May I Use the Cruciatus on That Dentist?

*points at title* Not my current one, who is the doctor who fully reconciled me with his profession, and who I can go see alone.

You see, my teeth are oddly shaped, and not planted that well, but... they're quite solid and healthy.

When the dentist who'd always taken care of me retired (his surgery was rather far from our home, but he was quite good, and it was worth it), we decided to try one who was on our street...

I remember opening wide, and she announced that she could spot some decay on at least one tooth, which she promptly drilled and (badly!!!) filled. I say badly because it was hideous, and my current dentist said it was poor work - and I believe him (and he had to alter the filling a few years ago to correct her mistake).

I'm not pretending that my teeth are perfect, no... Not at all. I'm just saying that the lying bitch who drilled my tooth did so to make money (the day I die, I'll still be convinced that that tooth had nothing, but she twisted my mum's arm and mine to make a few quids).

And today... a tiny lil' bit of that poor tooth broke. The tooth no longer has its nerve, and nothing is too damaged, but it's quite weird - and massively unpleasant.

I'll have to manage to get an appointment with my dentist (I hope he won't be on holidays!), and I hope nothing weird will happen whilst I'm stuck in the country (the local dentist, too many miles away anyway, is said to be a bit like that guy in Marathon Man - just saying).

If some greedy cunt hadn't drilled my tooth, I probably wouldn't be on tooth-watch now, whilst I have better things to do - hence my wish to use the Cruciatus on her. Since that spell isn't real, I'll just wish her to fall and break... all the bones in both feet (and I bloody mean it).

New News (about Books)

Sorry about the silly title, I'm knackered, and my sense of humour is... erm... so-so when I'm that tired.

Since we avoided a massive snafu with the Tax People (I'm so going to call them that from now on!), there's been a lot on our plates.

First, work was nutty for us all, which doesn't help when you're trying to start a new company that's going to be your secondary activity.

Then... my cousin's working on sub-parts of our future website, and she's editing her PhD, which we'll publish.

She's done editing the French version of Oscar Wilde's Salomé, and I'm slowly translating it into proper English (I'm checking old dictionaries in order to try and stay faithful to Wilde's original meaning).

We're also working on our edition of Shakespeare's Sonnets, and things are nicely taking shape (my growly, anti-Anti-Stratfordian preface is ready, and I've made an interesting discovery about the loudest nutcase against Shakespeare in the 19th century). We're checking the modern punctuation, and we're correcting emendations that were wrongly made in the versions with the original and the modern spelling.

I'm also trying to finish my third Muff&Sherly story.

We're swimming in plot bunnies, and we'll all share them with you next month.

In Kafka-land

Dear Administrations,

would you please stop trying to give me an ulcer or a heart attack?

Sincerely,

Dru

My cousin, her mum, and I have spent last night attempting to read the additional bumph sent by our local "HM Revenue & Customs" (the IRS, if you're on the other side of the pond).

First... It's always written in North Korean (or in Romulan!).

And then, after picturing our publishing adventure closing before it even opened... we discovered that we're not concerned by the bumph they sent (our status is so rare - okay, and recent - that we're not on their map).

My cousin will have to go see them, explain (in veeeeeeeery simple words) what we do, give them the legal reference that concerns our status, and pray to Zeus that they acknowledge that we're right (otherwise they could ask us a pay a tax we cannot afford to pay).

We're trying to do everything by the book, and we're being probed, and investigated, and doubted (and generally not helped at all) even though we've done nothing to deserve that.

How do con-men go through these nets? Do they bulldoze and/or cajole their way though?

It's the third time we fear we might have to stop launching our own business. I hope it's the last time - and I hope we can go on...

Wish us luck?

Literary News

Strangely enough, we, at Éditions Aikyō, are currently editing a lovely book, full of entertaining short stories, and in one of them, there's a brief mention of a female POTUS (as if it had happened in the election before the one that just happened). We're planning to write a barmy, tongue-in-cheek summary to promote that book, and since Wednesday morning, the author, our friend DeForest suggested that we insist on the fantasy/science-fiction side of some of his stories. I think he's got a point...

On my side, I'm busy editing Muff&Sherly 2, and I'm finishing the third novel in that universe.

I'm also still planning the plots for my Victorian spy story, and modern spy plots.

Whilst my cousin and Usagi are busy gathering info so that they can write a few prefaces we're going to need for a few books we've decided to add to our catalogue, I'm also editing a version of Shakespeare's Sonnets (from the first printing, with the original spelling, and with a modern version of each sonnet, too).

As well, we will have an edition of Oscar Wilde's Salomé (from the 1893 edition in French). Now... huge question: most published translations of that play into English are based either on the faulty version committed by Oscar's lover, or on the one where corrections were attempted after Oscar's death by one of his close friends. Both allow a grammatical mistake in English in... the very first line - and neither is close enough to the original text in French. 

I never planned that, but... I'm tempted to translate it myself. So...How nutty am I?

Let me show you what bothers me:

From 1894 ->

SCENE
[A great terrace in the Palace of Herod, set about the banqueting hall. Some soldiers are leaning over the balcony. To the right there is a gigantic staircase, to the left, at the back, an old cistern surrounded by a wall of green bronze. The moon is shining very brightly.]

THE YOUNG SYRIAN: How beautiful is the Princess Salome to-night!

THE PAGE OF HERODIAS: Look at the moon. How strange the moon seems! She is like a woman rising from the tomb. She is like a dead woman. One might fancy she was looking for dead things.

From 1912 ->

SCENE
[A great terrace in the Palace of Herod, set above the banqueting-hall Some soldiers are leaning over the balcony. To the right there is a gigantic staircase, to the left, at the back, an old cistern surrounded by a wall of green bronze. Moonlight.]

THE YOUNG SYRIAN: How beautiful is the Princess Salome to-night !

THE PAGE OF HERODIAS: Look at the moon ! How strange the moon seems ! She is like a woman rising from a tomb. She is like a dead woman. You would fancy she was looking for dead things.

And here's what I would do:

SCENE
[A huge terrace in the palace of Herod, overlooking the banqueting hall. A few soldiers are leaning over the balustrade. To the right, there's an impressive staircase. To the left, at the back, an old cistern surrounded by a patinated bronze wall. Moonlight.]

THE YOUNG SYRIAN: How beautiful is Princess Salomé tonight!

THE PAGE OF HERODIAS: Look at the moon. The moon looks very strange. She looks like a woman leaving a tomb. She seems like a dead woman. One might think that she’s looking for dead people.
 
So?

Watercolour for My Bunnies

Pfft! Who needs to sleep when there are so many plot bunnies, edition bunnies and drawing bunnies? Um, who???

Here's a lil' something I did for Muff&Sherly 2:

Of course, it'll have to go through tons of filters when we print it...

That Kind of Day, Eh?

I don't understand why so many bipeds feel the need to be so petty... and it's a festival on Earth these days.

