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A new Tarantino movie opens today. I don't plan on seeing it, and I feel sorry for anyone currently in film school who don't worship him, because it will get shoved down their throat, much like Pulp Fiction was mine in '95. And I've still only been able to get through that movie once, when I originally saw in the theater. I'll admit to having the poster above my bed in the residence apartment on campus, though. Having Uma there was reassuring, and everyone was going to assume I liked the movie anyway. Also opening today in far fewer theaters is Bubba Ho-Tep, which we saw earlier this year at the San Francisco Independent Film Festival. Fair enough. Once again, though, I'm encountering lines like this in reviews (Alexandra, you should know better): The story of an aging Elvis living out his final days in a nursing home, only to have his slow decline interrupted by the arrival of a cowboy-attired Egyptian mummy who eats people's souls through their anal sphincters, feels like a textbook coffee-shop conversation answer to "What would the ultimate cult/geek movie pitch be?" Casting Bruce Campbell as Elvis and throwing in a black man (Ossie Davis) who thinks he's JFK and helps Elvis solve a Scooby-Doo-esque mystery is just the bloody gravy on this pop sundae.She had me until that last sentence. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Both the movie and the Joe Lansdale story on which it's based spend a fair amount of time on just how Elvis ended up in that rest home. Long story shortened, it may not actually be Elvis, but an Elvis impersonator. He's not even entirely certain himself. The issue is never really resolved—I'll bet that if you asked Lansdale, he'd shrug—and it doesn't need to be. I personally think the story is more poignant if it isn't Elvis. The article, and most others I've read about the movie, doesn't even hint at the ambiguity. It's Elvis, and that's that. Why? I'll bet it's because the fanboys who've thus far written about it are so creamy over the idea of "Bruce Campbell as Elvis" (a brilliant bit of casting, no question) that they don't even want to think about the possibility that, if you pay attention to the actual story, that may not really be the case. It's all too complicated. Bruce as Elvis! Woohoo! Meanwhile, the Ossie Davis character simply "thinks" he's Kennedy. Sure, his story, involving dyed skin and a brain operating from remote, is far-fetched. But when the plot revolves around a mummy—let alone one who wears a cowboy outfit, for reasons which I don't think quite survived the translation from page to screen—doesn't "far-fetched" become a relative concept at best? I mean, if you can accept within the context of the film that supernatural, soul-sucking mummies are real, why can't Kennedy now look like Ossie Davis? Granted, my personal theory is that both characters are deluded. And, yes, I'm aware that the synopsis of the film on the official site also says he simply "thinks" he's Kennedy. That proves nothing, since it's almost certainly written by someone not directly connected with the film. Besides, sometimes an official synopsis can be poorly written. Take a peek at UPN's Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode guide to see what I mean. Anyway, could it possibly have something to do with the fact that most of the people writing about the film are white Bruce Campbell fanatics who don't know or care who Ossie Davis even is? Hell, the only credit the typically sloppy Film Threat article gives for him is Cotton Comes to Harlem. Ouch. I'd have probably gone with Jungle Fever, but that's just me. He's so calmly fierce in that movie, it gives me chills just thinking about it. Even The Stand would have been better. But, once more, I digress. After the screening in February, Campbell and Coscarelli—both of whom still seemed amazed that someone of Ossie's stature would agree to do a little cult film—answered audience questions. One they did not answer, but which I think illustrates my point was: "Did Ossie Davis's character remind anyone else of Chef's dad from South Park?" Ugh. Sometimes I'm embarrassed to be a pale-skinned film geek.
12:48pm McDonald's Corporate People Promise: "We're not just a hamburger company serving people; we're a people company serving hamburgers." "A hamburger company serving people?" Good thing I don't eat there anymore, since they're apparently using Soylent Green.
