Best name for Easter ever, courtesy of my friend Rami: Night of the Living Dead. I think it captures the slightly ghoulish nature of celebrating the story of a misunderstood deity climbing out of a tomb to find his Father.
Meanwhile, a supernatural woman that I spent an inordinate amount of time reading and obsessing over as a child has proven to be rather blandly human after all. Anne Rice, who came closer than anyone else to making me believe in something beyond this world, has suffered from a terribly predictable mid-life spiritual reversion, literally and figuratively departing her holy stomping ground of New Orleans to spread the word of said dead prodigal son. It kind of sucks, if you will forgive the vampiric phrasing.
I spent yesterday with the boyfriend's extended family out in the woods of New Jersey. Rocco was a dream, and made the three of us seem like the most stable family unit there, oddly enough. Everyone was very sweet to me, though, which was greatly appreciated, and there was just enough redneck culture present to make me feel like I was actually home.
So Hoppy Easter, everyone! And if you see any undead hippies wandering around, be nice to them, just in case.