Dear Myspace,

Why don't you work? I realize you have intermittent crap-outs and can now only wryly be referred to as "Still Better than Friendster!", but for the past few weeks, you have been consistently unusable, however in an infuriating, "don't give up -- try, try again," time-consuming way. At least with Friendster, you just plain couldn't get to the site. And to be fair, you had that same problem during most of Comic-Con. I know, I know. You had a power outage in your data center. But still. Don't you know that I don't bother to know my friends' actual email addresses specifically because I assume I can rely on you? These days, everything I try to do results in an error. And I'm pretty bright with computers and stuff, so I try not to assume that the error messages I get from you are real without first confirming that my message hasn't in fact been sent or my comment in fact been posted. And it's precisely because of this reputation I have that I am terrified of mistakenly assuming your error messages are factual, resulting in a comment of mine being posted more than once -- especially since you seem to have taken away the ability for users to delete comments they've left. But some of my friends who are newer to you don't know to do that, so as a result I have been receiving messages from some of them ten, twenty, even thirty times in a row. Anyway, you've really been making me waste a lot of my time this past week. And not in an engrossing, addictive, or infotaining sort of way. It just takes me a lot longer now to confirm that you truly are not going to let me ever post a comment for Paul F. Tompkins. Oh, wait. It just worked now. But I'll bet this blog will never post...

Labels: comedy, Comic-Con, MySpace, Paul F. Tompkins

posted by Mary Forrest at 4:23 AM | Back to Monoblog

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A play on words involving heat.

"Is it hotter than a breadbox?" That might have been it. But I can't remember. I just know that I was standing in the humid elevator at the Marriott on my last day, and I was thinking about the blog I would eventually write and what the title of that blog might be.

I arrived in San Diego for Comic-Con on Wednesday afternoon. Well, technically, I arrived on Tuesday night and stayed in the air-conditioned luxury of Beulah and Justin's lovely new home in familiar old Carmel Mountain Ranch. But I arrived at the Marriott on Wednesday afternoon, with my bags and my pre-registration paperwork and a lot of love for the anti-perspirant brand I use, which makes me smell like a delicious bowl of pears, especially when I'm sweating.

There were setbacks. My reservation was wrong. My bed situation was wrong. I was flustered and fearful that everything would suck. But Larry, the bellhop who had helped me and Beulah last year, was a savior in full messianic regalia. Well, a little nautical, be-epauletted shorts and tunic get-up which is the uniform at the Marriott, but he was the messiah as far as I was concerned. I remembered him from last year. And when I said Beulah's name, he remembered her, too. I don't know if he remembered me, but he said, "You've grown your hair out." Which is the right thing to say, guys, if you aren't sure if you remember what a girl used to look like. Nine times out of ten, you'll be right, and the girl will touch the bottom of her hair and giggle. Larry called the manager and took care of business. And he even called me the following day -- his day off -- to let me know that all was well. What a prince, right?

Beulah and I had a great time. Had a few cocktails with my pal Jim Sabo. Ate dinner at Trattoria La Strada. Laughed and laughed. When we got back to the hotel, we got in the elevator, and I fawned over Steve Purcell, who was in the elevator with us. He was surprised to be recognized. And probably equally surprised to not be murdered. I was very civilized about it, but you know how Comic-Con can be. Maybe I went there specifically carrying my elaborate rope murder fantasy with me. He has no way of knowing. When Beulah and I got off on the 21st floor, she spotted Glenn Danzig, who is at the Con nearly every year. The sighting prompted her to write this in her secret blog:

glenn danzig is an inky coconut
Posted on 2006.07.20 at 01:46
Tags: danzig-pointment

we are staying at a swanky marriott that's connected to the convention center here for comic con. so it's total dorkfest, but there are also a lot of celebrities milling about. we were in the elevator with one of mary's heroes, steve purcell. she was all, "i can't believe i'm in an elevator with steve purcell" and he was all flattered. so we exited the elevator on our floor, and who do i see? glenn danzig. short, not as buff, and super old. and i swear through this inky black hair i saw a bald spot that looked not unlike a coconut. i wanted to say, "hey! you look like glenn danzig!" or "do you know glenn danzig?" or "i would've liked to have met you like twenty years ago!" or "i love your son glenn danzig, mr. danzig." anyway, he's on our floor. i'm tempted to go a knockin' and start wooing him with my impressive interpretations of early misfits and danzig songs. i'm so ready. he didn't seem to understand the lights and the signals for the elevator. that also led me to believe he may have alzheimers. this depresses me. i want to serenade mr. danzig with the music of last caress, "i've got something to saaaaay...you look really old and bald todaaay.." which would obviously be followed by "it doesn't matter much to me as long as you're...not dead and on the same floor as us at this marriott." and that wouldn't be all that great. and he's all senile now so he totally wouldn't even know what the fuck i was talking about.

so i totally ran into glenn danzig. that was the point of writing this.

Eventually, she became convinced that it was him, thankfully. It's a much cooler story when it doesn't end with him not being Danzig. He was wearing a turquoise shirt. So he was clearly trying to not be recognized. But he might have wanted to look into a hat.

I took Beulah to the Convention Center the next day, and she shopped with me and was not miserable. That always makes me happy when I drag my friends to Comic-Con. I bought her a Drinky Crow. That might have helped. I didn't buy her the Turtle Camper we both fell in love with, and when I went back on Sunday to buy it, it was way sold out. But I bought it for her online when I got home. Shh. Don't tell her.

Suddenly Slayer

When we got back to the hotel, I got a text message from my pal Eric Wareheim asking if I wanted to go see Slayer. So I did. They were playing at the Sports Arena, which has become such a sad place to see a concert, but a perfect place to see a Slayer concert, with openers starting at 5:30 P.M. Ridiculous. Eric and I found the box office, and two barefooted beach teens ran up right before us and may have been stunned by the ticket price or something. But they ran away immediately. I can't imagine seeing a general admission death metal show in bare feet. Unless I really wanted smashed feet.

Inside, we found Tommy Blacha and his lovely girlfriend and Brendon Small and his lovely girlfriend, and a sweaty mess of rockers of all ages. Because I travel with them, Eric and I arrived equipped with earplugs. This was very smart. With the protection of earplugs, I could zone out and just watch the whorls of the various mosh pits. The mosh pit nearest us was fairly unchaotic. So much so that it became apparent that moshing is really just skipping in a circle. Skipping. Like when children in grade school entertained themselves by learning variations on walking and running. Skipping in a circle with sweatbands on one's wrists. That is what the dictionary should say when someone asks it what moshing is.

At one point, a drunk guy was being escorted out by Staff Pro, and they were leading him up the risers where I was standing, and for some reason he grabbed onto the strap of my handbag and pulled me backwards down onto the walkway, where I was slightly trampled. I said, "Oh, fuck!" And then I heard the Staff Pro guys saying, "Let go of her! Let go of her!" And Eric reached down and helped me up, and I was fine. I don't mind a little scary drama. As long as it doesn't end in me bleeding or losing my camera. I am a good sport.

After the concert, we called cabs and went back Downtown to meet friends at Star Bar. I stayed there for a while. Eric and I went next door and ordered Mexican food. I introduced Brendon to carne asada fries, which he later called "the best worst thing ever." I can't believe people have not had carne asada fries. Nor can I believe that Mexican food in other cities is so disappointing. Especially in Los Angeles. Whenever I'm in San Diego and have the chance, I glory in burritos and shake my fist at the northward sky.

Kristen Herman and Mark Rivers were at Maloney's so I headed over there. But when I got there, they were gone. I was in the door long enough for the door guy to say, "Have fun." But then I got Kristen's text, and I turned right around and left. I met them at their hotel and hung out and chatted with Kristen for a spell. Then I walked back to my hotel in the wee hours where I slept like a freezing baby.

Wet Wet Wet

Friday morning, Kristen and Mark and Scott Adsit came over to the hotel pool to join me and Mindy, who had just arrived that morning. I drank a number of bloody marys and got plenty more freckles. Then Sarah's Paul arrived, and I showed him around the Con for the afternoon. After which, he and I had dinner with Sarah at Rama, my new favorite Thai restaurant in San Diego. While there, a story happened which -- in the retelling -- causes others to label Paul the best boyfriend ever. Afterwards, we went to a wine cellar, where I bought a fancy bottle of Icelandic vodka and a few bottles of Jameson. Then we went to a "convenience store" to buy club soda, but the line was ridiculous. I waited in it for easily 30 minutes. Probably more like 45. It was just Comic-Con people ordering sandwiches. And there was no register where you could just buy something you were holding in your hand. I don't need them to put provolone on this club soda. Can't I just go to the front? Answer: no.

