You get it back, in ketchup!

Also, Butchie has found a great collection of Paul Lynde vids. Oh my goodness!
You get it back, in ketchup!

Also, Butchie has found a great collection of Paul Lynde vids. Oh my goodness!
A million years ago, when I was shooting with a Nikon Coolpix 300, before the word “megapixel” was used, I helped Jared Mitchell create Skipperworld.com, a collection of his web-novellas. Often noir, sometimes hillarious, always interesting, Jared constructs his stories like a web comic with local celebrities (the gay guy from Canada’s Worst Handyman!) in exotic locales (like Key West for The Sister Season or Niagara Falls for The Wash Out). They’re HTMLicious!
Now he’s got a brand new story on his brand new site: LAW OF THE VAMPIRE, a story of Vampire rights lobbyists in Canada. Someone has their tounge stuck solidly in their cheek…
I’m babysitting my Da’s apartment and get this email this morning:
Hi
I am at John Pearsons cottage, back Friday afternoon.Eat off the bottom of the fridge.
Love
Da
Mmmmm. I think.
First off, a big big thank you to Lex for sending me this book as part of her Mini Book Expo for Bloggers. I had a lot of fun reading and reviewing it.
Now, down to business.
How extraordanary to sit here and see this man suffering like this for a truth he believed in – and to know that he was right, to know it better than he did, and to still lie to him, and curse his innocent soul and condemn it with your lie.
This is a pinnacle quote from the book The Grays by Whitley Strieber. Here, an army captain reflects upon keeping secrets from people who have become broken by their contact with aliens. It’s an autobiographical wish-fufillment moment put in there by Strieber, a fantasy to release himself from the hell he’s cast himself into since that book…
You might recall that back in the late 80s, Strieber was an established writer, giving Stephen King a run for his money after penning The Hunger and The Howling. Then suddenly he released Communion, an account of his alien abduction from his remote cabin in upstate New York. I can imagine the publisher nervously setting up The Hype over that book: horror writer was now writing about aliens! And… He’s serious! No really, he’s serious about being taken aboard a UFO and examined. Expectedly, Strieber sank into near obscurity after being lambasted almost James Frey style. He had a winner with The Coming Global Superstorm, inspiration for The Day After Tomorrow and Al Gore’s An Inconvenient Truth, but who can say they’ve read The Key, a self-published account of his 3am conversation with a super intelligent person who wandered into his Delta Chelsea hotel room (yes, here in Toronto) unannounced?
To say that reading The Grays was difficult (on so many levels) would be kind. It’s hard to write about UFOs in a post-X Files culture and keep the content fresh. But Strieber tries by letting us assume his character’s bizzare behavor is all part of abductee fokelore. One character nonchalantly drinks “a couple glasses of water” after his second contact with a UFO and then begins to freak out shortly thereafter, a common post-UFO sighting experience. I had to Google that. Without that knowledge, it just seems like Strieber actually took a moment and wrote what he was doing instead of making the character act appropriately. These kind of gaps are rampant in the narrative. In the last 20 years, Stieber has, with all the hardship he’s endured (real or made up), had his voice waiver and meander from his past solid storytelling to a stuttering mumble. And mutter he does. He tries to cram a vast amount of UFO culture into one story: unmarked helicopters, Roswell aliens working with humans, lost civilizations, super secret US agencies operating in tandem yet for different ends, alien technology leaked into our own, space-based earthquake weaponry, mind control and of course, astral-projecting aliens walking among us in cloned human bodies. Whew! All within 300 pages!
In the book, characters lurch from moment to moment with no real development, playing off each other with awkward dialogue and choppy imagery. It’s as if we are actually reading in a “lost time” kind of style, something abductees experience when taken. Even the Grays themselves seem to defy logic by annoucing their desire to mine human emotions since theirs were breeded out eons ago but yet still show fear and rage (and relate with each other much like The Three Stooges) when they communicate with the hapless experimental humans. While there is a solid 100 pages of really good action (if you suspend a ton of disbelief), there are moments of incoherence where you shake the book to see if pages have fallen out from it.
And while we’re on the topic of physical errors in a book, this is the first “advance copy” book I’ve ever read. The big black “ADVANCE COPY NOT FOR SALE” across the front made me feel all important on the subway and by the pool. It came to me blemishes and all, as illustrated in this “Word didn’t catch this one!” typo:
Dan was still alive and conscious, and as they lifted him Conner took off his own jacket and fucked it around his father.
