August 10th, 2003



Sunday is not living up to its name. It's overcast, with occasional rumbles of thunder, and I am pleased.

(Why is there no rainy-day saying for Seattle? E.g,. "The rain in Seattle falls mainly on the cattle." Hmm.)

Last night I watched Daredevil and I have to say, I didn't hate it. The first half, especially, was visually stunning, as if they'd handcrafted every single frame of film. Plus, I loved DD's gorgeous catacomb of an apartment--lights out, everything in it monochrome, the boxing gloves hanging there in memoriam, the sensory deprivation tank. I've had a little thing for blind heroes ever since watching "Blind Fury" (plus, this called to mind "The Sentinel" at times) and when DD stripped for his shower and I saw his incredibly scarred back I made a helpless guh sound. Scar kink, too. And it was wonderful, for that small slice of the movie--with the scars and the pills and the tank--that they showed a superhero who paid a serious physical toll for his escapades.

I think that if it had been anyone but Affleck in the role, this could have been a hit without too many other changes (short list: flesh out the story a bit, make the romance less stupid, give Bullseye a personality, stop trying to give a billionaire's daughter street cred). But he is nothing but movie star beefcake these days. No presence, no soul. I've really only watched a handful of movies he's been in, but it's obvious that the kind of roles he had in "Chasing Amy" and "Dogma" let him play to his strengths--he's a goof, a not particularly bright smart aleck, a poor dumb jerk with a misplaced heart. He just doesn't belong in A-list movies like "Pearl Harbor" or "Sum of All Fears" or this, trying to straighten himself into characters that have no edges, nothing to cling to. (Matt Damon is suffering the same fate over in "The Bourne Identity" et al.) Is this the same guy who made a film called, "I Killed My Lesbian Wife, Hung Her on a Meat Hook, and Now I Have a Three-Picture Deal at Disney"?

Given the darkness of the film--and it really did try hard for dark--they should have had Christian Bale, or someone like him, play Daredevil.

A few lessons I've taken from this film:
  • Colin Farrell should not be bald.
  • Superheroes should not be upholstered in burgundy vinyl.
  • Girls should not fight.
Okay, just kidding about the last. Except when they are Jennifer Garner and start waving around silver-plated tridents like some maddened lobster with excess cleavage.

I had some more to write here, but for some stupid reason I have a stomach-ache. Must figure out what to do with it.

nap dreams

Depressed over not writing, exhausted by carbs, ignoring the siren call of wine, I napped. And was rewarded. I dreamed that Xander and Spike were sleeping together and that Xander tied Spike up while he was sleeping, binding him intricately with rope in a way that Spike had once taught him as a method for subduing demons, with special loops around the hands so that Spike could not unknot himself. And Spike's hands were fanned on his breast like a corpse's, but all twisted up in rope--the point being that he couldn't undo the knots, but also couldn't touch his dick--and the rope led back down along his body and was looped around the head of his erect dick. Then Xander woke him up by riding his face in a manner that would have suffocated Spike if he'd been human, and after he--Xander--came, he unintentionally fell asleep again, slumping along the length of Spike's helplessly bound body (head toward Spike's feet) with his own dick still buried in Spike's mouth. And then got himself off again while he was half-asleep, finally waking up much later after another orgasm with the horrified discovery of how cruel he'd been to his lover. Not that Spike was especially upset.

Straight out of badfic, isn't it? You think I'm making that up, don't you? Ha ha ha! Wrong.

Then later I dreamed that Xander was alseep and dreaming. When he woke up he shook Spike awake--they were lying in the corridor of a mall--and recounted his dream in a panic. In Xander's dream, Spike had confessed in a kind of stark but gentle way to having no joy, no fear, no humanity, no love, and when he uttered these words, menacing figures appeared down the corridor--like dementors or zombies or just very dangerous vampires--and advanced toward them. To escape Spike grabbed Xander's hand and they rose straight off the ground and began shooting up through the night sky, ascending to heaven, while Spike explained that demons could not rise this far, but that he'd stripped away the darkness in himself that would have grounded him, and so they'd be able to get away to safety. I'm not sure they were coming back. And then as Xander finishes telling all this, he looks down the corridor and of course the dark figures are coming toward them, and Spike takes him by the hand and they lift up off the ground to escape, repeating the events of the dream.

But then I dreamed that Christmas carolers came to the mall and they'd lost one of their singers, so they grabbed Spike to fill in. He grumbled but did, after making a few jibes at Angel, like: "I'll be thinking of your bland manhood when I'm singing." I think they sang Handel's Gloria in excelsis Deo.

My brain cells are apparently still tripping from ten years ago.

come to seattle

Having no food in the house, and because my cruel neighbors made scent-wafting tacos the other day, I went to Taco Bell. Inside, ethereal music was playing, lulling everyone into a peaceable mood. The lady ahead of me slowly read out loud what I think was a Krishna quote about spiritual oneness, which had been scribbled on the tip cup. The cashier nodded along with the indulgence of an enlightened soul. Or maybe he was just tired. I tried to work up a sense of outrage, but the friction of my impatience was merely as crickets chirping, thwarted by the music, which washed waves of calm over me. Time slowed and I waited and paid for my tacos in a mild stupor. I asked what the music was, and was told it was The Essence, by Deva Premal. Must buy this. Feel mellow.

Watched Alien Hunter on SciFi tonight. Meh. James Spader is aging. Not that I mind, but it's interesting that at one point he and Michael Shanks had a kind of Daniel likeness going on, enough so that if you squinted, you might be a bit unsure who was who, and now they've diverged mightily.

I think I'm finally going to watch the episode of Nip/Tuck that I taped. I don't want to go to bed, don't want the weekend to end. I can't believe I wasted another one. I dread more than ever the thought of getting hit by a bus. I feel like I'm dragging weeks and weeks of dead life behind me like a snake skin I can't slough off.

I lit candles today for money, creative juice, and energy. So far they don't seem to be working.

My fingers smell of tacos.