Since some of you expressed some curiosity yesterday about my date with Roman – and since he's given the okay to me writing about it in some greater depth – I suppose I could talk some more about that…
I knew he had a special surprise of some kind planned for this date in honor of my birthday. And I knew better than to take his mock-hints about Mexican wrestlers, midgets and trained llamas seriously. But I really had no idea what he had planned, and it's hard to explain why I enjoyed what he did so very much without first giving you some backstory.

You see, back when I was a teenager, and I was figuring out that gee, my sexual desires didn't line up with what the other kids seemed to get off on, the internet wasn't yet a part of people's daily existence. So it was a lot harder for a young person who was…questioning their sexuality, to find much evidence of a sexual world beyond very tame vanilla heterosexual monogamy. I was already a bibliophile, and in spite of what James Walker once said, I had occasionally found some vague intimations of who I might be by searching through books.

But the first real clue I ever had that there might be a culture that embraced me was…The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I was sixteen years old. I went into the theatre at midnight with a group of friends, without really knowing what I was going to see. I watched the movie, and watched the strangely dressed people cavorting in the aisles, and I knew there was something there for me. As I watched Frankenfurter, that bitchy, dominant, omnisexual drag queen, wreak sexual havoc on Brad, Janet, and Rocky, I saw what I wanted. I wanted to be him: dangerously transgressive yet irresistibly sexy. And I wanted to fuck him, the hot hungry man/woman, with whom nothing would be too much or too far. I wouldn't have to explain what I didn't yet have words for - he would know who I was. He would know what I wanted.

"At the late night, double feature, picture show…
I wanna go…Oh ohhhhhhh…
To the late night, double feature, picture show…"

I went back the next weekend. And the next, and the next…
The idea of getting all excited about a rather cheesy B-movie with a few only mildly naughty sex scenes will probably seem quaint to the under 25-crowd. But you perverts from my generation – you know what I'm talking about. Back then, Rocky Horror was the only place, in a lot of smaller towns and more conservative places, where a teenager could go and be openly freaky without too much fear of reprisal. (Plus, it does feature the young and quite yummy Susan Sarandon running around in white cotton panties.)
That's how I came to be a Rocky Horror regular for several years. Yes, I was in the cast for some of that time. (I was Magenta.) Yes, I have the bootleg copy of it on video with Japanese subtitles, from back before you could buy it legally. And yes, I still remember all the words to the songs, and all the audience partici – (Say it!) -pation lines. I haven't been for years, but still, whenever I see a snippet of the movie somewhere, or hear the music, I smile, because I remember how it felt to finally find a place where I felt…at home. Roman and I have talked about this, and he understands perfectly. He's a Rocky Horror alumnus himself.

So when I sat on my couch with a blindfold over my eyes, and the sound of Tim Curry's rich, throbbing voice came to my ears,
"How d'you do,
I see you've met my,
Faith-ful handy-man…"
I threw back my head and let out a shriek that was part delighted laughter, and part disbelief that no, I couldn't possibly see what I thought I was going to see when I took off that blindfold. He didn't really – he couldn't have…
"Okay, you can take off the blindfold now," said Roman.
He did.
Whiteface makeup with dark drag-queen eyeshadow halfway up his forehead, lushly painted red lips, a long black cape and – oh, my – fishnet stockings and fetishdiva six-inch platform heels. Roman danced and pranced around the room for me in those high heels like he'd been punching the clock at the Lusty Lady forever.
"But by night I'm one hell of a lov-a-hhrr!" With a dramatic flourish, he threw off the cape to reveal a black satin corset with garters, a silky black thong, and of course, a string of white beads, just like the ones Frankenfurter wore. With the fishnets and heels – it was…perfect. Just perfect.
"I'm just a sweet transvestite from Transexual, Transylvania." When he shook his barely covered package in my face, I howled like an overstimulated small-town girl at her first Chippendales show.
And I was definitely overstimulated. This is what went through my mind - try to imagine them all flowing through your head in rapid succession, several times in a row.

