I was surfing Lugnet for neat new brick creations, and came across this from Adrian Drake … (I have it on good authority that he was not, in fact, “inspired by Land of the Living Dead”)

The Meridiani Planum Nuclear Facility seemed like a great idea at the time. The Lunar Nuclear Regulatory Commission wanted cheap power for the Moonbase, so they decided to transplant one of their terrestrial nuclear facilities to the moon virtually unchanged. A couple of moonbase connectors, some force fields for the lobby and loading dock, and it was ready to go.

The problems began with a minor fleebnork infestation. It turns out that fleebnork droppings, when combined with the radiation from fusion and the canned-recirculated air of the Moonbase causes some distinct physiological problems. Okay, long story short, the reactor blew, the containment chamber cracked, and almost the entire staff of the Meridiani Planum facility were turned into Zombies.

ZOMBIES! WOOT!

(Hey, after the last post, I needed something light to lift my spirits, ok?)

It’s like, on one hand, I say, ‘Gosh, I need to get out more and socialize’. But when I have those opportunities, a lot of the time, I’ll find something else to do. Not something fun either, ‘Oh, I’ve got to do laundry’ or ‘I need to clean.’ Not that those aren’t two things I don’t need to do, it’s just that when I choose to do them over, say, going out with people, I’m making the wrong choice.
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I was dreading work this afternoon because I would be stuck all day alone in the store with Ogre, whom I generally find great dislike for. But today I had a pleasant distraction with me, and finished my chores — dishes, boxes — in about half an hour, then settled into the alcove in the back, and framed in by a soda machine, empty dough trays, and stacks of variously sized pizza boxes, settled myself into a stray office chair, kicked off my well-worn sneakers, and picked up from where I’d left off in what is still a suspenseful and spooky work of literary art.

Sadly, the afternoon was not all for consuming tales of Drakulya. I had a handful of deliveries and found myself — oddly enough — dreading them. Most of them were close by, and all of them showed their gratitude for my efforts in their gratuities. I also had to pad up front in my miraculously not-yet hole riddled socks to ring up some customers when Ogre was otherwise engaged (read: trying to tend the oven), leading one woman to remark, snootily, “Comfortable?”

(Well, no, not really, because when reading my head was resting against a pizza box as a cushion, and while that is slightly better than using a cold, hard tile as a cushion, it, uh, isn’t by much.)*

Also, Greg had promised to bring in paychecks, but as noon rolled around without his appearance, I called him. And he didn’t answer. So I called him again, and then a third time. Finally he picked up, irritated — well, duh, it was me — and after I pressed him about the matter he told me the checks were already in the store … hidden. Then, because he didn’t want me ripping the place apart, he told me where they were hidden, and voila! A paycheck for me.

I knew pretty much from the second I cracked the spine that I’d like Kostova’s book because it seemed to follow from the same general path as Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell in that both works present themselves as the final product of literary research. Although The Historian lacks the copious footnotes of Clarke’s work (which are one of the best parts of it), it is, I think, that presentation — “This is not fiction! This is my dissertation!” — which gives the work a leg-up by fooling (eh, maybe not so much in Kostova’s case, but I had to remind myself that JS&MN wasn’t really a history book every few chapters) readers into thinking, “Hey, this is legitimate research, I’m actually learning something and being productive, not merely entertaining myself!”

I mean, The Historian is entertaining, don’t get me wrong. It’s great! Certainly better than my latest Netflix pick (damn, and I don’t get more DVDs until Wednesday. Fucking holiday).

*I told her this, she gave me a look, said “You’re odd” and left without inquiring as to the smile that spread over my face.

I read the first few chapters of The Historian last night before passing out, then being awoken by my killer headache and suffering through it for a few hours until the aspirin kicked in.

This is a scary book. I mean, it’s hard to say why, there are no monsters jumping out at people, no one’s life is in danger - yet. Last night I was, of course, reading this in bed, and at one point one of the cats jumped onto the kitchen table and knocked the mail to the floor and I jumped up and was looking for a baseball bat … “Oh shit, Dracula’s here to kill me!” I mean, it really is THAT spooky.

I think I’m going to restrict myself to reading it in the daylight. With the blinds wide open, so that if Dracula does try to get me, the sunlight will destroy him!

Plus, buying garlic.

(I’m serious)

(I could also just be the oldest scaredy-cat known to mankind)

There is an orchestra playing in my head, and no matter how politely I’ve asked them, they won’t stop making noise on their instruments!