I am now fatigued from all this reminiscing, and my lap is hot and sweaty from having a computer on it. If you've been wondering why I haven't been blogging, that's why. It's too hot. And I don't like to sweat. Ever. So there's much more to tell, but the condensed version involves illicit late-night swimming in the hotel pool two of the remaining two nights, getting Dino Stamatopolous and Jay Johnston in trouble by giving them my fancy Icelandic vodka and my Jameson right before the Adult Swim panel, finding the Saturday weather too hot for me to wear my favorite boots, drinking Pellegrino from a weird horn-like glass at Dussini, standing still in the air-conditioned Convention Center and still feeling sweat dripping down my legs, indulging in multiple showers, and finally on Sunday seeing Lou Ferrigno in a booth again and again making eye contact with him just as he reached down and juggled his nuts. This isn't the first time this has happened to me at Comic-Con. Which has caused me to wonder if Lou Ferrigno -- being deaf -- thinks that if he can't hear me, I can't see him.

The Chewbacca I posed with looked and sounded dead on. And I also noticed that I didn't buy all that much this year, mostly because I have it all already. Which says something about me I might not entirely be proud of. It also says that Jordan Crane needs to make some more books. If only to give me something to spend money on.

And on the last day, in the last moments, Jeff Small was waiting for his friend Ratna, and I was drinking the most refreshing Diet Pepsi I have ever had in the Marriott North Tower bar, and I could have fallen asleep right there. He and I looked through some of our purchases. Jeff, his Winsor McCay book. Me, my 1930s issues of Popular Mechanics. When Ratna arrived, she showed me her amazing sketchbooks and shamed me with them. Then we all made our way to the bell desk and then to the valet. A cute bell hop helped us. And when I said goodbye to Jeff and Ratna, he started helping me to my car, and he said, "So that's not your boyfriend?" And I said, "No, we're friends." And then he opened my trunk and saw the many bottles of Jameson there in various stages of emptiness, and apparently he fell in love with me right then and there. "It's a shame you're leaving," he said. And if he hadn't been so sweaty and I hadn't been so sleepy and there had been a plane there and World War II going on, it might have been a Casablanca moment. He was very cute. I should check back with Larry and see if I can get his number. At the very least, I will always have a place to keep my luggage.

Labels: Comic-Con

posted by Mary Forrest at 11:49 PM | Back to Monoblog

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I'm not what I appear to be.

John Lennon would have been 65 this weekend. When I was leaving the I.O. tonight, I heard his voice on NPR. It was him talking and then bits of music and then more of him talking. Tragic prescience. Tragic candle-snuffing. Tragic something.

I was feeling good and tragic when I heard it. Sadder and more distraught than I have felt in as long as I can remember. Exhausted by it. Tired of feeling it. Brittle and barklike. Made of stone and yet extraordinarily fragile. Overly sensitive. Unwisely hopeful. Typically reticent. Angst-ridden. I'm surprised I didn't burst into tears right there in my car. I almost did.

I've never had skin thick enough for the beating it takes. Nor has there been enough down on my back.

I finally unpacked some of my purchases from Comic-Con. They've been sitting in shopping bags for months now. Everything has been coursing by at such a rate that I haven't had a chance to just sit down and sift through my treasures. A thing I used to love to do after a Con or a shopping trip. Or whatever. Now I just acquire. And then the acquisitions sit. And eventually they become an eyesore. And I am tempted to chuck them. And it all amounts to a great lot of waste. Wasted time. Wasted money. Wasted space. Wasted plans and ideas on which nothing substantive was ever built.

My life has been reduced to pile-making.

Dorian and Krissy are watching my Firefly DVDs. I wish I could just sit at home and watch them with them and not ever have to be anywhere else again. Sometimes even the blasted sunshine is too much to bear.

Although I laugh and I act like a clown
Beneath this mask I am wearing a frown

No big surprises here.

Every Beatles song is sad to me now. And not just because of John Lennon.

I know what it is to be sad. And it's making me feel like I've never been born.

Labels: Comic-Con, Krissy

posted by Mary Forrest at 12:02 AM | Back to Monoblog

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When you were a young and a callow fellow

Yesterday was hot. One of those days so hot that it's literally all anyone can talk about. Heat apparently saps our imaginations. It crowds our brains until even the sight of something truly odd has no purchase. All you can say is how hot you are and how little relief you got from the various remedies you tried. "It was so hot today that I snuck into Ralph's and spent the day in the freezer, sitting on a pallet of ice cream." "I sat in my car and ran the air conditioner until it ran out of gas." "I drank hot tea." (That's what Chinese people do.)

Extremes of weather are peculiar in that way. I guess people are relieved about it. Having something to talk about. When there's a world incident or a noteworthy weather change, all of a sudden, you don't have to sit there in silence, wondering whether the person sitting across from you speaks English anymore. And yet who really cares about current events or the weather or how your family is doing. It's a shame that people don't just say what they're really thinking. Although, if I were to do that, I'd probably have far fewer friends. My brain comes up with monstrous things only I can enjoy.

I forgot that my workshop was over yesterday, so I drove to the building on Santa Monica and opened the door to the room to find another group of people in it. Two of them on stage, clearly offput by my very quiet entrance. I excused myself and stood there in the hallway for a few seconds, processing my error. Then I went to the Smart and Final on Wilshire to buy Red Bull and other things in large quantities. Then I went home to my hot apartment where my dog was in love with me and the sweating became second nature. I've been experiencing the nag of a cold all week. A dry cough and some congestion. I was thoroughly exhausted by late afternoon, so I tried to take a nap. But it was just a series of feverish wakings and discussions with myself about whether I should just lie still or get up and see what's on TV.

In the evening, I picked up my friend Kevin, and we went and got a drink at The Dresden before catching Ron Lynch's new show "The Tomorrow Show" at the Steve Allen Theater. We ran into the impeccably-attired and always-gracious Poubelle Twins, who were attending the same performance, so we all made our way over together when it was appropriate to do so. Then we watched the show. And then it was too late to go anywhere for a drink. The problem with a midnight show. So Kevin and I raced two a.m. to get to Von's and buy booze. We did. But it was no longer of interest to anyone else to share it, so we took it back to his house and sat outside drinking and smoking until nearly five a.m. I told him stories of work. We talked about a sketch he is writing. I offered some suggestions and thought as I was doing so, "Hey, Mary, I guess you DO know a thing or two about writing." And then I was immediately ashamed that I was not writing my own sketch instead of just helping someone else with his. Always an editor, never a bride.

This past week was one of the most taxing ever. My consulting job. My freelance work. My health. My wishes. I ended the escapade feeling bruised and battered. Canceling my plans to go to San Diego to perform. Knowing I wouldn't survive it. Wanting the opportunity to sit still. Knowing that I never take that opportunity when it presents itself. I want to be so much that I'm not. Some of that wanting is so lackluster and unambitious as to be content just going back to what I recently was. I'm not greedy. I could never get away with it.

Try to remember. Try to remember. It's not the right month for it, if you go by the song lyrics. It's never the right month. It's never the right day. It's never the right time. It's never the same for you as it is for me. It's never what I thought it would be or what I keep trying to make it. I'm just scrambling eggs over here. I prefer them over easy, but I'll eat them any way they are served.

Today's not so much cooler than yesterday. It's cloudy out, but still hot and humid. Tornado weather, if we lived in a tornado state, as I said to Krissy a while earlier. Krissy, who recently learned that she is the oven for a little baby bun. I am fearful of change. It has seldom been my ally. Except in extreme retrospect, when you adopt that worldview wherein everything that ever happened to you helped you get to where you are. And that only works when where you are isn't some place you hate. Or some place too hot to stand.

Loren Bouchard was kind enough to send me some photos he took at one of the after-closing hotel room parties we both attended during Comic-Con week. I am not the star of this photo, but I love what I'm saying in it.

Labels: Comic-Con, Krissy, photos

posted by Mary Forrest at 9:31 AM | Back to Monoblog

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Memories of Comic-Con

I had what I would consider to be a largely triumphant experience at Comic-Con last week. It's unfortunate that the aftermath of it was total work swamp, the onset of a cold, and general inability to get anywhere near the business of blogging. All I can really offer is a pastiche of memory spurts. Sorry. I'll try harder next time.

Firstly, I decided this year that I would not allow myself to endure the misery of parking woes and traffic bullshit and the laziness that happens when you are staying with friends or family. So I booked a room at the Marriott and stayed luxuriously and conveniently close to all the hot nerd action for five days and four nights. That was the right choice. I will make that same choice repeatedly in the future. Because it led to me actually fully experiencing Comic-Con perhaps for the first time. In past years, the Con has always been a series of day trips, ending before sundown in exhaustion and sometimes performance obligations. If you go home after a day walking the dealer floor, and "home" is more than a mile from Downtown San Diego, chances are you're not going to go back out in the evening. That has been my experience in every previous year. But this time, tired as I may have been every single day, it was not at all difficult to drag myself out of my room and hit the town. And that is a blessing.