There's a failed con artist with a fake tan, who got a million from his daddy to start a business (and who managed to lose almost a billion (!!!!!) in a year years later) who's trying to make gullible people believe that he could manage a country (when he's never been properly involved in politics before) - and he's just been caught on tape gloating that he's a predator.

There are politicos who help make money, thanks to all the horrors going on in the Middle East, whilst other politicos, in a kind of remake of the 1930s would like to know where the aliens are working in their country.

All that makes my blood boil, and today... the ugliness got personal (as I've lost a friend).

That this person has been forgetting my birthday (we're supposed to be good friends) for a decade... No problem. It's not that important (even though that person didn't forget to wish a "Happy birthday!" to... a sports coach met once a week for a few months).

That I'm always the one who has to keep in touch... I'll make the effort. No problem.

That this person played deaf when I talked about breaking down and thinking about suicide. No problem. It's my burden (and I understand it's not easy to know what to say [though a hug would have been frigging nice]).

That this person acted as if nothing happened when I said that I'd apostatised... Still not a problem.

My health is yo-yo'ing again, so I don't have time for pettiness (I've got fever, headaches, and most of my joints hurt, which is pretty scary - and painful).
As well, I'm drawing the line at pseudo-jokes.
I've never bought the 'I'm telling you something horrible, but I'll pretend it's a joke so you can't be mad at me'. People use 'I'm joking' when they've pushed you over the cliff, but they don't want the witnesses to tell the coppers what really happened.

I don't particularly enjoy having to get rid of knives in my back - and today's incident left me with my lower jaw on the floor, coz I didn't expect to be told something so low about my life - especially not from someone who I thought was a friend, but friends don't disparage you, your beliefs or your life.

I do have good friends who are lovely and kind, Merlin be praised. I won't be able to forget (or forgive) what that person told me, wrapped in a pseudo-joke, and I'm done being the only one making all the efforts. 

I'm nice, but life's too short.

Less pettiness, more empathy.

Gals in Charge

Last year, there was a kind of competition to have The Next MacGyver on telly. Anyone could participate (so I did!), and the main idea was that gals were to be in charge (I liked that).
Fast forward to today, and the new MacGyver is a testosterone-fuelled reboot of the original with the usual quota of (annoying, background sound bite) women. [That's one series I won't be watching]

Since I've decided to write the plots that had come to my mind, I'm sharing what I sent with you:

My title was:
Ever Heard of_

My logline was:

After years spent in Europe, Morgan Simon was going to meet her father at La Guardia, but he seems to have disappeared. As she goes looking for him, she rescues a lovely mathematician, who happens to have a secret life. Who needs urban legends when you meet people from a real secret society?

My sort-of summary/catchphrase:

No need for urban legends when you join a real secret society.

My first three episodes titles ans one-liners summaries:

1-     _ Eventful Encounters?: Morgan rescues Léah from clumsy thieves, and she joins the secret society.

2-     _Meeting the Family?: Morgan’s IT job (Problem #1) keeps being interrupted by her new friends coming to meet her (Problem #2), and McMaster is abducted by a mad scientist who wants to sell her to the highest bidder (Problem #3).

3-     _the Antikythera?: A mis-archived papyrus gives the location (in riddles) of three ancient Greek computers much more complicated than the damaged one that was found in 1901. What can they actually do? And who will get to them first?

My (main - and female) protagonists' names and descriptions:

-         Morgan Simon is a computer witch and a genius who gets easily bored; therefore, she’ll read about anything and she’ll try everything. She’s just arrived to New York City, where her father didn’t welcome her at the airport, and she goes looking for him, while balancing her new job – and her new friends’ challenges.

-         Léah Wenn is an unemployed mathematician who isn’t homeless because her society’s friends are helping her. She’s the busiest of them all.

-         Chris McMaster is the leader of the secret society. She’s a blind biologist who came up with a defence weapon that combines drugs and other elements that actually incapacitate bad guys in seconds (and that is completely safe) if her delegates need to make an escape.

My synopsis of the pilot episode:

When Morgan Simon’s father fails to show at the airport where she’s just landed, she starts looking for him on the net. She ends up at an airfield where, thanks to her love for strategy (and her passion for MMORPG and Live Action Games, plus a good poker face) she helps Léah Wenn get away from nasty people who are stealing industrial secrets for even nastier people. The ladies take a small plane, but neither has actually ever flown; while taking off worked fine, landing will be an issue, and Morgan has to feed an autoland programme into the plane’s computer with a laptop that has a faulty Wi-Fi connection. If they manage to land, Léah will need Morgan’s help in order to retrieve secrets that must stay secret, and that means that Léah will have to trust Morgan with her secrets (like working for a group with no legal status and no official connection that aims at fighting for the welfare of all) – and probably with her life, too.

I don't know if it's good.
I don't know if the written short stories will be good.
But I'm writing my plots.

Still Missing Him

After watching a series I really love tonight, I started changing channels, firmly convinced that I'd turn the telly off to go back to my computer. There was a channel showing episodes of The Mentalist; I found myself watching because I'll always associate the last episode of that series with the last time I was happy before He left for the island with no phones and no Wi-Fi.

It's been 568 days, and I'll keep counting until I start packing to go to the island myself...

Apart from the fact that I can still smile or cry thinking about Him, there's a Cole Porter song that makes me think of Him.

Here's a version of it with Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire:

Same Old Same Old - The "Next" MacGyver Edition

Alas, this is not about the old series where a lovely guy saved the day with some gum and a paper-clip.

Nope.

I went looking for a TV calendar in order to check when my siblings could start sending me spoilers about my favourite shows again, and I found a mention of the next MacGyver's first episode.

You see, last year I shipped my own plot bunnies to the Next MacGyver competition. When I got a message telling me that my script ideas weren't selected for the next step, I remember sending an answer wishing them luck and promising to watch the new series (what's not to love about women kicking arses and saving the day with some gum and a paper-clip... and maybe some GPS device to update the concept?).

I quite like my ideas, and I'm somehow glad that I find myself free to develop them without having studio people telling me to change "this, and that, and that... Oh, and maybe that, too".

I hadn't checked the project since last year, but I investigated a bit after reading the première date. Then, I had to dig deeper, because the competition I'd joined was about promoting women and having a female "MacGyver" as the next number 1 in the cast, but I was reading about blokes, and more blokes.

I must admit that I was barely caffeinated, and I briefly thought I'd stumbled upon a different project, but... no.

Shelved is the idea of the next MacGyver being played by a woman; it's all about cunning men saving the world (from inside the US government apparently, and there's one woman around, but she sounds like a right ungrateful, entitled bitch - on paper, at least). 

I don't know how the initial project was killed, but I'm not interested in that remake - at all.

I don't know if it's rampant sexism, fear about something new, fear about having too much science (and too many women?) in one show, but I don't care. This "MacGyver" doesn't look interesting or challenging enough.

There's one good thing, though: my own plot bunnies from the competition just hopped ahead in my writing queue.

