August 19th, 2003

elijah

Frogs.

This post is not about frogs.

I'm so glad that mishamcm posted this hysterical set of slash hand-signals from wikdsushi, because now I can pass it on too. It kills me in the good way.

Reason #14 why I will continue to pimp kjv31 to the world: because he exposes me to stuff like this, which makes me weep for the children enriches my understanding of human nature in a new and horrible way.

In other news, I received a phone call this morning, rousing me from sleep at 7:00 a.m. It was the spokesman for DAFT (Doctrinal American Fags for Truth), a five-million member organization of gay men dedicated to vigorously correcting fictional misrepresentations and biased media coverage of their noble people. Their spokesman, Ty, informed me that I had landed on their Watch List for having written a number of fan-fiction stories that, quote, "Softened the masculine, politically progressive image of gay men with portrayals of characters who discuss their relationship between bouts of inaccurate anal sex, yet who rarely call themselves 'gay'." He expressed the wishes of the gay male majority that fan-fiction written by women about gay or quasi-gay men should adhere more closely to realistic statistical profiles of the average gay man, a prescriptive stance apparently adopted as a formal resolution in their most recent annual meeting.

After he explained the process by which fictional works would need to be submitted before the Board of Queer Standards for approval and endorsement, I decided instead to simply stop writing slash fiction. This strikes me as the most practical and ethical choice, given that the wishes of gay men everywhere on the subject of slash fiction have been so clearly articulated.

As a side note, I mentioned to Ty that I'd actually come across remarks by women in fandom who expressed these same concerns about slash depictions of gay men. I asked him whether these women were perhaps affiliated in some way with DAFT or other gay male associations, but he said rather explosively, "Hellllllll no, girl, those dizzy bitches don't speak for us."

I guess that puts us in our place.

Hey, look, it seems to be time to work.
elijah

Freaky Friday

I went to see this--the remake with Jamie Lee Curtis--on a whim and because I'm dyking it up today and it's Jamie Lee Curtis. I really don't need to explain. And it was fantastic. It was a Salon.com review that mostly prompted me to go, and the review had described it as the most relaxed Disney movie to come out in ages, a movie that felt like it had been created to please itself rather than forced to adhere to some horrible, "family-friendly" spec or formula of the Giant Rat's.

I thought that was accurate. It has a nice cast of actors--Lindsay Lohan, the actress who played the daughter, Anna, was talented and cool, and her teen-love interest, Chad Murray as Ryan, was yummy. (Ack, he was on Dawson's Creek! But, whew, he was also on Gilmore Girls. Also, the pic of him in IMDb sucks. He is way hotter than that.) But I, being a pervert, got the biggest kick out of the part of the movie where Ryan crushed on Anna while she was played by JLC--so he thinks he's crushing on someone old enough to be his mom, and they're talking about alternative music while everyone in the coffee shop is staring and listening in with fascination at their effusively blossoming May-September romance. It was so cute! *g* I'd have watched *that* movie, I'm telling you.

The music was good too--there was a whole subplot with Anna's band, and their sound could have been tossed off and crappy but it wasn't. In fact I think I want the soundtrack. Yes, I have a little soundtrack addiction problem.

Also, they didn't do the horrible thing at the climax of the movie that I thought they'd do, and I was shocked--shocked!--that someone had instead made a good dramatic choice. (It involved guitar playing, in case you're planning to go see this.)

And during the wedding toast I cried like a bitch.

So that was kind of relaxing, also because I had a drink at a bar just before the movie started. I took a taxi ride home afterward and let the balmy air flow across my face and thought about going to the liquor store and drinking more but didn't.

I feel restless and a bit on edge, but that's because I totally do not deserve to be paid for my presence at the office today, and I need to scrub away my guilty angst with some hard work. I am currently riding the crest of a wave of ennui. Or something. I need to surf onto the beach and get back on the job.

I have questions and ambivalencies about the intersection of addiction and character--where does one's responsibility to oneself begin and end? When do you just have to say to yourself: "I'm going to coast for a bit." And when do you slap yourself and say, "Bitch, you can't excuse your behavior on grounds of personal angst." It's not even Grand High Angst I'm having right now. It's so mundane. I'm not a rape victim trying to recover, I'm not struggling with cancer, I'm not clinically depressed to the point of zombiehood and suicide attempts. I'm not staggering out of gutters at six a.m. I'm just lonely and wan in the most ordinary of ways. I've got writer's block. I'm...me.
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