Beulah came down and visited with me on Wednesday night. We went out for sushi and drinks and shit talk, and then she spent the night in my hotel room. And when Martín arrived the next morning, we went down to the hotel coffee shop, where Beulah had breakfast, Martín had lunch, and I had four bloody marys -- all served with flair by our waitress Blanche. Before Beulah arrived downstairs, I phoned to alert her that I had just walked past Mark Ryden on the stairs. That was the first of perhaps thirty times I would see him in and around the hotel and the convention center. I realize that we were staying in the same building and attending the same event, but there was still an uncanny frequency to our proximity. I would literally see him enter the convention center and then see him ninety seconds later as I rounded the corner of an aisle. He was everywhere that I was. With nearly cosmic significance. And I know him to be awfully nice and sort of shy, so I didn't bother him at all. Which is to my credit, I hope.

Martín and I rounded out day one of the Con with drinks in my room (I brought a full compliment of liquor with me, of course), countless martinis at the hotel bar, a photo-taking stroll to Embarcadero Marina Park at what I call "golden hour," and then dinner at Morton's, where I ordered us an expensive bottle of wine that we drank nearly none of but then took with us to watch the screening of the special edition of Free Enterprise, during which we traded slugs of a fine meritage like hobos. Wealthy, wealthy hobos. Towards the end of the film, we snuck out onto the terrace for a smoke. And then, for some reason, we ended up venturing out into the Gaslamp to look for smaller bottles of whiskey to carry around during the next day's show. But we didn't find a liquor store. All we found was foot pain. We went from exclaiming, "Best Con ever!" between joyous bursts of laughter to whimpering, "Worst Con ever!" betwixt groans of agony. Then Martín spent the night in my room. And I think we were both grateful that that convenience was available to us.

Friday morning, Mindy arrived. And the three of us hit the Con together. It was sort of magical to be taking a Con newbie around. Especially a hot one with a passion for Star Wars and anime chicks. It's what I imagine it's like for parents whose love of Christmas is renewed by the wonder in the eyes of their children. Beulah and Yen came down that day, too, and -- as I always do for my friends -- I went to the registration area and picked up badges for them, so they wouldn't have to wait in that ridiculous line. I look at the people in that long-ass line, and I think, "Is it possible that none of you guys knows ANYONE who can hook you up?" None of my friends ever has to wait for a badge. It's part of my Con evangelism.

Jessie came to the show on Friday, too. So did Richard. We lost him when we were staking out a spot for the Adult Swim panel, which was great and also less than. My friends Tim and Eric were my heroes, but the question-askers were stupid and gay, and Cartoon Network didn't give away anything at the panel, which was a change from years past and the yearning for which is proof of my geekness. So many people to see. I have never had such a meeting-rich Con. It was grand-ish. Jessie and her friend Josh and I met at the hotel bar for a few drinks. And then I went back to the room to collect Mindy (after we caught some awesome fireworks off our awesome bay view balcony) and whisk her off to the Adult Swim party at the Wonder Bread Factory in Golden Hill. Eric had put me on the list. And that made me feel super extra special. And Mindy came as my guest. And we happened to find Jeff walking on the street towards the party when we were walking from our cab. So we all arrived together and made respective beelines for the restrooms and then the food tables. I guess it was The Prado catering the event, and there were these little Angus beef sliders that were unbelievably yummy and also tiny little deep dish pizzas that I later hated myself for not eating a hundred of.

The party was over too soon, and -- after a long curbside deliberation -- we all went over to the Top of the Hyatt for more drinks. Jeff and Mindy and I went downstairs for a smoke and ended up not being able to get back up to the club, as the elevators apparently respect last call more than most enthusiastic drinkers do. And we ended up bringing a whole gaggle of people back to my hotel room to continue with the drinking and the smoking and the general revelry. I ordered room service in the wee hours, and we ate pizza and hamburger and fries and shot craps in a drawer from my armoire and eventually had to encourage Jay and Tommy to make their way home, because the sun was coming up and we had a Con to get something from. Jeff ended up staying with me and Mindy. And he drew a picture of a giant frog. And I looked at it the next morning and said, "Oh, look, there's a little boy on his back," and Jeff said, "Look closer," and then I said, "Oh! It's me!" And it was. I could tell because of the rank insignia on the sleeve of my sweater. I'm a colonel or something when I wear that sweater that says "Destroy" on the front. You'd best watch yourself.

By Saturday, I had turned my ankle somehow. Probably the night before in some drunken situation. So every step I took on the convention floor was a bit ouchy. I had to rush in at the top of the day and get a pass for Jeff. And then I did the same for Krissy and her sister later in the afternoon. And when we went outside to find them, a guy with two ninja swords approached me and asked if he could take a picture of me. And I said, "Sure. But I'm not dressed as anyone." And I wasn't. He seemed convinced that I was. But really. I was just wearing my own clothes. Which is telling, I suppose. Later in the afternoon. Martín, Jeff, Mindy, and I were sitting out on the steps behind the convention center, and we decided to head down to that little sandwich shack down by the fishing pier, and as I stood up to leave, an older fellow with a disturbingly emotionless gaze said, "You look nice today." It took me a few seconds to realize he was talking to me. When I did, I said, "Thank you." And then I tugged my skirt down further and hurried on with my friends. We jeered the musketeers and bellydancer on the terrace. We're better than them and we know it. We ordered lunch, and I had the best nachos ever. And a hamburger that I so did not need after having eaten the best nachos ever.

By the late afternoon, we were plum tuckered out. And -- foolishly opting to miss the Tenacious D panel -- we headed back to the hotel, where we complained about our various pains and took brief naps and showers. Then we went out into the Gaslamp to find what turned out to be the worst Mexican food ever at La Fiesta on Fifth. After which, we met up with friends at Star Bar and drank cheaply until closing. At which time we headed over to the Westgate and continued on with our evening in resplendent Con fashion. Tim and Brendon performed an hilarious prank call for all of us, and I literally had tears rolling off the end of my nose. I'll never stop laughing about it. If I'm at a funeral and think of Tom Pickle, someone will surely think me rude. The same can be said for Tommy's thoughts on progressive cat math. And Jay's conviction that Mindy's sheets were made of orchestras.

By the end of the night. Mindy and Jeff and I piled into a cab with Tommy and the Poubelle Twins and made our way back to our various places of lodging. And I performed a dramatic reading from my email for Jeff and Mindy, and Mindy laughed a lot.

On our final day, we mostly just had breakfast, shopped, and went our separate ways. I took one of my favorite pictures ever of Mindy in front of a Han Solo poster. I also took a picture of Mindy with Caveman Robot, who seems to now recognize me as a friend and always wants a hug when our paths cross. When he hugs me, he grunts, "Woman. Urnh. Urnh." And I am charmed by it. One of his handlers gave me a free pin.

So that's about it, right? I yelled at the people at the bell desk. I attended one last panel. Then I got my car and my bags and drove to my parents' house to collect my dog and head home. Many pictures were taken. Many memories were made. Many opportunities were missed. I only wish it could be Comic-Con every week. I love it more than anything else in the world.

Labels: Comic-Con, Krissy, photos, Star Wars

posted by Mary Forrest at 2:10 AM | Back to Monoblog

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I'm always awake for earthquakes.

I felt this most recent one this morning. And I was awake when I felt it. But I don't know if it was what awakened me or if I just have a weird feral sort of premonitory power that makes sure my eyes are open when things wiggle around. It could be either. I place no value on it.

I didn't go to sleep until five thirty or so. So an earthquake in the eight a.m. hour that found me awake is saying something about me and my sleeping. I did go back to sleep eventually, but only for an hour or two. I did a lot of tidying today. And my friend Jeff stopped by, toting an iced coffee for me (praise heaven), to pick up boxes for his move. And we ended up talking about art and looking through my mountain of art supplies, and Jeff even drew a little guy with my super fancy Copic markers. It looks sort of like Hitler with a very healthy blush to his cranky face. All that talk and art time made me anxious to make a painting or something. And also to go to Comic-Con again, where I can't help but buy fancy art pens and books that make me want to draw things. I am still looking forward to it. But for some reason, I don't have as much hope and thrill tied up in the anticipation as I did earlier in the year. I'm not sure why that is. I know you only want what you can't have, but I didn't realize there was an algorithm pertaining to how can't the have is on an axis of time.

My landlord had some trees removed from the front of our building. The big, frosty louvered windows in my living room are brilliant white with sunshine. Blinding, almost. When I came out of my bedroom yesterday morning, I was confused. Wondered if I'd left my door open accidentally or something. How could there be this much light in here. Today, I was not as surprised, but I was dismayed at how much dustier and lintier everything looks when the room is so well-lit. My living room is all of a sudden very, very bright. And I suppose that will be good for some picture-taking. But it also means that -- when it's hot and I want the windows open -- I will have to rethink the "liberal" flavor of my at-home attire. Especially with that neighbor across the street still planning our wedding and everything. There's no need for him to get an eyeful of anything but what squirts out of one of those trick corsages. "Honk! Honk!" is the sound I imagine happens when you squirt one of those things. Even though I'm sure there's no horn involved.

From what I can tell, you need to be in pretty good shape to look good in spacesuits.

Maybe I will go draw a tree.

