them:
Obama: Two self-confidence transits (t. Mars sextile n. Mars and t. Jupiter trine n. Mars), as well as a dampening of idealism and solidification of his relationships (t. Saturn sextile Venus). He's had this major "break up" transit for weeks now (t. Pluto opposing n. Venus), but he and Michelle seem to be doing fine as wine. It seems to be more concerned about money and values than chicks, but we'll see.
Clinton: What a mess. Almost in a good way. Lots of excitement (t. Uranus trine n. Mercury), big plans (t. Jupiter sextile n. Mercury) and warlike speeches (t. Mars sextile n. Mercury). She has lots of weird, unstable transits to Saturn, which tells me she's surfing not land-bound. In fact, it's a Finger of Fate that's lined up but with ugly planets. It simply means it's a fateful day (no duh), not whether Lady Luck is smiling.
(Speaking of fate, why hasn't McCain had his heart attack yet? I'm guessing that birth time his mother gave is, like, way off. Gee, what a surprise.)
Ultimately, these readings say nothing better than what the polls say, not to mention what we already know. Clinton obviously will win the primary, but by the hair of her chinny chin chin. Yet there won't be a big enough difference between the two to be decisive. Even with projections from polls taken weeks ago that said she'd win 49-38, it's still not enough for her to catch up. I'm saying nothing new. Unless Pennsylvania voters change their minds, this thing is simply lying down like it has been all along.
Oooh look! Michael Moore is endorsing Obama. Ironically, he calls Clinton's tactics "disgusting." This race couldn't get any better...
And then today we went to the Director's Guild to the City of Lights, City of Angels film festival where we watched la graine et le mulet, which was extraordinary in every way despite a few pacing problems. It was so realistic, The Frenchman said it almost felt like a documentary in places. For me, it was more like watching a Mike Leigh movie. I'm sure parts of it were improvised, as the intensity and pacing of certain scenes were wound up several notches higher than anything scripted can possibly create. Probably none of you will see this film, but if either you're curious about immigration stories or you just want to see amazingly realistic character portrayal and dialog, this can't be missed.
We watched the surprisingly disturbing documentary last night called My Kid Could Paint That. We weren't 20 minutes into the story when I smelled that these people were conning the public in a big way. Itching to get the 411, I had to go online. The controversy was all over the place.
Although the big turning point of the documentary surprised the filmmaker himself, the story progressed in a predictable direction from my viewpoint. The Frenchman at first defended the art community. "How could they be fooled?"
"Honey, they believe in the Bible! Of course they believe a 4-year-old girl who can barely write her name is producing precise, controlled paint strokes. People want miracles." I pointed out that Marla could barely paint the letters of her name, but that the paintings themselves had very precise brush strokes in them. Now, the coordination to write is a very special training for the muscles, I admit, but so is the ability to create repeated brush strokes of exactly the same breadth and motion all over a canvas.
Puzzling over the motor coordination of a 4 year old, we argued a bit about whether Mozart actually wrote his first piece at 4. I told him that his father Leopold described little Mozart as having more ink on himself than on the page, but that it was undoubtedly music that he'd written -- and good music, at that. The motor coordination he possessed was superior in every way -- both in writing and in performing.
Of course, there's the brilliant film moment when the child confesses on camera that her little brother had actually painted one of the pieces about to be appear in a gallery and not her. But her parents don't react to that. No one does.
Then there was the weirdly quiet reaction to the 60 Minutes segment that exposed the fraud. The parents sat on the couch and just sort of...smiled. And then wilted. Perhaps they were in shock. If it were me, and my family was being libeled on national television, I'd have hopped off the couch and threatened to punch the tube.
Regardless of whether they're cons or not, the whole thing is stomach churning -- the exploitation of children, the gullibility of adults, the graceless reaction people had to the idea of being fooled. But mostly I felt badly for this sweet little girl, who will have to sort out this huge mess in her head for the rest of her life.
I was reading this BBC article called "Why Don't Girls Play Guitar?" and snickering as I read the list of instruments by gender preference (see below).
