I woke up this morning feeling hungover, for no particular reason. My stomach's better, after a bowl of Campbell's vegetable soup and some cherry Kool-Aid (a typical Caitl?n breakfast), and I took two Tylenol for my head, and it's somewhat better, too. If there were dreams last night, I don't recall them (which is unusual).
Last night, we watched the last ep of Season Four of The Sopranos. Fortunately, Season Two of Six Feet Under will be out on DVD (finally!) soon. In the interim, we have lots of costume work that needs doing. And, gods, there are those quaint things called books; I forget about those. Oh, we also watched Journey to the Seventh Planet (1962) last night. We'll, I did. Spooky dozed off after about fifteen minutes. I think I'm developing an obsession with movies directed by Sid Pink and written by Ib Melchoir (Reptilicus is another one). They're just so very strangely cheesy, and they try so hard and fail so completely, and yet they're still fun. Besides, I find passionate failure fascinating.
Let's see. There's really not much else. But Spooky's been snapping photos left and right with the new Canon, so I think I'll include a few more. The first two are me in my office (my natural habitat) and the last one is the aforementioned "dead duck," whom I have named Horace:
I'm invisible in this one. Note the autographed photo of Gigi Edgley as Chiana. Dork.
Whoops. I'm visible again. Madam Oblivia with her headphones. And that's Pandora, my old Color Classic on the left.
Horace. Grrrrrr! Quack! Grrrrrr!
Okay. Enough silliness. I'm off to Maerimydra.