1:34pm Yesterday evening Kelly asked me if I'd noticed The Middle-Aged Salesman's staring problem. By virtue of the way his desk is arranged in the adjacent room, he's always in my peripheral vision, but I couldn't recall ever glancing his direction and finding him looking at me. (Which is really nice, because when he took over that room and moved the desk, my heart sank a little since he was now facing me. I hate that.) She said that wasn't what she meant. I thought for a moment and told her that when we're talking, he's good at maintaining eye contact, but I wouldn't say he stares, exactly. No, that wasn't what she meant, either. Finally, she spelled it out: when they talk, he stares at her breasts a lot. Oh! Staring. Right. Um, no. Not so's I've noticed, anyway. Kelly's not exactly what one would call buxom, but she's more naturally developed than me, seeing as how she's, well, naturally developed and all. Been at it for a few more years than me, anyway. And even if he was, there's a possibility I wouldn't have picked up on it. A bit on the dense side, I am. That evening Maddy and I went to our local organic market. One of the cute little alternachicks who works there told me the way she remembers my name is by thinking of that kind of melon, which, as she put it, "are the champagne of melons." I had no idea there was a type of melon with my name, and it's almost certainly not spelled the way I do; I can't even find anything close on the web. I'm taking her word for it. Maddy then said what we were all thinking: in her mind, the words "Sherilyn melon" shifted to "Sherilyn's melons." Of course they did. Still, I suppose it's better that my breasts kept being brought up in conversation than, say, my penis. There isn't much left to say about that.
4:18pm Lori tells me the melons are called Sharlyn. That's actually the spelling of my name on one of my student loans, and it would explain a lot if it weren't a dozen other ways people screw it up. My, but those melons look tasty.
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Although I prefer "Betty" (I had an aunt by that name), because of the book, I'm inclined to think "Bettie" is the actual spelling of Miss Page's name. "Bette," however, is not. If you don't believe me, say her name aloud and then say "Bette Midler." Now compare the spellings. Get it? Good. I give up on the lose/loose thing, though. You people win. Just don't do it while bitching about how stupid people are, all right? You're just embarrassing yourself.
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Note to self: stop trying to play with the big kids. you'll screw it up every time.
2:26pm I'm holding up pretty well for three hours's sleep. We didn't close down Annie's last night, but almost. I figure the crash will hit after rehearsals tonight. As part of the San Francisco Jazz Festival, the Kronos Quartet is going to be performing a new, astronomy-based piece by Terry Riley, with backup sounds and visuals by NASA. It sounds fantastic, but is entirely too expensive. For what one ticket to that costs, however, Horehound and I are both going to the premiere of Neil Young's new movie Greendale at the closing night of the Film Arts Festival. So that's the wiser choice between two things I shouldn't be considering anyway.
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Happy thirty-third, Maddy.
9:07am So I wasted my vote today: I voted "No" on the recall, and didn't vote for Schwarzenegger. Polls suggest that both are popular, and all my life I've been told that if I don't vote for someone who has strong chance of winning, I'm throwing it away. After all, participatory democracy is about being with the in-crowd (yay! we won!), not expressing your opinion. Oh, and I really do apologize for how slippery the sidewalks have gotten these last few years. Y'know, they warned me that if I voted for Nader in '00 it would be a vote for Bush, but I went ahead and voted my conscience anyway (and I guess that Florida business was my fault, too). Just like they predicted, the streets are running red with blood from the increase in back-alley abortions. Mea culpa. I hope someday Moby will find it in his heart to forgive me. Today's election is predicted to have the highest turnout in years, and there was in a fact a line at my polling place. That almost never happens, and I've only missed a few elections over the last nine years. I wonder how many people thought I was voting for the first time. I mean, all you have to do is look at me and you can tell I'm not a good patriot. I don't even own a flag.
