On the plus side I don't have to stay awake, so as soon as I'm finished with this I'm going back to bed.
* * *
Mrs. Fungus' birthday was yesterday, and of course I was at work for seven hours. When I got home, I set to cooking the birthday feast: steaks, baked potatos, salad, corn-on-the-cob. Dessert was a cherry pie I'd stopped to get on my way home.
As we began to eat dinner we began watching Wolf of Wall Street. It's a movie Mrs. Fungus has wanted to see and which I was ambivalent about. Well, I'm no longer ambivalent because it was pretty entertaining.
"What do the citizens of Fucktown do when their emperor is out? Is there mayhem?" I busted every gut God gave me at that line. Holy crap.
...standard Martin Scorsese movie about a lawbreaker, of course. Has Scorsese ever directed a film where the protagonist was actually a good person and not some kind of criminal? The difference is, this guy didn't kill anyone.
* * *
The Hugo Awards nonsense goes mainstream.
I will never win a Hugo. That's a given; that's something I resigned myself to before I attended high school. No matter the quality of my work, my politics are incorrect, and I am completely incapable of hiding in the closet. Even if I bang out some kind of miracle and I write a sterling example of SF for the ages, I'll never have one of those golden rocket ships.
But you know, that's okay. I agree with Heinlein: the ultimate validation is crisp and rustles. I'll take commercial success over critical acclaim any day of the week. I want people to read my stuff, as many people as possible, because they like it, and not because some goofball thinks that the symbolism of my setting is hatstand fishtank coffepot. Generally speaking if you write for critics, only the critics read what you write--and while the rest of the populace may agree that your work is ART!! they won't bother reading it themselves.
Critics are a vanishingly small demographic, and they usually don't pay for their copies. I'm just saying.
* * *
It's been a hard week and I have earned my rest.