Another post devoted to the late Short Ends Project. And my ego. That pretty much should be the name of this blog, Devoted To My Ego. Stroke it. Stroke it, I say! Saturday, August 12, 2006
At the last Short Ends audition, Annie approached me about playing a part in her short, the role of an over-the-hill porn star. All singing, all dancing, all sex lube. As I told Paul at the time, I can sing, and I can dance, but I can't sing and dance. And as for sex lube, well, I'll moderate my comments there. I suggested she find a real actor, and named a few who'd do it better than I would. I was concerned I'd screw up her directorial debut for her.
Afterwards, at Alibi's, I mentioned it, laughing, mostly because of the thought of me acting. (I'm not an actor.) But also at the thought of me playing Ron Jeremy, because... dammit, I almost did want to play a guy like that, it would be fun! But then Lanni said, her manner so matter-of-fact that she could not possibly have meant it as a compliment, "You're better looking than Ron Jeremy." Which is the damnedest sort of damning with faint praise.
Believe it or not, there was a time when I was more attractive than the hulk you find before you today. Just after high school. Younger, slimmer, even athletic, my face less lined, and less hairy. I lacked the devastating charm that comes with maturity, or my Clooneyesque salt-and-pepper hair, but in a general way, I was what the young people used to call a hotty.
I worked at the time, on and off, at a movie theater. The manager was an elegant fellow named Reed Chambers: not young, a little creepy, but fun enough to be around, in a Paul-Lynde-snarky kind of way. He was into me, on a level far from innocent, but not terribly serious. And while assuring him that he was sniffing around the wrong hydrant, I'll admit I was somewhat flattered. It was fun to get that sort of attention -- lord knows, I wasn't getting much of it from women. He'd try to convince me, young and impressionable, that I was gay. He'd leeringly inform me that sex with men was like none other -- men know what men want. It was my experience at the time what women had a pretty damned good idea what men want, too, and in turn, I was willing and happy to give them whatever they wanted, so his progress was necessarily impeded. Just wasn't going to happen.
But today, acting in Travis Thomsen's adaptation of Andy Miller's script "Joined," I thought of ol' Reed, for the first time in a decade or two.
As I say, I acted. And as I said before that, I am not an actor, and I am certainly not a good actor. But I was pretty good today, playing a pervy city councilman. I wore Erik's flasher raincoat, and a big black hat, and a pair of pop-bottle-lens glasses that kept slipping off my sweat-soaked nose. Seriously, it was sweltering today, insanely hot. Especially in that get-up.
But getting back to it -- I was pretty good. And the reason I was good wasn't because I'm talented (I'm not), or because I'd studied the craft (I haven't), or even because I was working with actors who made me look good (Dawn, Lanni, Josh, and Scott are all wondeful, but nobody's that good).
I was good because directors know what directors want. And need.
After you've directed (and especially edited) a few times, you start to recognize problems that come about with actors. Performers who do something different every time -- which is a gift, I really admire an actor who can give you a new trick each time out -- will make you crazy in the editing room. Although my character was twitchy as a three-day cappuccino jag, I kept my performance as simple as possible, and concentrated like a sumbitch on being in the same place at the same moment each take. If Travis has problems cutting this together, I told myself, it won't be my fault.
In a later sequence, tracking my shoes along the pavement, Travis was generous enough to adjust the viewscreen of his bad mammajamma camera (that's fun to say, try it!) so that I could see my feet, and I could easily stay within frame. During the day, I made a number of suggestions, some of them useful, many of them not, all of them annoying, but they were the sort of suggestions that could only be made by a fellow director, someone who has experience in the agonies that await in post-production.
I think it should be a requirement for previous Short Ends directors to act in the projects of the up-and-comers. Not only can we maybe help out, but we learn how the other half lives. Actors are impressive people, they do things I can't do, they expose themselves in ways I never could (or should).
Travis had a great crew (his menacing footman, Donny; the redoubtable talents of Cameo Center techie-guru donfox; and -- oh, was I jealous -- even a script supervisor in the form of the multitalented Amy, whose birthday snuck past me just yesterday -- Happy Birthday, Amy!). But a mentoring program wouldn't hurt things at all.
My feet hurt. A lot. Lots of standing in acting. And running. I'm glad I didn't take the role of the porn star. Hate to think what might be sore after that.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Spotlight on: Mistah Pete!
That really was a classic job interview. Much as I need a straight job right now, with insurance and a regular check, I'm glad I didn't get it. Saturday, August 05, 2006
There's been a lot going on, so I'll forego any pretense of modesty and just say it -- this blog is about me. Here's what's going on.
First, I went to Nightmare on Grayson Street and worked on Dar's production for Short Ends. It's entitled "Las Rolleras Contra El Doctor Satanico," and that's a great title because I came up with it. I wrote the thing. Nothing short of stupid, but it should be fun. Dar did a bang-up job on the set (graciously provided by Gordon and his Grayson Street crew), and I can't wait to see what it looks like. My fondest hope is that Crystal's Spanglish ad-libs are understandable (at least to lip-readers -- you'll know what I'm talking about when you see it) because they're a damned sight funnier than anything I wrote. I also put together a little bit of "animation" for the project. I'll use two words which older readers may recognize, and younger readers can Google, then I'll say no more -- "Clutch Cargo."
I'm supposed to be working on not one but two different screenplays right now. (That is to say, of course, those are projects for which I've accepted an assignment. There are more I'm supposed to be working on of my own devising, but I can no longer manage to work up guilt about missing my own deadlines, just those imposed by others.) I'm not doing them. I will eventually, but not right now. Both are rewrites, which means they're both pretty easy (the hard work of writing has already been done). But I just can't concentrate. It's been a problem for awhile. I'll walk into rooms and forget what I walked in for. I'd call the senior moments, the quaint term the old folks use for the onset of Alzheimer's, but I'm damned if I'll be old while my parents are still alive. Those people are old, I'm the son of old people.
But it's not really any brain degeneration, far as I can tell. Maybe the rum punch, but other than that, no. It's stress. Money. Great Shiva, but I hate the filthy stuff. Love of it may be the root of all evil, but need of it ain't much better. Looks a lot like things may be improving, a home equity loan coming through. It'll take away the most immediate debt (while of course adding more of a less immediate nature). It'll get me out from under that godawful feature, at least. That was a hell of a lot more expensive than the budget will ever show.
