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When we got home on Sunday afternoon, we realized that while we were happy to be home, we weren't quite ready to be home yet. If you know what I mean. So, we did something I very seldom ever do: go to a mainstream movie, and even more rarely, on the weekend. I mean, god, that's just asking for trouble, isn't it? We saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which would probably be considered an art film if Jim Carrey wasn't in it. As it is, it's probably about as far from Bruce Almighty as you can get. (Can't say for sure, not having seen Bruce Almighty. Don't ever plan on it, either.) I've actually enjoyed his dramatic roles quite a bit—even The Majestic, either because of or in spite of the fact that it was so in love with Frank Capra it bordered on necrophilia—but then again, I think Woody Allen's weakest movies are his early comedies. It's probably one of most visually stunning movies I've seen in a long time, in an incredibly subtle way, the way CGI should be used. It's very dreamlike at times; indeed, at one point I glanced over at Maddy, who was nodding her head. She later confirmed that she was thinking to herself, yep, that's what it's like in dream, pretty much. Remarkable that the film only cost $35 million (by contrast, Starsky & Hutch cost $60 million); industry rumor is that Carrey accepted a substantial pay cut. Not that I listen to industry rumor or anything, but it makes sense. They probably could have shaved another ten mill off the budget if they'd shot it in DV, but it's just as well that they didn't. Even if the movie sucked (which it really, really doesn't, if you like movies that force you to think), it would still be one of the best narrative films of the year because of Kate Winslet's various crayon haircolors. I don't even care that they're wigs—otherwise, her hair would have severely fried from all the bleaching—especially when the bright red gives her such a Chupa vibe, even though my personal preference is for the blue. Afterwards, Maddy and I agreed that it's a good thing we're both already in the process of coloring our hair. Yes, we are that easily influenced.
10:34pm The cold is ramping up. Feeling a bit dodgy right now. Tomorrow would be a swell day for it to peak. We went to a reading at Modern Times tonight for a book Michelle edited called Without a Net: The Female Experience of Growing Up Working Class. Meliza's in it, among others. While giving them both a ride home afterwards, Michelle confessed to us that she now has a cell phone. Man. If Michelle's gone over to the dark side, I think that means Maddy and I are the only ones left. In Fresno on Saturday afternoon, Maddy and I went to Trader Joe's. In that same shopping center is a place called Guitar Center. That may or may not account for why the fellow in the parking lot asked me if I'm in a band. I told him I wasn't. He asked if I at least played an instrument. I replied that no, I didn't. (The three chords I can play on the guitar don't really count.) He concluded that I just have that punk rock look about me. I told him I took it as a compliment. Later that evening, we went to the asian buffet we'd discovered on xmas. Being debaucherous rock stars and all, we smoked a bowl in the car before going in. Yep, that's me getting wild. I'm still not sure if it was a good idea or not, especially since after signing in and waiting for at least ten minutes (and giggling to each other like the druggies the other patrons surely suspected us to be), I didn't hear the hostess calling my name. Either her voice was that soft, or I was that stoned. Possibly a combination of the two.
