breath of hell

Today Cape Town is staked out across the peninsula like a large, floppy cake on a griddle, roasting. Various dragons and salamanders occasionally give the city a huff, presumably preparatory to a really good rubbing which will clean all this inconvenient human trivia off into the sea. I welcome this, on the grounds that it'll be cooler. Today's projected maximum: 40 degrees, with discomfort index at 47. I didn't sleep last night, I can barely walk straight, and my head hurts. I do not like this climate, it is scraaaatched. Fortunately, the heat was also sufficient to stun my lecture students into something resembling somnolent acquiescence; the Ursula Vernon walrus barely raised languid eyebrows. The total failure of a power cut to materialise when I actually needed one means that I spent ninety minutes of today discoursing on semiotics, which may, in retrospect, have something to do with the headache and the bumping into walls.

In other news, clearly the Evil Conservative Conspiracy has, with last-ditch suppressions and knuckledusting behind the scenes, triumphed. The Gay Cowboy Movie, hot favourite for the Best Picture Oscar, was obviously knobbled at the start. I'm sure Clash was worthy, but I'd like to have seen Brokeback as best picture as a general up-yours to the religious right. At least Ang Lee, who is probably my second favourite director ever, got Best Director. I'm trying to work out why the SoufEffrican jubilation at Tsotsi's Best Foreign Film win is so muted in comparison to the Charlize fervour, but obviously it's Blonde Bimbo Syndrome. Also a bit miffed, on general fangirl principles, that Wallace and Grommit beat Howl's Moving Castle to the Oscar. Mutter. No surprises with the Oscars, generally. It remains to be seen only what Go Fug Yourself makes of the costumes. Charlize's was a sort of post-futurist techno-gothic nightmare.