|
|
< 12/11 12/12 12/13 12/14 12/15 12/16 12/17 12/18 12/19 12/20 >
|
The whole world is being burned down or torn up or broken to pieces and people don't care. I have reached the point where I almost hope the death rate goes up quickly, very quickly, with maximum damage to humanity and minimum damages to the rest of the animal kingdom and the inanimate environment so that the old planet has a chance to recover. I am becoming misanthropic. Individual human beings are becoming monsters incapable of any kind of motive except grabbing what they can from the universal human wreckage.He died ten years ago, but damn, it sounds like ol' Isaac was talking about the programming meeting last night. You think I bitch a lot? You have no idea. I have the greatest amount of respect for the employees at the station, as they put up with a lot of unfair static. While certain other people were moaning about the lottery system—random numbers are picked to determine the order in which you get to choose a timeslot, the only remotely fair way to do it when there's such a demand for a limited schedule—and the fact that the meeting didn't start exactly on time (sheesh, what does?) and a whole host of other minor things, we kept quiet. The complainers next to us got a high number. Karma guided my hand and I picked a low number, so we got out of there quickly. Neener on them. We went to the Red Vic tonight to see Home Movie, which is showing with Heavy Metal Parking Lot. I'd say we've gotten back on track, moviewise. Michelle and Rocco's cat Petunia was on kittypr0n this month. Our original plan of having them over to see it when broadcast didn't quite happen since Michelle was on tour that week and Rocco had to work, so we sent them a tape. Anyway, when they finally saw it, Michelle called and left a bouncy (even by her standards) message on the voicemail about how much they liked it, and they told us again on Wednesday. I'm glad it made them so happy. It's very gratifying. At Maddy's request (she never ceases to surprise me), we're watching my old tapes of Beavis and Butt-Head. I've always thought the show was underrated—in all the controversy over the shock value, it was seldom given credit for the sharp writing—but, god, it seems practically sophisticated now compared to jackass.
| ||
 | ||
If Nemesis is to be believed, a "lifetime of violence" results in big, sensuous lips. Angelina Jolie must have had it rough. At least the strategy worked; the theater was far from full, and for the most part, the audience kept quiet. (A theater-hopper made a ruckus at one point, but didn't stay very long. I would say the Evil Sony Metreon's security sucked, if it actually existed.) I still can't help but feel terribly insulted that we paid six and a half bucks each for a matinee ticket and still had to sit through ten minutes of commercials (I timed it) before ten minutes of previews to get to the actual movie. Ugh. Worse, somehow, was the fact that in the hallways outside the theaters, product advertisements were mixed in with the movie posters, full-sized ads for toothpaste and a new album by an aging 80s rock icon whose name I don't care to mention. And, of course, before the movie started, the fake DJ on the PA "spinning" the latest corporate musical product, exhorting the listener after each one to be sure to rush out to a record store to buy it. It was excruciating. I am very tired of being told to buy things my every waking moment, yet I know it will never end, at least not so long as I remain in this culture. But at least Maddy and I can finally talk about the movie, which I've been wanting to do with her ever since I read the script. And, boy, what a lousy script it is. But there's no point in going into that. (One last bit of geekiness: maybe this will put an end to the whole fanboy "even numbered movies are good, odd numbered suck" nonsense. Admittedly, The Motion Picture, Generations and The Search for Spock are my favorites, so what do I know?) Afterwards, we went to see Michelle Tea and Lynn Breedlove read at the Eureka Valley/Harvey Milk Memorial Branch of the library. A free event, just some friends reading aloud from their books—material I was familiar with, no less—yet it was more entertaining and emotionally satisfying than the seventy-million dollar movie. Funny how that works. Lynnee only occasionally looks up while reading, and Michelle hardly ever. I find that encouraging, since my eyes tend to stick to the page, largely out of necessity. I try to look up and make eye contact with the audience as much as I can, but it's very easy to get lost that way. And I read from double-spaced printouts; I can only imagine what it's like to read from an actual book, even one you wrote yourself. One of the neat things about that branch of the library is its wide selection of queer books. (No surprise, given its namesake.) Among them is Scott Thorson's Behind the Candelabra: My Life With Liberace, which I've been looking for ever since Jennifer Blowdryer and Phillip Ford dramatized it as the first act of their play Let's Talk About Me. On page 18, it's revealed that Liberace lost his virginity to a Green Bay Packer. That may be the single most important historical fact ever. We went to our annual programming meeting tonight and renewed the show. Since we really don't like the show we follow on Monday nights, kittypr0n is moving to Tuesday nights starting in January. Same time, half past midnight (following YTV, which suits us a hell of a lot more), but twice a month, first and third Tuesdays. The first week will be a new episode, and the third will be a repeat from the first year. Yay us.