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Fresno went well. The brevity of the trip might have had something to do with it; we arrived at about eleven on Friday night, and were on the road again thirty-six hours later. It actually would have been nice to stay for another day or so, and really, that's the perfect time to leave. We were mainly there to dogsit for my mom and visit my dad. My mom—or, more specifically, her carpenter/miracle worker boyfriend—continues to remodel the house, and it's really quite astonishing. Indeed, it's a good thing that I only lived there for about six months when I was twenty, or else I'd have mixed feelings about it. As it is, the place doesn't have any emotional meaning to me, so it's interesting to watch it evolve. The skylights are particularly neat, one in the kitchen and one in my mom's bedroom. Naturally, after being clear all day long it was cloudy on Saturday night, so we didn't get to lie on her bed and look at the stars. Oh well. Some other time. First order of business on Saturday was lunch and taxes with my dad. Happily, we're both getting refunds. (Not as much as in the phatter years past, but my car's new radiator is now paid for.) As it inevitably will with him, me as a child came up—don't ask me why, it just always does—and, as usual, he referred to me by my birth name and gender. It's fair, it's totally fair in that context, but it's bothering me more and more. Ultimately, I'd just settle for him not having my graduation picture on the shelf anymore. He has one of Maddy and I up in what's arguably a more prominent place, but still. We spent the rest of the afternoon going to arcades, for want of anything better to do. Besides, I was viewing this as a mini-vacation, and I can't really imagine anything less productive than going to arcades and (mostly) not playing games. We found one which can't be more than a couple years old, but is already going under. Actually, it seemed to be more of a large electronics discounter, as many of the machines were quite old and for sale. This could also account for why the place was dead as a doornail on a Saturday afternoon. Old, boring games. So old, in fact, there was a working Pong machine, for chrissakes. (No wonder the place was closing. Something I get excited about? That's the kiss of death for any business. The fact that Maddy was just as excited as me about it goes to show how much we belong together. (She also ooohed and aaahed at the prettiness of the pretty phosphor glowiness of the original Asteroids. I play it on an emulator on the computer sometimes, but, well, it's an emulator, y'know? Just not the same.) Of course, we played; I'm pretty sure it was the first time for both of us on an actual coin-operated arcade machine, as opposed to the home version. (If you've never played Pong, it really is more challenging than you might think.) Of course, I had to really let my geek flag fly by pointing out that it wasn't really Pong but rather one of the countless knockoffs produced before anyone thought about copyrighting video games, and what's more, the sign on the machine proclaiming Pong to be the first video game was just plain wrong—I mean, hello! Computer Space, anyone? Sheesh! The machine cost $2400, which was about two grand more than we could have even begun to justify. It's not like we would have had room for it anyway.
10:25pm After picking up a new jacket from Julie (which happens to be the same as my old Chloe coat which I got from Dax last year, except it isn't falling to shreds), Maddy and I went to see Lynnee read at Lit at the Canvas. I try to make every gig of his that I can, although this one felt especially important since it was out of his element. I was out of my element as well reading there last month, but at least I was more or less in my part of town. Here, he was far from his neighborhood and dealing with at least a dozen people with their noses buried in laptops. I'm almost embarrassed to admit that I've become a laptop-in-the-cafe type person; it gives me something to do in the mornings between dropping off Maddy and picking up Kelly. Beisdes, it's one of the only times during the day I can write without having to keep an eye out for My Boss, even if it's for all of half an hour. Anyway, regular host Kevin Smokler was out of town, so producer Melinda subbed. She seemed a tad uncomfortable, so about halfway through the show, I offered to host the rest of the show. She accepted. Whether it was me going above and beyond the call of duty or if too many days has passed since I'd gotten to play rock star is for history to decide. (It's been suggested for other reasons that I'll be considered an Uncle Tom gender-wise, but that's a long, stupid story which has nothing to do with the subject at hand.) It also meant I got to introduce Lynnee, and I always love introducing my pals. It's one of the neat things about hosting your own show. Anyway, I'd been in casual mode all day long, and while I generally like to be a little more presentable when I'm presenting, it didn't even cross my mind to dash into the restroom to get made up or fix my hair or anything. Fuck it. WYSIWYG, little makeup, droopy pigtails and all. It was fun (especially since I wasn't expecting it at all), and I got a few compliments afterwards. One of the readers really liked my voice, saying it has a pleasant timbre and is "captivating." Daaaw. That also answered the question of whether I was talking too fast (as I often will, being the spazmoid that I am) and if my dry, itchy throat was problematic. I guess not. And it's certainly a good idea to get used to that sort of thing. I even got paid a couple bucks. Literally, two dollars. Which was two dollars more than I'd expected. There's one lesson I hope I've learned tonight, though, in case I didn't pick up on it before: vulnerabilities and uncertainties should be in the art, not in the banter. Be fearless. If you're talking about your deepest fear, be fearless in the telling. What's more, never announce your intentions. Never say why you're doing it, or what you hope to achieve. Just fucking go on and do it, and either you'll achieve it or you won't. The audience will know if you've nailed it, but they probably won't know if you haven't.
