I may just have inadvertently picked up a homosexual. You know, a queer. A packer of fudge. Hey, why not be crass? After my explosion last night on the subject of why gimp should keep being called gimp and not changed to something else to avoid offending the crippled, I might as well declare my equal fondness for offensive gay slang.

Anyways: I was about halfway through conversing with this Differently Sexualized White Male when I realized that a) I had heard recently that he was gay, and b) I was currently flirting with him. I was making entendres and "the bedroom eyes." Why? Because I'm a fucking moron, that's why. I can't even blame senility: I'm not 31 for two more weeks.

At this point in the festival I'm wishing I had a better memory for peoples' names and where I know them from. Aside from the usual TIFF game of Know Your Festival Volunteer (Without Looking At Their Badge), with bonus rounds of Did They Volunteer at 1MFVF? and Do They Hate You For Something You Did Five Years Ago?, there's also the plethora of people I know only during TIFFtime who pop out of the woodwork, plus the usual mill of running in a slightly tighter circle of my normal cadre of cinephiles, web geeks, program nerds and high art iconoclastic fetishists. I smile and nod a lot, and ask probing, open-ended questions.

Glory to the Filmmaker this morning was the perfect thing to be seeing on no sleep. It was like Takeshi Kitano just decided to skull-fuck an audience for two hours just to see what they'd do. Film was fucking nuts. Really fun in a lot of parts, too; overstayed its welcome a bit but I do tend to enjoy movies where I feel like I'm the only person in the theatre in on the joke. Which in this case, I really was. Oddly enough I think every single genre that he was fucking around with is something I'm only familiar with because I saw it here, in years past. Incestuous.

After that D-Coc and I saw a tight-knit spymaster thriller from South Korea called It Were, and then it was over to the Scotia (I'm finally getting used to it) for Pink, which was a double Greek no-no (Greek film / programmed by Eipedes). It wasn't bad, it just wasn't good. But then I began to realize that the story actually was about a grown man having a beautiful love affair with an 11-year-old girl, and I officially stopped trying to guess where the flick was going. I dunno. There was some cool shit in it, but at the end of the day it couldn't escape its spectacular underlying askewity.

Quick rush over to the Ryerson with MP to see Red Balloon. No Starbucks allowed - fuck! Ditched my coffee outside, and feel like I've lost a limb.