Of Lazy Companies

'Dear Customer,

please, do our job...'

I can't help but have this sentence stuck in my head to summarize what just happened to me.

I got a letter from a "CCC" company that was informing me of the change/renewal of some piece of "AA" equipment in my flat.

The bloody thing looked like a scam.

I phoned to "AA", but no one knew about it... until I read them the letter, & they pointed out the piece of equipment now belongs to "AAa" ('Hello, communication between services!?' <- my Sarc font is firmly on).

I phoned to "AAa", and they confirmed that "CCC" works for them - but they had no trace of the change in my file (the OCD in me was beginning to twitch a little).

I phoned "CCC" because the appointment in the letter didn't work for me.

I could change it; no problem... buuuuuuuuut the lovely secretary told me that I should call the technician on the day of the appointment in order to know when he's going to be at my flat.

Aforementioned technician only has a mobile number (that's logical), & such numbers aren't included in my phone package & I am NOT going to pay to phone a guy when it's the "CCC" company that should contact me.

I told the secretary that I wouldn't be able to phone the technician, & I gave her my phone number (an old-fashioned landline).

She said that they'd contact me. [I thought "cool!"].

Then she said that I'd have to phone the technician to know when he'd be at my flat. ô.O

I realized that she wanted me to do their job, but... oops! I'm not paid for that.

Either they call me or they can drop dead - & I'll call "AAa" to read them the riot act in fifteen languages.

Oh.. "AAa" sent me a link to a poll. When they asked me if I had suggestions, weeeeell, I may have made a few to have them work properly, & not like lazy sloths.

I fear there shall be a "Part 2" to this story...

That Spy Novel

My plot bunnies tend to be twisted (no surprise here).

Perhaps I decided that the action of An Honourable Spy should take place in the Victorian era because there are so many possibilities or perhaps because it would allow the plot to have some freedom and not be corseted by the current ways of spying (fewer computers, more ciphers and snitches).

I've got in my head all the background info for all my main characters, now, I just need to have a historical timeline, facts, and a plausible plot against Victoria (or other people).

I've decided that the action of my story is going to take place in 1887 and 1888 (plenty to do then!).

When I just blogged about my plot bunnies, I typed: 'An Honourable Spy (a [pseudo-]Victorian piece of nuttiness inspired by History, and too many spy novels)'. The second part was meant to give a general description, but... do you think that it might be fun to keep that in the full description of the book?

Meet Our 'Babies' [Book 1]

Since our company's website is only on Xampp for the moment, I'll use this blog to make you meet our books.

I've got photos of the one that was posted today (my cousin's M. St., which she'd promised to publish years ago):

I'll take pictures of the others as soon as I can (yes, I know, it was silly not to take pics of our 'babies' before we mailed them to Godmother National Library).

That 'White Rabbit' Feeling (A Dru Update with Some Book News)

Everything's mad (in my life), my dears.

There's not enough hours in a day for everything.

One more title for Éditions Aikyō was just sent to be registered (one of my cousin's this time).

I'm still growling on a regular basis, but I'm really recycling most growls into my Sci-Fi plots. Novel #3 has just exploded, because of a controversial piece of clothing that's presented as "liberating" when the bottom line I see is that some have been brainwashed to believe it was necessary to look "modest" (I've created a kingdom where I'm going to use the news to feed the bunnies).

I'm currently writing two novels: Muff&Sherly 3, & An Honourable Spy (a [pseudo-]Victorian piece of nuttiness inspired by History, and too many spy novels), and reading three: Se una notte d'inverno un viaggiatore by Italo Calvino, La coartada de Antínoo by Manuel Franscico Reina, and this beauty:

Look! A Car Goodvert!

I find this commercial for the new Fiat 500 Riva, "The smallest yacht in the world" absolutely delightful. So I've found a link to it, and I'm sharing it with you.
Enjoy!

^_^

Less Growling? (Brexit-free.... Almost)

Am I growling less? Nope. The state of the world and my latent allergy to stupidity are still making me growl (or even howl at the Moon) on a regular basis.

It's "just" that I'm not growling here because I started recycling my growls into plot bunnies: my Sci-Fi universe needs feeding, and I'm using our world in order to describe a planet as I dream ours were.

For example, you can bet that a certain veeeeeeeeeery recent referendum will prominently figure in one of my Sci-Fi universe novels. Honestly, I went to bed before the results of the Scottish and the EU referendums were announced, and I woke up to weirdness; I'm beginning to think that I shouldn't go to bed to keep an eye on what's going on when there's a big vote (yea, because my staying up could change anything - of course <- this is my Sarc font being firmly on).

As well, the publishing team and I (the infamous triumvirate) are working on registering more books - and I'm doing all that between spots of renovations. I'm knackered, but the muscles are nice.

I haven't forgotten my blog. I'm still the growly gal you read. I'm using the nuttiness of our planet to feed the plot bunnies (and right now, I've got a dictatorship that's going to be invaded by an army led by a fierce gal - it'll be fun... but not for everybody).

I'll wave and post as often as I can, and if you'd like not all the growls to become plot bunny food, say so... ^_~

Victim Blaming Is Alive and Well

I really should read fewer newspapers.

I really should not read the comments.

I was reading a new article about the latest "scandal" about a courageous rape victim who was betrayed by the sentencing judge (because the culprit, as a fellow star athlete, deserves to not be properly punished).

It's this New York Times article (it's good, and I've got nothing to say against the journalist).

No, my problem is with whichever plonker picked a victim-blaming comment as a NYT Picks:

There are other similar comments on the thread. Of course. Gosh! My Sarc font is on again!

It's not about showing both sides of an argument. There's NO argument; one does not betray a victim yet another time by giving "air time" to a caveman. Full stop.

Oh, and for good measure, here's the mug of the culprit's protector judge:

I could add something about the letter that the culprit's father wrote, but there's no point in risking my lovely brain cells. Go read about that other caveman; he's a piece of... something.

Interesting Nightmare

*points at title* No, I'm not talking about the launch of the publishing company (though it's rather entertaining - in a weird way, and the launch's the reason for my being so quiet around here these weeks).

When I have fever (and with the defrosting of the last millimetres of my nerve VII, it happens a lot), I have nightmares. Usually, most nightmares dissolve from my brain when I stand up and go to the kitchen to make breakfast, but sometimes, I remember the nightmares.

I put a notebook next to my bed in order to write bits about the nightmare plots (years ago, I had a terrible nightmare - properly scary and all. I remember thinking that it'd make a very, very good story, and the moment I got up, "Poof!" most of it was gone. I still hope my brain will give me that plot bunny back one day - even if it's scary).

Last night's nightmare is still in my head. It's not a plot bunny candidate this one... It's just... odd.

It brought me back to my college days, back when I was still a student and I was a teacher as well. Until I sat for my PhD, I was afraid that something would happen, and my delightful, feverish brain brought me back to that time in my latest nightmare:

I was teaching at my old college (that was odd, because I taught a few classes at another college back then), and I was planning to sit for my PhD in a couple of weeks when someone from administration came to see me and informed me that they thought I was missing a unit for... my BA.