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3:46pm It's been a couple weeks since the body was found, I declined to say anything about it at the time, but Spalding Gray's death saddens me. A lot. Celebrity deaths generally don't mean anything to me, especially for ones who haven't actually done anything in years, and the tearful eulogizing over figures like Fred Rogers and Captain Kangaroo struck me as somewhat hollow. (As far as kiddie teevee stars go, call me when Gary Gnu dies. Then we'll talk.) This one gets to me, though. It sounds like a cliche, but he really was an inspiration to me, proof that you can be creative even if you suck at making things up. Figures that Monster in a Box would be my favorite monologue—that'll probably be my story once I finally hunker down and write a book. (Which I should have already started on, but that's another entry.) I even identified with his struggle with the words "Know what I mean?" when he played the Stage Manager in Our Town; those very same four words also vexed me in The Hitch-hiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Not too surprisingly, Monster in a Box is my favorite of his movies, with all due respect to Demme and Soderbergh. I have mixed feelings about Nick Broomfield as a documentarian, but as far as filming monologues go, he nailed it. I first saw Monster in a Box when it played in Fresno in '92 as part the local UA chain's "Art Film Series" (which also showed Naked Lunch, Hearts of Darkness, Until the End of the World and a lot of other movies that never would have played in town that way) and The Ex and I drove to Santa Cruz to see it again in '93. We saw him live in '94 performing Gray's Anatomy, and again in '98 doing It's a Slippery Slope. I'm glad I had those opportunities, and I'm bummed that Maddy will never get to see him. Just for starters. I'm bummed about a lot of things. Like the fact that we're going to Fresno this weekend. No, not really. It won't be that bad, I'm sure. We're dogsitting for my mom, so we'll have her place to ourselves, and my dad will be doing our taxes. And it'll be nice to get away from the City, I guess. Sure, why not? Besides, if we stayed in town this weekend we'd probably just end up seeing the last two Twilight Zone episodes. Speaking of such things, pictures are up. Well, from the other ones. Not mine. Seems there wasn't enough light and the pictures didn't come out. Sheesh. It's almost implying my episode was too dark, and we all know that's not possible. At least there's still the picture of my beautiful punkrawk cast. And, while you're at it, marvel at how good John Hell looks without his beard. Damn. Whoda thunk it?
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I went to Gender Pirates last night, but try though I might, the entry about it simply doesn't want to be written. Every word feels poorly chosen, each sentence looks wrong, and the paragraphs they form? The paragraphs are a danger to themselves and others. While I struggle with it, peruse a gallery of X10 pop-up ads and be reminded just how shameless marketers can get. (You'd forgotten, I'm sure.) God, it's almost enough to make me embarrassed to like girls.
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That said, I find the wording of news articles about it to be a little distressing.
The subtext seems to be that if he supports gay marriage, he must be a little bit fruity
himself. For example, from the Associated
Press story:
"Threw his feather boa into the ring?" Was that metaphor used when he announced his
candidacy? Sure, a lot was made of him being an ex-professional wrestler, and of course
his wrestling persona was somewhat flamboyant, but somehow I doubt it.
Then there's
365Gay.com,
which should really know better:
The real question, of course, is when did Ventura start looking so much like Paul Bartel?
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So. The Camp Trans Benefit on Saturday.
10:26pm We saw To Be and to Hold at the Red Vic tonight, a French documentary about a rural schoolteacher. If that description turns you off right away, then you probably wouldn't like it. Personally, I loved it, especially the way the film took its own sweet time, never rushing, lingering on shots and scenes longer than the average American attention span could handle. Then again, I liked Gerry, too. Meanwhile, I see that the Dawn of the Dead remake was the top-grossing movie this weekend, beating out the xtian zombie splatter film. Clearly, The Androgynous Devil is responsible.
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People call, say
6:41pm Satan in The Passion of the Christ. Hrm. Suppose Mel considers the blurring of gender lines to be, oh, a tad on the Satanic side? Back when Violet was in girl mode more often than not, a rather perplexed Anton La Vey asked him to explain just what all this tranny stuff was about. Evidently the concept was a mystery to the founder of the Church of Satan. Go figure. I gotta admit, though, I am a little disappointed. When I'd first heard that the movie depicts the devil as androgynous, I thought it sounded kinda hot. I mean, if you can get past the subtext and appreciate it on a purely aesthetic level, what a great concept, right? I dunno, maybe ol' Splitfoot looks better in the actual movie than in a still photograph. I can only hope. And, by the way, if you see your mother this weekend, be sure and tell her...SATAN SATAN SATAN!!!
7:22pm We had lunch with my niece Shandon and three of her very gay friends today. She's turned into quite the faghag. I'll bet I know which side of the family she gets that from.
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