Never trust a man in a blue trenchcoat, never drive a car when you're dead

The Hanukkah party went well and was exhausting. I slept nearly twelve hours last night. I must have gotten an assist from the fever: in among the expected nightmares of not enough money and not enough health and a Dickensian business transaction with some very polite smash-and-grab thieves with Southie accents, I dreamed of discovering a Kickstarter-funded anthology film with accompanying print anthology, the theme being music and the supernatural. It was recent but not new; Alan Rickman had done some of his last work in the Victorian murder ballad segment. My favorite was "White Pigeon Blues," a quiet, all-Black story about a short-order cook c. 1950 who turns into a bird in ways that might be linked to tales of the people who could fly and might be something entirely personal. I was also fond of the jokey one about the black metal band that accidentally summons something eldritch and, after some flying furniture and frantically ineffectual counterspelling, makes it their replacement drummer. The book-with-DVD cost me five dollars at a library sale and I really resent it not existing now that I'm awake. There was something with sharply feminist bubblegum pop and I wish I could remember what it was.

45 does not yet seem to have fired Robert Mueller, but I appreciate the existence of a rapid response network of protests if and when he does. There's one already planned for Boston. I also appreciate the internet presenting me with Bunny Roger, an anti-fascist I should indeed have known. The comments chiming in with additional anecdotes are great.

I am seriously considering going back to bed.