Because the sun is much too sultry and one must avoid its ultraviolet ray

Yale's spam filters are in dire straits lately, so I'm deleting twenty-odd useless messages for penis enlargement each morning, but at least this way I can join in the game of amusing spam; today's favorite was from Starlin Gay and entitled "Your health! Moss-woven!" And I had an advertisement for "diphthong consent" from Jacob Schmidt, which is at least a more believable spam name than Starlin Gay. In this decade, at any rate.

Last night's An Ideal Husband was excellent. The play really comes to life in its second half, when all the chararacters' entanglements have tightened on them in unforeseen ways; the five principals are all very good, but Derek Stone Nelson was note-perfect as the drawling, dandyish, unexpectedly levelheaded Lord Arthur Goring, on whose resemblance to Lord Peter Wimsey my father (rather than my mother, whom I'd always known loved the books; that was neat) remarked at the intermission. The production's running only through June 24th, so I strongly encourage any of you who are in the area to pick up tickets before there are no more. They are affordable tickets, too. Don't miss out.

Under the cut is the only dream I remember from last night, for which I intend to hold greygirlbeast and Sirenia Digest responsible; at least, for the part with the tentacles. But the rest of the sea-stuff is just my natural default.
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And with that, killingly hot as it is outside, I must mow the lawn. Record temperatures in Boston since the 1920's, I am told. And we haven't broken this planet, have we? No, it's all fine. Everyone knows that global warming is an omen of economic prosperity . . .