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So: Came out to my friends and family as bi over 20 years ago; occasionally kinky; polyamorous.
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Really, I think Trump has reached the "Spud tiptoes towards the front door with an armful of bedsheets" part of his campaign.spud
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Huh; Berkeley public library refers to the Monday, October 10th, 2016 holiday as "the Indigenous People's Day holiday."
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Someday, I want to make a movie where aliens meet Jean-Luc Godard and say, "We really love your movies- especially the early, funny ones."
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One of my very strongest memories: January 2, 2010. Patrick's birthday; a group of us decamped to Spike Hill in Williamsburg to hear his band play. Among them, a friend who had been so severely injured by a stroke that one of his doctors said he'd never before seen someone who'd survived such an injury walk into his office under their own power afterwards, and his partner, also a dear friend. (The previous day, the partner and I had watched him discussing science fiction trivia with Patrick, and winning the point; she and I looked at each other, and smiled widely.)

I rarely dance much, and although often clueless, I knew this was a Moment; I hung off to the side, and put every neuron in my brain to the task of remembering this tableau: Patrick playing and singing; them dancing, for what was almost surely the first time since the stroke. Later, after the Moment had ended, I walked home, and thought of the words of this poem by John M. Ford: "This is New York. We'll find a place to dance." Surely, if that other Moment that engendered this poem and all the moments it engendered in turn taught us anything, it is this: that while we cannot forestall tragedy, we can will our own response to it, on some human level more primal, more central than flesh or steel; that even when it feels like the end, it so rarely actually is; that even in the face of all that can be, there is a place for dancing, and singing, and love.


Sep. 10th, 2016 11:23 pm
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A couple of years ago, when a friend of mine died, I watched this video- fifty? sixty?- times; in the two or three days after, it and another video (of a pianist with whom I used to sing performing "Take Me Home, Country Roads"- our song- for me) were on near-constant rotation until the waves of emotion had abated the tiniest bit, and I could begin to pretend to think again. It was later taken down; that it is back, on this days of all days, is the surest sign of mercy I've seen from the cosmos in quite a long, long time.
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I'd love to see a fic where Curt Henderson from American Graffiti and Roy Neary from Close Encounters turn out to have been the same person. Curt went to college on a scholarship, but quickly realized that his English major and half-baked literary efforts weren't getting him anywhere; before graduating, he had started using his middle names- "Roy Neary"- as a way to stop thinking of his old dreams, his old life. He wound up knocking up a girl named Veronica- mostly because she was blond, and happened to drive a white T-bird. The two of them moved to Indiana, where they stayed with her parents at first; abandoning thoughts of a literary career, Roy bullshitted his way into a job with the power company. Roy was a bit too much of a wiseass to get far up the company ladder, though; three kids later, his life had pretty much settled into a routine,

until he parked at a railroad crossing one night... )
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So, it looks like Ghostbusters '16 won't be getting a sequel. This is unfortunate: I rather liked that this whole enterprise took something inevitable (rebooting a hit movie) and used it in the service of giving the finger to whining manboys who go on about political correctness and the like. That said, if you *do* use your reboot to make a point like this, your script and concept have to be absolutely bulletproof, because you'll be fighting an uphill battle. Too, there was one point in particular where I thought the concept wasn't as fully developed as it might've been (SPOILERS)

For example... )
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Why do I feel as though Trump watches the Parallax recruitment film every night?
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Every time I read about how Suicide Squad means DC movies are pathetic, I imagine movie execs shoving their Fantastic Four posters a little further back in their closets, with a mixture of guilt and relief.
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Got the check for my editing work yesterday; celebrated by seeing the new Ghostbusters.

First off: Love how many people have been like GOD I'D EAT MY OWN FOOT BEFORE I ATE PAPA JOHN'S (a sentiment I agree with wholeheartedly); I really hope that that particular bit of product placement was a sly bit of character deliniation on the director's part (ie, they're such outcasts at the beginning that even their food is uncool).

It's not the sublime star vehicle the original is; for a lot of this, Wiig and McCarthy seem weirdly subdued, as though they were acting in a drama, not a comedy. (And yes, some of the comedy with Leslie Jones's character is rather awkward; Kate McKinnon is the breakout star here.) Overall, though, director Paul Feig found the right plan of attack of this reboot; I enjoyed the movie's not-so-subtle digs at entitled fanboys; Chris Hemsworth is surprisingly adept as a comedian. B+ to the original's A+.
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Thanks to online memes, I've wound up playing one of those games where you list x number of your favorite films (the idea is that if you comment on this post, I'll give you a random number to make up your own list). My number was 15, so:

1. Seven Samurai
2. Citizen Kane
3. Do the Right Thing
4. Invasion of the Body Snatchers '78
5. The Terminator
6. Strange Days
7. McCabe & Mrs Miller
8. All That Jazz
9. Apocalypse Now
10. The General
11. Mikey and Nicky
12. Big Trouble in Little China
13. Sense and Sensibility '95
14. Knightriders
15. The Empire Strikes Back

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And this, as it turned out, was pretty much the last time I socialized with any substantial part of the old Rose's Turn (NYC piano bar, now gone) crew. Velma and Soren had already moved west; a person I'd known online since forever had come to visit NYC, new husband in tow; we made plans to all meet at Emporio, a restaurant I'd heard of, but never frequented.

I was walking up the sidewalk towards the restaurant, 90 percent sure that the couple in front of me were M and her husband... when my phone rang. Someone I'd known from online had just tried to commit suicide.A moment to decide: do I bag, and go home? Do I mention this, and impede their honeymoon? Do I grit my teeth, and get through it? I opted for choice C; it went well enough (and the person the call had been about hasrecovered, and is quite possibly reading this). I'd thought at the time that I was hiding it well enough; this photo makes me wonder about that- but considering that it was fairly well the last gathering of an old group (at least, with me present), perhaps not inappropriate. )
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Random: in the course of helping move a friend-of-a-friend's stuff from my spare room to a storage facility today (he'd come down with hospital-serious Creeping Death- cardiac variety), I actually got to see one of my close friends at my house, for the first time ever. While hosting social gatherings ordinarily has all the charm for me of filing taxes, I was amused to discover that the (negligible) sociable part of my brain had suddenly engaged, and was all HEY YOU CAN THROW A FORMAL DINNER PARTY WHERE THE GUESTS ARE SEATED ON SOFAS, RIGHT...?
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Well, I'm about to start editing my first manuscript for the new job; God, it's good to be back in the game. (Tell you one thing: I'd a fuck's sight rather be checking names and other data for a Japanese manga than fact-checking oncology-related copy. No contest at all.)
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tl;dr news recap- England shouts "Fuck that alligator!"; jumps into pond.
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