Still, I'm looking for work. Even (gulp) a J-O-B, the real thing, reporting to an office, getting checks signed by The Man. Been a decade or so since I've done that. But I went in for an interview yesterday, a company who wants a permanent camera on staff for training videos. Ruined my whole day. I put on clothes for this. A stained jacket (damn, when did I last wear this...? Oh, yeah, Mark's party...) Shoes, even. I shaved. There was a brief moment when I was having trouble getting the earring out, and I thought, hey, what the hell, I wear it, they'll know what they're getting! But I managed to get it out.
Good thing. I did the interview with the very young woman (who kept mentioning how "entry level" the position was, all the while casting a gimlet eye at the gray in my hair and beard). I answered all the questions right (she had a checklist, for crying out loud!), my best qualities, my greatest weakness (never answer "kryptonite," my advice to you, the sober-minded job-seeker). Then I asked about the corporate atmosphere (and any time you need to group those two words together, you already know you're in trouble). She told me it was a very conservative company, every man wears a white shirt and tie (and this time I'm pretty sure it was disapproval in her eye as she gazed upon my denim shirt). She specifically mentioned my hair.
Now, I thought I was doing good for putting on socks. I did wear a tie. But hair? I wear my hair fairly short, but I'll admit, it's unruly. And that's not a matter of choice, so much. It's just unruly. It has been compared, without rancor, to that of a wildebeest. To get it to behave, I'd have to go all Dracula with it, slicked down. Not something you ever want to see, my friends. I look like a mobster. Or a basketball coach. Sad.
Here's the thing. I'm a pretty straight arrow, probably the most conservative of my circle of friends. I've got a wife and child. I have house payments. I haven't multiple piercings or long hair or tattoos or a shaved head. My facial hair is fairly well maintained, and not trimmed into any style that could be termed especially outré. I'm pretty much the only person I know over the age of thirty who doesn't smoke pot. (Have I managed to offend all of my friends yet?) And yet, they look at me as if Charlie Manson's just sat down for an interview. Good gravy. What hope has the rest of the world?
And here's the part that tickled me most. The woman interviewing me, who tells me that it's a conservative company? She's wearing a tight white pantsuit with a bright pink top, the neckline scooped very low to show off décolletage enhanced by pushup bra and fake tan. Surgery's not impossible. I put a lot of effort into maintaining eye contact. It would seem that they are conservative only about the men on the staff. The women are there to provide decoration, perhaps? It's like I had a meeting with the Human Resources department of Hooters.
The Rollergirls are ignoring my emails. I need original music for their video, and they don't want to hear about it. I tell them that they can't sell the thing if it has music by, say, the Beastie Boys and Led Zeppelin on it. They say that the Rollercade has permission to play music, so they can use it, too. I need to get an intellectual rights attorney on this. This has potential to get crazy.
In a moment of weakness, I agreed to teach a screenwriting class for Northside ISD. Wednesday nights in October. We'll see. I'd pretty much given that up, I thought, but what the hell. I'll get the word out, closer it comes.
The boy's school starts next week. I'll be free for a few precious hours each day. Maybe I'll start getting things done then. There was a time when I was organized and motivated and even had some semblance of self-discipline. That was before children. I could use it again. Anybody got a good book to read? Or maybe some special vitamin? I eat a lot of fish, that's supposed to be good for the brain, right? Amino acids, something like that?
The boy had a fit last night. Kept me from hitting Andy's party. I'll save my gift until the next one... hope you like six-packs of Black Label and used Jimmy Buffett "Best of" CDs, Andy!
There's been a lot going on, so I'll forego any pretense of modesty and just say it -- this blog is about me. Here's what's going on.
First, I went to Nightmare on Grayson Street and worked on Dar's production for Short Ends. It's entitled "Las Rolleras Contra El Doctor Satanico," and that's a great title because I came up with it. I wrote the thing. Nothing short of stupid, but it should be fun. Dar did a bang-up job on the set (graciously provided by Gordon and his Grayson Street crew), and I can't wait to see what it looks like. My fondest hope is that Crystal's Spanglish ad-libs are understandable (at least to lip-readers -- you'll know what I'm talking about when you see it) because they're a damned sight funnier than anything I wrote. I also put together a little bit of "animation" for the project. I'll use two words which older readers may recognize, and younger readers can Google, then I'll say no more -- "Clutch Cargo."
I'm supposed to be working on not one but two different screenplays right now. (That is to say, of course, those are projects for which I've accepted an assignment. There are more I'm supposed to be working on of my own devising, but I can no longer manage to work up guilt about missing my own deadlines, just those imposed by others.) I'm not doing them. I will eventually, but not right now. Both are rewrites, which means they're both pretty easy (the hard work of writing has already been done). But I just can't concentrate. It's been a problem for awhile. I'll walk into rooms and forget what I walked in for. I'd call the senior moments, the quaint term the old folks use for the onset of Alzheimer's, but I'm damned if I'll be old while my parents are still alive. Those people are old, I'm the son of old people.
But it's not really any brain degeneration, far as I can tell. Maybe the rum punch, but other than that, no. It's stress. Money. Great Shiva, but I hate the filthy stuff. Love of it may be the root of all evil, but need of it ain't much better. Looks a lot like things may be improving, a home equity loan coming through. It'll take away the most immediate debt (while of course adding more of a less immediate nature). It'll get me out from under that godawful feature, at least. That was a hell of a lot more expensive than the budget will ever show.
Still, I'm looking for work. Even (gulp) a J-O-B, the real thing, reporting to an office, getting checks signed by The Man. Been a decade or so since I've done that. But I went in for an interview yesterday, a company who wants a permanent camera on staff for training videos. Ruined my whole day. I put on clothes for this. A stained jacket (damn, when did I last wear this...? Oh, yeah, Mark's party...) Shoes, even. I shaved. There was a brief moment when I was having trouble getting the earring out, and I thought, hey, what the hell, I wear it, they'll know what they're getting! But I managed to get it out.
Good thing. I did the interview with the very young woman (who kept mentioning how "entry level" the position was, all the while casting a gimlet eye at the gray in my hair and beard). I answered all the questions right (she had a checklist, for crying out loud!), my best qualities, my greatest weakness (never answer "kryptonite," my advice to you, the sober-minded job-seeker). Then I asked about the corporate atmosphere (and any time you need to group those two words together, you already know you're in trouble). She told me it was a very conservative company, every man wears a white shirt and tie (and this time I'm pretty sure it was disapproval in her eye as she gazed upon my denim shirt). She specifically mentioned my hair.
Now, I thought I was doing good for putting on socks. I did wear a tie. But hair? I wear my hair fairly short, but I'll admit, it's unruly. And that's not a matter of choice, so much. It's just unruly. It has been compared, without rancor, to that of a wildebeest. To get it to behave, I'd have to go all Dracula with it, slicked down. Not something you ever want to see, my friends. I look like a mobster. Or a basketball coach. Sad.