I protested that I could prove that I had my BA - and my MA, and my M.St, but they were going back to my BA and were quite cold.

No one was helping me until... one of my colleagues decided to fight for me. That colleague? Oh... just Mr Gary Sinise (let's blame that one on Criminal Minds, shall we?).

He did manage to help me, but he did it not in the way I wanted to prove that I had my BA, and I was quite angry.

He tried to apologize by bringing a small military band (like the ones that play at St James's Park) to play for me, and... I woke up.

It's very strange because Mr Sinise was quite nice, but the fear of losing all my hard work because someone had lost an old file of mine was quite vivid and unpleasant (yes, I do see the possible link with the stress caused by the company launch, thank you).

Back to work...

See you "soon"...

Walk in My Shoes

It's funny how people on Twitter (I'm not on Facebook, but I guess it's the same over there) retweet and like things, but they seldom actually chat. I'm not such a big fan of silence, so I try to talk to people when they send something that touches me one way or the other.

Yesterday, Louise Brealey sent a link to a video about abuse. Even though I'm fine these days (that's a wonder with the amount of stress generated by the launch of our company!), that short video made me cry because it reminded me that my own mother is either in denial about what my abuser did to me or she really believes that I should have been back to normal five minutes after he left.

This is not how it works.

My soul is scratched - but healing.

My heart was broken - but I've found some glue to repair it... though the tiniest pieces are fucking hard to put back where they belong.

When I met my abuser, some people I knew could have warned me against him. They didn't.

It took him six hours to worm his way into my coat of armour and toss me into a tiger trap where I woke up, broken, hurt, lost. Lost... important part of the issue in my case. I couldn't figure out what was going on.

One day, I remember thinking, as it's often the case with victims, 'Why do I allow him to do these things to me?' and then... it hit me. It was the wrong question.

The right question was, 'Why does he think he has the right to treat me like this?'

He had no right to hurt me.

Too bad for me, he was a manipulator, and he'd found all my buttons within hours of meeting me, and he could abuse me all he wanted.

Fast forward a few years, and I'm healing.

Yesterday, someone at @BoxRoomFilms tweeted me with kind words after I mentioned being a survivor. That was quite nice. It was 'Hey! Stay strong, fellow human being!'

And this morning, I got this:

Ah.

So it's my fault if I was stupid enough to pick up a snake. I was bitten, and I'm the only one to blame - because me, myself, and I, we picked up a snake.

That was a lovely punch to the gut.

Miss Valicia thinks victims are the only ones to blame.
Miss Carla felt the need to remind me that I was stupid enough to pick up a snake, so I deserved being bitten.

Thank you so much, sisters.

No wonder my friends in town don't want to hear what I have to say when I feel a bit low because of the long-term consequences of the abuse, and no wonder my own mother wants to forget about the whole thing.

As I told Miss Carla, this is victim-blaming AND my snake looked like a bloody canary when I met him. He was delightful until he morphed into his own version of Mr Hyde. AND, to the rest of the world, he was ALWAYS Mr Charming.

I'm not stupid.

I wasn't stupid back then.

I was targeted by a sick wanker, who, unfortunately, was twisted enough to find a way to control me long enough to do with me as he pleased.

It's frigging easy to say 'Don't pick up a snake if you don't want to be bitten!'. These creatures don't show their fangs until it's too late and the VICTIM cannot escape.

I wish we could eradicate all forms of abuse, but it seems that there's still a lot of education to do if we don't want the Valicias and Carlas of the world to hand out useful advice to not pick up the snake, but it seems that people who haven't been walking in the shoes of a victim of abuse simply cannot understand how devastating and paralysing it can be to find oneself into the clutches/fangs/whatever of a gifted abuser.

We're not stupid.
Our abusers are twisted. They're the ones who must be blamed. To keep working on the snake image, the issue isn't 'Why did the girl pick up the snake in the first place?', but 'Why did that snake think it had the right to bite its rescuer?'.
Victim-blaming isn't nice. There's no need to pile up more negativity on the backs of victims.
I suspect that Miss Carla is in the US. I'll see if she answers when she gets up, but I doubt it...

My first play will be out in June, and I must say I'm 'happy' that it's about abuse and the dire consequences it can generate.

Work Woes (Sort of)

Things are so weird right now, and I must admit I'm tired and tense (and... yea, scared a bit).

College work is okay, which is not normal. In my years of teaching, there's always been one thing that was negative (be it the one student who tried my patience or the merry war between two offices - war that started in the '60s, and that was still being kept active by people who were barely born when it started). Of course, I've got the classroom management snafu, but I do wonder if I should be prepared to face some kind of storm soon...

I tried to find a complementary teaching position, and I'd found something that could be nice... Too bad that the online recruitment form wanted to know so many private things that I had to withdraw my file.

I don't mind answering work-related questions, but they were being properly nosey about things that were completely unrelated to the (temporary!!!) position.

Has it become the bloody norm? Do potential employers want you to give away your soul with a contract signed with your own blood now?

I'm not built for that.

We're still in the process of launching our company, and... specialists (the guys who get paid to register what needs to be registered) don't even know what to tell us, where to send us, or what bumph they need from us... I'm going to end up with an ulcer, and my cousin is considering upping her stress meds.

We had to choose a particular status. It exists. It's on paper. We've read pages and pages on the net about that (yes, rather new) status. The specialists look at us as if we were speaking Etruscan.

It's exhausting.

My cousin's in charge of the bumph, and I think she's planning to send everything we've got to the appropriate office and tell them to deal with it and contact her if they need anything else. I can't blame her.

The whole situation really feels like this:

May we avoid Bedlam...
ô.O

It Would Be Funny If...

... it were not so sad.

My cousin and I are spending a few days with our friend DeForest.

We've been observing the world together and trading plot bunnies, and it's been great.

And then the world's nuttiness caught up with him.

Nothing bad, but it makes you wonder how silly bipeds can be...

For a few months, some idiot in California has been giving De's address to several companies (Microsoft, Netflix, a dating site, a car seller, etc). He even gave De's address to a charming woman apparently quite fond of him, who contacted De (being the gentleman that he is, he pointed out the mistake - and didn't even get a "Thank you!").

De's address is "yadda" dot "yadda" dot "yaddayaddayadda" @gmail.com, and since the bloody geniuses at Google don't care about the dots and they don't make any difference, De's been getting messages sent to yaddayaddayaddayaddayadda@gmail.com, which is the address that the Californian idiot has been distributing around.

Seriously, that bloke's lucky that my friend's nice or he could have completely messed up with his dating profile since the company had sent the non-encrypted password to De.

After getting yet another message from the car selling company, De blew a fuse and e-mailed them to point out the mistake made by that guy.

