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So far, so good at Spookycon; we hung out quite a bit with Shrike, which is always nice. During the dinner break, Maddy and I went to see Todd Haynes' Far From Heaven, which if I'd seen a couple weeks ago I would have called my favorite movie of 2002. Oh, what the heck. It still is. And we got lucky with the audience, which at first glance looked like a Castro audience—quite a few of them appeared to be "light on their feet," if you know what I mean—but didn't find it to be an ironic yuckfest. Hooray for small miracles.
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A horror convention called SpookyCon opens today. We've been registered for quite some time, and as professional attendees, don't'cha'know. However, between one of Maddy's favorite writers having to cancel her appearance and the plans for Chupa to photograph Poppy Z. Brite for Steven's Sexgoblins falling through, some of the enthusiasm has faded. Oh well. That'll happen.
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Yep, it was purely a mistake on their part. We'll be on the third Tuesday this month, then start for real on Tuesdays next month. La de da. Meanwhile, Access SF was the subject of an article in the Los Angeles Times about obscenity on teevee. We didn't get mentioned, though. Apparently Diamanda Galas declaring herself to be the Shit of God doesn't count. Maybe because it's in Latin.
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Written in my notebook at K'vetch: Gosh, I love drunk straight boys. I mean, how can I not? They're everywhere!In the (unisex) restroom at the studio, there's a sign asking that feminine hygiene products be put in the garbage rather than the toilet, to protect the plumbing. It would seem someone visiting the studio tonight didn't think the request extended to paper towels, since they wadded up a bunch and put them in the toilet. My initial impulse was the go to the front desk, then I decided to skip a step. Using the handle of the plunger I got them out myself, feeling more than a little relieved that the water appeared to be clean. Of course, just as I'm about to feel distressed about how people can be so inconsiderate, I think about the de-mining crews in Angola and don't feel so bad. Around noon, I was driving Maddy home from her chiro appointment, and on a residential street there was a dead xmas tree. I don't know how long it had been there, but I'd guess all morning long. I stopped the car, got out and moved the tree to the sidewalk. Not five minutes earlier, I pointedly ignored a homeless man in front of Walgreen's. He was trying to talk to me, but I wasn't listening; indeed, I already felt annoyed as soon as I saw him heading towards us out of the corner of my eye. If all he had wanted was the time of day, I probably wouldn't have given it to him. I am no hero.
9:00pm Tonight has been a series of wrong turns and bad decisions. Little things adding up to minor inconveniences, but those are the ones over which I despair the most. (The chances I take when I should know better, the gambles I'm fated to lose, if I can't get the minor things right, what hope is there for me?) They reconfirm the unpleasant truth that I am, in fact, an idiot. Worse, an idiot who pretends to be intelligent. That's the most dangerous kind. Rebuttal: an intelligent person who pretends to be an idiot can do more damage, since the expectations placed upon them are lower. There are ads in nearly every subway station in town for Pocket PCs. The concept of the ads is people having to wait and being very bored; one is at the doctor's office, another is in what is probably a line at the airport, and so on. (Which reminds me, I saw a car today, a former police car judging from the shape, which had been repainted by hand in all sorts of swirly patterns. Among them it was written, "So it goes." I've never read Slaughterhouse-Five, though I've read Breakfast of Champions. And the "Fuck me? Hey Vonnegut, fuck you!" part is my favorite scene in Back to School.) The text for the one of the person in the waiting room is "17 minutes. Flip through old magazines or read today's news online?" Evidently those are the only choices. Bringing a book along isn't an option, especially when you consider that they're available for free at libraries, and that's like advocating piracy. No, the only way to battle a lack of input (and the scenarios are presumably in places that aren't littered with advertisements) is with a piece of consumer technology which costs several hundred dollars. Clearly, Occam was a communist. (I noted at Church station this evening that a culture jammer with a sharpie added a word balloon to one reading "Help! My thoughts aren't good enough!" Rock on.) Speaking of things which can fuck themselves (as I sorta vaguely did by way of a movie reference in one parenthetical aside or another in the above paragraph), fuck the record industry. And fuck the movie industry, too. I hope they both choke and die on their own bloated excesses like Belushi after that last binge. There was once a time when evil forces tried to sugarcoat themselves. No longer. I offer as evidence Captive Media, the company dedicated to making it impossible for you to piddle in a public restroom without seeing an ad. As if that weren't bad enough in and of itself (and, really, it is), look at the main image on their front page: a zombified human being with a UPC symbol projected onto their face. For pete's sake, does it get any more obvious than that? Hello? Is it just me? Then there's In-Store Broadcasting Network. On second thought, I'd best not get started on that. Twice lately I've seen "If you're not outraged, you're not paying attention" bumper stickers on SUVs. (Or equally large, inefficient vehicles. They all look the same to me.) I'll bet the owners also think they're making a political statement when they buy U2 albums. Tonight's rant brought to you by a splitting headache and an heaping portion of self-loathing, tempered somewhat by listening to Stars of the Lid's Music for Nitrous Oxide on the long train ride home. Sometimes a good drone can keep me sane.
sometime after midnight The show was supposed to be on tonight, this being the first Tuesday in January. That's what the paperwork we got at the timeslot selection meeting said, anyway. Unfortunately, it doesn't appear that it'll begin until February, and I can only assume we were on last night in our old slot after that other show whose name I won't mention since I don't want to to come up if someone googles it. This, again, in spite of the fact that we requested and were told the new schedule would start in January. I'll probably go to the station in the next few days with said paperwork and...I don't know. Gently complain, I guess. For all the difference it'll make. At least maybe we can get it repeated or something. I know it was an honest mistake on their part. One time I witnessed a producer go ballistic on the programming guy beacause her show got cut off. The thing was, it got cut off because it ran over the allotted twenty-eight and a half minutes. Being a longtime producer she knew full well that was the time limit, and she accused him of being "inflexible," saying that shows should be able to run long when necessary. She did every everything but call him a nazi. I don't want to be like that. On the other hand, I'm too passive sometimes. There must be a balance, but I'm never sure where it is.
nothing's more destructive than the truth. peace is misdirection.
