Kind of an especially lousy night, and it's going to actually be summery today. And I have to manage to work through the oncoming stifling weather that this house creates for itself, any time the temperature outside rises about 82˚F. Currently, it's 83˚F with a heat index of 96˚F (according to Accuweather; the Weather Channel says 83˚F with a heat index of 87˚F, which is more believable). We have our own Ash Tree Lane trick, a house that's hotter on the inside.

Yesterday, I wrote another 1,062 words on "Dry Bones." I expect to finish the vignette today or tomorrow. Today would be good, as tomorrow may be hot enough that we need to flee to an air-conditioned library where all I'll be able to do is edit Houses Under the Sea: Mythos Tales. And I'm working on the idea for the vignette that I'll write immediately after "Dry Bones." Meanwhile, Agents of Dreamland is really coming together in my head, and I need to get back to it.

From Facebook:

I'm told that if I write only characters of European extraction I'm "white-washing." I'm told that if I write African, Asian, Hispanic, or Native American characters, I'm committing "cultural appropriation." Which is it gonna be, people? You can't have it both ways.

~ and ~

I've never been good with silliness, really. It may hit me unexpectedly, on occasion, and usually in private. Silliness usually pricks at the back of my neck and the pit of my stomach. Habitual silliness angers me. No, I don't know why. It's extremely inconvenient, my discomfort with silliness. But it explains my ongoing quarrel with 90% of the internet. This is not to say I don't appreciate comedy. I very much do. But in smallish doses and certainly not 24/7/365.

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Last night, we watched the new Halt and Catch Fire and then the two most recent episodes of Hannibal. Such an amazing thing to have ever made it to television, Hannibal, and it depressing watching the third season unfold knowing there won't be a fourth. Anyway, then we watched a so-so "found footage" horror film called Mr. Jones (2013), directed by Karl Mueller, that I really wish had been just a little better. It had more potential than was realized, partly because the acting or the directing or both were so ham-fisted. After that we watched David Gregory's Lost Soul: The Doomed Journey of Richard Stanley's Island of Dr. Moreau (2014), which explains how John Frankenheimer's disastrously awful 1996 The Island of Dr. Moreau began life as a Richard Stanley film. It was a painful affair, this documentary, seeing (again) just how fucked-up fucked-up can get when we're talking Hollywood.

And, with that, I should get moving.

TTFN,
Aunt Beast