When my family moved to a school where they had band instead of symphony (I played violin but desperately wanted to play cello), my order of preference for instruments was:
Trombone Trumpet Saxophone French Horn Oboe
Guess what instrument my parents forced me to play? The flute. How...girly. I wound up playing piccolo because I was usually principal flautist.
FOR THE BOYS... electric guitar 81% bass guitar 81% tuba 77% kit drums 75% trombone 71%
...AND THE GIRLS... harp 90% flute 89% voice 80% fife/piccolo 79% oboe 78%
...AND FOR BOTH African drums French horn cornet saxophone tenor horn
I'm absolutely stricken to hear about Michael Reaves' brain surgery. I had emailed him a couple of times when I was in France, after having had lunch with him at the Sherman Oaks Galleria before I left California in the summer of 2006.
He never replied to my emails. I assumed he was too busy or maybe unwell but I never dreamed he was in such bad shape. We'd talked about the Parkinson's during lunch and I saw his hand tremor. Damn this mortal coil! Damn!
If you feel moved and have the money, Subterranean Press is doing a charity sale of INTERWORLD, which he wrote with Neil, to help Michael with his medical bills.
We rolled out to Point Mugu for several hours yesterday to see my sword teacher for her birthday gathering. I stopped to say hello and meet a new person who looked awfully familiar. She was this lovely British lady who introduced herself as Alex. I could have sworn I'd met her at my sword teacher's baby shower and then suddenly I realized where I'd actually "met" her.
The Frenchman proceeded to get quite silly on wine as he chatted with other French people there. (I swear, I think he has more fun with my friends than he does with his own.) We soon realized I'd entirely forgotten one of the bags of supplies. I then berated myself because all we had were graham crackers, marshmallows, two skewers, a container of pasta, a bottle of French red wine and a jar of mustard.
Thank goodness for the wine and for the sweet people who fed us.
Chatted there also with the Hedgebeast who says her very cool horror script is getting funded. (I'm not allowed to say by whom yet but it's someone big enough.) They're letting her direct, which will be awesomeness beyond awesomeness. It is the sort of story that shall, once and for all, settle the question of whether women can write absolutely grueling horror. The Hedgebeast once wrote a first draft of a script for George Romero -- I'm tempted to say it was DAY OF THE DEAD, but I could be wrong -- and she wrote the first draft of THE MUMMY. So, yeah, this should rock our socks.
Anyway. Polishing a sample chapter today for the big proposal thingy and largely puttering around. Hope your weekends are as relaxing!
Such as they were, in no particular order. Subject to change.
1. Had a successful round of pitches, including one to an unanticipated publisher, Mirrorstone Books. The editor Stacey and I were chatting happily when she asked me if, by any chance, I had a children's book. As it so happened, I'd written one about 8 years ago called Monsteria, starring a little girl named Anabelle, who is like a miniature Mary Poppins. I told her about the story, which is Where the Wild Things Are but with a girl protagonist. This seemed to make Stacey enormously happy. We'll see how that pans out.
2. Sold and signed stuff.
3. Read a bit of Caitlin Kiernan's fiction for the "Male or Female?" panel-come-gameshow. One contestant said female, the other male. I asked them why they thought the author was either male or female. Gary Braunbeck offered the generalization that men write more about the external world while women write more about their internal world. The passage I read was definitely more about the external world, but then Monica Kuebler had stumped Gary earlier with passages from John Shirley and Jack Ketchum, proving that generalizations are only that.
4. Met lots of great folk, including the very gracious Scott Edelman, up and coming writer Scott Browne, the incredibly sweet Paul Genesse and the delightful Australian writer Rocky Wood, not to mention the awesomely talented Marge Simon. Her husband, the Grandmaster of Poetry Bruce Boston, wrote the introduction to my poetry collection. Biting Midnight. Meeting Marge had been long in the coming. The convention staff were all terrific people, I should add.
5. Strutted around in some utterly frivolous and girly outfits, especially that amazing pink 1940s suit that I bought from Sabrina Belladonna.
6. Read my latest poem, "Uncle Nietzsche with Anchovies," to an appreciative audience in the Poetry Reading, as well as "Le Menteur" and my French and English versions of "Petite." (Now, is it just me, or should poetry make fucking sense? All that poetry I heard loaded with random adjectives and hyphenated bullshit seriously needs to meet Mr. Shredder. Most came from one Vogon in particular.)