Here's the thing. I'm a pretty straight arrow, probably the most conservative of my circle of friends. I've got a wife and child. I have house payments. I haven't multiple piercings or long hair or tattoos or a shaved head. My facial hair is fairly well maintained, and not trimmed into any style that could be termed especially outré. I'm pretty much the only person I know over the age of thirty who doesn't smoke pot. (Have I managed to offend all of my friends yet?) And yet, they look at me as if Charlie Manson's just sat down for an interview. Good gravy. What hope has the rest of the world?
And here's the part that tickled me most. The woman interviewing me, who tells me that it's a conservative company? She's wearing a tight white pantsuit with a bright pink top, the neckline scooped very low to show off décolletage enhanced by pushup bra and fake tan. Surgery's not impossible. I put a lot of effort into maintaining eye contact. It would seem that they are conservative only about the men on the staff. The women are there to provide decoration, perhaps? It's like I had a meeting with the Human Resources department of Hooters.
The Rollergirls are ignoring my emails. I need original music for their video, and they don't want to hear about it. I tell them that they can't sell the thing if it has music by, say, the Beastie Boys and Led Zeppelin on it. They say that the Rollercade has permission to play music, so they can use it, too. I need to get an intellectual rights attorney on this. This has potential to get crazy.
In a moment of weakness, I agreed to teach a screenwriting class for Northside ISD. Wednesday nights in October. We'll see. I'd pretty much given that up, I thought, but what the hell. I'll get the word out, closer it comes.
The boy's school starts next week. I'll be free for a few precious hours each day. Maybe I'll start getting things done then. There was a time when I was organized and motivated and even had some semblance of self-discipline. That was before children. I could use it again. Anybody got a good book to read? Or maybe some special vitamin? I eat a lot of fish, that's supposed to be good for the brain, right? Amino acids, something like that?
The boy had a fit last night. Kept me from hitting Andy's party. I'll save my gift until the next one... hope you like six-packs of Black Label and used Jimmy Buffett "Best of" CDs, Andy!
Adventures in First Nightery
Kinda bittersweet, reading all these old posts. Almost like looking at someone else I really want to root for, but already know how he's going to turn out in the end. These were exciting days. Wednesday, July 19, 2006
It was last night, the first screening at the Philadelphia International Gay and Lesbian Film Festival of "Mars Needs Bibles!"
It opened (if you'll pardon the expression) for the feature "Creatures from the Pink Lagoon," and is that not the perfect title to be twinned with mine? I wish I'd thought of it. Although I'm sure I couldn't have done with it what was done by director Chris Diani, whose short film "Rabbit's Foot" (created in two days for the Seattle True Independent Film Festival's Weekend Film Challenge) is a little chunk of unalloyed funny.
As any dedicated director would be (and I was not), Chris was at the screening last night. He spoke to the audience, and was kind enough to give them my regards. And kinder still, he wrote me this morning (well, I read it this morning) to tell me that it went over quite well. He complimented me on my balloons. Which, if you've seen the short, makes sense, but perhaps sounds dirty if you haven't.
I've had scores of screenings locally for my shorts, and even for my sadly neglected feature. Enough, in fact, that I suspect I've gotten a little jaded about it. Frequently, I'm working on the movie right up until the disc is put into the projector (or however these things work, I still have a hand-cranked VCR), and don't have time or energy to get nervous. Whatever the reason, I tend to approach these things with a sense of sang-froid. My collaborators and loved ones tend to be more excited about it than I am. Which, at least to my bloated ego, is exactly the way it should be.
And yet, I was just bordering on frantic about this screening. Maybe because it's the first where I wasn't going to be present? No, that's not it, I missed the screening of "Lucky Numbers" at the Seguin festival. Although I was rather removed from that project, being as it was a "re-release" (after a lot of post-production work on my part) and could only be viewed by me as a partial success (due to the dissatisfaction of the original writer, who asked that her name be removed when I changed some elements). I'm a lot more attached to "Mars Needs Bibles!", that has to have something to do with it, sure. Maybe because it's at a big time film festival, and all the rest have been relatively small (no offense to those who have been kind enough to project my work, but you don't have the word "International" in your names, now, do you?). Maybe it's because I risked offending my audience even more than usual, and my punk-ass liberal guilt was nagging at me?
Whatever the reason, I had a hollow in the pit of my stomach all night. And Chris knew this (and honestly, I hardly pestered him at all about it), and let me know how it went. What a guy!
My east coast debut... damn. Shows again Saturday, if you hurry, you can still make it.
It was last night, the first screening at the Philadelphia International Gay and Lesbian Film Festival of "Mars Needs Bibles!"
It opened (if you'll pardon the expression) for the feature "Creatures from the Pink Lagoon," and is that not the perfect title to be twinned with mine? I wish I'd thought of it. Although I'm sure I couldn't have done with it what was done by director Chris Diani, whose short film "Rabbit's Foot" (created in two days for the Seattle True Independent Film Festival's Weekend Film Challenge) is a little chunk of unalloyed funny.
As any dedicated director would be (and I was not), Chris was at the screening last night. He spoke to the audience, and was kind enough to give them my regards. And kinder still, he wrote me this morning (well, I read it this morning) to tell me that it went over quite well. He complimented me on my balloons. Which, if you've seen the short, makes sense, but perhaps sounds dirty if you haven't.
I've had scores of screenings locally for my shorts, and even for my sadly neglected feature. Enough, in fact, that I suspect I've gotten a little jaded about it. Frequently, I'm working on the movie right up until the disc is put into the projector (or however these things work, I still have a hand-cranked VCR), and don't have time or energy to get nervous. Whatever the reason, I tend to approach these things with a sense of sang-froid. My collaborators and loved ones tend to be more excited about it than I am. Which, at least to my bloated ego, is exactly the way it should be.
And yet, I was just bordering on frantic about this screening. Maybe because it's the first where I wasn't going to be present? No, that's not it, I missed the screening of "Lucky Numbers" at the Seguin festival. Although I was rather removed from that project, being as it was a "re-release" (after a lot of post-production work on my part) and could only be viewed by me as a partial success (due to the dissatisfaction of the original writer, who asked that her name be removed when I changed some elements). I'm a lot more attached to "Mars Needs Bibles!", that has to have something to do with it, sure. Maybe because it's at a big time film festival, and all the rest have been relatively small (no offense to those who have been kind enough to project my work, but you don't have the word "International" in your names, now, do you?). Maybe it's because I risked offending my audience even more than usual, and my punk-ass liberal guilt was nagging at me?
