July 15th 2002
BONE DADDY
AND THE FOURTH REICH:
the motion picture
the
Toronto International Film Festival
DOESN'T WANT YOU TO
SEE!!
Did their white asses officially reject our
white-pretending-to-be-black asses? Damn right. Do we care? HELL NO! Bone Daddy
2, the RENEGADE FILM OF THE NEW MILLENNIUM, is gonna take it to
the streets! We don't need yer fancy Toronto Film Festival screening rooms! A
projector and a brick wall is all it's gonna take to get the word out to the
people!!
Click this bitch for some sass-ass talkback:
July 13th 2002
So far it's shaping up to be a pretty good year for movies. Two
new reviews in the Reviews Section: Atanarjuat and
Road to Perdition.
July 12th 2002
Eclipsing yesterday's news altogether: work is beginning on
placing an HIV-positive muppet on Sesame Street. Such a character will be added
to the South African incarnation in the fall, and something similar is in the
planning stages for the U.S. My question (and leave the Ernie & Bert jokes
out, please): where's the gay muppet? Something occluded by a little less
metaphor than the Two-Headed Monster?
July 11th 2002
This week's weirdest news: Despite the constant ratings battles
that the original series had to fight, a new incarnation of Quantum Leap
is in the works. Donald Bellisario will be exec producing the new series but no
word on whether he will be actively involved in the day-to-day, as with the
last one. Scott Bakula won't be back; this will be a kind of QL: The Next
Generation and will probably feature a female principal character (in yet
another Buffy / Dark Angel / Alias / young chick action hero type series).
July 10th 2002
So the moral of the story is: if you, your two wives, your
brother and his wife are all sleeping in the tent together and you're
all naked, funny things will probably happen.
July 8th 2002
NEW BIKE! NEW BIKE! NEW BIKE!
Yep, I admit it, I should have gone to
Trail Blazer Cycles
in the first place. (The use of "Welcome to the Jungle" on their opening page
should have been my first clue.) All of this week-of-no-bike silliness could
very easily have been avoided.
Yes my bike is called Nunu. Kona Nunu actually. At least it's
not Pooka Pooka. Or Rotu Maraamu Soliantu. Or Nini.
Yes it is gold. (I calls it Threepio. And I finally figured out
what I should have gotten Anthony Daniels to write on my Threepio autograph:
"Hello! We are three Threepios!")
I officially declare the rest of my life a weekend.
July 6th 2002
Today was incredible - I don't think I could possibly have
conceived of the day going better, short of actually convincing Amber to marry
me. Otherwise, it was an ongoing theatre of amazements and bizarre, fortuitous
coincidences.
Jason and I went to Toronto Trek 16. I haven't been to a Star
Trek convention since .... well I think it was number ten. But for those who
(rightfully) don't know, Toronto Trek is the big fan-run convention every
summer. It's called a Star Trek convention but in the years since I last
frequented it, it has expanded enormously to encompass Buffy, Star
Wars, and just about every genre series on television right now. Upshot:
Anthony Daniels and Amber Benson were in attendance.
After a late-night viewing session of Trekkies in
preparation, we drove up to the Regal Constellation at a rather ungodly hour -
well, 9:30. We got in line to register for the day. We had no sooner remarked
on the number of Sandwich Boy clones when Sandwich Boy himself appeared out of
the mists. It was a fairly tame convention for costumes but there were plenty
of Klingon women falling out of their leather bustieres, and two different
girls wearing astonishingly accurate Amidala costumes (the black travel gown,
and the Senate gown).
Registration took an hour so we raced to grab a seat in Anthony
Daniels' appearance. He was absolutely wicked - really funny, really happy to
be there, and rife with a sardonic wit that never failed to take Star Wars less
seriously than most other people in the room.
