greygirlbeast: (Tuojiangosaurus)
This morning (technically, this afternoon), I'm a little taken aback at otherwise sensible people who are feeling sorry for the disappointed, depressed, and down-at-heel followers of Harold Camping. As kids these days are wont to "say," o.0.

Here we have these cowardly fuckers who were hoping to be yanked away to some heavenly playground where they could wallow in eternal bliss, while 97.1% of humanity endured unspeakable horrors and fire and everlasting torment. And I'm supposed to feel empathy or sympathy or whatever for the idiot cult of Harold Camping, because they didn't get their wish? Hah! I admit that I have no especial love of humanity, and I've often thought total annihilation might not be such a bad thing, BUT at least I include myself among the annihilated. My doomsday is utterly indifferent and doesn't discriminate. I don't imagine some Old Man in the Sky who passes judgment. Who picks and chooses, and is willing and eager to spare you infinite agony if you'll get down on your knees and kiss "his" feet and stroke "his" ego and tell "him" you love no other god but "him."

So, no. The followers of Camping will get no sympathy from me. Let them weep. Let them gnash their teeth and feel the weight of the godless universe upon their cowards' shoulders.

---

Yesterday, I wrote 1,529 words on Chapter Two of Blood Oranges. And Spooky had trouble reading it, because she kept having to stop to laugh. She tells me that's a good thing, and I hope she's right. This is strange new territory for me.

The day is overcast, and it's only 54˚F out there. Hello, pretender to the throne of May.

Spooky has listed a new necklace in her Dreaming Squid Dollworks and Sundries Esty shop. You should buy it. Spooky's necklaces are grand.

Last night, I revisited Gregory Hoblit's Fallen (1998), which I think is somewhat underrated. Spooky had never seen it before. And we played Rift. And read Under the Poppy, which I hope you're reading, too. Also, I read two articles in the January issue of JVP: "New information Wumengosaurus delicatomandibularis Jiang et al., 2008 (Diapsida: Sauropterygia), with a revision of the osteology and phylogeny of the taxon" and "A small alvarezsaurid from the eastern Gobi Desert offers insight into evolutionary patterns in the Alvarezsauroidea."

Proudly Unraptured,
Aunt Beast

Oh, and dinosaur (etc.) photographs:

May 17-18, Part Three )
greygirlbeast: (imapact1)
greygirlbeast: (Default)
I think I was actually a little disappointed to awake and discover it looks like we're still stuck with the 2.9% of the earth's human population (200 million/3.9 billion) that Harold Camping promised we'd be rid of come 6 p.m. local time (which it is now long past in much of the world, ergo...). I am left with a question for Camping, though. Given that his heavenly abduction would have begun in the Pacific and rolled westward as the planet revolved, doesn't that mean that people in, say, California would have had an awfully unfair advantage over people in, say, New Zealand? I mean, in terms of last minute repenting and whatnot, which surely would have followed from the news reports. Then again, the number of Rapture tickets was awfully small, and I'm guessing they were all printed in advance. So, never mind.

---

I did sleep last night, more than eight hours, thanks to the Good Worker Bee pill.

I was going to post museum photos today, but I found I wasn't in the mood to bother with resizing them. Photoshop pisses me off.

Not much to say for yesterday. Work, whatever that was. And we went out to Acme Video to get movies for Kid Night. The day was green and mostly sunny...and cold. We have a month until Solstice, and sure it's green out there, but it's still chilly. I'm beginning to despair of seeing any warmth this year.

Last light, we watched the two sequels to Robert Rodriguez' Dusk Till Dawn (1996). I have to admit to having been underwhelmed by the original film. It's sort of grown on me over the years, but I've always felt Rodriquez missed the chance to make a really good movie, and we were left with a so-so "it could have been worse" sort of movie. Well, Dusk Till Dawn: Texas Blood Money (dir. Scott Spiegel; 1999) is that movie that could have been, and was, worse. A bad, bad, needs to be put over someone's knee and beaten sort of a movie. Not just bad, but dull. I nodded off three times. Fortunately, From Dusk Till Dawn 3: The Hangman's Daughter (dir. P.J. Pesce; also 1999, so I assume the films were shot back to back) is much, much better. As in, I enjoyed it quite a bit. Michael Parks was great as Ambrose Bierce. So, after a crappy first feature, Kid Night rallied with a fun second feature and all was not lost.