Whatever the reason, I had a hollow in the pit of my stomach all night. And Chris knew this (and honestly, I hardly pestered him at all about it), and let me know how it went. What a guy!
My east coast debut... damn. Shows again Saturday, if you hurry, you can still make it.
But i must confess, I'm drinking a gin and tonic
This really is a good recipe. I probably put more into the reciting of it that strictly necessary. But try it. From Tuesday July 18, 2006
Just to prove how much you, my MySpace friends, are in fact my real friends, I am now sharing our rum punch recipe. Well, like all good recipes, it's not so much a recipe as it is a bunch of accidents that resulted in what we do now, but the original recipe came from a book called "Rum and Reggae, the Insider's Guide to the Caribbean." It's a good book, if a little dated now (among the items it says you need to take with you on your Caribbean trip is a "Walkman" and "tapes"). There are more recent editions. Check them out if you're planning an island trek.
Here's the list verbatim, then I'll add some of the changes we've made over the years.
**********************
2-3 oz good dark rum (the stronger, the better)
2 oz sugar syrup*
1 lime
4 oz water
bitters
feresh grated nutmeg
ice
directions
Squeeze the lime and add the juice to the rum and sugar syrup. Shake the bitters into the glass four times. Add the rocks, then sprinkle with fresh, grated nutmeg (it mut be fresh!). Yum! Serves one.
*To make sugar syrup, dissolve 1 lb. of sugar in 2 cups of water. Keep handy for quick and easy rum punches.
********************
Doubtless, that makes a good drink. But we've made some changes to it over the years, and the result is our rum punch.
First, sugar water. I don't know what a pound of sugar mixed with 2 cups of water gives you, but it sounds like a toothache. We boil 2 parts tap water, then mix in 1 part sugar, stir til dissolved. Put it in the fridge and get it chilly. For this, let's say 2 cups water with one cup sugar.
Then, squeeze limes. This is an eyeball process (eww, sounds painful) in that you squeeze until you figure you have enough. If limes are ten for a dollar, it usually means ten. If they're eight for a dollar, that's probably enough.
You pour the juice into a pitcher with the sugar water. Since you probably squeezed while the water was boiling, it's likely not cold yet. No big deal.
Then you add rum. We use spiced rum, dark, and from the bottom shelf. Don't be a sucker. If you're mixing it, use the cheap stuff. It'll kill you at just the same rate as the good stuff, and if you mix it right, you're not going to taste it anyway. I try to make it equal to the sugar water, but I never measure the sugar water, so I'm not really sure what that comes out to. Two cups of water, one cup of sugar? Three cups of rum. Make sense to you? Does to me. This is concentrated punch, don't drink this. Or you'll be finishing your party very early. Patience, we're almost there.
Now, on to glassware. Don't think this is not important. A tiki mug is essential. Really. You'll just feel bad about yourself later if you don't. If you don't have tiki, sure, go with something else. But make it fun. Jelly glasses. Something with cartoon characters on them. Go wild. But preferably something with a tiki god or a girl in a grass skirt.
Fill it with ice (especially if the now-concentrated rum punch is still warm). Measure out a heaping helping of the concentrate. Depends on the size of your glass and the fortitude of your liver. Say a half-cup. Or a big shotglass. Or maybe a hollowed-out coconut half. You be the judge. Pour it over the ice.
Then get your sparkle water. Did I mention sparkle water? Club soda's fine. Seltzer's better. Perrier will do in a pinch, but again, go for the cheap stuff. Tonic water is a no-go. Avoid any of the heavily flavored soda that has any variety of sugar and/or aspartame in it. You're drinking fermented sugar cane with sugar and lime in it. You got plenty of sweet, and you got plenty of flavor. If you try anything that says "diet" before it, you really shouldn't be reading this. Pour the same amount of sparkle water in as you did punch concentrate.
Please, please, PLEASE don't neglect fresh-grated nutmeg and bitters. Buy a little grater and keep it with your nutmegs, it's so worth it. And the bitters might not seem like much, but it makes the drink. Grate on some of the first, sprinkle on some of the second.
Garnish. I suggest having little plastic monkeys or mermaids or flamingos around. No house is a home without them. But paper umbrellas are a crowd pleaser, no shame in using those. A nice swizzle stick is good to have, mix the nutmeg and bitters in.
Enjoy in moderation. I don't just add that as a bit of CYA correctness, either. This stuff goes down really fast, barely tastes like booze at all. But it is strong. I've seen grown men become incapacitated on two. And because it is so deceptive, you might go through three or four of them in rapid succession before you notice how utterly and completely polluted you are. So be careful.
Here, I'll put the ingredients list down for you, in case you need to go to the store.
Rum
Limes
Sugar
Tap water
Sparkle water
Ice
Bitters
Real, whole nutmeg
A little grater
Tiki glasses
Decorations there-for
Just to prove how much you, my MySpace friends, are in fact my real friends, I am now sharing our rum punch recipe. Well, like all good recipes, it's not so much a recipe as it is a bunch of accidents that resulted in what we do now, but the original recipe came from a book called "Rum and Reggae, the Insider's Guide to the Caribbean." It's a good book, if a little dated now (among the items it says you need to take with you on your Caribbean trip is a "Walkman" and "tapes"). There are more recent editions. Check them out if you're planning an island trek.
Here's the list verbatim, then I'll add some of the changes we've made over the years.
**********************
2-3 oz good dark rum (the stronger, the better)
2 oz sugar syrup*
1 lime
4 oz water
bitters
feresh grated nutmeg
ice
directions
Squeeze the lime and add the juice to the rum and sugar syrup. Shake the bitters into the glass four times. Add the rocks, then sprinkle with fresh, grated nutmeg (it mut be fresh!). Yum! Serves one.
*To make sugar syrup, dissolve 1 lb. of sugar in 2 cups of water. Keep handy for quick and easy rum punches.
********************
Doubtless, that makes a good drink. But we've made some changes to it over the years, and the result is our rum punch.
First, sugar water. I don't know what a pound of sugar mixed with 2 cups of water gives you, but it sounds like a toothache. We boil 2 parts tap water, then mix in 1 part sugar, stir til dissolved. Put it in the fridge and get it chilly. For this, let's say 2 cups water with one cup sugar.
Then, squeeze limes. This is an eyeball process (eww, sounds painful) in that you squeeze until you figure you have enough. If limes are ten for a dollar, it usually means ten. If they're eight for a dollar, that's probably enough.