He quickly got an answer... with an offer to help him if he wants to buy a car (he'd said that he isn't in the US!).

Gosh! He turned the sarcasm font on, answered the message, and unsubscribed himself from everything he ever received from that company (they're one sandwich short of a picnic in my book).

I'm a good friend. I gave De a plot bunny inspired by the incident, and he's having fun on my laptop...

We're writers. We turn the strangeness of the world into stories.

Bonus for me: I get to edit the story, and he'll probably never spot this post since he's mostly only reading newspapers online... *mwaha* (if he spots it, I'll give him another plot bunny... ^_^)

Who Wrote THAT?!!! [Criminal Minds: Beyond Borders s01e05]

I am not going to do a full necropsy of the plot (like I did for this unfortunate episode of NCIS), but too many things bugged me, and I need to growl.

When I read about the idea for this series, I was quite happy, and the casting's really fantastic.

The first episodes were rather nice (even if the studio "make-up" for the lots during the few outdoor scenes can be somewhat clumsy), but when they gave us an episode in "Paris", I started growling from the start.

Spoilers from now on, and I'll just make a list of the things that need work (Oh, and yes, I would do better, because I avoid clichés, and I always do my homework. Ta. Muchly.).

- Stop showing massive landmarks like the Eiffel Tower or the Champs-Élysées. Have "Paris" written on screen and go for something more original.

- Stop using accordion music. In everything that's supposed to be French. Always.

Do you know where one can listen to accordion music in France? In places that are tourists' traps because the (non-native!) musicians know that this is what tourists are expecting.

Accordion music is a bloody cliché.

- Stop using songs by Joséphine Baker or Edith Piaf.

CLICHÉ!!! (Oh, and there's good French music that was released... since the end of WWII - sheesh!)

- Stop using that bridge in Los Angeles. You know, the one that's so conveniently right behind the studios. It's supposed to be approximately all over the world.

You can't afford to travel, we understand, but that bridge is becoming ridiculous. Find something else.

 - Hire French people to play French characters.

Some in the cast were okay, but others would have made me die with laughter (if it were not so pathetic) the moment they spoke and pretended to be French.

- If you're going to show something written in French, don't use the Internet to translate it from English.

I didn't read everything that was supposed to be in the French ME's report, but I did catch a "femelle" translating "female". Sorry, guys, but "femelle" is for a non-human animal; it should have been "femme".

I know it's just telly, but that series could be a good way to educate people about other places, cultures, and traditions. 

If the writers don't do any research and listen to their grandads' souvenirs of their time in Paris in 1945, the festival of cliché is no longer a surprise - but it's a pity.

The conclusion that Paris is a lovely city was cute, but some other things leave a nasty condescending taste around.

Expect a potential additional growl when they go to London... and other places I know.

Dru in April

Life's properly nutty here, but I'm taking a moment to wave and say "Hello!"...

We're approaching exam time for my students, and that's a proper time-thief.

As well, the launch of our publishing company needs us to be involved in time-consuming and bumph-creating things (but things are taking shape). Chi va piano, va sano, e va lontano... Ne?

Our family's rather addicted to Lucifer (the series on telly - start breathing again, for Merlin's sake), and we really hope it's going to be renewed.

By chance, our cousin Jacky lent us her copy of Kingsman - the Secret Service, and it's awesome (the pub fight scene made my month!!).

I have predictions about Kingsman II (well, at least, I know where I'd like it to go on a couple of points).

The casting people must still be giggling (if they're not, what's wrong with them?).

I also watched Lilting (and cried a river), and now I've got this stuck in my head:

Lovely song...

In completely unrelated news, apparently, my hair's turning quite light grey/white.
Just last week, a lovely lady (a pensioner!) gave me her seat on the bus. I may look a bit tired, but I think the hair colour's doing something to the way people interact with me.
Honestly, I hesitate between:
- doing nothing because I don't give a fig
- turning to blond henna (but that's a lot of work)
- trying to turn all my hair white and be done with it forever (recipes that wouldn't kill my hair more than welcome)

I'm going to post a specific post about the latest (as I write) episode of Criminal Minds: Beyond Borders, coz I need to growl... and I think that's about it.

If I'm silent again, it'll be that I'm launching a company, making books, or writing them...

Cheers!

Random Dru News

I've been rather silent recently.

It's not that things aren't making me growl (I mean, look at the state of this planet!), but there's been nothing that made me sooooo angry that I had to blog about it. Let's put this in the "Silver Lining" category, shall we?

Work's a bit strange, and so is my health (I've got odd defrosting symptoms, but I'm "just" mostly knackered), but the biggest thing these days is starting a triumvirate publishing business.

Gosh! The amount of bumph is made in hell - and some specialists were unable to give us the answers we need. Okay... we've chosen a niche status, but we're not the only ones - and we're not asking for highly Muggle stuff in the middle of Hogsmeade! We're still looking for the appropriate answers before we launch the ship (we're all ready to bet that any mistake - even one made because of some lousy piece of info - would bite us somewhere painful whilst the bad-info giver wouldn't be in trouble at all - and we don't want to have to bite people).

So... that work is moving slowly, but steadily.

Now that we've put my fantasy novel in its print format, I realize that this baby, born after seven years of research and hard work, is a healthy baby whale (it's not War and Peace, maybe, but it's a very respectable size - not that size really matters). This story is about characters who have to save the world in just a few months, and since I'm its mummy, I hadn't really realized what kind of huge creature I was concluding when I finally typed "Finis".

Its size is by no means linked to the quality of the plot (but it's been tested on an audience, and it works <- yes, I'm delighted with the reactions it got), but we can show that "brick" and proudly justify seven years of gestation.

I'm still letting my Victorian spy plot simmer, but it's taking shape in my head. I have most of the twists and turns in my brain.

What's funny is that my plots are films in my head, and when the plot runs smoothly, I can start typing (a few details may change, but not too many).

Another funny thing is that I make my own casting, which helps with the "film". I don't always cast the minor characters, but the main ones are cast.

Incidentally, after months of living with them in my head and going through various actors who inspired me, I've finally found my Muff and my Sherly (they're going to help the plot bunnies hop faster!).

Speaking of Muff&Sherly, the first novel's ready, the second's with our editor, and I'm working on the third story (this series is still planned in nine stories, plus a prequel and a sequel).

I'd originally planned the prequel to be a children's book, but we've now discovered the joys of registering books, and children's books are three circles lower in that registering hell, so I'll write a fairy tale... for adults!

I've got other plot bunnies hopping around in my head, their films rolling in my head, and their castings being made.

I'll tell you more as they come to life...

One last thing about my life these days: I seem to be addicted to Lucifer (there are worst things that could happen).

The Constant Threat of a Relapse

The annoying thing when you're a survivor with PTSD is that you've got to manage the things that could make you jump off a cliff. 