Oh, my god, look what he did for me! Look at all the trouble he went through to do something he knew I'd really like! This is so sweet and special!

Oh, my god, look at his cock in those shiny stretchy underwear. That's fucking hot.

He's really good in those heels. He must have been practicing. And, wow, they make him look about seven feet tall. Oh, yeah, bend over, oh yeah - nice buttcheeks, baby…

What a sweet, thoughtful, special thing to do for me. What a wonderful, kinky, nasty boy he is. I think I'm going to have to fuck him raw.

I was saying some of this out loud, of course, in between catcalls and wolf-whistles and various other sexually appreciative noises.

"So I'll remove the cause - but not the symptom." As the music faded, he planted one high-heeled foot – (Where did he get those shoes?) on the couch between my knees.
"So," he said, panting just slightly, "want your other present?"
"There's more? Did you bring Rocky as well?"
"No, I asked (insert name of Roman's good friend), but he passed. Didn't want to bleach his hair blond."
I stared up at him. "Hair…Oh my god, that's why you look so different. You shaved off your beard!"
He let out a whoop of laughter. "That's why I look so different?"
I flapped my hand at him. "Oh, you know what I mean! But darling – your nice beard. You shaved it off – for this? For me?"
He smiled, his teeth gleaming whitely against the dark, glossy lipstick. "No big deal, it'll grow back."
"You are absolutely the coolest thing alive, did you know that? Okay, if there's more, bring it on."
He brought me a gift-wrapped package slightly smaller than a shoebox. I tore off the paper, opened it, examined the contents.
"Oh my. Well, look at these pretty things…" I stared at him, arching one eyebrow questioningly. "For tonight?"
He nodded.
"You're ready for this?"
He nodded again, giving me Frankenfurter's come-hither look.
"All right then, baby…let's go downstairs."
So we did, and there, dear readers, is where I draw the curtain. Because certain things that happen between a girl and her drag queen in the dark of the night should remain…private.

"Touch-a touch-a touch-a touch me!
I wanna be dirty!
Thrill me, chill me, fulfill me,
Creature of the night…"

Good god...A completely fabulous date with Roman last night, which resulted in my stumbling into bed at 5am. And far too early this morning: clients, email, phone calls, aarrggh...And I'm supposed to go the gym this afternoon, double aarrggh. It's gonna be a two-Rock-Star-day, I can tell.
But worth it...

Yes! Yes! Oh, I am so very, very happy right now. I got a note today from Dan Savage (the editor of The Stranger) telling me that in two weeks, my column will be back in the paper version of The Stranger.
This is fabulous news. I've been trying to be patient, but I really missed being in the paper, and I'm very pleased that, after five months of being only in the online-version of The Stranger, I'll be back in the actual paper again. (Don't worry, non-local readers, I'll still be online, too.)
And, the extra-cool part: I'll be at 725 words instead my previous 400-word-limit. Whittling something meaningful down into 400 words was always a challenge, but I can do something with 725 words.
Happy, happy girl! What a nice almost-birthday present!

I need a volunteer. I found this link to - brace yourself - a Christian FemDom site, and I just cannot bring myself to go explore it. Someone else has to go and come back and tell us about it, because I'm sure it's just rife with opportunities for spoof and sarcasm. But I just can't do it.

I've tried. I enter the URL, I get to the entry page, I look at the warnings and the cheesy tiled graphic and my hand, with any conscious volition, moves the mouse to the upper right corner and hits that tiny X to click it away, away, away.

I did gather my courage to click (on a picture of a frigging cross, no less) and enter the body of the site just once. But some terrible MIDI music began playing and I shuddered so violently that I accidentally (?) closed the window. I took it as a sign from God.

So I need a volunteer. Some brave pervert, with a snarky sense of humor and the ability to remain undaunted by the unholy marriage of christianity and kink that has spawned this GeoCities website. Go forth, and report back to us. We'll be praying for your safe return.