| ||
| ||
All things considered, we've gotten very lucky with the storm. Aside from a beautifully raging ocean and the almost perfunctory blackout on Saturday afternoon, it hasn't affected us much. It's even been kind enough to not rain in the mornings, so I've been able to drag myself to the gym the last couple days. While changing CDs today, I learned (very much against my will) that "Sweet Home Alabama" is Bone Music, while "I'm Not In Love" isn't. I'm sure I'll that'll be valuable information someday. In the meantime, Hanatarash's 5 is just noisy enough to block out the radio. We're staying in town next week, my first time not being in Fresno for xmas. It'll be a change, certainly. Although I might be going down there anyway in the near future, however briefly. My mom has offered us the bed which used to be in her guest room, and since it's in better shape than the one we're using right now, we've accepted. The problem, of course, is getting it up here. Lynnee, who runs a hauling service and is an odd-jobber when she isn't on tour promoting her book, has agreed to help me move it. "Agreed" in the sense of being hired, that is. Beats U-Haul, that's for sure. At the Walgreens near us (and probably others), there's a display for a toothpaste showing a vaguely lecherous Santa Claus with an artificially gleaming smile. Printed on it are the words "Dreaming Of A White Smile." It's a twist on the famous first line from "White Xmas," with Santa representing the holiday, and the desirability of a white smile replacing the wish for snowfall. It has a motion detector, so when you walk by it plays the relevant line from the song. It's a little jarring because the words you hear are different than the words you see in front of you, but it probably sells a lot of toothpaste. Doesn't everybody want a white smile?
| ||
| ||
Since it's been a while, we put on Annie Hall last night. It's not quite my favorite Woody Allen movie—Manhattan and Stardust Memories usually vy for that spot, with Crimes and Misdemeanors trailing close behind—but it's way up there, and it's always comforting to watch. It's one of those movies I've always owned in the dominant format, from VHS to laserdisc to DVD. (There's also a bit of personal lore surrounding it. Before we got serious, when I was just a friend who was helping her through her recent breakup, I showed it to The Ex. My mother was surprised to come home and find I had a girl over, something which, at sixteen, had never happened. I've often wondered if she was beginning to suspect that it never would. For her part, The Ex was surprised when we sat down on the couch and I put a bowl of peanuts between us. Usually when she was alone with a boy he tried to get as close to her as possible, but I clearly intended to keep to myself. And I did. I think they both learned something about me that day.) Afterwards, I found I was seriously jonesing for 1980's Stardust Memories, so we watched that next. God, what an amazing movie, and a fitting climax to a decade of brilliant moviemaking. He's done some great work in the ensuing two decades (the aforementioned Crimes and Misdemeanors, Zelig, Radio Days, Shadows and Fog, and, of course, Hannah and Her Sisters), but he's never reached those heights again. Then again, maybe that's because he never worked with the gorgeous Jessica Harper again. Maddy calls Jessica's look in Stardust Memories, especially her first scene in the movie, "Sherilyn-goth." I am so not worthy of such praise. (Boy, don't you just hate Woody Allen? All he does his whine in his movies, and then there's the whole thing with his daughter—eww! Gross! I can't stand him!) (There. It's been said, and it doesn't need to be said again.)
| ||
| ||
In spite of the fourth Satanic statement, we travelled to Marin and back this morning. We somehow managed to avoid the rain, though it started not too long after we got home, followed by a lengthy power outage. Using light coming in the window, I read to Maddy from Carl Sagan and Ann Druyan's Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, one of my favorite books. She eventually fell asleep (as she would have regardless of what I was reading), so to myself I finished Isaac Asimov's It's Been a Good Life. We ran into one of the upstairs neighbors in the garage. They mentioned in passing that they don't get cable or satellite or any of that. I'm liking them more and more. Later, in an odds-and-ends store on Taraval (we were shopping for candles which we probably didn't need but I wanted, fearing that the power wouldn't come back on for a long time, so of course it was back on by the we got home), I saw a relatively cheap teevee antenna. I didn't get it—I seldom ever buy anything at first—but will probably be back for it next week. Ever notice how the vast majority of what's on the public airwaves, or in the public space, is advertising? And much of it uses sex? Maybe it's just me. I think I've finally figured out coolsavings.com. You know, their branded image is a pig wearing sunglasses. As near as I can figure, the pig connotes savings (via a piggy bank, one presumes) and as we all know sunglasses make you cool. Ergo, cool savings. I hope whoever came up with it made a lot of money. They deserve it. They're very clever.