You pour the juice into a pitcher with the sugar water. Since you probably squeezed while the water was boiling, it's likely not cold yet. No big deal.
Then you add rum. We use spiced rum, dark, and from the bottom shelf. Don't be a sucker. If you're mixing it, use the cheap stuff. It'll kill you at just the same rate as the good stuff, and if you mix it right, you're not going to taste it anyway. I try to make it equal to the sugar water, but I never measure the sugar water, so I'm not really sure what that comes out to. Two cups of water, one cup of sugar? Three cups of rum. Make sense to you? Does to me. This is concentrated punch, don't drink this. Or you'll be finishing your party very early. Patience, we're almost there.
Now, on to glassware. Don't think this is not important. A tiki mug is essential. Really. You'll just feel bad about yourself later if you don't. If you don't have tiki, sure, go with something else. But make it fun. Jelly glasses. Something with cartoon characters on them. Go wild. But preferably something with a tiki god or a girl in a grass skirt.
Fill it with ice (especially if the now-concentrated rum punch is still warm). Measure out a heaping helping of the concentrate. Depends on the size of your glass and the fortitude of your liver. Say a half-cup. Or a big shotglass. Or maybe a hollowed-out coconut half. You be the judge. Pour it over the ice.
Then get your sparkle water. Did I mention sparkle water? Club soda's fine. Seltzer's better. Perrier will do in a pinch, but again, go for the cheap stuff. Tonic water is a no-go. Avoid any of the heavily flavored soda that has any variety of sugar and/or aspartame in it. You're drinking fermented sugar cane with sugar and lime in it. You got plenty of sweet, and you got plenty of flavor. If you try anything that says "diet" before it, you really shouldn't be reading this. Pour the same amount of sparkle water in as you did punch concentrate.
Please, please, PLEASE don't neglect fresh-grated nutmeg and bitters. Buy a little grater and keep it with your nutmegs, it's so worth it. And the bitters might not seem like much, but it makes the drink. Grate on some of the first, sprinkle on some of the second.
Garnish. I suggest having little plastic monkeys or mermaids or flamingos around. No house is a home without them. But paper umbrellas are a crowd pleaser, no shame in using those. A nice swizzle stick is good to have, mix the nutmeg and bitters in.
Enjoy in moderation. I don't just add that as a bit of CYA correctness, either. This stuff goes down really fast, barely tastes like booze at all. But it is strong. I've seen grown men become incapacitated on two. And because it is so deceptive, you might go through three or four of them in rapid succession before you notice how utterly and completely polluted you are. So be careful.
Here, I'll put the ingredients list down for you, in case you need to go to the store.
Rum
Limes
Sugar
Tap water
Sparkle water
Ice
Bitters
Real, whole nutmeg
A little grater
Tiki glasses
Decorations there-for
Lady In The Water
Oh my. Look at me being clever. Never even saw the movie, for all I know it's brilliant. Sorry, M. Night. From Wednesday July 12, 2006
It becomes clear that M. Night Shyamalan is not stopping of his own accord. Therefore, we must stop him.
It becomes clear that M. Night Shyamalan is not stopping of his own accord. Therefore, we must stop him.
"the funniest antidote yet to the Christian Right."
This is more like it. Just a post telling you how awesome I am. I need to do this more often, if only to convince myself. I miss the MySpace function telling everyone what I'm watching or reading or listening to right now. You deserve to know. This one was punted up there on Wednesday June 28, 2006
Hell, yeah. That's what they say to describe my "Mars Needs Bibles!" in the program for the Philadelphia International Gay and Lesbian Film Festival. In fact, here it is in toto: "Like a Plan 9 involving a sexually-confused astronaut, a closeted gay preacher, Martians and a violent evangelist, Mars Needs Bibles is the funniest antidote yet to the Christian Right."
In case you didn't catch it, they're comparing it to "Plan 9 From Outer Space," the Edward D. Wood classic. Ed-fucking-Wood! Not only am I showing at a major film festival, they compare my zero budget scifi movie to *the* zero budget scifi movie! I am stoked like the Super Chief.
My finances are in the toilet, my in-laws are coming to visit next week (I like them, but Lisa's freaking, which means I have to freak, too), that ridiculous woman on the panel last night nearly made me lose my temper, and while I'm swamped like Okefenokee, if I don't get some paying work soon, I'll be released from the stress of having electricity or water or gas or cable. Not to mention, I *still* can't get a check out of KLRN, and they've already cut my invoice in half.
But for the first time in a long time, I'm feeling kind of positive about my filmmaking, all because of this brief mention in a film festival program, and one that probably doesn't sound quite as positive to you as it does to me.
Thanks, PIGLIFF! I'm going to go out and submit to a few more film festivals while I'm on this high.
Have you heard the last Jellyfish album, "Spilt Milk"? It's fun. A little Queen, a little Supertramp, a little ELO, shaken together and poured out into a very good album with at least one great song, "He's My Best Friend," the feel-good masturbation anthem of all time. Give it a spin.
Hell, yeah. That's what they say to describe my "Mars Needs Bibles!" in the program for the Philadelphia International Gay and Lesbian Film Festival. In fact, here it is in toto: "Like a Plan 9 involving a sexually-confused astronaut, a closeted gay preacher, Martians and a violent evangelist, Mars Needs Bibles is the funniest antidote yet to the Christian Right."
In case you didn't catch it, they're comparing it to "Plan 9 From Outer Space," the Edward D. Wood classic. Ed-fucking-Wood! Not only am I showing at a major film festival, they compare my zero budget scifi movie to *the* zero budget scifi movie! I am stoked like the Super Chief.
My finances are in the toilet, my in-laws are coming to visit next week (I like them, but Lisa's freaking, which means I have to freak, too), that ridiculous woman on the panel last night nearly made me lose my temper, and while I'm swamped like Okefenokee, if I don't get some paying work soon, I'll be released from the stress of having electricity or water or gas or cable. Not to mention, I *still* can't get a check out of KLRN, and they've already cut my invoice in half.
But for the first time in a long time, I'm feeling kind of positive about my filmmaking, all because of this brief mention in a film festival program, and one that probably doesn't sound quite as positive to you as it does to me.
Thanks, PIGLIFF! I'm going to go out and submit to a few more film festivals while I'm on this high.
Have you heard the last Jellyfish album, "Spilt Milk"? It's fun. A little Queen, a little Supertramp, a little ELO, shaken together and poured out into a very good album with at least one great song, "He's My Best Friend," the feel-good masturbation anthem of all time. Give it a spin.
I'm soooo not gay, honest...
