June 7th, 2003

elijah

imprecision at one a.m.

I can't believe I wrote a post where I called "Sex and the City" "Sex in the City" three times. I'm anal so of course I had to go back and change all the references.

It's one a.m. and I don't know what to do with myself. I went to IHOP for dinner--at nine-thirty--and had eggs and pancakes and stuff, and read a little. I read very slowly these days. I can make a book last for weeks, months, reading a dozen pages per meal once or twice a week.

The waiter was this guy I sometimes get, one of those muchly smiling guys who put on a broad, gentlemanly air that may or may not cover for a deep derision of women in general. Hard to tell. I prefer to think he's earnest and sweet, and he's a very attentive waiter, so he gets a good tip. On the other hand, everyone gets a good tip. I am a heavy tipper. Never less than two dollars on a ten-dollar meal, usually three or more, occasionally five when I'm a regular somewhere and a waitperson is very good or especially busy.

Tonight my waiter made me feel lonely. Not on purpose. But he was just so kind, and I was so aware of his kindness that it was impossible not to feel utterly alone in the world as I sat there reading my book. And the feeling stretched as, afterwards, I went out to my car and sat there a moment, that moment you sometimes have before driving away from a brightly lit place at night, detaching yourself from rituals of ersatz sociability.

Parking-lot loneliness. It has a special quality.

Watched some "Sex AND the City" when I came home. Aidan's marriage proposal to Carrie made me cry like a Cosmo girl. Jesus. I never cry over hetero romantic rigmarole, but it killed me. Damn it, I love those corny voice-overs.

Later, I watched the ep where Aidan has moved in and they're fighting over closet space and shoe-chewing dogs and deoderants and I swear I nearly fell off the fucking couch in hysterics. That has just made my list of top 10--well, okay, top 30--fannish memories. I think. Top 100, at least. Too many to choose from. yonmei did her own list of memories, and then some more sprang up in the comments of her post, and there were so many I hadn't put down on my list that are absolutely *crucial*, like when Giles finds Jenny, and the moment when Willow comes to Tara, choosing her, and Tara blows out the candle. And then there's Joyce's death, which can rip tears from my eyes in two seconds flat, seeing her there on the couch and hearing Buffy say, "Mommy?"

Buffy has so many moments. It's just sucker-punch after sucker-punch. Joss is a magnificent bastard.
elijah

story recs

To avoid writing, and while procrastinating on answering e-mails that I actually do intend to answer, I thought I'd rec some stories I've read recently.

Thanks to a recent post from merryish, I've been reading Kaneko's popslash stories, which are deeply fun. If things can be deeply fun. Somehow you don't want to say "lightly fun," but maybe that's what I mean, except that you can taste strong coffee under the froth in these stories. I especially like The Vacation, which is funny and then sharpens to a keen edge of longing until it gets existentially disturbing in an interesting way.

While reading these stories, and Velma's The Perfect Game, I really noticed--not for the first time, but more strongly than I have before--that there really is such a thing as popslash canon. Which sounds dumb of me, but I'm an outsider, so on issues like this I tend to have that suddenly illuminated oh yeah reaction instead of the initiated's well, duh reaction. But I'm sure non-sparkly people wonder what constitutes canon in popslash. It's easy to find it in stories like this, where you can see the attention paid to the guys' likes and dislikes, personal tics and fashion sensibilities and performance abilities, group interactions, career timelines, public appearances and statements--and through it all, distinctions are made between the public and the private, the unreal and the real, something that gets an especially gripping examination in The Vacation, where it's the crux of the matter. That's a fantastic story.

Popslash canon is actually a fascinating concept to me. You have the realm of public appearances and statements and fact, where "fact" is really only what can be nailed down: the band toured these cities on these dates, for instance. But compare the canon of a TV show against the canon of popslash: very often, fans take TV shows at face value, and when they talk about canon they mean something unironical, where what's shown on the screen is accepted as a true representation. Or, another way to think about it is: taking canon as gospel truth is the first, simplest level of viewer interpretation. But I think that the act of slashing or writing unconventional pairings, even if you don't want to call it "subversive," is about reworking text to suface possible subtext, to recontextualize what's happening on screen. On that level, you start to problematize the text: Maybe when character X says he likes girls, he's lying, he's covering, or he's leaving out the additional truth that he has also thought about boys. Maybe he's trying hard to pass for straight. We can't see into his head, or know his thoughts. Everyone is just a shifting persona of himself. Et cetera.

But with popslash, you've got it even better--you *know* that your text is, by design, a lie. It's publicity, it's surface, it's performance. And so it's the most natural thing in the world to try and extrapolate from "canon"--the false suface--to the reality beneath, the private realm behind the public face. Pop is *made* to be slashed, and by slashed we can mean all sorts of things: it can be to shatter the smooth surface of text and find out what's beneath, or to piece together a new picture of reality from a mosaic of news clippings and sound bytes and quotes, or...um. Other things, I'm sure, that I could think of if my brain hadn't just switched off.

Anyway. I had some Buffy and Smallville recs too, but now I think I need to let my batteries recharge.

Too many thoughts.


elijah

oh, joy.

Nosebleeds again, yay.

I finished watching season four of Sex and the City, and thought all that saltiness running down my throat was from crying.

Jesus.