7. Ground my teeth through most of the Bram Stoker ceremony as I witnessed more "club awards." However, I was there to support friends, to which I must say "Mission Accomplished," and besides the emcee was quite funny. I enjoyed watching Sarah Langan win Best Novel. The best part was when Gary Braunbeck mentioned one of my favorite movie moments of all time -- the ending of Prince of Darkness -- as one of two iconic John Carpenter moments. Yay! It's not just me!
8. Made a complete ass of myself in the audience of the screenwriting panel I attended. Lisa Morton knows I'm insane and Bill Breedlove still wrote "Maria Alexander is a goddess" on my martini glass that night, so I suppose they forgive me. The other panelists might not. I do repent my ass-like behavior. Alas!
9. Had a lovely sushi dinner with Loren Rhoads.
10. Said other apparently strange and shocking things whilst on one of the networking panels, as I recall a jaw or two dropping. Oh, how I do love being provocative! (Did I mention I also apparently love the taste of my shoe?)
11. Seemed to sexually traumatized every male in the room with "Pinned" at my reading. (Well, I had warned them about the kinky sex on the advertising flyer. Silly boys!) Later sold a copy to the sweet gal who wandered in late but heard enough to want to read the ending.
12. Survived hotel horrors, including two power outages the first night that caused my room to drop to sub-arctic temperatures, skin ailments galore because of the dryness, and finally some kind of food poisoning that nearly cripped me from packing and leaving the hotel. Can I say that I hate Salt Lake City and the Radisson with equal measures of peevishness? Yes, I certainly can.
Delta Airlines: Possibly the Most Bizarre Story Ever
I need to get out a word about my surreal adventure with Delta Airlines. It's not so much that I almost didn't get a seat on my own flight because they decided to shuffle a bunch of people from LAX who'd had canceled flights. Oh no. The most bizarre thing happened when I went to pick up my luggage at baggage claim.
I was wearing bad shoes that were hurting my feet, so I decided to grab my bag, open it in the baggage claim area, and put on another pair of shoes before dealing with taxis and so forth.
When I wheeled the SmartCart with my bags over to a row of chairs, I sat and bent forward to yank the zipper, only to discover that a lock I didn't recognize had been put on my two main zipper flaps, which meant I couldn't open my bag. Some jackass with Delta or TSA had grabbed another person's lock -- one of those little Dear Diary numbers that needs The World's Tiniest Key -- and slapped it on my bag.
I never use locks anymore. The only time my bag is out of my sight is when it's with the airline and I can't use "real" locks on those bags anyway, so what's the point? Also, where did they get the lock that wasn't TSA-approved? They had to have taken it from someone else's bag -- perhaps from a pocket, or maybe it was hanging unlocked from a zipper -- and put it on my own. The locks that came with the suitcase were in the top pocket with the matching keys. They certainly didn't get this thing from me.
I wheeled my bags back to the baggage claim office and showed them the problem, trying not to explode with expletives on them because I figured that wouldn't help me in Mormon Land. Unable to find bolt cutters, one guy molested the key opening with the pointy end of a pair of scissors. When that didn't work, he said, "Sorry, but there isn't anything else we can do."
I said, still trying to restrain Pele, "Yes, actually, I believe there is more you can do. Could you please take me to TSA and ask them to use bolt cutters on my bag? If I walk there myself, they're going to think I'm a lunatic, when in fact this is probably Delta's fault."
The scissor guy just stared at me. But another Delta guy who'd been listening -- tall, Lurch-like, but with a sweet smile that showed off large, straight teeth -- cheerfully offered to take me. "I'll go with you. It's no problem." I thanked him profusely and off we went.
We wheeled over to TSA, where he spoke with someone as I waited by the cart. After we started to wheel over to another part of the airport, he eyed the bag and stopped suddenly.
"Can I try to pull on the lock?" he asked.
"Sure! Please!" I said, eying his massive hands.
With that, he reached over and wrenched it off. I hugged the life out of him.
No thanks to Hellta Airlines, I finally got to my hotel and not a moment too soon.
