I was really cranky on Friday, in case you couldn’t tell. Saturday was entertaining. It’s not every day you get to see someone take a pair of scissors to a dress that costs about what I make in a month, let me just say. After the fitting, I dashed back here for a shower hosted by the wonderful Lisa. Yesterday we had lunch with Michael’s dad, who was in town for a Knights of Columbus thing that involves capes and plumed hats. We don’t get it either.
In writing and publishing news, Asimov’s and Interzone are changing editors. Also, Jim Macdonald will now edit your book for a flat fee. If you want the brutal truth, you could do much worse.
Last week’s Angel was lovely. Drew Goddard can make anything cool. Last night’s Alias, on the other hand, was pretty bizarre. Pinpointing an individual brainwave from space?! Are you fucking kidding me? (Leaving aside for the moment that the wave in question was printed by a 14th-century Italian artifact….) I mean, I don’t ask for a whole lot of scientific plausibility in my shows. I’m good with vampires reproducing and all that crap. But give me something to work with, people. This Rambaldi thing is getting out of hand—I mean, we’re in tinfoil hat territory now. And while I’m on about it, let’s talk about Lauren. Why would she suddenly give up her hard-won position as the mole in order to extract info from Vaughn that Sark could have gotten on his own? Her fake-out was cool, but it seemed too trivial to warrant her blowing her cover.