| ||
| ||
I will forever be grateful to Danny for having referred to the first kittypr0n episode as our pilot episode. It's so incredibly obvious, I'm embarrassed it hadn't occurred to me before then, and since then we've called it the pilot. Anyway, the pilot has always been of considerably poorer quality than subsequent episodes, because of the number of generations it went through on our (4-head but less than top of the line) VCRs before it was completed. So, yesterday afternoon at the studio I did something I've been wanting to do for some time: I remastered it. Which is to say, I found the tape with our original edit of the footage, before it had any music (I'm so very very very glad I keep these things), dubbed that to DVCAM, then re-recorded the music and put on new credits. It looks a zillion times better than it did before, and we're much happier with it. Just in time, too, since it'll be repeated at some point in the next month or so if/when we got to twice a month, it'll be probably be having its Oregon debut in January, and sometime after the first of the year we'll starting making tapes available for the most nominal of fees. So, as I say, just in time. Not to mention seeing the new version referred to as "#1: pilot [remaster]" brings me a small amount of pleasure. Before Poetry Mission last night, I used the restroom. (I'm so glad I discovered Dalva has both a men's room and a women's room; until September I didn't realize there were two, and I'd though the men's room was the only one. It's not so much a gender issue as it is the fact that their men's room tends to be incredibly rank. The women's room, not so much.) Then, when I was at the mic, I suddenly found myself wondering if I'd zipped up my jeans. I was pretty sure I had, but I honestly didn't remember for sure, and while I'm all about shifting positions and the nervous brushing of my hair behind my ears when I'm reading, there was no casual way I could check my fly—especially not given the nature of the piece. So I rolled on, and it actually slipped my mind by the time I was done. Since neither (e) nor Matthue said anything about it when I sat down, I'm guessing I was zipped up just fine. I was talking to David West and Matthue outside, and Matthue asked me the question I often get when the observation is made that I don't smoke or drink: what do I do? What's my vice? I thought about it for a moment, and replied (quite truthfully) that I was feeling guilty that the night before, in spite of having had a large sushi dinner, a few hours later I ton of rice cakes. David practically doubled over with laughter. Evidently carbohydrates before bed isn't high up on the vice list. A Star Trek movie opens today, and I don't want to see it. This is new for me; I was even excited about the first movie when I was six. (I was not disappointed, and I still think it's the most underrated of the movies, but I also like Voyager, so my taste is clearly lacking.) But I just don't care anymore. Actually, that's not true. I'm fascinated by it, to the extent that as opposed to my normal policy of avoiding Trek spoilers, I've read everything can about it, including the script. (Which I did not like.) I suppose we'll rent it when it comes out on DVD next summer, but I don't want to give Paramount my money. I can think of better ways to spend it. Fuck them. And, of course, it would require going to a mainstream movie theater. It's not worth that kind of pain. Very little is. Given the choice, I'd much rather be spending my money on Bucky Sinister's one-man show at Spanganga tonight. Unfortunately, the big scary storm is keeping us in. Tonight is not a good night to be driving across town.
| ||
| ||
A good night at Poetry Mission. My reading went well—the same piece I read at Oral Fixation, and the first time I've read something that wasn't my most recent piece—and later in the evening I got something very close to a spit take out of(e). (I'm going to be proud of that one for a while.) Her actual reading was typically brilliant, and, as always, David West slays me. I was also glad to finally get a chance to talk to Lauren Wheeler afterwards.
| ||
| ||
As always, the only problem with good but inexpensive sushi is that one tends to eat more than one should. But how can I not throw in a 16-piece tako maki roll when it's only $3? And I can't not have a horenso, can I? For the last few months, Access SF has been running new promos before shows, 5-10 second clips of various producers saying "You're watching channel 29, public access for San Francisco yadda yadda yadda." Frankly, we don't like them very much and wish they weren't on before our show, but I suppose it's supposed to be a community-building thing, to give viewers a better since of who the producers are. (Even though we're some of the only producers who don't actually appear on our own show, except in pictures on the wall or fridge.) (My favorite Hitchcock cameo was in Lifeboat, the entirety of which takes place on the title object in the middle of the ocean: he appeared in a newspaper advertisement. But I digress.) The funny thing is, nobody's approached us about doing one. It reminds me of a recurring line on Letterman during the summer of 1989, which my fellow Gen-X'ers will remember as the summer of Batman: "They didn't even ask me!" Being Adam West's feelings about Batman, you see. The difference, of course, is that if they did ask, we'd say no, but... Meanwhile, it's looking more and more like we might be going on Portland cable access. Nutty. If all goes well, I'll be reading at Poetry Mission tomorrow night. It's been a couple months. That last time was nearly perfect; I left work (for I was working in those days, however briefly), took the train to the studio to deal with some scheduling issues, then walked to Dalva. (e) hosted, it was an enthusiastic pre-ForWord Girls crowd, and I passed notes with Matthue like we were in school. I've even managed to not let getting clocked on the way out there ruin my memories of the evening. I was employed during the day and indulged in my two major hobbies (a deliberate understatement) that night. The way it should be. Maddy was out of town, but, as I say, it was not perfect.
| ||
| ||