The Grays ain’t no Da Vinci Code (again, I’m being kind). I bet people who believe they’ve been visited would find this book a bit too far reaching (and if there is someone who finds this book facinating, they will most certainly be hanging out by a 7-11, drinking way too much Slurpee juice and holding a plackard that says THE END IS NIGH). If handled right, it’s going to make a good movie, that is, if they trim some of the fat and get the name back from the 1991 movie nobody saw. I suspect that in this case, the movie will be better than the book. Hopefully.
Sharkboy and I are walking up Church Street and we pass a woman outside an old office building yanking on a string that went up to a third floor window. I thought was just an old banner rope from Prides Gone By, but apparently it’s a doorbell of sorts! How very archaic!
I said, “I now know where to play ‘Nicky Nicky Nine Doors’ on Church Street.”
“What’s that?” asks Sharkboy.
“I’m sure you have a variation on this kid’s game, whatever you called it in Quebec: ring the bell, run off peeing your pants laughing.”
“Yeah, we called it ‘Ring the Bell and Run Off Peeing Our Pants Laughing.” He then went on to explain that he had a reverse game while living in Montreal. From the saftey of his apartment, he could use the two way intercom to comment on people’s attire and sexuality as they walked by. And it was all the more funnier when you messed with the masculine/femine articles. Oh those distinct society Quebecois!
I’m sure you all, my 5 or 6 readers, use to call this bell-ringing game something else?
I’ve wandered across the path of a couple producers and directors in my time. Certainly not as much as my brother Michael, but enough to get the sense that they all have this “thing”. They exude an aura of confidence and energy that is so thick, it resides in your nose and you can taste it the next day in the shower.
Meeting up with the Casting Director of Punched Up last week was no exception.
Before seeing her, I had to spend some time with the Gopher. She was hired 48 hours prior to my interview, and already she had the whole “Bubbles” from Absolutely Fabulous personna down to a tee: perky, dressed like a 12 yr old tom boy, trying to make an office appliance work with some success. We sparred a bit while she got me to fill out a release form and she tried some of her new schtickon me (she confessed to doing stand up) while she photocopied my application. She was punched up already. She frightened me a bit.
When the Casting Director and her assistant were ready for me they ushered me into a back room (the office, in a bombed out loft on Bathurst, was a great metaphor for the state of Canadian television) and sat me down in front of their camera. Casting started off by saying “You showed up on our radar fairly quickly. We’ve been wanting to talk to you for some time.” It was an empowering statement that, at the time, gave me a warm fuzzy of being wanted. Her aura was all around me. I wanted to do her bidding!
They drilled me about how Punched Up could help me. Where in my life do I need a comedic shot in the arm? When I mentioned the campground I go to, the Assistant nearly peed herself with excitement. Seems part of the attraction of 6 comedians coming to your door is that they’re travelling in a Winebego. The idea of these comedians arriving at a gay campground with clothing optional areas to make fun of my serene, stress-free weekends is good tv.
By the end of it she nearly had me doing drag in front of my family at the campground for Thanksgiving dinner as nude trailer park occupants strolled by.
Television people are rather persuasive.
Am I in? I don’t know yet. The casting director has to fly the idea past the writers. I will keep you posted.
Yesterday, at the end of my last seminar about heart-healthy eating choices, the Nutritionalist got to the last slide in her PowerPoint presentation and the big screen reverted to her desktop for the entire class to see: a lovely sandy beach with various icons strewn about. Being the nosey parker that I am, I strained to see what programs she was using while the class bombarded her with questions about TransFats.
Suddenly the networking icon burped up a bubble saying the connection was lost. After a moment, the connection was re-established with this message:
“reconnected to “BIG_TITTIES”
I did a double take, but the bubble closed itself. As the Nutritionalist answered question after question, her laptop phased in and out of connectivity flashing “BIG_TITTIES” in the small bubble at the base. Could anyone else see this? I look around. Nope.
I am still questioning what I saw. Why would the Women’s College Hospital have a wireless router called “BIG_TITTIES”?
…getting caught in the throngs at the tail end of the day.
Sharkboy and I came back early to people watch as the parade went down Yonge. Some quick impressions:
Video link of the parade in progress: Bravo! Brilliant! Especially beside the big beer tent. A great use of technology!