Okay, I think it's time for another video clip...This is taken by me rather than of me - it's footage from a private BDSM play-party where my lovely friend Trinity was suspended by her ankles. It is a bit choppy, because I was trying to avoid getting the faces of any camera-shy party guests in the frame. And it's obviously not work-safe.
Hosting for the clip has been generously provided by Twisted Monk, just because he's a sweet guy. We'll probably take it down after a week or so, or if the traffic to the clip is so very heavy that we're threatening to suck up all of his bandwidth. But in the meantime, enjoy!

Trinity Suspended

A photo from the archives, just because...It's from my self-portrait series, Dec 2002.

Meanwhile, I'm spending my day puttering around the house, doing all those little things that one keeps meaning to do and getting too busy to take care of...
And perhaps doing a bit of quiet contemplation as well, on the topic of my upcoming birthday, six days from now. Max is going to take me out for an intimate dinner alone somewhere, which is exactly what I think I'd really like. I adore all my friends, but the social whirl gets me a little...dizzy, sometimes. And since there are a number of other big events coming up soon, I decided I'd save my social diva energy for those.

Speaking of social occasions, and my opinions about how to behave at them: there was a bit of a snafu with the column last week - but it's up now, and correctly formatted, yay!

And speaking of November birthdays...I'm not really into astrology, but it's fun to read about it sometimes. I was amused to see that Clean Sheets has some sexy astrological lore about me and my possible partner combinations. But she doesn't seem very sanguine about me and any of my boys...Max is a Taurus, and I do have a history of picking Taurus men. (Not on purpose, it just turns out that way.) And Roman is a Leo, and doesn't that just fit him? But according to the author, I should be choosing Virgo or Pisces, and I've never had a lover with those signs that I know of. (I admit I haven't really kept serious track of these things.) So, not something I'd steer my life by. But entertaining, and we're all about entertaining around here.

Video clip of Trinity tomorrow!

"Why don't you have any tattoos?" People ask me that sometimes – meaning, people who've seen enough of my body to be certain that in fact, I don't.

While it's true that lots of kinky people in Seattle do have tats, it's actually not a legal obligation. And I'm not the only pervert I know with no ink. Why, I live with another: Max. But I think I can count the other un-tattooed kinksters I know on one hand, so yes, we are in the minority here.

Why not? Well, I've just never had a burning desire for one, and I think if you're going to have the damn thing for the rest of your life, you better be real sure you want it. (Yes, I know, now there are laser treatments to remove them, but I'm told that's a long and rather expensive process, and that it doesn't always yield perfect results, either. I'd prefer that any time and money I spend - and any discomfort I endure - in my dermatologist's office be spent gilding the lily that I am, rather than dealing with self-inflicted wounds.)

I might have been more impulsive when I was younger, but even then it was clear to me that the clients of my chosen profession disliked tattoos. The vast majority of my clients were (and still are) middle/upper middle class white guys living in the suburbs, leading relatively traditional lives, and their ideas about beauty are fairly, well - mainstream. (I'm not saying you can't make it as a sex worker if you have tattoos. But I think it's a handicap.)
Sure, I could have gotten by with a dainty little anklet or something, but if I were going to get a tattoo, that is not what I'd get. I'd probably get a big-ass Celtic blackwork piece. Go big or go home, a friend of mine likes to say - I took the latter option.

I don't have any permanent piercings, either, except my ears. Again, I've just never felt a big desire for any.

The only body modification I've ever done is of what I would call a semi-permanent type - cuttings. When BDSM people say cutting, what they mean is: someone takes a sharp implement, like a surgical scalpel, and makes light cuts in someone elses skin, usually no deeper than a cat scratch, and usually in a design or shape of some kind.