A whole blog talking myself out of going to an important film festival I should've attended. It pleases me to see Sam Lerma or Bryan Ortiz jetting out to festivals all over the place these days. What the hell was I thinking not going to this? I'm a fool. Hey, gas was the same price back then as it is now! Is that good or bad? Thursday June 1, 2006
Lisa says I need to go north so I can be there for the debut of my short "Mars Needs Bibles!" at the Philadelphia International Gay and Lesbian Film Festival there. (And is PIGLFF really the acronym you want to be associated with your party?) It's next month, not exactly sure what day. I won't be there, of course -- Philadelphia is the other side of the world, and I can't even get KLRN to pay me for the freelance debacle with them, I can't afford food, much less a plane ticket. Some have suggested a road trip, but with gas at $2.59 a gallon (and that was the price I was giddy to find last night), I might as well fly. By flapping my arms.
But I don't know if I would go even if I could. I have no problem with homosexuality; some of my best friends, don't you know. But I felt a little awkward even making this movie, being not just straight but square. Do I have the right to depict, however sincerely and sensitively (and damn, Christopher was great in the part), the pain of sexual confusion? I went to some trouble to find a gay actor (not Christopher) to put into this, in fact, once I realized that I had no one gay involved in the project at all, because I felt so uncomfortable with it.
And now I'm going to go to Pennsylvania and stand up in front of people and say, yeah, I'm the guy who made this, aren't we liberal straight guys great?
Roy Thomas uses a great gag, I've heard him do it a few times, he says "I experimented with heterosexuality once -- I fucked a straight guy." It's a funny joke, but more than that, it's empowering. He's fucking somebody, not getting fucked. But there's no straight dude version of this. And the reason is, straight white guys don't need empowering. We're already tops. Pitchers, to a man (all of us out of prison, anyway). And I can't help feeling that I'm horning in on someone else's limelight by being a part of this film festival. The fact that I love Freddie Mercury and Stephen Fry doesn't make me an honorary homo. I can't go. Can I? No. It'd be wrong.
Not so wrong that I'm withdrawing my movie, mind you, or not submitting it to other film festivals.
But I don't think I could go.
Mainly because I can't afford it. I went to Tim's OUTer fest in Austin (www.outerfilmfest.com), where "Mars Needs Bibles!" debuted last year. And sure, my crew made up close to half the audience, but I still stood up there and basked. Oh, did I bask...
Damn, but I'm an attention whore.
Lisa says I need to go north so I can be there for the debut of my short "Mars Needs Bibles!" at the Philadelphia International Gay and Lesbian Film Festival there. (And is PIGLFF really the acronym you want to be associated with your party?) It's next month, not exactly sure what day. I won't be there, of course -- Philadelphia is the other side of the world, and I can't even get KLRN to pay me for the freelance debacle with them, I can't afford food, much less a plane ticket. Some have suggested a road trip, but with gas at $2.59 a gallon (and that was the price I was giddy to find last night), I might as well fly. By flapping my arms.
But I don't know if I would go even if I could. I have no problem with homosexuality; some of my best friends, don't you know. But I felt a little awkward even making this movie, being not just straight but square. Do I have the right to depict, however sincerely and sensitively (and damn, Christopher was great in the part), the pain of sexual confusion? I went to some trouble to find a gay actor (not Christopher) to put into this, in fact, once I realized that I had no one gay involved in the project at all, because I felt so uncomfortable with it.
And now I'm going to go to Pennsylvania and stand up in front of people and say, yeah, I'm the guy who made this, aren't we liberal straight guys great?
Roy Thomas uses a great gag, I've heard him do it a few times, he says "I experimented with heterosexuality once -- I fucked a straight guy." It's a funny joke, but more than that, it's empowering. He's fucking somebody, not getting fucked. But there's no straight dude version of this. And the reason is, straight white guys don't need empowering. We're already tops. Pitchers, to a man (all of us out of prison, anyway). And I can't help feeling that I'm horning in on someone else's limelight by being a part of this film festival. The fact that I love Freddie Mercury and Stephen Fry doesn't make me an honorary homo. I can't go. Can I? No. It'd be wrong.
Not so wrong that I'm withdrawing my movie, mind you, or not submitting it to other film festivals.
But I don't think I could go.
Mainly because I can't afford it. I went to Tim's OUTer fest in Austin (www.outerfilmfest.com), where "Mars Needs Bibles!" debuted last year. And sure, my crew made up close to half the audience, but I still stood up there and basked. Oh, did I bask...
Damn, but I'm an attention whore.
Imminent Risk of Laceration
Ah, Short Ends, what happened? It's like when you see two friends marry, and all the potential is there, but still they screw it up and after it's all done, you can't spend time with either of them anymore. I won't mention who the "two friends" are in this scenario, but rest assured, they are concepts, not people. And I miss them. Thursday May 4, 2006
A week or so back, Sam Lerma contacted me. He wanted me to play a hobo in his new movie. Because the phrase "Sam Lerma movie" is generally preceeded by the phrase "award-winning," I didn't even ask what it was about me that suggests "hobo" before agreeing. He asked me to look like crap. I can only work with what God gave me, but I mess up good.
Last night was the shoot. It was supposed to be the night before last, but it was hailing like Captain Kangaroo's ping pong balls, so Wednesday it would be. I showed up on time, 7:30 pm, and then spent another half-hour trying to find parking. We were shooting at picturesque Peacock Alley, which is quite near the theaters, where the Lion King musical was playing. Not a lot of curb space. But I found one that was only a little bit illegal just a block or so away. They weren't waiting on me, as they couldn't get started before (a) it got dark and (b) the actual street people departed from the location.
We spent the time putting on makeup and choosing costumes. Neck brace, yes; eye-patch, no. It's little details like this that separate your movies from Sam Lerma's movies, bitch. In time, we got started, and much of my "work" involved sitting on my ass in raggedy clothing. So of course, I had to jump up and get involved in other things, moving lights, talking to passersby, throwing suggestions at Sam. You know, pissing him off.
The scene involved Josh running down the alley holding a cash-packed glass tip jar, and then he falls and it spills all over the place and shatters. These are the kinds of scenes that look great on the page, and great on the screen, but are serious ass warts every step in between. It's one thing to say, "he falls in the alley and the glass breaks," but when you actually have to throw a delicate actor onto the hard floor of an alley, and on top of jagged shards of glassy death, the realities start setting in. Being a few years older, and feeling my joints in a way he cannot yet know, I warned Josh about falling on his knees. He had that covered, he said, and he did, I saw in a few practice falls; poof, right into the trash bags on his forearms and hip, Colt Seavers couldn't have done it better. But remember there's glass, I mentioned, and you could see it dawn on him that he was going to have to avoid being sliced like cheese while making a credible fall in front of a camera.