If you're lucky, you've got someone (or many people if you're really lucky) helping you and holding another sword next to yours, and ready to have your back against the Void. I've got a lovely brother who instinctively understands how easily I could snap (he's the only one seeing my seems come loose when I've got an attack, and he's always found the right words to generate some light in my darkness - last December, the Void caught me by surprise, and I collapsed like I hadn't in a decade within a day. He was there as I navigated the Void).

The medication I take against the Void is mostly working, but it's not 100% efficient, and negative incidents can push me towards the Void in the wink of an eye.

Over the past week, I discovered that the business plan we had had to be modified because we simply can't afford to start that kind of business as we'd dreamt it. What's petty and sordid is that we're asked to buy a kind of insurance that we've already got from another source, but noooooooooo! We must have that special one (and whether we're successful or not, we must pay - and we'd get absolutely no advantage since we're already protected). After a few hours when we pictured our lovely plan going down the drain, we found our Plan B, which is going to allow us to work, but within a very different frame (and we're not entirely out of the wood registration-wise, but there's still hope - I think).

Then... a manipulator Apparated to my doorstep, and I didn't spot the trap until I'd already done what that person wanted. Oh, it was nothing bad, but when you've been in the claws of an abusive manipulator, such a tiny thing makes a lovely last straw.

I've had a mild panic attack for not spotting the trap, but I've done everything I could to manage keeping the Void at bay, but I'd rather not have to deal with such bipeds.

It started as a joke on Twitter, but there's a plaque on my door, and I'm very seriously considering writing "By appointment only" there.

As well, I swore to myself to no longer answer the door unless all the building's fire-alarms are going off and there's a brigade of firemen begging me to open the door. Even though I know most of my neighbours (and I've known them all my life!), we never visit one another, so only strangers would come bug me, and the threat of meeting another manipulator is just too scary.

I'm probably turning into a misanthrope light, but allowing strangers in my life's too big a danger with no benefit for me. I need my home to be a safe haven, a refuge where I don't risk being hurt.

I guess I'll feel better after a good night of sleep (or two), and with some lovely sunlight around, but I was lucky that my meds work well and that I spotted the sign of the impending panic attack and did the one thing that works against it.

I bet it's tough to imagine how tiny bumps on the road of life can look like the Himalayas to survivors, but that's how they feel... And it sucks.

Les "bras cassés" de la BNP

Massif ras la frange ce soir/cette nuit.

Je suis à la BNP depuis ma majorité (sans rentrer dans les détails sordides... ça fait longtemps), mais là, j'ai envie de tous les renvoyer en stage de formation.

Depuis que je suis chez eux (dans le désordre) : 

- ils ont perdu ma signature

- ils ont perdu la procuration de ma mère sur mon compte (même pas émus... "Elle n'a qu'à repasser à l'agence" - Ben oui, sauf qu'elle est à 400km maintenant !)

- ils ont crédité un chèque que j'avais déposé sur mon compte sur le compte de ma mère

- le personnel change tellement souvent que je n'ai plus affaire à la même personne deux fois de suite

- ils ont muté mon compte courant sur leur plateforme en ligne sans me prévenir (j'ai dû prendre rendez-vous avec la tête de l'agence afin de récupérer mon compte normal - je n'ai que ça à faire !)

- une stagiaire à l'accueil m'a demandé pourquoi je voulais déposer du liquide et pourquoi j'avais du liquide (on parle de quelques euros, là, pas du budget golf de l'Arabie Saoudite)

- au téléphone, certains s'acharnent à m'appeler "Mademoiselle". Alors, petit un, c'est "Madame" ou "Docteur" et petit deux, on est en 2016, les p'tits gars (il est peut-être temps de limiter le sexisme, non ?)

- j'envoie un message à ma conseillère sauf que... elle n'est plus là. Un conseiller répond à mon message et prétend avoir essayé de me téléphoner (ce qui est un gros vilain mensonge, mais... passons). Dans la foulée, une de ses collègues m'attrape au téléphone (alors que je leur avais dit de ne pas me téléphoner !) et promet de régler mon problème.

Affaire classée ?

Que nenni !

Le conseiller n'a pas répondu au message suivant que j'ai envoyé (mais il a bien accusé réception du bidule il y a quinze jours) et aujourd'hui, je découvre que sa collègue n'a pas fait ce qu'elle avait promis.

Du coup, j'ai transféré le message d'origine au conseiller timide du clavier en lui passant un savon. Oh, et en mettant en copie le conseiller professionnel avec qui je devais (dois ?) faire affaire.

En faisant quelques recherches, j'ai vu que la BNP avait fait près de 7 milliards d'euros de bénéfices en 2015 - et ils ont décidé d'imposer des frais de tenue de compte ! Multipliez 2.5€ par le nombre de pigeons clients qui sont chez eux et grognez en chœur avec moi.

Il est hors de question que je les laisse s'en tirer à si bon compte et ils ont intérêt à me présenter des excuses plates de chez Plate, parce que, là... Basta. J'ai le Vésuve qui me monte au nez.

Oh... et si le p'tit gars me téléphone et me réveille dans quelques heures, je lui passe un savon à faire pleurer jusqu'à ses arrière-grand-mères.

Les banques ne sont peut-être pas des entreprises de philanthropie, mais je n'ai pas "vache à lait" tatoué sur les fesses.

"Caue BNP!"

Smokescreen for the Sheeple

If I could afford it, I'd buy crates and crates of Daniel Pennac's Au bonheur des ogres, and I'd distribute copies at the door of some department stores.

The novel has been translated - and I'm not going to spoil the plot, but let's say that the sheeple I've seen queueing (queueing!!!) to have security guys give a quick look at their bags' innards make me want to cry (and cuff them in the hope to kick-start their three brain cells).

That's Security theatre and smokescreen for sheeple. It's the Man wanting to cover his plump behind just in case the next batch of murderous plonkers take his store for target. *points at Mr Pennac's novel again*
It's the politicos wanting to be re-elected/elected/whatever/something and spreading fear because frightened sheeple are easier to control.
It's sheeple being afraid of their own shadows and surrendering freedom, democracy, and life itself in the faint hope that the bad guys won't hurt them. Maybe the worst guys won't get them (but no one can promise that), but the bad guys are all those bipeds grooming sheeple to surrender liberty in exchange for nothing - coz if the worst guys want to do some evil, guess what? They will; one way or the other.

Pay attention... yes.

But stop asking how far you must bend to please the manipulators.

I've seen what happened in the US. The country went from "only a police officer can legally touch you - if s/he's got some super valid reason or a warrant. Full stop" to "Allow a biped in a blue shirt to be more intimate with you than your last date. It's for your own good. If you mean to rebel, we'll detain you, make you miss your flight, spend hundreds or thousands of dollars - and you can't sue us, coz we're here to protect you from the bad guys, so shut up and don't mind the gloves (used on all the previous passengers, too, coz we're too cheap)".

I don't want that here.

I refuse to have that here.

I'll fight against that for as long as I can.