Labels: Comic-Con

posted by Mary Forrest at 3:25 PM | Back to Monoblog

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The Eve of the End

A lot of my friends with various industry connections have already seen Episode III. Cast and crew screenings and the like, filling their lucky calendars while I gather up the scraps of IM and text message they send, assuring me that I will be leveled by Palpatine (which I fully expect to be the case) and that I will be able to love the movie, even though there are parts of it that are shit. I was supposed to go see a midnight screening at the IMAX theater in Valencia tomorrow night, but I am holding off. I bought tickets a while back to one of the Arclight's Friday screenings, and I have learnt the hard way on a number of occasions that I might not actually want to see a movie twice in the same week and will end up either resenting or wasting the tickets I've already got. Also, I am being taken to see Joe Jackson on Wednesday night by my bartender friend Jeff, and that might be a good time. Piggybacked on the necessity of driving down to San Diego to pick up Audrey, who has been living with my parents for five days now and will probably be fat as a tick when I get her back. We've never been apart for this long. And I have to admit that I miss her enormously but that I also cherish the ability to wake up and not immediately have to leave the house to walk her and pick up her leavings with a little plastic bag. Plus, there's a guy that lives across the street from me who always manages to pop out his front door and accost me with overly familiar questions as soon as I leave the house. He's assured me that he's perfect for me and that my parents would be proud to have him as a son-in-law. But I'm pretty sure he's wrong about both of these things. He makes me wish I could be invisible from time to time.

Anyway, so Star Wars, right? Many of my friends will be watching midnight screenings tomorrow, and I envy them in a way. When the special edition re-releases came out, I queued up hours in advance for each of them and watched them on the big screen for the first time ever. And when Episode I finally occurred, I waited in line for twelve hours in a shopping mall with friends, taking turns to go shopping and get refreshments. And by the time midnight came around, we were tired but excited. I was just talking with Martín this weekend about how disrespectful some of the cinema-goers were at the screening of A New Hope, and he agreed and countered with his recollection of how comparatively respectful the audience at The Phantom Menace was. I hypothesized it might have been that they were too exhausted by the weight of their costumery to make much noise.

I don't know what to expect from this week's screenings. Will people be reverent? Wry? Hopeful? Cynical? Will someone yell out a sarcastic exclamation during a moment of relative quiet? Frankly, the product marketing that goes along with this film's release doesn't do much to encourage me about the respect people will have for the franchise. Darth Dew-flavored Slurpees? M&Ms insisting they won't go to "the Dark Side" and then changing their minds and agreeing to be made of dark chocolate before following in Captain Needa's well-asphyxiated footsteps. And what about that creepy face-off between Darth Vader and the Burger King mask? These commercial spots hardly present an attitude of reverence. I lived overseas and wasn't able to watch a lot of television when the original films were being released, so I don't know. Maybe the product tie-ins were just as weenie back then, too. I know they made C-3POs (the breakfast cereal) and stuff. It's not like they were treating it like a religion. Maybe it just seems weirder and more blasphemous now because so much of the character marketing centers around Vader, and maybe before he was the black hat, so kids were more inclined to buy things that were promoted on more lovable faces. I don't know. This is pure conjecture.

I can also offer some strong-ish opinions about the disappointment so many have felt in the continuation of the Star Wars legacy. I don't think it's fair to dismiss it as fanboy overenthusiasm that landed wrong. It's true that people were sorely disappointed in The Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones because they had banked so many youth-spanning hopes on the revival of this story arc and the promise of it somehow reconnecting them with a hero's journey that had once packed their boyhood minds with dreams of valor and redemption. But I don't think it's fair to say that people were bummed only because the pedestal was too high. Truly, those first two prequels were pretty awful. I maintain that if you just sit and listen to the dialogue in Attack of the Clones, not bothering to look up at the breathtaking digital landscapes, you won't be able to bear it for long. You'll beg for a chance to reread Silas Marner instead. It's bad. Empirically. Badly written. Badly acted in places. Implausible and plodding. The redeeming factors in both of those movies is that Star Wars films still have some of the best music ever, and George Lucas sure knows how to make fake stuff look real. And that's not nothing. But I don't think you can -- even with the addition of time and perspective -- assess these films and say that the world overreacted when they gave them the raspberries. They're just not nearly as fun to watch as the other films, even if you only want jaunty entertainment out of them and not an elevated sense of the importance and meaning of the universe. I think I can speak to this with candor and accuracy. When The Phantom Menace came out, I didn't have that much riding on it. I loved Star Wars, but I really hadn't gotten to see the whole trilogy until long after it came out. I saw A New Hope for the first time on network television in Guam, with commercial interruptions and everything. And back then, television programming in Guam came from The Mainland via postal service on VHS tapes. It was hardly the finest cinematic reproduction. But we taped it on our Betamax and watched it again and again. Even my dad liked it. Or maybe he was just tired of how many times we had already watched The Wizard of Oz and Quarterback Princess. My point is I never had a Star Wars lunchbox. I never had an R2-D2 trashcan or hamper. I did not know Admiral Akbar's name until I was already able to get into bars legally. And even I was disappointed in the first two prequels. Genuinely disappointed in them as movies. Not as Star Wars movies or as a religious experience but as actual movies. So I don't buy this philosophy that it's only bad because of how much people wanted it to be good. It took some of my other die-hard friends as much as a week to come around and admit that The Phantom Menace was kind of crap. Some as much as a year. Some never did come around, but I secretly believe they never saw it.

All the same, I sincerely want Revenge of the Sith to be awesome. I will not die if it isn't. I am not expecting or demanding transcendence. But I totally do look forward to hearing that music again. And hearing the crowd cheer when the words start scrolling off into the vacuum of space. And maybe I'll even get weepy when the theme plays in the end credits. Maybe.

Looking back on it, that screening of the special edition of A New Hope was among the first two or three times I ever even saw Martín. He came from work, wearing a blue dress shirt, suspenders, and his Tigger tie. He had just recently (and fortunately) cut his hair. I was already in line, having eaten dinner at Taco Bell. And I was wearing a skirt too short for sitting on the ground, but I sat just the same. Now, all these years later, he and I still talk about droids and alien species and ships and blasters. We still argue about whether Return of the Jedi is better than The Empire Strikes Back (note: it isn't). We still feel pity when we pass the Uncle Owen autograph-signing booth at Comic-Con. And I guess I can trace all of that back to San Diego and Noel Coward and hot tub parties and road trips and special edition re-releases. It's not the basis of our friendship, but it certainly poses as underpinning in places. What a long time ago that was.

Labels: Audrey, Comic-Con, Star Wars

posted by Mary Forrest at 9:48 AM | Back to Monoblog

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I think my father was planning to name me Daniel Patrick. Or Matthew something.

I sometimes feel like I am more of a boy than a girl. I don't mean physically. No. Physically, I am soft and girly with an impressive hip-to-waist ratio. I was never good at sports. My voice is high-pitched and thin. I have very little body hair. Don't have to shave my legs as often as magazines would make you think a girl should. My skin is smooth, and I don't really have to put lotion on it with any regularity. Physically, I'm as girly as they come. Except in the sense that I am much stronger than I look, and I don't like to ask for help, so I've moved an entire chest of drawers down a flight of stairs by myself when there were four other people in the house. I'm a girl with something to prove. And I never complain about pain that comes from vanity. I wear excellent shoes, and I will not disparage them by saying how much my feet hurt. I wear high heels to Comic-Con. I am vain and impractical (girl) but occasionally very stoic and tough as nails (boy?). And I go to Comic-Con (dork).

I am tender and sensitive. Very sentimental. I cry easily, but I try to keep it quiet. I am nervous and shy sometimes. I get embarrassed constantly. I buy everything I like. I like to spoil people. I am thoughtful and considerate. I pay very close attention. I believe in please and thank you. I can sew a little bit. I can cook just about anything. I remember things in absurd detail. I like to look pretty all the time. And I believe it's possible to do so. I like to pretend that bodily functions are unnecessary and never take place. I love to be clean, and I shower or bathe every day. Sometimes more than once. I always remember what I was wearing.

But there are many ways I am like a boy. I think about having sex with every man I meet. Correction. Every man I see. Even the gross ones. Even if only in passing. I'm not saying I want to have sex with all of them or that I will. I'm just saying I think about it. I think about it as casually as I sometimes think, "I wonder what it would feel like to get hit in the face with a brick." I don't get offended by things or grossed out or indignant. I don't think there are things you shouldn't say. I am totally cool with pornography, and I miss the days when it was secret and forbidden and rare enough that it was actually thrilling to find it. I stayed awake in church by thinking about sex the entire time. I am not exaggerating. I usually don't exaggerate. Nor do I generalize. I try to solve people's problems. I am an excellent driver. I give (and prefer to receive) compass directions. I am attracted to things that challenge me. This includes people. I don't care that much about variety. I don't prefer symmetry. I'm not fond of cats. I grow tired of children. I like to have a lot of time to myself. I like action figures more than Barbie dolls, and I like vehicles more than action figures. I don't mind if people want to eat in front of the television. I am assertive in customer service situations. I am an extravagant tipper. I prefer to be the one who drives. I am impatient and can't tolerate being driven by people who aren't in a terrible hurry. I check out women's breasts. I like hard liquor and hot dogs and not washing dishes right away. And I can drink more than most of the people I know without really letting on. I keep my feelings to myself much of the time. I like to be calm and rational when I'm talking about important things. I curse extravagantly and appreciate others who subscribe to this art. I like to say incredibly inappropriate things. I am merciless and competitive and not interested in looking at wedding dresses. I love science fiction. I would rather be Han Solo than Princess Leia.