And that also, I think, might've been the point when Sam realized that perhaps he should've reconsidered the shorts and sandals he was wearing behind the camera. The jar was going to explode mere inches before his lens, and he was going to be in the direct path of the shrapnel.
As mentioned, I was there to play a hobo, and as such, I naturally had brought along my bathrobe. It's a huge, thick, terry-cloth thing, red-and-black stripes, which I don't think I've worn since I moved into this subtropical clime. Sam cleverly decided to use it to protect himself. Now, Sam is a man-and-a-half, talent-wise, but in terms of physical size, he's about half-a-Pete. So he's got this thing wrapped around himself like Lawrence of Arabia, not a bit of flesh exposed except for his eyes, and once Josh went into his fall, Sam pulled the hood over his face, too.
So he never even saw the smash. Hope it looked as good on the camera as it did in the alley. Huge smash, enormous noise. I suspect they heard it in the Lion King.
No blood spilled, by the way. Should be a good movie. Go see it at the Short Ends screening, June 17th. Jesus tarry and the creek don't rise, I should have one playing there, too.
A week or so back, Sam Lerma contacted me. He wanted me to play a hobo in his new movie. Because the phrase "Sam Lerma movie" is generally preceeded by the phrase "award-winning," I didn't even ask what it was about me that suggests "hobo" before agreeing. He asked me to look like crap. I can only work with what God gave me, but I mess up good.
Last night was the shoot. It was supposed to be the night before last, but it was hailing like Captain Kangaroo's ping pong balls, so Wednesday it would be. I showed up on time, 7:30 pm, and then spent another half-hour trying to find parking. We were shooting at picturesque Peacock Alley, which is quite near the theaters, where the Lion King musical was playing. Not a lot of curb space. But I found one that was only a little bit illegal just a block or so away. They weren't waiting on me, as they couldn't get started before (a) it got dark and (b) the actual street people departed from the location.
We spent the time putting on makeup and choosing costumes. Neck brace, yes; eye-patch, no. It's little details like this that separate your movies from Sam Lerma's movies, bitch. In time, we got started, and much of my "work" involved sitting on my ass in raggedy clothing. So of course, I had to jump up and get involved in other things, moving lights, talking to passersby, throwing suggestions at Sam. You know, pissing him off.
The scene involved Josh running down the alley holding a cash-packed glass tip jar, and then he falls and it spills all over the place and shatters. These are the kinds of scenes that look great on the page, and great on the screen, but are serious ass warts every step in between. It's one thing to say, "he falls in the alley and the glass breaks," but when you actually have to throw a delicate actor onto the hard floor of an alley, and on top of jagged shards of glassy death, the realities start setting in. Being a few years older, and feeling my joints in a way he cannot yet know, I warned Josh about falling on his knees. He had that covered, he said, and he did, I saw in a few practice falls; poof, right into the trash bags on his forearms and hip, Colt Seavers couldn't have done it better. But remember there's glass, I mentioned, and you could see it dawn on him that he was going to have to avoid being sliced like cheese while making a credible fall in front of a camera.
And that also, I think, might've been the point when Sam realized that perhaps he should've reconsidered the shorts and sandals he was wearing behind the camera. The jar was going to explode mere inches before his lens, and he was going to be in the direct path of the shrapnel.
As mentioned, I was there to play a hobo, and as such, I naturally had brought along my bathrobe. It's a huge, thick, terry-cloth thing, red-and-black stripes, which I don't think I've worn since I moved into this subtropical clime. Sam cleverly decided to use it to protect himself. Now, Sam is a man-and-a-half, talent-wise, but in terms of physical size, he's about half-a-Pete. So he's got this thing wrapped around himself like Lawrence of Arabia, not a bit of flesh exposed except for his eyes, and once Josh went into his fall, Sam pulled the hood over his face, too.
So he never even saw the smash. Hope it looked as good on the camera as it did in the alley. Huge smash, enormous noise. I suspect they heard it in the Lion King.
No blood spilled, by the way. Should be a good movie. Go see it at the Short Ends screening, June 17th. Jesus tarry and the creek don't rise, I should have one playing there, too.
My Life of Leisure
This one's a little painful to read again. Damn, if I actually acted all the times that I swore I was going to get my act in gear and turn my career around... ah, well, I've made a commitment not to edit myself, and I can't turn back now. Monday, April 24, 2006
Okay, I'm back. Sure, I know, most of you didn't know I was gone. Off to sunny Mexico, Ixtapa, the Club Med there. All inclusive, which (if you're one of the poor folk) means that everything was paid for. Booze, food, dancing girls, you name it. And here's what's weird -- I probably came back healthier than when I left. I ate more fish and fruit than I have in years. Got to continue this trend, I feel great.
I figured out that, to live there full time, I'd probably need to make in the ballpark of $10,000 US a week. Which, if my third-grade math skills serve me, means about $500K a year. A cool half-million. Now, that's a lot of money to you and me, but I bet just about anyone reading this knows someone who makes that kind of money. It's not outrageous. Well, it is, but it's not unheard of. Lots of people do that much.
So, why aren't they living at the Club Med in Ixtapa? Not because they love their jobs or don't want to leave their stateside lives behind. It's because you have to work really hard to make that kind of money. Not as hard as you have to work to make $40,000 a year, but hard. You have to go to an office every day. You have to make mortgage payments and car payments, and buy expensive suits to wear in the houses and cars you're paying off. You have to support a family and a few mistresses, and a therapist who'd be earning his or her hourly to tell you to go live at Club Med in Ixtapa.
That's why I'm looking for a job that pays me that kind of jack, but requires little to none of my time. Or, rather, allows me to do what I want to do with that time, and pays me for it.
I'm trained, both by nature and education, to do only two things -- write stories and make movies. Some might call them the same thing, but there's a subtle difference. One involves paper and a beach chair, the other involves going out and working my ass off. Neither pays well, until it suddenly pays very well. Other than that, I could do scut work that would pay me, but I'd never get out from under all I have to do to live that life. And I'd never live at Club Med in Ixtapa.
Here's my plan: I'm going to write books and make movies. And I'm going to make a lot of money at it. Sooner rather than later, I hope.
