Ooh! Check out the Kirsten Dunst item (scroll down). Can I just mention that I totally called this at the time? I was reading Variety and they had a casting call for the little girl in Interview with the Vampire, and I said that any parent that would expose their kid to a project like that should have had its various tubes tied. Even though Miss Dunst is a fine actor and doing great stuff still, I apparently was not wrong.
Life’s Delicious Little Ironies Dept.: Thanks to the miracle of Netflix, my current favorite cable show (non-Sopranos division) is Dead Like Me. If you watch it, you know that it has not only a female lead that doesn’t dress in Britneywear but two well-written 30something/40something female supporting characters (Joy, the lead’s mother, and Dolores, her office manager — yeah, their names are joy and sorrow and this is a show about the afterlife, not to mention that the female lead works for the Happy Land Temp Agency, which is just too damn bardo-fabulous to contemplate). The irony? The wellspring of the series was Piers Anthony’s On A Pale Horse — book I loved very much as a kid, but from an author that couldn’t write plausible female characters to save his life. The world may be falling apart, but there are pockets of improvement here and there.
This woman should have been speaking at the convention. Which convention? You decide.
Uh-oh. I’ve got a job to do. And where I’m going, you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do, you can’t be any part of. Folks, I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people (the total readership of this blog, I reckon) don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you’ll understand that. Now… here’s looking at you, kid.
Yes. The moment has come to clean — no, to FIND — the top of my desk.
By the way? Industry of whores. I can’t fucking believe that certain publications — certain alleged professionals — thought it was appropriate to participate in this. How does a free bespoke shirt help you cover the convention and the protests more diligently? What happened on the story you were sent to cover while ladies were vacumming your pores, people?
Pondering today, in the face of the evil in Chechnya (and the evil that got them there, though one does not justify the other — AT, TF, I’m looking at you), the sound and fury coming out of NYC this week, the disgust inspired by the “apology” out of Colorado, whether — counterintuitively — human beings are maybe braver now than they used to be, or expected to be braver.
I’m thinking specifically of terminal illness, of knowing (in a culture that very much wants you to believe that we can research or spend or apply cosmetics or reinvent our way out of ever getting old or confused much less dead) that you’re concluding your run a lot faster than anyone around you expects to.
Personally I’m not troubled anymore by the idea that I won’t be around past some point (because I don’t tend to think it’s as reductionist as that; I’ve never heard of anyone truly going all at once, going past recall and odd coincidence and palpability and the sense in the ones you leave behind that something remains, that some accounting has been taken and yet the books are held open). I am, though, finding myself unnerved today by how fast the years stack up at your back.
This year I’m fourteen years younger than my dad was when he died six years ago. Fourteen years is nothing. I literally have clothes in my closet that are fourteen years old, art-projects-in-progress sitting in my closets fourteen years old, friends with fourteen-year-old children, a fourteen-year-old cat. I can remember the texture of the carpets in the apartment I was renting; I can remember specific, trivial conversations. I can recollect the color of the winter coat I had and what my first housemate used to scent her laundry. It wasn’t a long time ago. Fourteen years is not a terribly long time. But neither is twenty-eight if you look at it that way. My culture has trashed the concept of (and by extension our ability to sense) the eternal, but what am I to do without having A Long Time to fall back on? Today I had cause to Google the terms +internet +”september 17 1994,” and I remember ALL that stuff quite acutely — is that what passes for forever anymore?
As we move, or as I believe us to move, into the eternal Now (and tonight I’m reflecting on something I said to my dad about that, said when he was dying, something fucking cold and self-deluding about not believing there was anything more than what’s here — the single worst thing I think I’ve ever said to anyone, the only thing I’ve ever said that I would absolutely take back if I could, and a complete raft of wrongness besides), everything is alight, everything we’ve been or done, our past arrayed in view and in recall. Tonight, here, fourteen years is dangerously near to hand, and yet six years is infinitely far away.