A lot of people squick when I mention this, and that always perplexes me a bit, especially when the squickees have tats themselves. On the scale of such things, a cutting blade doesn't seem any more intrusive into the body that a tattoo needle. Cuttings are usually completed much more quickly, and I definitely don't think it's any more painful – it's always seemed to me like it would be less so.

For the adventurous among you, I do have some photos from a shoot I did of a friend getting a cutting. (And the finished product here.) Don't go if you faint at the sight of blood.

What you essentially wind up with is a drawing in/on your skin. When it's fresh, it looks a lot like a red tattoo. Most people choose shapes and designs that have meaning to them, although lots of people also just like the endorphin buzz they get from the process. I've done cuttings on people as part of a BDSM scene, although I got mine as just a body-mod experience. Either way, cutting is a careful, measured activity, and you must observe all the reasonable safety precautions – sterile tools and a clean area, etc.

As the cut heals, it goes away, but sometimes it leaves a very faint scar in the shape of the original cut. If you like the scar effect, you can re-do the cutting over again until it becomes more raised and noticeable. I haven't done that myself, but I've admired it on other people.
So you can just call me the Mies van De Roe of the body modification set. No tatts, no permanent piercings, just those very faint lines that are visible in certain angles of light.

I have this question that I used to use as an icebreaker at cocktail parties, and it’s this: If they were making a movie about your life story, who would you want to play you?

There are a number of possible variants, like: Salary-is-no-object, or B-movie budget? Do I get different actors for different ages of my life? Do they have physically resemble me?

I still haven't found exactly the right person to play me yet, and that may be because I'm not the biggest film/TV buff. I suck at remembering most actors names – I usually have to call up my brother, who worked in Hollywood and knows all this shit, and say something like, "Who was that girl who was in that movie, you know, with the car and they drive it over the edge of the cliff at the end?"

He'll sigh patiently and say, "Geena Davis." When it comes to movies, my brother can read my mind. (Thank god that's the only area in which he has that skill.)

So, while I don't think it's strictly necessary that the actor physically resembles you, I do think they should seem to possess some trait that you identify with. That's why when I play this game, some of my choices over the years have been: Jennifer Jason Lee, because she's so freakin' intense. Or: Madonna, because she can convey someone who's driven and determined. (But only if it was a musical.)
If Annette Bening was a little younger, I would love to have her play me, she's fabulous. Catherine Zeta-Jones would get my okay, too.

Various suggestions from other people have included:
"Sarah Michelle Gellar". Yeah, okay, I can see that.
"Andie McDowell". What? "Well, I've always had a thing for her. And she's got a southern accent, too." Mmmmn, I don't think so.
"Ellen Barkin". Not sure I really see that, but I think she's cool, so, all right.
"Rose McGowan". A little on the goth side, but okay.
"Linda Fiorentino". Oh, now you're talking. She hasn't done much lately, but I loved her in "The Last Seduction".

I have decided that come what may, Max must be played by Kevin Spacey. Quiet, low-key, until he unleashes his inner barracuda. If Kevin absolutely isn't available, perhaps John Malkovich, if he could convey a little more warmth that he usually does.
Roman? I think…Jim Carey. Tall, irresistibly boyish and cute, and tons of kinetic energy. Or maybe, just maybe, Tim Robbins - if you gave him speed. A younger John Travolta could have captured his charm, but while I like Mr. Travolta, I think he's peaked.
Jake? Oh, that's a hard one. Vin Diesel? But I'm just saying that based on looks. Nicolas Cage might capture Jake very well, though. Very intense, and just slightly...left of center, somehow.

So – who would play you?

Phone Messages I Did Not Return – A Retrospective…

Obviously I didn't get all these on the same day…But they are just a few messages lately that have stuck in my mind…

Beep!

"Hello, Mistress Matisse, my name's Jim, we haven't met before, but I wanted to make an appointment with you for this Saturday night around nine. Oh, yeah, I saw on your website that you don't usually do weekend appointments, but I'm only going to be in town that one night, so that's the only time I can do it. So give me a call back, please, at XXX-XXXX to confirm the appointment and tell me your address. Thanks."