3:39pm No rehearsals tonight, since it's Maddy's birthday. A lot of progress has been made in the last three days, especially on Sunday when the focus was on the first two scenes. I'm present on stage until the end, but the lion's share of my lines are in those early scenes. I'm pretty much off book now, which isn't that great an accomplishment considering how little dialogue I actually have. The tough part is remembering the exact blocking—that is, where I am at any given moment. It's a much more physical role than I'd anticipated, and I banged my knees and elbows up quite a bit on Sunday. For a good cause, though. Noona has decided to go period for the look the play, meaning late sixties. So, rather than being an post-modern urban hipster, I'll be a mod. I can live with that. Makes me wish Astrid could see it, though. Noona hopes a day of thrifting will take care of my wardrobe, but I have my doubts. She also mentioned that she's already decided what her next project is going to be, even though it's a good six months away. It's not the Buffy musical, but she has parts in mind for Maddy and I. Neat. In honor of (e) going on tour, I wore my finger puppet during K'vetch on Sunday night, including while I was onstage reading. Unfortunately, nobody else brought their finger puppets along. The organizers of the Ammiano benefit have asked if I have any photos they can use for publicity, preferably high enough resolution to be printed. Ugh. I really don't. For that matter, my mom recently asked for an actual photograph to give to one of my aunts, and I wasn't able to come up with one. Most of my favorite pictures are either too lo-fi, unrepresentative (like, I'm not actually blonde) or have someone else in them (neither Chupa, Maddy or Danielle will be up there with me). So I guess I need to find a photographer willing to do some shots on the super-cheap.
sometime after midnight Two things learned tonight. I really shouldn't attempt karaoke, and perhaps singing at all. My voice just isn't up to the task, and it makes me start to feel insecure about other kinds of performing. A great many Californians are really fucking stupid. It's no surprise, since they're humans first and Americans second, and neither group is especially known for its intelligence. Makes me wonder what would happen if they bothered to vote when a movie star wasn't involved. Although I understand why so many of my friends of good conscience are wanting to move away because of this, I can't help thinking that this is when we're needed here the most. The time to take a stand and fight for our culture is now, when the Norms are really letting the weasels take over.
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Mina has a habit of jumping into the tub right before we shower. This morning, as I was moving her, I slammed my head into the top of the shower door. That part didn't really hurt, but she panicked and scrambled out of my arms, scratching my chest with her back claws in the process. Now I know how Roy Horn feels.
10:06am Maddy and I outside of Fray Day. Trust me, it's us. It was held at the five hundred-seat Victoria Theatre, the biggest audience I've ever read in front of. It was only a little over half full, but that's still a heck of a lot to me. I'd like to think the only way my nervousness showed was how my hands were shaking when I went on stage, the first time that's happened in a while. I don't think anyone noticed, though, and after an brief preamble that was spazzy even by my standards, I found my groove easily enough when I actually started reading. It's a piece I've read a zillion times before, so at least I knew how to sell it. It was received very well, I think, and the crowd was very receptive, laughing in all the right places. Can't ask for more than that. Of course, knowing when to make the devil sign is integral to good storytelling. Lots of people complimented me on it afterwards, which is always nice. Seeing as how I'm a praise whore and all. I've never heard myself through such a powerful sound system, or used such a necessarily sensitive microphone. I think I figured out the correct distance easily enough, but the sound of my amplified voice was made all the more alien to me because of the slight cold I've been battling. I really could have used a good cough and spit before reading, but since I had no idea when I'd actually be going on and as such had to stay in my seat, it just wasn't practical. At one point while reading, my throat made a phlegmmy "urp" sound which I hope didn't sound too much like a belch. Having signed up early I read fairly early on in the evening, and as the evening progressed I realized that I was the only open mic person to read from the page rather than work from memory. A few people had notes, but I was the only one who was scripted. Granted, I never read it exactly as I have it written, but I don't greatly deviate, either, and would get lost easier if I didn't have it in front of me. I felt like something of a cheater—the concept is personal, true stories, and doesn't reading from the page somehow make it less personal?—until I realized that two of the features, Beth Lisick and (e), did so as well. If it was okay for them, it was okay for me.