I can read a map. I can change my own oil (though I always pay someone else to do it for me). I don't make chit chat. I don't like people making a big fuss over me. I punch people too hard when I'm trying to be playful. I don't like magazines for women. I don't like gossip. I don't like Valentine's Day. I think romance is overrated. No one has ever written me a poem I liked. Unless it was funny. And I make friends with boys much more easily than with girls. Most girls try my patience. Most girls don't want to be friends with me, and this has been true my entire life. I am funny. Most girls are not. And the ones who are are often a lot like me. Funny has a gender-bending quality, I guess.

There is no science to this. I'm not saying there's anything wrong or that I need to consider going in for some sort of pre-operative consultation. I'm fine being the kind of guy I am. I just realize that it keeps me out of certain cliques and gets me into others. I am terribly clumsy, but I can walk in higher heels than you can imagine. I will sit on the ground in a skirt. And I'll bet I would look awesome smoking a cigar. Maybe I'm a conundrum.

And I realize that I started this as an inane exercise, and I'm sure someone will think I'm subscribing to stereotypes. And I totally don't care. I am excited about The Hitchhiker's Guide, and that has rekindled my love of the instruction that certain people should go stick their heads in a pig. Maybe this is all just something to say.

I ended up Mary Katherine. And that's neither here nor there.

Labels: Comic-Con

posted by Mary Forrest at 1:24 AM | Back to Monoblog

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Comic Book Genre

My friend Rob is in Sydney working on the new Superman movie. The video blogs on bluetights.net are of his doing. You should watch them. They are fascinating and thrill-inducing and will awaken the dormant sense of superhero anticipation you may have long since given up on. He is also the progenitor of the Brooks Hatlen Game, a drinking game you can really only play with him or someone like him. What's surprising is how many friends of mine I actually could play this game with. And I wonder if that is just because of this being Los Angeles and all. You can read about the game on Rob's blog. I'm sure he would want you to.

I am also keyed up and excited to see Christian Bale be Batman. But I don't know anyone making blogs about it.

And I already have my tickets purchased for Episode III. I'm not going opening night or anything. But I'm going. And I'm not so fed up with all of it that I'd be disappointed if it actually turned out to not be a disappointment. I'm rooting for it to be awesome. But I'm bringing spirits with me either way. And I hope there will be Stormtroopers in the audience, because those costumes always impress me. I also think it would be funny if people in the audience came dressed as crew members from the Satellite of Love or Federation officers. I think it would be amusing to see how many in attendance would actually be offended by that.

And all of this talk just makes me anxious for Comic-Con. I'm staying in a hotel this time. And I'm planning to be drunk for the entire four days.

Labels: Comic-Con

posted by Mary Forrest at 5:09 PM | Back to Monoblog

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"It's the way of the future."

The night of my accident, I was driving home from The Arclight, where I had gone to see The Aviator. I took copious, scribbly notes, but I never really did much with them.

Entering the cinema after drinks in the bar, I was displeased to only catch the tail end of the Sin City trailer. This won't be the first time I announced my looking-forwardness at the risk of one day sounding like a great fool. Especially with these much-anticipated, Comic-Con genre productions, it's so hard to not look a heel when the flickering begins for real. But I don't want to allow myself to be so lacking in courage as to not be willing to say I HOPE something will be good. That seems ridiculously cautious. I don't think anyone is investing on the basis of my movie whims, so I feel mostly safe in saying my fingers are crossed without fear of sending us into a recession.

I scribbled a note about the film being "so Scorsese sensualist." Firstly, I'm not a big Martin Scorsese fan. I actually consider him to be sort of a comic book filmmaker. Only, instead of taking on the superhero and science fiction genres, he prefers to tackle historical epics with the tools of the comic book trade. I remember a film writing teacher of mine pointing out the way, in The Color of Money, Scorsese manages to turn a billiards game into an action sequence, and that has always stuck with me. I suppose there's nothing wrong with this -- the assignment of overly inflated value to mundane moments. Spielberg was known for the manipulative emotional roller coaster he took his viewers on. To categorize these as criticisms implies that the only good film is a documentary. But then, when it comes to a biopic, I guess I just think that more documentarian sensibilities are called for.

The bizarre colorized look of the first half of the film seemed like such an unnecessary device. With sets and costumes and all manner of production design reminding us that this story takes place in the past, I think the unsaturated blues and jaundiced fleshtones are heavyhanded overkill. And they reminded me of the early days of colorization technology, when there was such a furor over Ted Turner's decision to colorize so many of the old black and white classics in his vault. That was back when Cheers was still on the air. Good golly.

I do not think Cate Blanchett deserved an Oscar for that performance. No, sir. I think Martin Short could have done as truthful a caricature, frankly. And perhaps with more feminine facial features. I like Cate Blanchett plenty, but this performance was no reason to throw a parade. I had just been watching Desk Set earlier that day while getting dressed, and I think it's a shame how overparodied Katharine Hepburn's legacy has become. She was a wonderful actress with distinct -- but not ridiculous -- elocution. Cate Blanchett reduced her to mannishness and unreliable diphthong play. It's a shame.

I really can't decipher much else of what I wrote. But my memory persists in certain areas. Like I thought that Leonardo di Caprio gave a remarkable performance. And I was surprised by it. Because the clips I had seen on various awards shows and television spots did not convince me that he deserved the nominations he got. But seeing the role in its entirety was another matter. He really did an outstanding job. I only wish the film had done him justice. Because in the end, you're still left with the exact same agenda as with nearly any other historically-based Scorsese film: now, you've got to go to the library or the Internet and find what happened. For a film that was intended to tell so much about the life of Howard Hughes, it really told surprisingly little. And there were far too many unanswered questions by the time the credits rolled. I would even have settled for a paragraph or two in epilogue, letting me know what happened to all the key characters. Like they did in Can't Hardly Wait.

Labels: Comic-Con

posted by Mary Forrest at 1:47 PM | Back to Monoblog

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Night Watch

I am in the habit of taking Audrey for a walk before going to bed. Just so she won't wake me up any earlier than is absolutely necessary. Which means I was walking my dog at five a.m., wondering if anyone on my street was up yet. And then, when I ran into a slew of pesky postscript errors, I ended up continuing to be up, which is the state I am in right now. I've got the local news on. Cartoon Network came up out of Adult Swim and plunged right into edifying children's fare, and boo for that. The plot of the episode of whatever the show was that I passively heard was chock full of information about how farm subsidies work and about the environmental impacts of some of the governmental meddling that takes place in the agricultural industry. It's a superhero type show. The team of empowered youngsters were battling a "Villain" who had sinister agricultural plans. It was hard not to be amused by that. I remember seeing a vintage issue of a Popeye comic at a booth at Comic-Con a couple of years back, and the entire book was about the environment. Popeye was really just a spokesperson for some very green message. And it was all very boring and educational. And I still almost bought it. You know. Just because.

Local news really annoys me, though. Like today, there is frequent coverage of the progress in the investigation of a murder that happened on Friday. Some poor kid in Whittier got shot working in a Subway sandwich shop. He gave the robbers the money, and they shot him anyway. And now he's dead. And every time this somber story was covered, it was followed -- without a beat -- by the cheery-but-bumbling correspondence of the lady reporter covering the announcements of the Golden Globe nominations. I realize it's just one guy and life goes on and all of that, and I further realize that newscasters truly are soulless automatons who can't feel anything that isn't typed in brackets on the teleprompter, but it just seems all too plain that human life is cheap cheap cheap when compared with the money that gets made by the picture show. Seven marines from San Diego died in Iraq today, too. But I'm sure their families would much rather know whether Leonardo di Caprio has a shot at Best Actor. I know I would.

I'm so tired. This past few days have been a vortex of performances and county-to-county commuting and having to ante up in order to make plans. I have the marks of violin playing on my fingertips and my neck. And I have a few more comedy shows under my figurative belt (I really don't wear them that much). And Jessie and I went and signed up for an improv workshop today. And I'm really glad about that. In addition, as we were leaving the theater, we saw a homeless man kneeling Mecca-style, with his forehead down on a star on the Walk of Fame. He was praying to it. And I was especially curious to know which star he might be praying to. As we passed, I nearly burst a blood vessel in my eye with the ridiculous thrill I got from learning he was praying to Lassie. I think that rules all over the place. And I'm not kidding. I don't think that scenario could have been more quintessentially ironic if he had been praying to an anthropomorphized can of fruit.

