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Snowhammer
Mar. 18th, 2004 01:21 amOpen with a laugh: Kendra got an email from a professor today that began, "I left you Feeling Classical in your box." (Feeling Classical being the title of a book he's working on.) And yesterday, in the Sherlock Holmes/Lovecraft crossover collection Shadows over Baker Street, I read about a character who ran into a room "with urgent pants". How very squamous. And eldritch.
Dunno what the rest of the country is experiencing, but we're still being clobbered by snow today. The still-green remnants of the crocuses are poking through, but barely. The sight of the traditional Saint Patrick's Day blanket of snow does not fill me with vivacity. Perhaps I should sprinkle it with green food dye.
I managed to make some burgers for supper tonight, and read another chapter of Harry Potter to Kendra; yesterday I ran some errands (deposited a check, bought bagels, shopped for unmentionables at the Safe Sex Store) and went to work. That sums up my accomplishments; energy is frankly at a low ebb.
At the moment I'm watching the French "horror" film Zombie Lake, or "Those poor Nazis!" It's remarkably bad, despite the incredible excesses of naked flesh littering the screen. (No, let's be honest; partly because of the naked flesh.) The Nazi zombies drink blood like vampires and are referred to as ghosts; they are more sympathetic than the stupid villagers, or "heap o' hicks" as one character calls them; also, their green makeup comes off when they stagger out of the titular lake. I refuse to even contemplate the nude volleyball-team massacre set to a Smurfy, unstoppable, malignantly cheerful "La-la-la, la-la-la!" soundtrack. (If there were a Terminator Smurf, that is the song it would sing as it hunted down Smurf Connor.)
I did have one small triumph, not related to B movies; I wrote a long, advice-heavy email to a friend, which against all odds was apparently quite helpful. That warms me, a bit; if I can't be close to my friends, at least I can be there for them in spirit.
All righty; a sad little girl is now feeding blood to her Nazi zombie father, in hopes of betraying him to his destruction. Gottago.
Dunno what the rest of the country is experiencing, but we're still being clobbered by snow today. The still-green remnants of the crocuses are poking through, but barely. The sight of the traditional Saint Patrick's Day blanket of snow does not fill me with vivacity. Perhaps I should sprinkle it with green food dye.
I managed to make some burgers for supper tonight, and read another chapter of Harry Potter to Kendra; yesterday I ran some errands (deposited a check, bought bagels, shopped for unmentionables at the Safe Sex Store) and went to work. That sums up my accomplishments; energy is frankly at a low ebb.
At the moment I'm watching the French "horror" film Zombie Lake, or "Those poor Nazis!" It's remarkably bad, despite the incredible excesses of naked flesh littering the screen. (No, let's be honest; partly because of the naked flesh.) The Nazi zombies drink blood like vampires and are referred to as ghosts; they are more sympathetic than the stupid villagers, or "heap o' hicks" as one character calls them; also, their green makeup comes off when they stagger out of the titular lake. I refuse to even contemplate the nude volleyball-team massacre set to a Smurfy, unstoppable, malignantly cheerful "La-la-la, la-la-la!" soundtrack. (If there were a Terminator Smurf, that is the song it would sing as it hunted down Smurf Connor.)
I did have one small triumph, not related to B movies; I wrote a long, advice-heavy email to a friend, which against all odds was apparently quite helpful. That warms me, a bit; if I can't be close to my friends, at least I can be there for them in spirit.
All righty; a sad little girl is now feeding blood to her Nazi zombie father, in hopes of betraying him to his destruction. Gottago.
