In March, I read two books. I finished reading Acceptance<\/i> by Jeff VanderMeer, and I started and finished reading Ancillary Sword<\/i> by Ann Leckie.<\/p>\n
I watched five movies. The Man Who Would Be King<\/i> and Star Trek: The Motion Picture<\/i> — which I’d actually never seen before — weren’t great. But the 1978 Invasion of the Body Snatchers<\/i> was genuinely very creepy, like a ’70s political conspiracy mixed with a ’70s zombie movie. And Zardoz<\/i>…god, Zardoz<\/i> will fuck you up. I don’t regret<\/i> watching it, but…it’s not something you can ever un-see.<\/p>\n
The fifth was The Man Who Knew Too Much<\/i>, which I’d actually forgotten until just now, as I was editing this post, that I’d seen. It’s decent Hitchcock, but not remarkable.<\/p>\n
I read thirty-eight short stories in my continuing endeavor to read at least one a day. The best of them, I thought, were:<\/p>\n
I went to a meet-up of a local sci-fi club, where we watched a bunch of Star Trek<\/i> in tribute to Leonard Nimoy — you know who was terrific? Leonard Nimoy — and I won a Spock glass<\/a>. That (and the mint juleps<\/a>) made me quite happy.<\/p>\n Oh, and I turned thirty-mumble-mumble-mumble. Thirty-eight. It was an okay birthday, far as those go, I guess.<\/p>\n Otherwise, it was a pretty ordinary March. More wintry than I would have liked — a snowstorm on the first day of spring — and a couple of other meetups unceremoniously canceled.<\/p>\n I’m still writing, still reading and editing for Kaleidotrope<\/a>, still doing the unable-to-find-an-apartment-why-am-I-living-in-New-York thing.<\/p>\n And I listened to some music:<\/p>\n