There's no real reason for my saying so, but I'm really surprised Elizabeth Taylor isn't dead yet.

I took Josh to "A John Waters Christmas" at Royce Hall last week. It was pretty great. At least it was when it stopped being the opening performances of Vaginal Davis (who wasn't as clever as drag queens are expected to be), Phranc (who wasn't bad but only did one number), and Marga Gomez (who wasn't funny for nearly her entire set). John Waters himself is peerless in his ability to inspire me to aspire to the horrible and base. I took a few notes down during the show with the intention of writing it all up. But my weekend and I got into a tiff. Off the top of my head, I can recount that he charged the audience in the following fashion: If you know someone who doesn't want books as gifts, don't fuck them. And if your significant other doesn't have books and doesn't want them and won't get them for you, don't fuck them, either. He followed that with the list of books he would like to receive for Xmas, and the list alone was enormously entertaining. Josh recognized Mink Stole sitting right in front of us. We didn't do anything about it. I wouldn't have recognized her on my own. I'm not as well-versed in the seminal works of John Waters as nearly anyone else in the world. But I sure do think he's clever. And I'm jealous of everyone who gets invited to his annual Xmas party. He told us where he receives his fan mail, and I was tempted to send him dirty pictures, but I've since forgotten the name of the bookstore, and I'm almost sure there's nothing I could photograph that would really pique his interest.

My eyes are burning, and I have an appointment in a few hours, so I'm going to shut my PowerBook and tuck my dog in and see what happens when I hit the sheets. When I resurface, I will likely apologize for the lack of inspiration in everything I have just written. I'm tempted to do it now and get it out of the way. But I'm afraid I won't have anything to say later on if I don't reserve that. Which is truly disheartening.

Labels: Audrey, Comic-Con, NCT

posted by Mary Forrest at 6:55 AM | Back to Monoblog

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Dickensian Disappointment

I don't know why, but I watched a bit of NBC's A Christmas Carol tonight. The one with Kelsey Grammer and Jason Alexander and a bunch of Alan Menken songs in it. I was instant messaging with my friend Kevin (who asked to be mentioned), and I said, "God, musical theater is so gay. I love being in musicals. But it's so super duper gay. I just switched over to the NBC production of A Christmas Carol with Kelsey Grammer and Jason Alexander singing their gay faces off." And apparently that made him laugh out loud. Which is very satisfying to me.

Anyway, the show itself was irritatingly bad. At least to me. Barfworthy. Unwatchable in places. Just stringing together everyone in show business who has ever made jazz hands and dressing them up in 19th-century clothes and having them don crap British dialects and sing awful, awful songs. Which brings me to an interesting realization I just had: Alan Menken writes awful, awful songs. Maybe they don't seem awful when they are being sung by drawings, but when you see real people singing them, you realize that they are garbage. And maybe it's also that the songs in this production sound like iffy repurposings of the songs from Beauty and the Beast and The Little Mermaid only with less calypso and less Angela Lansbury.

Plus, I despise Jennifer Love Hewitt. And I despise her most of all when she's singing. So you can imagine how well I liked her in this abominable show. And, yes, that deserves its own paragraph.

I don't think the people in the show were totally untalented or even such bad singers, but the show itself just doesn't deserve to have been made, and I'm disappointed in how often I leave my t.v. feeling that way. Also, I have seen (and own on laserdisc) nearly every version of A Christmas Carol that has ever been made, including several musical theater versions that I have even performed in (one that I will be playing violin for in a matter of weeks). And the story is dear to me. And I hate to see it crapped on. I went to see Scrooged at the cineplex. I was scared by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come in the version with George C. Scott in it. Don't you see what an authority I am? So trust me when I tell you that you are fortunate to have not watched this program, because I am fairly certain that you didn't. Unless you were tied up in a chair with the t.v. on and no ability to change the channel with your mind.

On another note, the "Bannon Custody Case" episode of Harvey Birdman was on tonight. It's categorically hilarious. I watched it at Comic-Con a few years ago at the Cartoon Network panel (before there was an Adult Swim panel, I think, or perhaps at the first Adult Swim panel that was called an Adult Swim panel), and the audience got to vote on which of these new shows they would most like to see. It's where I first saw Aqua Teen Hunger Force, too. And Sealab. And as I recall, no one really liked Aqua Teen. And the creators looked visibly annoyed by that. But look at where they are today. See? It all works out.

Lastly, this ad for Jessica Simpson's Christmas album makes me want to puke. Right into Jessica Simpson's giant singing mouth. That ought to shut her up. People who tell me she is pretty have not yet realized that she is a female version of Richard Marx. And people who tell me she's talented are looking to have their faces punched.

Good night.

Labels: Comic-Con

posted by Mary Forrest at 3:41 AM | Back to Monoblog

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Notepad Cleansing

Still in the spirit of catching up, I've reviewed some of the things I wrote down with the intention of expounding. In some cases, I've even forgotten what they mean. Or whether I already wrote about them. And I wonder if anyone would be interested to read the things I never said about Coachella. Or Comic-Con. Or any number of other things. I get easily overwhelmed these days. I can only write about something that happened if only one thing happened. I can only write about what I think if I'm only thinking one thing. In all other cases, I start shuffling things around and wanting to revisit and edit and rearrange. And then I never write anything at all. And time passes. And it becomes all the more apparent that the world is not being changed, so why bother? But of course I continue to bother. With self-important hopes that writing is good and that telling is worthwhile and that anyone is reading with more than one eye open and that anyone is listening with any amount of eagerness. Not to disparage people who are forced to wear an eye patch. Reading with one eye is nothing to be ashamed of. But it's really bad for you if you intend to use both eyes simultaneously at some point in the future. Also bad for you? Visine. I know it's weird. It seems like it would be good for you because it's sold in drugstores in the aisle where helpful products are lined up with their labels all facing out, but it's actually really bad. You can get callouses on your eyeballs. Isn't that nuts? I use Visine constantly. I also slouch and eat a lot of red meat and fail to empty the lint trap in the dryer on every usage. So you can see I'm no role model. Don't follow me off a cliff, kids. I may not actually know where I'm going.

I've been trying to sort through the enormous inventory of clothing I have amassed. I have nowhere near enough storage room for all of it. And I'm finally displacing my nostalgic attachment to many, many items I will never, never wear. I can still pick up some skirt or sweater and go, "Oh. I remember when I wore this that one time." And I can imagine a time in the future when I may regret having discarded that skirt or sweater because of a neurotic desire to look at it again and go, "Oh. I remember when I wore this that one time." But I can also imagine a time in the future when I might like to move. Or when I might like to offer someone a place to hang a coat. Or when I might want to actually be able to step into my walk-in closet. So, I toil. And there is a sidebar benefit to culling through the piles and bags and boxes and heaps. I may never have to buy a pair of socks again. See, it is often my practice -- when I can't find a matching pair or a pair that is matchingly clean-looking or a pair that is soft and brand new -- to just go buy a whole bunch of new ones. And even though some of my older socks -- though hardly unwearable by homeless standards -- will never ever see the inside of my sneakers again, I have really never bothered to throw any of them away. Sometimes this comes in handy. One of my ex-boyfriends was trying to cover his wrists when he was dressed in a Scooby Doo costume that wasn't long enough for him, and I found a pair of Calvin Klein socks in a suitable yellow/brown hue, and we cut the feet off and made makeshift sleeve extensions out of them. If I only had a few pairs of socks, I could certainly never have spared that pair. So, you see, there is reinforcing circumstance to promote my packrat behavior. But at the risk of failing to complete a future costume, I'm getting rid of a lot of socks. And good riddance. At the same time, I have found an unbelievable number of perfectly good and often new pairs that I can now stuff into a drawer and not wear for years to come. It's like sock Christmas. Maybe I'll wrap some of them for fun. I'm also getting rid of a lot of things that still have pricetags on them. This is embarrassing. And part of why I will probably never own a house that I paid for with my own money. I am careless when it comes to shopping. And I could probably wear something different -- something entirely different -- every day for a year. Maybe two. Of course, some days would be weird, because I'd have to be wearing a ball gown or a Star Trek uniform, but you wouldn't be able to say you'd ever seen it before. If you happen to see me wearing anything you've ever seen me wear before, you should probably be disappointed. In practice, I have numerous pieces of clothing I count among my favorites, and they get much more frequent airplay than the others. But I don't see any of you frequently enough that I think you would notice, and I'm down-to-earth enough to know that you don't care.

