"This is what I do. You can't pick what you're good at. "
Fuck, but this is the most infuriating day I've had in...a year, probably.
Oh, and it finally got cold last night. Our high today was 63F.
Fuck autumn.
I was up at five this morning, and at least I managed to get through letters C-D of The Ultraviolet Alphabet. And I took care of a bunch of details with SubPress about Bright Dead Star and the novella/chapbook. So, at least there was that.
There are not words for the level of my contempt for Microsoft boxes.
The afternoon's movie was Drew Pearce's Hotel Artemis (2018). Last night we watched Frank Darabont's adaptation of The Mist (2007). It is not often that my initial impression of a movie changes significantly, and it's almost never that I like something only to discover years later that it was actually pretty terrible. The Mist is pretty terrble. No, it's not the worst movie ever based on a work by Stephen King, but that's setting the bar damn low. So, that was depressing. It comes across like a made-for-tv thing. The direction is...hypothetical. The acting is wooden. Almost nothing about the film holds up to what I remember from seeing it in the theater.
We're watching Stranger Things again, preparing for the final season. And it's very, very good, but seeing the early eighties so faithfully rendered when I'm stranded here at the ass-end of this fading civiization...it turns nostalgia to a physical ache for a lost and vastly better world.
Later Tater Beans,
Aunt Beast
11:35 a.m.
Oh, and it finally got cold last night. Our high today was 63F.
Fuck autumn.
I was up at five this morning, and at least I managed to get through letters C-D of The Ultraviolet Alphabet. And I took care of a bunch of details with SubPress about Bright Dead Star and the novella/chapbook. So, at least there was that.
There are not words for the level of my contempt for Microsoft boxes.
The afternoon's movie was Drew Pearce's Hotel Artemis (2018). Last night we watched Frank Darabont's adaptation of The Mist (2007). It is not often that my initial impression of a movie changes significantly, and it's almost never that I like something only to discover years later that it was actually pretty terrible. The Mist is pretty terrble. No, it's not the worst movie ever based on a work by Stephen King, but that's setting the bar damn low. So, that was depressing. It comes across like a made-for-tv thing. The direction is...hypothetical. The acting is wooden. Almost nothing about the film holds up to what I remember from seeing it in the theater.
We're watching Stranger Things again, preparing for the final season. And it's very, very good, but seeing the early eighties so faithfully rendered when I'm stranded here at the ass-end of this fading civiization...it turns nostalgia to a physical ache for a lost and vastly better world.
Later Tater Beans,
Aunt Beast
11:35 a.m.