I turned to Jason and said, you can't think of a single question
for this man? Jason abducts the mike and asks two questions, "what about the
Star Wars phenomenon most disappointed Mr. Daniels," and "what conventions, as
a teen, he would have liked to line up for." Anthony deked both questions
completely, but that minor disappointment was just an opening door for an
incredible series of events.
It happens like this: the hour ends, Anthony disappears
backstage, end of story we think. We wander out into the lobby, and I proceed
to have one of the most surreal moments of my entire life. We're walking along,
and there's a gorgeous full-size replica of R2-D2 by one of the tables. I go
over to have a look. One minute I'm hob-nobbing with R2, then I look up, and
Jason is talking to Threepio. Anthony is on his way upstairs to begin the
photo/autograph session, and somehow, Jason's bizarre questions earlier have
opened up a lengthy conversation about Star Wars fandom, and taking Star Wars
seriously, and then on to how much we like his writing, and
his web site, and
he starts talking about the problems he's been having with hosting, and on, and
on, and on. So here we are: Jason and I are chitchatting with Anthony Daniels
in the main lobby of Toronto Trek 16. The whole time, his handlers are trying
to move him along to the autograph session, but he don't give a fuck.
So I'll say it now and prove it even further as I continue:
Anthony Daniels is a hell of a guy. A perfect gentleman, a very friendly fellow
with an appropriately good-humoured approach to the strange circumstances that
brought him his own peculiar brand of stardom. He's a wonderful
conversationalist, tells great stories, and is never anything less than
unflinchingly real and personal with everyone. He absolutely gave his all
today, and certainly went a little bit further in giving Jason and myself a lot
of great memories. So my hat goes way off to the man... I couldn't be
happier.
Ah, but this is only the beginning. After a brief stint upstairs
in the A.D. autograph line (where I ran into none other than Smokin' Steve
Johnson!), we head down to the dealers' room. Overall the dealers' room has
degenerated enormously from the times I used to know, which I attribute largely
to Ebay and the consequent complete disintegration of the kind of fan
collectibles market that used to rely so heavily on conventions and shows like
this. The truly extraordinary pieces of yesteryear - fan-made prop replicas,
uniforms, incredibly obscure collectibles, etc. - was nowhere to be seen,
replaced with booth after booth of comic books, trading cards, and action
figures. 
In the plus column, I finally found a Dr. Pulaski action figure,
thus completing my collection of Next Gen officers. Yep, Dr. Pulaski, and it's
the best one I've got cuz she's just that freakin' obscure.
We then returned to the Anthony Daniels autograph line, which
moved fairly slowly. Why? Because he really took time with each and every
person, doing the personalized autographs and getting the pictures. Earlier,
he'd spent extra special time doing the differently-abled in the line. The man
did five hours of autographs, and really gave it all to everyone who came
through - quite a sight. He'd even wander down to the back of the line every
half hour or so just to give everybody a jolt and convince them that it was all
for nothing. 
So we finally get up to the front of the line. I'm not much of
an autograph person myself; I'd much rather get a few moments of conversation
and a handshake than an autograph any day, and here I've already had that. But
in the moment I get all excited and buy myself a nice composite of the three
versions of Threepio standing together and get it signed. Anthony, of course,
recognizes us from before and the witty banter continues, especially when Jason
finds out that Anthony made the Threepio composite himself, and makes an
offhand comment about teaching Anthony a thing or two about Photoshop. Anthony
then proceeds to spend five minutes - with 80 people still waiting to sign,
mind you - going over the glossy in minute detail and describing every little
bit of photographic retouching he expertly applied. It was absolutely
hilarious, and it's why he's headlining
Bearshark.com today.
Then we got our photograph with him, said our goodbyes, Jason gave him the
Bearshark card, and we were off.
Enough for any day, right? Right?
Nuh-uh. We burn down to the auditorium to hear Amber Benson
speak. About two seconds after my butt hits the seat, any doubt I might have
previously held has been erased: I AM IN LOVE WITH THIS WOMAN.