I'm reorganizing my office, too. It's always on the verge of being declared an avalanche zone. I'm tired of that. I'm tired of having to move 200 CDs out of the way before I can get to the copier. I'm tired of not being able to open my filing cabinet drawers, even if they are only filled with old bags of Easter candy and back issues of the International Male catalog. I'm tired of wondering what the wheel of my chair is always caught on. I'm tired of hearing my friend Julie talk about feng shui and feeling embarrassed by it. I'm tired of talking about all the art I've been meaning to frame and the wall shelves I've been meaning to install. This way, when I decide that I'm also tired of not having finished scanning that stack of Lomos on my desk, I can actually raise the lid of the scanner without displacing a stack of CD-Rs containing my old email files from the year 2000 and software installers that are of no discernible value in this age and operating system. When I think of all the things that bar me from being a dynamo of productivity, I want to declare war on them. And when I am declaring war in my imagination, I'm dressed like a Mongol but cleaner.

I drove home from San Diego this afternoon after having a nice leftover Thanksgiving lunch with my mom. My dad was already napping, the dear. It was cold and blue-skied this afternoon. And it felt good to want pockets for my hands. Less good to not actually be wearing pockets. But I survived. It was a long and action-packed weekend, and I felt the relief of getting home. I felt it in my very bones.

I got a little sentimental a few times. And it didn't kill me.

Labels: Comic-Con, Star Trek, Thanksgiving

posted by Mary Forrest at 2:16 AM | Back to Monoblog

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Windmills do not work that way! Good night!

I should have spent the day resting, but I had a deadline to meet, so I worked and worked and worked. And the morning became afternoon became evening became night. And now it's whatever it is. I have afforded myself the occasional distraction. I have lost track of time. I have benignly watched a lot of network television. And I have a conference call to attend tomorrow morning. This is no gift. The one nice thing is that you can still say I always come through. Even in a pinch. Even in a weakened and feverish state. It matters far too much to me that no one be justified in saying that I ever let them down. That's what got me to miss a day of Comic-Con. That's how I managed to make my deadlines even when I spent the day a-funeraling. Priorities, friends. Plain and simple.

Things have been looking different to me this week. Maybe it's being so sick. Or being stuck at home. Or laying down and praying for death so much. Walking the dog when I can barely stand upright. Not being able to keep track of how much showering I've done. This is an unfamiliar passage in what is typically a very familiar chapter. I can't tell how I feel. Maybe I never can. There are a number of questions I have noticed I don't know how to honestly answer. When someone asks me how I feel (emotionally or otherwise), it's hard for me not to answer with my cerebrum. I have no capacity for taking stock of such things. I guess it's possible that no one was ever really asking before. It's possible that I have spent too long a season in the company of people who didn't care to know how I was feeling or who only asked believing they already knew the answer. I indict myself for not having given myself proxy. For not counting me. But I was merely following suit. There are ranks of those who didn't count me before I jumped on board. I remember being a little girl who shouted out what restaurant she wanted to eat at, only to be drowned out by someone else's logic or whining or force. It's no wonder I'm less likely to insist on anything anymore. And when someone offers to give me exactly what I want, I am caught between the rock of not believing them and the hard place of not knowing what to ask for. It's a snug fit.

I think I feel all right. The physical pain aside. I think I'm going to make it. And I'm happy about that. Let the games begin.

I also care deeply about things that remind me of myself.

Labels: Comic-Con

posted by Mary Forrest at 2:55 AM | Back to Monoblog

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Dan-dan-dandy San Diego

Comic-Con is over. Phew. San Diego was lovely. The weather was beautiful. I used mass transit for the first time in a city I lived in for years and years. And I never once complained about my feet hurting, even though I wore impractical-but-pretty footwear the whole time. It's a policy with me. Unless I'm actually bleeding, I will accept the consequences of the shoes I wear without drawing attention to my sacrifice. I'm not in it for the pity, after all. As far as shoes are concerned, I'm fairly invincible.

But I am bent and bedraggled and all that comes of no sleep, no food, and no relief in sight. I met a deadline today. It's only the beginning. And I have a funeral to attend this week. And that promise dulls all the colors.

I had wanted to complete my entry for an essay contest, but I missed the deadline alas. This is no way to become a respected writer.

I spent a shameful amount of money on pens at the convention. Maybe I will do some art.

Labels: Comic-Con

posted by Mary Forrest at 4:56 AM | Back to Monoblog

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Relief and Sighing

Tonight was the final show in the run of Guys and Dolls. I was so drained all day today. It's been such an oddly stressful few days. I have felt exhausted in every waking moment. Except for those in which I was too tired to take stock. I haven't been what I would call miserable. Not by any stretch. I've just been taxed. And I've had persistent headaches. And I have felt tired and listless. And I have noted that it sucks when you're not at least hungry. Because at least when you're hungry, you can eat something, and it's like you solved a problem. There's no solving feeling curiously not right.

Last night, I decided not to stick around for the strike party. I sort of wish I had worked up the willingness to stay. And not so much for the Italian food. Although, when I heard there were giant meatballs, I felt sad and deprived. I love meatballs. And I'm not trying to be cute. I really do love meatballs. And the really large ones are especially luxurious. In addition, I found out today that I missed being presented with the "Golden Note" Award, the orchestra recognition trophy that gets presented to one musician in each show this stage company does. I was so pleased to have received it. I wish I could have been there to hear what was said about me, but in a way I'm fine to have missed it. I might have been dashed if the conductor had said, "We're giving this thing to Mary in recognition of how far she had to drive to do the show." That's not quite the same compliment as, oh, say, "She played the fiddle real purdy." I'm happy about it, though. Either way. Because it's nice when people think enough of you to give you a trophy. No matter what it's for.

Plus, in the old days, I always used to prepare little song parodies and similar such cutenesses that made cast members say, "Yay! Orchestra strikes!" And this time, I didn't really have any wry wit to apply. The bugs weren't too bad. The climate was pretty consistent. We didn't get jacked out of parking. A pony didn't almost come careening into the pit. Not much fell on us. And nothing very important ever got screwed up. Which makes for pretty uninspiring parody fodder. But I may just be tapdancing around the fact that I spent the first two weeks of the production sick with a cold and this last week of it sick with ill-at-ease. And in the downtime, I began and finished The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time and found myself wishing I had made the book last longer. I then started into David Sedaris' latest release. And -- while EVERYONE surely knows by now how much I adore David Sedaris -- I was longing for a sustained narrative. And that's exactly what David Sedaris is the opposite of in the habit of writing. Also, humor suffers when you have to pick the book up and put it down at the whim of the dialogue. I just read when the lulls in score are long enough to allow it. And tonight being closing night, I decided not to bother. I wanted to soak in the show a bit. And my eyes were tired and sore. Anyway, I didn't have any strikes this time. So the absence of having something to contribute to the party made me less eager to hang around. All the same, I'm sorry I missed it. And I wish I had stuck around long enough to say goodbye to cast members I like but rarely get to see.

I went to the cinema today to see Anchorman. And I scribbled notes down while the previews played. This is what they looked like:

[About Cat Woman] Do you smell something? Oh, it's that new Cat Woman movie. Pee-yew.

[About Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle] Is this court-mandated multi-ethnicity? Neil Patrick Harris has hair plugs. This is just another in a string of films on that new theme of the ultra-mundane quest. Hm.

[About Taxi] It's Jimmy Fallon, but it should so be Will Smith. It's really just Jimmy Fallon doing a thin impression of Will Smith. And if it was Will Smith, I would even more fervently not go to see it.

[About Wimbledon] I love Paul Bettany. But I don't love Kirsten Dunst. And the two of them as a couple -- it's just too...blonde. They make me feel like I want to go put on some sunscreen. But then I don't want to bother, because they also make me feel like I already have skin cancer. But it is about time they made a big TENNIS movie.

[About Collateral] Jamie Foxx turned serious actor? Tom Cruise turned old?

I took some notes during Anchorman, too, but I didn't want to not pay attention. I just remember seeing the scene of Ron Burgundy's home with the brown Pontiac (I think) out front, and it made me think of all of those automobile ads I've torn out of Look Magazine. And it made me want to drink amber-colored liquor from a highball glass. With ice. And I also remember thinking that I heart Steve Carell in the way that makes it appropriate for me to use "heart" as a verb.

Anchorman was very funny. I could criticize the story, but I won't. I saw Christina Applegate on The Daily Show yesterday, and I made some snarky comment about how her trying to be funny was comedically cockblocking Jon Stewart, and Krissy said, "You hate women." And I thought, "Do I?" It can't be. It shouldn't be. I would be ashamed if that turned out to be true. But then today, during the movie, I realized that, by and large, I do hate women. And it's not very winning of me. But there are precious few of them who don't stick in my throat like so much alum. The ones I approve of get front-of-line privileges to be sure. But the rest of the lot make me cringe and wish I had been born a boy. And Brick was right. Their periods DO attract bears. If I ever amount to anything, it will always remain that I was pretty good FOR A GIRL. And that makes me want to open a can of something bad for me and eat the whole thing.

I had ten friends in the audience at tonight's show. I suppose that makes up somewhat for the number of nights when no one I knew showed up at all. Some people say they just love to play and that they don't care if anyone sees or hears it. Those people are liars. Playing "for yourself" is a crock invented by unpopular people. Anything you do that's good needs a witness. Preferably two. Otherwise, with no one to corroborate your claim that you knocked it out of the park, you become that guy who toots his own horn and mixes band and baseball metaphors.