Can you say, "rude arrogant asshole who thinks rules don't apply to him"? I knew you could. No, Jim, you don't confirm appointments you don't have, and you don't assume I'll see you - I talk to you and then I decide if I will accept you. In this case, the answer is no. So don't wait by the phone for my call, baby.

Beep!

"So, I like, saw a mistress once and I don't remember her name – and I was wondering if are you her? My name's John, and I'm like 24 – except it was two years ago, so I would have been 22 then – and I have brown hair and I wanted to get pissed on. Call me back at XXX-XXXX. Peace."

Well, it's nice that he made it clear that I actually wasn't the woman he saw – a 22 year old? No way! – because I'd hate to think I played with anyone who sounded this stoned.


Beep!

" 'Allo? 'Allo? Miztress? 'Allo? You call me, yes, Miztress? Call me now,
XXX-XXXX!"

Oh, I think not.

Beep!

"Mistress, I know I don't deserve to see you, I'm a worthless piece of shit, I'm scum, but if you wanna see me so you can tell me to my ugly face what a lame-ass fuckhole I am truly am, call me at XXX-XXXX"

Can't say I have the slightest urge to see a lame-ass fuckhole, thank you just the same. Sounds a bit redundant somehow, doesn't it? Does this technique work with other women, I wonder?

Busy, busy girl….Glad you enjoyed the video clip. I've got another one in the chute that's quite different – it's a clip of my lovely friend Trinity being hung by her ankles at a party recently. Onfuego won't host it, though, because she's nekkid. So Monk (of TwistedMonk.com, best hemp rope vendor in the world) has graciously offered to host it on his site. A round of applause, please, for Monk. Look for that in a day or two.

I'm way booked up with clients this week – I spent all yesterday afternoon playing with one of my all-time favorite boys, and then he and I went out to a great dinner. He's back in my clutches today for another extended session with me and a lovely friend of mine…I hope she'll enjoy him as much as I do.

A busy day Thursday, too, but Friday is mine – I'm going to spend a little time with Roman and then Max and I are going to go see a play.

The days do go by quickly sometimes…

That pesky thing called Real Life has been rather busy lately, but for your entertainment, here's another video-blog entry...

Snippets of my life lately…

I recently administered a caning to man while wearing – at his request - a red PVC ball gown, complete with tight-laced bodice, puffy skirt, and a train. I felt like a fetish Scarlett O'Hara.

Roman and I had a writer-to-writer discussion about conflict as a plot device while he went down on me. (Obviously he had to sort of stop licking me to talk, but it was still damned impressive. I know I lost my train of thought a few times.)

Jake and I talked about the increasingly incestuous little band of perverts that's floating around the edges of my social life these days. Except for me, I think all of the small pool of women that Jake is playing with, or has played with lately, is/has also played with two or three other guys – by which I mean, the same two or three other guys. That's not inherently bad, you understand, it just makes social events where everyone is going to be there a little – unpredictable. For example, the bondage class/party tomorrow night. I have no idea who's coming with who, or what mix-and-match configurations might result. I'm going with Max, that's all I know. And anyone who wants him to tie them up should be very nice to me.

I've been unsure about talking about this here – but, what the hell. I recently became the proud owner of a fucking machine. I've always wanted one, and I'm extremely pleased by this one. Not only does it work like a charm, but it even looks cool. I'd post a picture of it, but I need to get Mike's permission. You remember Mike, my previous secondary? Well, actually, Mike came back onto the scene a little while back. Naughty of me not to have told you, but I can be that way sometimes. Things with the other girl didn't quite fly, so Mike turned up, being as charming as he can be, which is considerable. I thought about playing hard to get - but he seduced me back, because he knows one of my major fetishes.
You see, Mike is a metal artist. He works in other mediums as well, but that metal thing, mmmm-hmmmn, it's sexy. And so is Mike.
So Mike built me a really cool fucking machine, and I foresee having a lot of fun with it. There's something so delightfully relentless about machines. They just don't care about you one little bit. (This is also one of the reasons why I like playing with electricity.) So if someone set this machine in motion and walked away, well, it would just keep on pumping until I – whoops, I mean they – came back. Doesn't really matter whether you like it or not.
Oh, that's sexy. Very sexy.
But the thing is, Mike has a very distinct style in metal art, and if you knew him, and you saw a picture of this machine, you'd immediately recognize it as his work. Now, he may not care, but I need to check with him first. So perhaps we'll have a picture of the machine – probably without a victim attached – sometime.