She's wonderful. First of all she has an uncanny ability to
remember all the various people she met in the autograph line earlier that day
- as people come up to ask questions, she's addressing them by name or by
nickname. She's a babbler, and tends to go all over the place answer questions.
She has a goofy laugh. She doesn't "fit in." She's just finished directing her
first feature film which she wrote herself and financed on her own dime and
convinced many Buffy-folk to appear in. She recalled seeing Return of the
Jedi at age 7, and how that made her want to make movies. She's my age and
she just moved out of her mom's house for the first time. She said "fuck"
accidentally and hid under her jacket for several minutes. And did I mention
that she's even more astonishingly beautiful in person than she is on TV?
And because all of this isn't nearly enough to convince me to
spend the rest of my mortal existence with her, she sings to us. Twice. First
"Touch Me" from Rocky Horror, and then, with moments remaining in her
hour, the first verse of "Under Your Spell." When she hit the high note in the
chorus of the latter, her voice warbled a little bit and you could have peeled
me off the floor. It was over.
A little disappointed that I didn't get my conversation and a
handshake with her, especially since I'd absconded from getting her autograph
earlier in favour of the Anthony Daniels Experience, we go to the Lone Star to
drown my rising sexual frustration in a whole damned pound of steak fajitas.
Which works quite beautifully, I might add.
But here's where the day's strange cosmic kismet comes back to
bite me in the ass. We're on our way back through the con, to get the car. I
see them wheeling the R2-D2 replica I was so taken with earlier out of the
place. So I swoop in for a closer look. When I look up, Jason's nowhere to be
seen. I lose him for about five minutes before finally locating him. And what
does this unexpected, R2-initiated delay do for us? We get headed to the car
again and BAM, run right into Amber coming out of the dining hall.
I get my handshake. I get my moment of conversation and my warm
smile and asked my name and I get to thank her profusely for the hour, and for
the singing. And I'm so overwhelmed by the moment that yes, I do completely
forget to throw myself on the ground and beg her to marry me.
But hey, that would have been too perfect.
July 5th 2002
My review of Men in Black
II is online...
July 4th 2002
Someday in the distant future, some great crime novel or Spike
Lee film will be set in Toronto in that crazy Summer of oh-two, when the heat
hit 35 degrees and two weeks of garbage lay rotting in the fetid streets, all
under threat of an imminent Papal invasion. Rife with metaphor is our crazy
summer, making it only a matter of time before someone realizes what It All
Means. (Tiff, where are you now? Oh right, you're dead.) Do I have my new bike
yet? Hell no. When a 30-minute walk becomes as draining as a desert crossing,
you find excuses to stay indoors with the new air conditioner. (Everyone's an
environmentalist until the humidex explodes.) Do I have an apartment yet?
Equally hell no. Am I using my Survivor buff for practical purposes for the
first time in its career? Certainly yes.
The "jump cut express" version of Raiders was a kick in
the head; I didn't stay for the double feature but I hear these movies are
available in their original, unedited form on VHS at your local video retailer.
Can I just say: I have an incredible Arena battle on my
desk right now. Incredible. No Acklay though... where is the Acklay?
July 2nd 2002
Despite not winning a single regular-season game all year, the
Ball Kickers did a devious bit of fighting back last night and captured 7th
place away from the team who rightly earned it. Well, by "devious bit of
fighting" I should say "the other team wussed out and we took it by default."
And in spite of successfully avoiding injury all season, I fucked up my knee
something fierce in the pick-up game we got going, so I think my bike shopping
will have to wait a few days. Which sucks, because tear-assing around the
jungle is all I want to be doing right now. Deadend? Hell.
In the meantime, here's Star Trek: The Next Generation Season
Three to entertain you. Go out and buy yer DVDs. Unless of course your
hooked up to somebody.
Must my life always so precisely mimic that of Noel
Crane?
July 1st 2002
One down
Four to go
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