12:05pm By the way, Armistead Maupin is a notable exception to my "Keep your hands out of your pockets!" rule/peeve. He's more than earned the right. (Okay, it only happened because of the open mic—it's not like I was asked to be there—but still, I shared a stage with Armistead Maupin. That's pretty cool.)
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This is gonna be the tough part: not having (e), the one other card-carrying Morning Person I know, around on weekend mornings to IM with. It's going to suck not having her online during the day at work, too (although there's still Maddy and Embeth and Lauren, of course, so I'm sure I'll hardly even notice she's gone), let alone in person. Anyway, if all went well—as in, she didn't get hung up at airport security because of the more antiestablishment patches and buttons on her bomber jacket—she's currently tens of thousands of feet above Flyover Land, on the way to New York to begin her tour.
10:21am (e) just called; all, in fact, went well, and she even made it through security with no problem. Yay.
sometime after midnight After walking around in the sun at the Castro Street Fair for a few hours (two, count 'em, two of my chapbooks were picked up from the Sugar Valley 'zine tent), then rehearsing for three hours and going straight to K'vetch afterwards, I'm very tired. But it's a good kind of tired. There was a surfeit of very cute goth girls out on the streets of the Mission today. It hurt at times.
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No gym today, or tomorrow, or anytime soon. I'm letting my membership expire this week; I can't afford to renew it, certainly not for only going on the weekends. If I continue to watch what I consume and don't get too sedentary (and keep up with the morning stretchencrunch). though, I should be okay. Evidently our items which play shiny discs have formed a suicide pact, since the CD-RW drive has just croaked as well. It occurs to me that we got both that (it came with the new computer) and the DVD player right around the same time last year. Hooray for planned obsolesence, the backbone of modern capitalism. It's also why we're not expecting much luck with our current plan for the DVD player: getting it fixed. How old school is that, huh? Who actually fixes electronics anymore? You're just supposed to purchase the latest model. And the cost of getting it fixed may inspire us to do that anyway, but it's worth a try. Based on the way my throat is feeling, I think I'm getting a cold. Figures. All I ask is that it comes and goes before the play actually opens. Fray Day 7 is tonight, and I'll be going after all. In fact, (e)'s guestlisted me. Yay. It's going to be her last reading before leaving on tour tomorrow, so I'm all the more the glad I'll be there, even if I don't make it into the open mic. Before that, we have rehearsal. Noona has asked that I be off book (meaning, having my lines memorized) by tomorrow, but I'm going to try to be there today.
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There really isn't enough black in this picture of the Pope. But at least it's a happy story.
9:58am The kittypr0n Halloween Special will be on at 11:30pm on Halloween night. I couldn't get a prime time slot this year because of due to some boring-ass election thing that's taking up most of the evening. Feh. Meanwhile, we have an offer from a Seattle resident to be our sponsor on their public access station. Cool. I'd really like to get on in New York, actually. That would be pretty neat.
3:54pm Noona's pleased with how we're coming along, and the theater's going to be used by a different production, so she cancelled tonight's rehearsal. Two nights off in a row, yay. Won't be many of those over the next several weeks. Not that I'm complaining. Like in the movie, there will be a fair amount of radio and television broadcasts in the play. They'll all be pre-recorded for practical reasons, and last night we heard the recordings of the radio announcer. I'm so jazzed: it's Hal Robins, from the Church of the Subgenius and KPFA's Puzzling Evidence, which comes on right after Over the Edge. Oh my yes. So proud to be a part of this number.