I pointed out to co-workers that some of the guards who are posted at our school's door touch what's inside some people's bags (which is, still for the moment, illegal: they can look all they want, they can't touch; only a police officer can - if s/he's got suspicions about an ongoing crime or a warrant). The brave guys told me to tell them. Tell them what? 'Hey, guys! You should have a word with whoever taught you because he was an idiot who could get you sued if you ruffle the feathers of the wrong person.' Something like that?

The men to whom I told that work more closely with these guards, and I thought they could have a quiet word with them (all the more since they agreed that touching someone else's property's illegal), but they don't want to make a fuss. They seemed to think that I was overreacting somehow and that I should let it go - to keep the peace, you know.

Next, my co-workers told me to not let the guards touch my belongings. Thanks, guys, but I do not (last time one tried to move his hand closer to the inside of my bag, I jumped backwards). I just don't want the guards to be in trouble the day they do that with someone who does know the law and who's ready to stand her or his ground, and who's got the money to sue.

I find it astounding and properly scary to see so many sheeple accepting what they're told without even checking that they're not being lied to.

- Spread your legs and bend over!

- But I just want to buy some carrots!

- Believe me, it's for your own good. It's for your protection.

- But...

- (losing patience) Obey me or I'll call the cops!!!!!

The worst guys must be rolling on the floor laughing madly. Alas.

Oh, I wish the sheeple would think and stop being afraid.

Merci Free !

Free est un très bon fournisseur... tant que vous n'avez pas de problème.

Si vous avez un problème, soudainement la main droite ne sait plus ce que fait le pied gauche (et ça, c'est la version polie et gentille).

Il y a quelques années, le transfo de la Freebox de ma cousine était grillé et il lui a fallu batailler et galérer afin qu'ils lui en envoient un neuf (sans le lui facturer !).

Aujourd'hui... un vrai festival !

Le 17 décembre, alors que Free (d'après ce que nous avons pu comprendre après avoir parlé à plus d'une demie douzaine d'esclaves de la hotline) changeait un serveur, des Russes ont profité d'une faille de sécurité pour voler des centaines de mots de passe (les bidules ne sont pas encryptés puisqu'ils nous arrivent en clair quand on demande leur renvoi par mail).

Du coup, un compte principal de la famille a été bloqué... et c'est là que commence le dialogue de sourds.

Le 17/12/15, le compte est piraté.

Le 18/12, la victime se rend compte qu'il y a un problème, mais comme le message d'erreur indique un problème de serveur, nous patientons.

Le 22/12, ma cousine et moi prenons les choses en main. Le 3244 nous annonce un énorme problème de serveur. Nous patientons encore.

Quelques coups de fils plus tard (plus au service commercial, mais directement au service technique), on nous apprend que le compte a été piraté et donc bloqué.

Que faire ? Depuis le changement de look du site de Free, le compte en question n'apparaît plus sur l'interface de gestion et, là, on nous dit que comme il s'agit d'un compte libre qui n'est pas rattaché à la nouvelle ligne ADSL (Purée ! C'est trop dur de programmer un message d'alerte quand l'e-mail de contact est en mode "électron libre") et comme la personne a déménagé, il faut envoyer une lettre recommandée avec accusé de réception expliquant le problème et deux justificatifs (domicile et identité) - alors que tous les conseillers à qui nous avons parlé peuvent voir l'identité de la victime et l'ancienne et la nouvelle adresse sur leurs ordinateurs (tous !!) - et ils pouvaient tous voir que nous téléphonions de la ligne qui avait un problème. 

Mais non... Il FAUT un courrier postal................

En 2015 (presque 2016 à ce moment-là).................

Pour récupérer un compte e-mail piraté parce que la sécurité de Free sur ses boites mails est pathétique........................

Alors qu'ils n'envoient pas de message d'alerte quand une activité suspecte est constatée sur un compte (enfin, sauf s'ils admettent qu'ils ont été piratés).........................................

Ben voyons !

Presque tous les conseillers ont été soit arrogants ("Mais vous ne comprenez pas, ma p'tite dame") ou encore plus paumés que nous.

Nous avons aussi tenté de contacter le "pied gauche" (le service tout puissant qui peut rétablir la situation - le SEUL service). Alors, je ne sais pas s'il y a juste un gars derrière cette adresse, mais il aura fallu neuf jours (c'est marrant, parce que certaines personnes sont aidées dans la journée) pour qu'on nous dise que le compte allait être débloqué le 01/01/16.

Youpi !

Sauf que... 

Le compte n'est toujours plus visible sur l'interface de gestion.

Que faire ?

Réponse de Free : Ben, un courrier postal avec une lettre expliquant le problème et les justificatifs adéquats. Of course.

Moi et ma cousine : têtes --> mur --> quelques grands coups

Le p'tit gars que ma cousine a eu au téléphone hier (Ah, ben oui, on n'est pas un peu têtues pour des prunes) l'a prise pour une tanche intergalactique de concours : quand une boite envoie du spam (ce que les Russes ont fait), c'est HADOPI qui bloque le compte.

Qui veut m'acheter le Pont Neuf ? Je promets que l'encre de l'acte de propriété sera sèche. Parole de scout (je n'ai jamais été scout).

Et là, aujourd’hui (10/01/16), nous tombons sur un gars qui nous propose d'envoyer la paperasse par... FAX ! Et si on leur téléphone dans la demie-heure après l'envoi du fax, ils pourront faire réapparaître le compte sur l'interface, et là, nous pourrons récupérer le mot de passe changé par les pirates et de nouveau avoir le contrôle du compte.

On va tenter le coup...

... mais s'il nous a prises pour des truites, ça va saigner.

Mise à jour du 21/01/16 :
Nous avons envoyé un fax avec toute la paperasse le 12 dans l'après-midi et comme indiqué par le p'tit gars du dimanche, nous avons téléphoné trente minutes après l'envoi... et une gentille dame nous a dit qu'elle ne pouvait rien faire, que le service qui reçoit les fax allait nous répondre... OK, merci, M'dame...

Alors...
Le fax est soit-disant arrivé illisible ("Renvoyez-nous votre courrier par voie postale, en recommandé, avec AR") et le p'tit gars du dimanche, qui devait nous rappeler le vendredi 15 si le problème n'était toujours pas réglé a disparu dans le cyber-espace. Of course.
Mais, pas de panique, nous renvoyons un n-ième SOS au service tout puissant qui, ô miracle, procède au changement d'adresse, nous demandons le renvoi du mot de passe - par courrier postal puisqu'il s'agit d'un compte principal et........... ça met une semaine à nous envoyer le bidule.
Le mot de passe nous permet de reprendre le contrôle du compte en changeant le mot de passe des Russes (ou changé par Free - 'stère et boules de gommes).
Tout va bien donc.... Heu, ben, non... Au moment de rattacher cette vieille adresse e-mail, le site de Free annonce qu'il existe des comptes secondaires (au pluriel !!!) qu'il faut d'abord rattacher au compte avant de pouvoir faire la même chose avec le compte principal. Ouaip. A un détail près... Quels comptes secondaires ?
Même la hotline de Free est paumée. Ils viennent de refiler notre bébé à un service de niveau supérieur qui va nous téléphoner..................... un jour. Oh, et il faut que ce soit sur un portable (heureusement que j'ai pu prêter le mien à ma cousine qui n'en a pas !!) autrement vous pouvez allez au cœur du Sahara - sans eau.