Very good rp in Rift last night.

--

Oh, I just remembered. Yesterday, I got the editorial letter for The Drowning Girl: A Memoir from my editor at Penguin. Only, it wasn't actually an editorial letter, not in the usual sense. My editor suggested only a single very minor change to ms. page 431 (out of 488 pages). I was kind of blown away. The good kind of blown away. My editor said incredibly nice things about the book (which I may quote, if she gives me permission). And that was that. Which saves me a week or so of revision work. I have a tiny number of additions I'd like to make to the book, and then it will be well and truly done.

And now...
greygirlbeast: (chi3)
It's a bloody, frelling shame that creationists are such a nuisance that we're forced to regard them as anything but comic relief. Because sometimes they really are pretty goddamned funny. For example, Project Pterosaur. I'd love to have their logo on a T-shirt or a tote bag or a pair of panties or something. It's just too, too entirely, preciously surreal not to be funny. It sort of looks like something Wilma Flintstone might have designed for the KKK.





Yeah, so, anyway, I just adore the way that creationists seem to think that the discovery of living descendents of clades believed to be extinct would in some way count as evidence against the fact of evolution. Especially pterosaurs. Nothing living today could have evolved from the pterosaurs, as pterosaurs would appear to have bitten the big one in the K/T extinction, leaving no descendants. 2 and 2 = 14, just as long as it gets the job done. I mean, even if these "theobiology" yahoos managed to find their Holy Grail, a living pterosaur in darkest Africa, and they were able to establish their pterosaur "rookery," blah, blah, blah, so the hell what? I mean, yeah, it'd be cool, that pterosaurs pulled a coelacanth and survived the Cretaceous and have somehow been hiding out for the last 65 million years, but it would in no way challenge our current understanding of evolution and the history of life on Earth. It would merely add to what we know about the evolution and biology of the Pterosauria. This is one reason that creationism is presently wreaking such havoc with American science education. Their antics are often so absurd that scientists dismiss them as harmless cranks, only to learn later on that an awful lot of people aren't interested in or simply cannot tell the difference between science and crankery.

It's really a shame there's no practical way to tax stupidity, or at least convert it into a clean alternative to oil.

Anyway...no writing yesterday. The despair that was tugging at me early in the day finally mushroomed into full-blown despondency, and I have discovered it's almost utterly pointless attempting to write tentacle smut when I'm despondent. I speak from experience. I've tried. And it inevitably turns into these bizarre postCthulian phenomenological dialogues on reality and the nature of being. Better to drink, I say, than imbibe in existentialist rants with the Great Old Ones. So that's what I did. I opened a new bottle of La Fée and consorted with The Green Fairy until I could no longer see quite straight. I think I had it in my head to get plastered, then have Spooky drive me to the mall to heckle Xmas shoppers. Fortunately, she stayed sober, and I wandered no farther than the front porch, where I could only heckle squirrels (thought they deserve it far less that Xmas shoppers). Early in the evening, a friend called to see if we wanted to do dinner Saturday night, and I was still too stinko to give her directions to the restaurant in question. I was a bad, bad nixar. Which pretty much insures that I'll write today, lest the guilt rend me asunder and grind my bones to dust.

I have to decide on the subject matter for the second vignette for Sirenia Digest #1. I wish I were better at funny, because I'd love to write something about a whorehouse in Innsmouth, circa 1924. But, alas, me and funny have only a dim and passing acquaintance, at best. I'm good for a one liner here or there, but that's about it. I blame Catholicism.

Meanwhile, thanks to [livejournal.com profile] sclerotic_rings for directing me towards Project Pterosaur, which made me laugh almost as much as learning that Former FEMA Director Michael Brown has started a disaster preparedness consulting firm. Also, we've begun a new round of eBay auctions, and I'd be grateful if you'd take a look. There are copies of The Five of Cups, Silk, The Dry Salvages (both the trade and limited), In the Garden of Poisonous Flowers, and The Worm in my Mind's Eye. All proceeds go to keep me and Spooky and Sophie from taking up residence in a cardboard box at the corner of Peachtree and Ponce.

Postscript — I'll send a shiny new nickle to the first person who proves that Project Pterosaur is, in fact, an anti-creationist hoax site, instead of being the real thing. That would make it even funnier.

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Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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