So, hopefully the new Stranger column should be up today. I don't know why it's apparently not being put up on Thursdays any more.

This would make me slightly happier. I cannot stand John Ashcroft, he's the worst of the bible-thumpers we have in office these days. Ashcroft Likely to Leave AG Post.

Oh, you know, I'm not trying to stifle anyone's freedom of expression or anything, but "community outreach" like this hurts us as much - or more - as it helps us. Sex slave, dominatrix claim they are feminists.
The submissive, in particular, really needs some training before she's ever put in front of another bunch of vanilla people. Jesus, telling people you met your top when you were fourteen, that you once tried to commit suicide, and that your top had you get breast implants, and that you don't think you could leave? Oh, that all makes you look real healthy.
I totally support this woman and her partner structuring their relationship however they want. But when you're doing a public speaking engagement, there are things you talk about - and there are things you don't.

And apparently Penn, of Penn and Teller, has a kinky streak. How charming.

Enjoying Yourself is Sexy

I got a sweet email from a client after a recent session. It's very flattering, but more than that, it's interesting. You see, he's been to see a lot of different pro doms, and so he's able to compare and contrast me with a number of other professionals. A lot of my guys have never seen another dominatrix, or maybe they've seen just one or two. So I was curious about this rather experienced gentleman's opinion.

I think that there are a couple of things that make you stand out. One is that you convey far more than most ProDommes that you are enjoying the session, what you are doing, and my reactions. I'm not nearly that outgoing myself; I just seem to go naturally quiet in session, and my reactions are much more physical than verbal. But as I've told you, your responsiveness really does inspire me to want to take more for you, since you make it so evident that you are enjoying the activities.

Mistress Matisse's Tips for Dominant # 16: If you tell them, and show them, that they're pleasing you, they will work as hard as they can to keep doing so.

The second thing I think I can safely say now that you've seen me three times, and I trust you consider me to be one of the "good guys" who has read your rules page, and respects your boundaries. I think I can say without you getting the wrong impression that you conduct a very sexy session. You are far from the dispassionate, either almost purely D/s or almost purely sadistic demeanor that I've experienced from most other ProDommes. I'm one of the people who believe that BDSM play is very much about sex -- not having sex, not sex acts, to be sure, but still very sexual in nature. To me at least, you convey that sense of a BDSM session being a sexual experience, and very fun!

An example of a client who's a very good match for me. Always nice when it works out this way.

I think that many other ProDommes are very inhibited in that area, even those who conduct sessions with a laughing, fun-loving demeanor. Few are willing to let go and convey the sense that yes, a session is very sexy, and yes, that it's sexy fun. That may well be for good reason, such as a result of bad experiences with clients who get the wrong idea; or they may hold to the prudish philosophy of "it's not about sex; it's about submission." Or it may be their personality, just the way they are, and I don't mean to be critical of that, since I don't think I'm very demonstrative during a session, either. But you are, and you conduct a very sexy session, and to me that is another thing that makes you a lot of fun to play with.

To me, this speaks to the virtue of simply being yourself in BDSM, as opposed to adopting a fake demeanor because you think it's more "domly". Like him, I'm not dissing those who have a different style, if it's a genuine reflection of who they are. But even though I get occasional flak from the "real and true mistress" types, I'm not interested in pretending to be jaded, bitchy or cold. It's nice to have boys who appreciate me exactly as I am.