Am I just TRYING to make this post long?

I want someone to offer to buy me a drink and to have it be for at least one of the right reasons. If it's for all of them, even better. But if it happens while I am at Comic-Con, it will be creepy, and I will pretend I never wanted it in the first place.

I never got anything particularly delicious or satisfying to eat today. I hate that. I wish someone would buy me a burrito. And I wish it would have extra sour cream in it. And also magic.

Labels: Comic-Con, Krissy

posted by Mary Forrest at 3:38 AM | Back to Monoblog

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Come to find out I AM susceptible to life-altering experiences. That beats all.

The anticipation nearly killed it, but it survived in the end. Seeing Duran Duran, that is. My first favorite band. My first celebrity crush. My first little girl fantasies of romance and trans-continental love affairs. It's all them. I took my sister to see Duran Duran tonight, having joined the fan club specifically to be able to get tickets in the presale and make sure we got up close and personal with the only five men in history who ever mattered that much to us both at the same time. I began my quest to buy the tickets so many months ago that I began to think it wouldn't be that great once I got there. I thought about seeing them in Orange County when they performed for the first time in the U.S. together. But it was the day before Comic-Con, and even with the presale code, I would have been stuck in crap terrace seating. And I wasn't on the inside enough to know about the secret Roxy show they did. Because of course if I had known about it, I would have razed the city rather than miss it. Instead, I missed it and was completely unaware of it until much too late.

I finally saw Duran Duran live. I had Hungry Like the Wolf on tape as a kid. I think we recorded it from Friday Night Videos. On Beta. And I used to slo-mo that scene where John Taylor frantically runs through the streets of Sri Lanka, bare-chested and mesmerizing. I could not have wanted a man more. I had a poster of him over my bed, and I kissed it more times than I like to admit. (It turns out, my younger sister Beulah also kissed it frequently, which means we were kissing each other before I was even in high school. Gross.) A magazine need only have mentioned the band name to get me to buy it. Even if it was a single line of text on newsprint. I had to have it. I had seen pictures of John with his parents in teen magazines and had talked at length with my sister about how cute his father was, and we would consider what we had learned in genetics as we predicted that he would probably never lose his hair, the angel. I was smitten.

I am occasionally asked what my type is, and I am usually diplomatic and unshallow and reluctant to specify anything that would make me sound superficial. But the truth is this: it's John. A tall, slim English man who is talented and stylish, wanted by everyone and impossibly out of reach. And when he smiles, the lines at his eyes -- the sweet, sweet manly lines -- remind me of Hugh Grant (which solves that additional mystery and explains Hugh's high rank on my list, as well). Tonight, now something on the order of twenty years after the first time I saw him and knew he was the one for me, John Taylor still looks amazing. Cool as fuck and very chic. With great hair and that gorgeous face and a keen fashion sense. I never listened more attentively to a bass line. I never sang louder to White Lines. I never wanted so much for a show to last forever. That's palpable attraction for you. Someone smart and interesting and sophisticated and accomplished standing just a few feet away. If it weren't for all these jerks in front of you, you might just make your way up to him and say hello.

I should add that they all looked great. Simon gets a little dramatic on stage, but he's a looker, make no mistake. And Nick was quietly cute as ever he was. Roger used to be Sarah's favorite. These days, she's all over the John action, despite my prior claim to the territory. I shouldn't be surprised. A few years ago, she started wearing my perfume, too. Andy had a quintessential rock star quality. Maybe cribbing from Keith Richards a bit. But the cigarette hanging from his lip was one of those anomalous cigarettes that actually does make one look cooler -- unlike the garden variety cigarettes that make most people look like they are headed for Cancer Town. So, yeah, they all looked atomic hot. And I appreciate their sex appeal considerably more today than I might have as an adolescent. A glimpse of John's chest hair might have confused me back then. But tonight...

Yes, I have a list. I don't deny it. I don't actively pursue anyone on it, but the list is maintained and enforced and updated on a near-daily basis. This might make some men fearful or bitter. I don't care.

So, I saw this band play at long last. This band whose memorabilia my sister Sarah and I bought to the dismay of my mother who assured us we would outgrow this fancy and be very very sorry for having tossed our money on so much crap. In a way, she was right. I did outgrow the infatuation. And I did stop collecting the memorabilia. But I never stopped liking the band. And I never stopped feeling my heart race whenever John Taylor was the topic. When I worked at MP3.com, one of my co-workers got a phone call from John Taylor on her answering machine at home, and she saved it for months. Not only did I not blame her, I was slightly tempted to break into her house and steal the answering machine for myself.

I saw this band play, and it was truly something. Really. I think I felt a euphoria that I have never ever felt before. A sort of splendid reminder of being a teenager and believing that anything was possible. Believing that John Taylor would see me on the street one day and be so stunned by my perfection that he would move mountains to get to me. And we would be so happy in our perfect future. Believing that I would one day be someone noteworthy. That I would make it. That I would be magnificent. I heard this music that used to make me tremble, and it was like this giant refreshing dunk in a great pool. I was a child again. But this time a child who can afford to spend thirty bucks on a tour program. And of course I spent it. I couldn't leave the show without my merch. Without some memento of it all. When they finally came out on stage, so close I could barely believe it, I actually thought I might cry, and I am really uncomfortable admitting that. I felt this altogether unfamiliar optimism, and I loved it. And some songs that hadn't meant much to me before tonight suddenly did. And I danced the whole time. And sang the whole time. And laughed and cheered. And took photos and couldn't believe it.

Tonight stopped me in my tracks. Took me back a ways. Reminded me that I was once open to the possibility of everything being wonderful. That I, in fact, insisted on it. That I believed once that I was beautiful and worthy and unique and impossible to pass over. I had forgotten that me. She was so far away. It was nice to be reminded. And to stay up late with Sarah, milking the new sensation.

During Rio, while I was singing and dancing and spilling joy like a giant martini, John smiled at me. I don't care if it's true or not. I don't care if he might actually have been laughing at me. Or looking at a girl in front of me that I couldn't see. I believe he was smiling at me, and I will never ever forget it. I'm thinking of putting his poster back up. At least then my mom will feel like I got my money's worth. Of course, if this optimistic fervor lasts, I suppose I will have to keep the poster in the cupboard, lest John Taylor actually sweep me off my feet one day and come over to my place and be creeped to freaking pieces over it. If this optimism keeps up, I might not publish this post at all.

I know this all sounds like giddy, goony, girlish nonsense. And maybe it is. But there is also the underlying truth that I had my spirits raised straight to the heavens by MUSIC. That's all it took. I've danced more in the last few days than I had in the last year. And it felt good. If you can feel like the hot ticket sometime before the year is out, do it. It's made entirely of good.

Labels: Comic-Con

posted by Mary Forrest at 4:39 AM | Back to Monoblog

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Space-Age Disco Nunchaku

Seksu Roba opened for TV Eyes at the Troubadour tonight. I am a big fan of the sort of production value they (Seksu Roba) offer. And I believe that people should wear more white. Me included. Especially the sort of white that evokes the rebel base on Hoth sort of crossed with hot disco seksu. I bought their CDs and got a free button. After all, how often do you get to see a theremin played live on stage? Oh, sure, maybe you get to see one every Thursday at the Lion's Club, but does it also include a dancing sexpot Japanese disco spacechick? I didn't think so. That's where I am luckier than you.

Why does TV Eyes not have a CD out yet? I was so charmed by their show and the glam-era multimedia, I wanted to buy their record and rollerskate to it. There are a lot of things that I don't cherish about the late '70s and early '80s. But it's hard to disrespectfully rumple the hair of the music. These days, as derivative as most things are, you're left to wonder if there ever would have been any new music to listen to if it hadn't been for that period.

When I got to the club, there was no one on stage, so I could see how many synthesizers and organs and databanks were set up, and I marveled at it. I never go "wow" when I see a rack of numerous guitars. But the keys and the electronics make me swoon. I am also known to go "wow" when I see unconventional or unlikely instruments on stage. But that's just because a band that uses timpani or harp or oboe, for that matter, gets extra points in my book just for not allowing the scars of high school band harassment to stifle the boom of those big drums. I should clarify that when I say oboe gets points, I don't mean someone like Kenny G. That's not cool to me on my most generous day.

I looked at Halloween costumes a bit today. There was a half-mask called "Kung Fool" that made me laugh and laugh. I've always admired people who get gussied up as a giant THING. Like the guys I saw at the Comic-Con a couple of years back dressed as the Death Star and Han Solo in Carbonite, whose glory I think I previously extolled on these pages. But I felt the same approval for the adult size hot dog costume I saw at the store tonight. Everyone always had better costumes than the growing-up me. It has made me fear Halloween and resent it rather than spend all year creating some grand, epic masque. This is a great example of how failure begets apathy. Check it out.

Labels: Comic-Con

posted by Mary Forrest at 12:00 AM | Back to Monoblog

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