Red Bull at the corner of Church and Wellesley: Can of Red Bull Energy Drink = $3. Bottle of Water = $3. Booth next door selling water = $1. Gay Dollar gougers seem to be pretty rampant.
JackFM’s Giveaway (and any other booth that gave away promo items): I pity these people. So many hands outstreatched in their faces for a sample of crap. I got a rainbow slinky with “Steward” stamped on the side. Huh? Rod? Jon?
The Police (or poor po po): Bless their hearts. One female officer outside the Market was hit on by a guy and his girlfriend as we slowly walked by. She just laughed it off. At the corner of Carlton and Church, 6 bike cops had subdued a gentleman in cuffs and sitting while he shamelessly puked on himself.
The EMTs: Corner of Church and Wellesley, two EMTs in a golf cart honk like mad to get to the other side of the intersection (I guess some tweaker crashed at the electronica stage). While most moved over, a pack of girls looked at the cart, laughed and continued dancing which made the passenger EMT get out and shove them aside. Bravo!
Best Advertisement: Spamalot, the Musical. Wandering the crowd was a guy in full chain mail, tunic and boots singing to himself the song “Always Look On The Bright Side of Life” while his Serf followed close behind with two coconuts making the horse hoof sound.
Least Interesting Product: BearWear. Sorry guys. Your tees might be of great quality but your graphics look like they were created by someone using Illustrator 6. Gradation circles are out. Admittedly you had a cool “gas station attendant” shirt with patch that I would have bought.
After a while we stood with The Postman just out front of the Bear Store in the middle of the street and let the crowd go around us like we were an island. That was fun but after a while, people bumping into me just got annoying.
I had just enough Pride. Hope yours was fun!
…never having to be in the city for it.
I loved Pride. I mean I love what it stands for (sans most corporate sponsorship) and I love how it’s a huge party and such, but as I grow older I’m getting pretty crotchety.
I remember the exact moment Pride became a burden for me:
When I use to do bar work at the Black Eagle I would get home around 6am during Pride week due to the sheer volume of clients, not because I was partying after hours (which I would have loved to do). One Pride Saturday morning I failed to notice the “Lesbian” stage that was set up yards from my apartment. At 6am I wasn’t very observant, I thought it was a beer garden. At 9am there came a roar of horridly bad, amplified Dyke poetry through my window. Menzies! Earth Mother! Blood! Rebirth! Yadda yadda all in a nasally voice that welcomed the dawn of a new sapphic day. The morning prayer was followed by accoustic guitar hooting, like Hee Haw had been overrun by Xena.
I realized from that moment on that Pride serves not it’s immediate community, but a concept.
Slowly, over the years, my rosey optimistic glasses slipped from my face and I started to see Pride in a harsher light. The thudding disco music from 9am to whenever; drunken straight “tourists” (sorry, AP! You can stay!) come to look at the “freaks” or open-minded thirds to spice up their lovelife; drunken gay “tourists” vomiting on my doorstep; friends and residents so wrapped up in getting laid by fresh meat they’re unable to hold a conversation with you due to their head scanning the crowd. And the crowds. The crowds trying to get past each other while a poorly laid out “drag stage” blocks the through-fare, forcing frottage fanatics to frollic freely.
Don’t get me wrong, I support Pride. I’ve done my time volunteering and being on either side of the parade baracade. I value it’s contribution to our visibility. But as a resident of the Village (and in speaking to others who live there too, straight and gay), Pride is like an 800 pound drag queen gorrilla that sits in the corner, demanding bananas, poppers and a DJ.
Maybe it’s time to move the celebrations to another part of the city? Sharkboy once commented that Riverdale Park would be ideal. I’ve been to Vancouver’s pride and it ends up in a large park. Why do we have to stay in the Village?
Regardless, I’m off camping. Be good, don’t puke in my doorstep and have a great Pride.
Try Guba! It’s got all your portable device formats (psp, iPod) and it’s laid out better. The Comedy section actually has comedy shows in it, not some skanky highschool kid sitting in front of a web cam badmouthing some skanky highschool kid. Better preview image capture too…mouse over the first image and you get a little show! Not liking the free stuff? There’s a paid area which is currently inactive, but I bet those suits are knocking on CBS/NBC’s door!
I love Tex Avery in the morning. It smells like AROOOOOGAH!!!! Yes, that’s Goofy’s voice in an MGM cartoon. Jim Carrey’s study video.