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September's over. Good. That was a rough one. Now for October, traditionally the last good month before the evil-in-a-bad-way suckerpunch that is November and December. As I was walking down Valencia last night, someone yelled "Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice!" Haven't heard that particular chestnut in a few years. Maddy and I were walking down Valencia on Friday night (I'm on that street a lot) when, unbeknownst to us, we were spotted by Noona, the director. She asked me on Saturday who that person was, since they looked like they might be perfect for one of the two role left to cast: that of the little zombie girl, the one whose image is now overused in the packaging of the film. (She doesn't really even look like that in the movie.) After some rumination and negotiation, Maddy came to rehearsal last night and met Noona, who liked what she up close and cast her. So we're both in the play now. Curiouser and curiouser. The other part which hadn't yet been cast was that of Tom, the teenage boy. In the movie he has a fair amount of lines and is a fairly active character, while his girlfriend Judy is passive and mostly useless. Judy was one of three parts I'd read for at the audition (being one of the three grownup female roles), but I was hoping I wouldn't get it because she's so blah. However, Noona switched the character's dialogue around, so Judy is the active one and Tom is passive. It's a very clever, and makes the story seem a little more modern, or at least less stereotypical. Of course, my character is arguably passive, but she's also traumatized; she's been through a lot, and something in her brain snapped. And she still gets to react and do things. Tom, however, is just kinda there. So there was a new actor reading the part last night, and, unfortunately, someone (half?) jokingly suggested that he should swish when he walked. Sadly, the actor did just that, also affecting a high-pitched voice. Everyone laughed but me. Leave it to the one actual queer to be offended. Is the implication that a man who is passive rather than active is, by definition, a (stereotypical) fag? Worse, it made me feel extremely self-conscious about my own voice; was that how I sounded to everyone else? Would the presence of this mincing, stereotypical character make it impossible for the audience to take me seriously? There's no question in my mind that I'll be read by the audience, that they'll be aware they're watching a tranny. And that's okay. I genuinely believe I got the part because I was right for it, and not just for stuntcasting. Kinda like how in the original movie, the fact that the hero is black is not an issue; the actor was cast because he fit the part. I didn't say anything at first, hoping that after a while Noona would realize it was all wrong and ask him to tone it down. Thankfully, she did. I don't doubt that if I'd objected strenuously enough to it she would have agreed, but it didn't come to that. Besides, I had a good dramatic reason as well: in terms of her voice and mannerisms Judy wasn't butched out (and I sincerely hope she won't be), so there was no good reason for Tom to be feminine. Well, effeminate, anyway. There's a difference. After rehearsal we hooked up with Chupa, who was conveniently having her birthday dinner right next to Spanganga. The party eventually shifted to Annie's for karaoke, but Maddy and I left after a few songs. It was just an off night for us. September's last gasp, I suppose. I'm sure we'll have better luck there next Tuesday for Maddy's birthday.
10:52am It's just as well that evenings in the near future are filling up, because our DVD player just died. It had been acting wonky for the last week or two, and it gave up the ghost yesterday. It won't recognize any discs, not even the lens cleaner I bought a few days too late. What really sucks, beyond the simple cost of replacing it (which is not an expense we should even be considering right now, and yet), is the fact that it's a hacked unit with macrovision and region coding disabled. The region coding never really became an issue for us, but the disabled macrovision means we can tape stuff, which comes in handy when we can only actually squeeze in an hour of viewing time here and there. We've gotten through the first season and half of Angel that way, and I'm going to be all kinds of bummed if my Darla fix is taken away. Anyway, I bought the machine on eBay last year, but there aren't any more listed. So we're doubly screwed. Sometimes I'm so materialistic, I disgust myself. I like to fancy myself a progressive minimalist, but I need my fancy toys, too.
2:53pm I'm sure Maddy could list a half-dozen moments from that night which were even moreso (us dancing to "Make Me," for example), but my mind keeps going back to Gina Gershon singing Burt Bacharach's "My Little Red Book" as one of the sexiest things ever. And we may get to witness it again. The show was videotaped, and one of the camerapeople was a few feet away from us, so we frequently had the lens pointing in our direction. And, in case we weren't quite photogenic enough, a topless girl with electrical tape on her nipples was right next to us. We'll probably wind up in the extras on the Prey For Rock 'n Roll DVD.
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