Stuff and Moonshine

Last night one of my dreams involved a kind of sorting station full of huge golden capsules (roughly the size and shape of hatboxes, but with rounded edges). The staff said that whichever one was opened would determine the kind of god overseeing our reality. I think they mostly contained atheist or deist universes, with a sprinkling of angry gods, but there was one capsule that would put “Bob the Giant Space Cat” in charge. As they explained this, someone saw the Bob capsule (how they could tell idk as the capsules were all outwardly identical) and made a slow-motion dive towards it. They must have succeeded, for the heavens opened and Bob the Giant Space Cat descended in all His glory. “Welcome to your universe, Mr. Bob,” said the staff. “Would you like to tour the facility?” Then the dream segued to a surprisingly normal narrative about grocery shopping or something.

I already mentioned my recent acquisition of The I Hate to Cook Book. I tried a single-serving version of Grape Cream (dessert – literally green grapes plus enough sour cream to cover them, placed in a sherbet/parfait glass, sprinkled with brown sugar, and chilled for a bit) last night and it was pretty good. An online search suggests this dish is still A Thing in… some parts of America, I guess, although most modern versions appear to add cream cheese and vanilla.

I am still trying to figure out what is a reasonable and appropriate quantity of paprika to add to anything.

RIP Aretha Franklin. Apart from everything else, you were referenced (thoug not by name) in an episode of the animated show The Real Ghostbusters

ETA -- I’ve just realized that I’ve mixed up Susan Sarandon and Sigourney Weaver. Which is awkward, because I've begun doing a The Hunger/Ghostbusters fic which partly involves their characters being mistaken for each other. I guess if they look confusingly alike to me, it's plausible that the rapidly-aging John Blaylock might make the same mistake? I can downplay the resemblance now that he's already made the error and Dana has recognized him and been freaked out at how terrible her erstwhile cello teacher looks.

Unrelated to anything: Costco sells caskets! <

Ghoulish websurfing + insomnia means I am now unable to stop formatting an argument about why I think the posed Victorian post-mortem photograph* is a myth**, and I don't even know if it's a particularly widespread myth.

I also have some thoughts about why modern viewers might mistake Victorian photos of living subjects for post-mortems.

Arrgh. I'm not even a proper historian, just a geek with a morbid turn of mind.


* As opposed to post-mortem photos where the subject is (a) clearly dead, usually in his/her coffin, or (b) retouched to look alive, but still in a supine position - usually with the aim of portraying the deceased as peacefully asleep.

** Short version - years ago I read The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club, and recall a passage about why hospital staff hate hate hate it when a patient dies in a chair and doesn't get discovered until rigor mortis has set in...