Been reading Sidney Lumet's "Making Movies." I saw him on Charlie Rose not long ago, pimping his movie with Vin Diesel, and he said that last year was the best in recent memory for movies. So, between those two events, naturally I thought he was an ass. But this book is great. I recommend it to you, if you're even a little bit interested in movies. This is the bookend to Robert Rodriguez's book, tells you how to do it if you have a studio at you disposal. It explains more clearly than anything I've ever read how a movie can stink or be brilliant. It needs to be on every filmmaker's bookshelf
Okay, I'm back. Sure, I know, most of you didn't know I was gone. Off to sunny Mexico, Ixtapa, the Club Med there. All inclusive, which (if you're one of the poor folk) means that everything was paid for. Booze, food, dancing girls, you name it. And here's what's weird -- I probably came back healthier than when I left. I ate more fish and fruit than I have in years. Got to continue this trend, I feel great.
I figured out that, to live there full time, I'd probably need to make in the ballpark of $10,000 US a week. Which, if my third-grade math skills serve me, means about $500K a year. A cool half-million. Now, that's a lot of money to you and me, but I bet just about anyone reading this knows someone who makes that kind of money. It's not outrageous. Well, it is, but it's not unheard of. Lots of people do that much.
So, why aren't they living at the Club Med in Ixtapa? Not because they love their jobs or don't want to leave their stateside lives behind. It's because you have to work really hard to make that kind of money. Not as hard as you have to work to make $40,000 a year, but hard. You have to go to an office every day. You have to make mortgage payments and car payments, and buy expensive suits to wear in the houses and cars you're paying off. You have to support a family and a few mistresses, and a therapist who'd be earning his or her hourly to tell you to go live at Club Med in Ixtapa.
That's why I'm looking for a job that pays me that kind of jack, but requires little to none of my time. Or, rather, allows me to do what I want to do with that time, and pays me for it.
I'm trained, both by nature and education, to do only two things -- write stories and make movies. Some might call them the same thing, but there's a subtle difference. One involves paper and a beach chair, the other involves going out and working my ass off. Neither pays well, until it suddenly pays very well. Other than that, I could do scut work that would pay me, but I'd never get out from under all I have to do to live that life. And I'd never live at Club Med in Ixtapa.
Here's my plan: I'm going to write books and make movies. And I'm going to make a lot of money at it. Sooner rather than later, I hope.
Been reading Sidney Lumet's "Making Movies." I saw him on Charlie Rose not long ago, pimping his movie with Vin Diesel, and he said that last year was the best in recent memory for movies. So, between those two events, naturally I thought he was an ass. But this book is great. I recommend it to you, if you're even a little bit interested in movies. This is the bookend to Robert Rodriguez's book, tells you how to do it if you have a studio at you disposal. It explains more clearly than anything I've ever read how a movie can stink or be brilliant. It needs to be on every filmmaker's bookshelf
Is Sincerity the New Irony?
first written way back when. And funnily enough, there's a typo in here that changes my intent completely. But I won't change it, or point it out. Think what you will.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Is Sincerity the New Irony?
You know who's not as bad as you think he is? Mr. Rogers. My kid's a big fan, and that means I have to see the show on a semi-regular basis. In fact, I usually wake up to the chimes of the trolley on the way to the Land of Make-Believe, as the boy will turn on the set in my bedroom at 7am.
Why does he love the show? Or, more specifically, the man himself, the late Fred Rogers, as he is of course the show. I think it's because Mr. Rogers is sincere. Completely and totally honest. He doesn't talk down to kids, the way I used to think he did. And neither is he creepy, as I'd thought before I had children -- that requires a secondary level, a hidden agenda, and this guy only has one. He talks as an adult who cares about you does, he's not a jokey, smartassy guy. He's sincere. The boy will turn off the set when SpongeBob comes on, or most any other show that vaguely might appeal to me (an admitted wiseass), any of those shows designed to be viewed on two levels, with winks to the adult audience and toyetic eye-candy for the kids. But he loves Mr. Rogers.
Someone announced the death of irony not long ago, I think it was around the time of the September 11 suicide missions. And no less an authority than my long-time pal and heterosexual lifemate Erik recently commented that he was no longer a fan of kitsch. (Actually, I think he said "camp," but camp is a complicated word and the subject of a completely different rant, so for the purposes of this discussion, I'll go with his intent, kitsch.) And Erik's middle name is "Irony." (Actually, his middle name is Erik, which makes him "Erik Erik Bosse," even his parents were ironic.) Even I can't think of many things I love because they're awful, and that used to be my meat.
I don't believe irony's dead. Maybe it's just that we're overloaded with irony, in our lives, in our politics, in our entertainment, so much so that we hardly recognize it anymore. But when I see Mr. Rogers, I know it's still there. Because the rest of the world stands out in such sharp contrast.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Is Sincerity the New Irony?
You know who's not as bad as you think he is? Mr. Rogers. My kid's a big fan, and that means I have to see the show on a semi-regular basis. In fact, I usually wake up to the chimes of the trolley on the way to the Land of Make-Believe, as the boy will turn on the set in my bedroom at 7am.
Why does he love the show? Or, more specifically, the man himself, the late Fred Rogers, as he is of course the show. I think it's because Mr. Rogers is sincere. Completely and totally honest. He doesn't talk down to kids, the way I used to think he did. And neither is he creepy, as I'd thought before I had children -- that requires a secondary level, a hidden agenda, and this guy only has one. He talks as an adult who cares about you does, he's not a jokey, smartassy guy. He's sincere. The boy will turn off the set when SpongeBob comes on, or most any other show that vaguely might appeal to me (an admitted wiseass), any of those shows designed to be viewed on two levels, with winks to the adult audience and toyetic eye-candy for the kids. But he loves Mr. Rogers.
Someone announced the death of irony not long ago, I think it was around the time of the September 11 suicide missions. And no less an authority than my long-time pal and heterosexual lifemate Erik recently commented that he was no longer a fan of kitsch. (Actually, I think he said "camp," but camp is a complicated word and the subject of a completely different rant, so for the purposes of this discussion, I'll go with his intent, kitsch.) And Erik's middle name is "Irony." (Actually, his middle name is Erik, which makes him "Erik Erik Bosse," even his parents were ironic.) Even I can't think of many things I love because they're awful, and that used to be my meat.
I don't believe irony's dead. Maybe it's just that we're overloaded with irony, in our lives, in our politics, in our entertainment, so much so that we hardly recognize it anymore. But when I see Mr. Rogers, I know it's still there. Because the rest of the world stands out in such sharp contrast.
Back to the Blog
With the death of MySpace, I got out of the blogging habit. My output was sporadic to say the least, but at least I had a place to put it. Now I'll try and do it here, instead.
First up, moving all the old blogs from MySpace to here. Let's see if this works.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)