All right, tomorrow we go back to sex and kink...but a few final thoughts for the day of mourning.
Looks like a lot people had the same idea... Still, there are at least Ten Reasons Not To Move To Canada.

For myself, I'm going to try focusing on the fact that the people who helped elect Bush will now expect him to fix what's wrong. And that's going to be rather difficult.

Well, I'm pretty depressed this morning. This reminds me of when Newt Gingrinch and Co. swept into office. Jesus.
So, be aware - if you aren't already - that I will delete any comments I don't like. It's my party and I'll cry if I want to, so if you're in a celebratory mood, take it to one of the more like-minded blogs. I don't want to hear it today.

Oh god, I have a nasty feeling I'm going to be stuck looking at that monkey boy's ugly face on TV for the next four years. Jesus. I've heard that "we get the government we deserve", but I think that, actually, just slightly more than half of us do.
I should look at the bright side: I'm not going to get drafted, I don't have kids to inherit the huge debt we're running up, and since Washington state is looking to remain strongly Democratic - a female Democrat governor and two Democratic female state senators, that's a historical first - at least I don't have to worry about my being able to get an abortion should an unfortunate accident happen.

Obama won. That's not surprising, given that his opponent is an insane carpetbagger. But I'm glad, I think he's got a great career ahead of him.
I am keeping a very tight rein on my hope about the big one...Tick tock, tick tock.

God, I'm going to be a fucking basket case all day. Thank god Blue Eyes is coming to see me, I can vent some of my tension on his nicely helpless body.
And then perhaps, as Monk recommends, a stiff drink. Or else I'll go to the gym and run until I'm too exhausted to be tense.
I hate waiting.

Haven't done a reading list for a while…

The Boxer Rebellion, by Diane Preston. No, it's not a book about guys in satin shorts beating up Don King. "In the late 1890s, a virulently resentful peasant movement spread across northern China; foreigners nicknamed its adherents "Boxers" for the martial-arts exercises they practiced en masse. When the movement erupted into open violence in 1900, the imperial government supported attacks on foreigners that escalated into a siege of the foreign embassies in Peking. Diana Preston's The Boxer Rebellion is an account of the 55-day confrontation that alarmed the world." (Snipped from the Amazon site.)

How To Use Adobe Premiere 6.5, by Douglas Dixon. Because thanks to Roman, I now have good video editing software. It's already bristling with Post-Its.

Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates Of Human Societies, by Jared Diamond.
You've probably heard of this one – it won a Pulitzer, and it's been sitting on my desk for a while, waiting its turn. It's pretty dense, but very interesting.

Turning Life Into Fiction, by Robin Hemley. From Amazon: "…this is an enlightening and even inspiring guide to utilizing elements of one's own life and of one's family history as fodder for writing novels and short stories... Journal keeping is heavily encouraged…" Okay, I think I've got that part going on.

Jacobite Spy Wars: Moles, Rouges and Treachery, by Hugh Douglas. The Jacobite story was one of history's longest running spy sagas. Adherents of the exiled branch of the house of Stuart after the Glorious Revolution of 1688, the Jacobites sought the restoration of James II. A reminder that there's nothing much new under the political sun.

In a bit of possible market research, I've also been reading some "chick lit" novels – and I hate to sound like a snob, but my god, they're terrible. I've read a best-seller called The Devil Wears Prada, as well as Good In Bed, one called Mr. Maybe, and a couple of others whose titles have already left my mind – and I was severely unimpressed with all of them. And these are the trade-sized paperback, not the smaller size, which means I was shelling out ten to fifteen dollars apiece for these things.
I know no one is pretending this genre of books is great lit-ra-choor. But Jesus, even for beach or airplane reading, it was pretty flat. I like reading fluffy fiction sometimes, but only if it's good fluffy fiction. I could write a better novel than some of these authors.

So, maybe I will…