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If I ever get a cell phone, I'll get the kind that Catherine Zeta-Jones recommends. She's a celebrity, so she should know. While in the Haight with Nicole on Thursday, we stopped into Amoeba so I could talk to Stanley. As I'd suspected, he has the original teevee pilot version of David Lynch's Mulholland Dr., and offered to make me a copy. Yay. While we were talking, I was approached by—of all people—Terminal. I had been vaguely aware that he was back in town for a short while. He, on the other hand, was only vaguely aware of my name. Showing that he still has all the social grace of a boiled turnip, he chose "man" as a substitute. "Hey, man! How's it going, man?" Ad nauseum throughout the conversation, which I tried to make as brief as possible. Yes, I'm aware that it's simply a slang term and not meant as a reference to gender, but I still don't like it. (The guy from Stars of the Lid was using it when I talked to him about kittypr0n at Beyond the Pale, and I did a pretty good job of not taking it personally. If you'll pardon how Bay Aryan this sounds, he was a Texan visiting San Francisco, so allowances have to be made, y'know?) I like it even less coming from Terminal, because I'm sure if I tried to explain why I don't like it he wouldn't understand. He's never quite understood what I'm about; I suspect all he can work out is that however I may look or act, I don't have a pussy and am not fuckable, and am, therefore, a man. It felt like especially bad timing to have it happen with Stanley right there. He took it in stride; he comfortable with the whole transitioning thing and has always gotten the name and pronouns right. Unlike some people I could mention. Allowing for the possibility that I was perhaps dressed down a bit on Thursday, when I returned to Amoeba on Saturday to get the tape from Stanley, I was a more femmed out than I had been before. Just in case. Some panhandling gutterpunks on Haight seemed to be making a point of calling me "dude" and "holmes" as I walked by, though. Maybe it worked and maybe it didn't.
11:57pm Miraculously, I got my piece finished in time for K'vetch. More importantly, I had time to edit it, which is probably the most crucial part of the writing process. Naturally, for as much time as I spent on it at home, I made changes at the last minute before I went on, things that I hadn't noticed before but seemed glaringly obvious now. But that's always the way, I think. Anyway, it was received well. Lynnee said it cracked her up, and that's high praise indeed. Michelle and Rocco were there, the first time I've seen them there since July, but they left before we got a chance to talk. At least they've seen it's possible for me to read without pacing. And, really, it's probably just as well that we didn't talk, because seeing as how I'm shallow and have been feeling spectacularly ugly lately, I probably would have embarrassed Michelle by telling her how good she looked. She was wearing a long black sleeveless dress, of which I have a few myself, but it looked a zillion times better on her than on me. Because she's Michelle and I'm not, I suppose. (Look, as I so eloquently understated to Horehound this evening, I have issues, all right?) We sold our first kittypr0n tape tonight. Only one out of the eight I'd brought along, but, hey, you never know. We're asking $5 each, and the payment was in the form of four one-dollar bills, two quarters, four dimes, and two nickels. I don't know why, but that seems fitting.
sometime after midnight I wonder how Lee's doing. I miss him.
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It's quite simple. In advertising terms, sunglasses mean "cool," cf. coolsavings.com. Looking over the top of sunglasses is even cooler, and allowing the eyes to be looking at the camera creates a subconscious connection with the viewer. Smiling is important; a simple grin becomes mischievious and devil-may-care when combined with the sunglasses. Hooded sweatshirts (or "hoodies") connote an irreverent attitude, and a branded logo will often be on the front to allow quick identification as to the nature of the attitude. And, of course, everybody likes anthropomorphized animals—refer again to coolsavings.com. Then there's the fact that producer Jerry Bruckheimer is pure, unadulterated evil and hates everything good and pure. Therefore, a movie poster featuring a smiling kangaroo (which strongly resembles Joe Camel) looking over sunglasses while wearing a Brooklyn hoodie equals box office gold. It can't fail. At least, that's the reasoning behind it being plastered all over town. It would be nice to be able to take the train or walk around downtown without having to look at it, but I'm not the one with the money.
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I saw even fewer current movies in 2002 than 2001; only sixteen this time around. (We went to a lot more than that, though I'm talking about movies that were actually released in 2002. Metropolis was one of the best movies I saw, but it was made in 1927, so it doesn't quite count. And we saw The Fellowship of the Ring at The Red Vic in mid-2002, but it's a 2001 film. Ya gotta have standards.) (Then again, Gamera 2: Advent of Legion was made in 1996, but didn't premiere in the U.S. until 2002. The best thing about standards is how easy it is to break them.) Anyway, starting with my favorites and then getting somewhat arbitrary (except for the last two, which are at the bottom for good reason): Bowling For Columbine, The American Astronaut, Frida, Auto Focus, The Kid Stays in the Picture, The Powerpuff Girls, I Am Trying to Break Your Heart, Wisconsin Death Trip, Gamera 2: Advent of Legion, The Cockettes, Cookers, Hell House, Home Movie, Little Otik, Teddy Bears' Picnic, Animal Attraction, Star Trek: Nemesis, and Queen of the Damned. I need to read more this year.
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Press the button.
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