Nous procéderons à une dernière mise à jour quand le problème sera définitivement réglé et nous posterons cette entrée de parcours du combattant en mode "les procédures de Free sont archaïques et punissent le client, même si Free est en tort".

Mise à jour du 22/01/2016 :
Nous sommes retournées sur la page qui nous avait permis de modifier le mot de passe du compte piraté et là... il y a un truc du genre "afficher vos coordonnées et comptes secondaires". *clic* Et là... Ah! Nous trouvons un compte secondaire. Un compte qui a plus de quinze ans, qui a dû servir cinq minutes et qui n'a plus jamais été utilisé depuis (là, nous avions Hotel California dans la tête : You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave !!).
Nous avons rattaché ce compte fantôme et le compte principal - et le super service de Free n'a toujours pas téléphoné.

Si vous n'avez besoin de rien, vous êtes tout de suite servi. Merci Free !

PS: on les aime bien. Si, si... sauf en cas de problème... où l'usage de poupées vaudou devient carrément tentant.

Imperial Decree #1

Since we are the empress of Mars, we could as well add a few rules to our empire, and share them with you.

You're welcome to adopt them if you ever find them to your taste.

In our world, these decrees will be the Law from the moment we publish them.

Since last year, we've lost too many artists dear to us, and, in one case, our heart will remain broken until our last breath.

We do not need to go visit Bedlam.

We do not need pills or drugs or treatment.

Thank you.

We're not asking anyone to give us permission to grieve in a nutty way (you do whatever you want with your incarnation; we do whatever we want with ours - full stop).

From now on:

Art1. We won't use the past to talk about someone who's no longer on planet Earth if it hurts too much.

In order to feed that illusion:

Art 2. The people who have left us went to a secret island where they're all working on secret projects. These projects will never be available in our lifetime, and therefore these secrets will forever remain mysteries.

I know it's properly barmy (all the more since I'm a nullifidian!), but it's either a secret island with artists working on secret creations or I keep crying the seven seas and all the rivers if I acknowledge the fact that the lights of my heroes are disappearing.

I know they're gone, but my dream/plot bunny/illusion/lie/coping mechanism/security blanket is easier to face... 

They're all working on something big, they share cocktails all together at 7PM as the sun sets on the purest and most beautiful sea in the universe.
Too bad there's no reception and no Internet there, right?

Quick Art News Update

It turns out that my idea for my paintings is very good. However, I completely underestimated the time I'd need to finish just one, and I'm going to need a lot more time to have something to show you here.

The thing is I'm using something that's got one element that's drying very slowly. The first test is looking great; it's fully done, but I can't move it (and even less hang it).

I'll share the unusual "framing" with you as soon as possible (but between chemistry that's not on my side and the weather that's not helping... it'll be a few weeks in fact).

Incompetence or Complete Lack of Respect?

I just cannot decide.

I'm still growling about the hacked e-mail account (check a few of my previous posts - the list's beginning to be too long to add all the links).

I'm monitoring a forum where other victims are sending flares and SOS, and the common theme is that the provider doesn't know what the left foot's doing whilst the right hand is flailing madly... and you get help if you're lucky (there was one gal who got her account back within a day whilst others are still waiting after over a month - and her case was similar to others; she just got lucky!!).

As well, what I particularly love is the tech bipeds who take me for the village idiot when I point out that they have everything they need to know to whom the account belongs on file and it's idiotic to ask for a snail-mail letter to prove what they already have.

They can be patronizing. Some lie, as well (the last one I talked to yesterday afternoon spinned me a lie that I'm not planning to swallow peacefully: I'm phoning them again tomorrow, and I'll be the one serving them that lie to see what someone else will say about it).

Sometimes, they slip and they tell the truth: they were changing a server when hackers used a security gap to steal clients' passwords. Because they store their password without encryption, and because they were hacked, hundreds of customers have lost their primary accounts.

Since that provider only uses one password without any additional security, the hackers could plunder the accounts that are now blocked (or are they?). There's no warning either; the provider sees spam being sent, they block your account; contact the faithful, paying customers?? Nooooo!

Many accounts were created back when that company was starting, and when they expended, they forgot to ask the customers to change the status of these accounts. The provider's new website ignored all these accounts, so when the hacking happened, there was no way to try to get them back, but, hey! It's the customers' fault. They should all have a PhD in IT! Sheesh!!

In the meantime, the helpline bipeds are unhelpful, arrogant, unpleasant, and incompetent, and they lie (I'm not even sure their "Hello!" is sincere).

Yes, that provider is cheap, but when you have a tiny problem (or a big one), you can go frell yourself slowly.

Maybe they work with Big Pharma, and they want us to invest in some strong antidepressant.

What's for sure is that they recruited good lil' golems who obey their masters and who've got a black hole between the ears!

I'm not done with them.

I'm not planning to lose that war... but, fuck! These wankers are a bloody waste of time (and oxygen).

A Spot of Art News

No, not about the plot bunnies. though I can tell you that they're all healthy.

As well, the publishing triumvirate I joined is steadily moving towards the official launch of our business and website (I'll brag about it when everything's online).

Today... I'm here to talk about my paintings.

I'm not about to start working on a new one, but I've found a way to have them ready to hang that doesn't involve a frame...

Mysterious enough?

Are you intrigued?

If you are nodding in front of your screen, thank you. I'll keep you posted, and I'll show you as soon as possible. I started working on one painting, but it'll only be ready to hang about next week.

My idea isn't that extraordinary, but it definitely solved the issues I had with potential frames.

You'll see...

Gibbs-smackworthy

It's only been a day, and I'm not convinced about 2016...

I had to block a denialist on Twitter: it was trying to convince me that even the American soldiers knew that the Korean (and Japanese, as well) girls actually enslaved for sex (for whatever reasons) were just prostitutes. Well, in my book, when you're sold for money, you become a slave.

It's the second time that happens to me. What's frightening is that these illiterate, truth-denying trolls are quite young, and if you confront them with facts, they become aggressive. Swell.

As well, the e-mail saga goes on.

A gal on a forum was told that the provider was hacked (the stored passwords are not encrypted!), but they put the blame on the victims.

We're going to try to find a biped with more than three brain cells between the ears, coz they've got all our info on file, and someone with a brain - and not afraid of using it! - could solve this in two minutes. We got a message informing us that the account would be unblocked ("and please change your password as quickly as possible"), but they deleted that account from the main account page when they modified their website's layout so we can't access it!

Honestly, I want to ship someone in space without a suit.