07.31.07

Herbivores:1 — Carnivores: 0

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:55 am by Gregory

People who have been really astonishingly nasty to me have appeared in my dreams lately. I have told them off in an appropriate manner, and chuckled as they’ve departed like defeated brats.

It is hard to have sweet dreams, though — when somebody is maniacally CLOMPING over one’s head.

(Before I bail on this insanely overpriced — and they just added severe insult to injury — dwelling, I really should get a Sennheiser boom in here — or possibly a Seismograph – to preserve the scary miracle of that old dude’s footfalls, as one would attempt to capture some evidence of Sasquatch; it really sounds like the codger gets up at around six, somehow lashes an oversized bowling ball to the bottom of each foot, ingests five hundred packs of No-Doz, and then chases invisible cockroaches for an hour. Really. For the past three years.

Any debt to crazy asses is paid.

Today involves loads of minutae. I just successfully paid my electric bill, for instance. Go me. And then I have to pack prezzies for lots and lots of people. My summer sleigh will be an Airbus. Etc.

When I paid that bill, the Actual Human Attendant (!) on the other end of the line said this to me:

“Thank you very much, sir — and may you have a totally fantastic day.”

Well…all right.

Brief Labyrinth reference: There’s that bit with Sarah and Hoggle in the catacombs, wherein Jareth suddenly stands up (and the audience howls appreciation for whatever that is stuffed in David Jones’ tights). Of course, there is a 13-hour clock conveniently located on the cave wall — which Jareth proceeds to speed up until Sarah has lost a few hours off her already mad and hasty quest. She declares this unfair. Jareth counters that he wonders what might be her standard for comparison.

Indeed: Me, here.

Tonight is another smashing night of the Mods and Rockers Film Festival. I’ll be there. Check it out!

I have been invited to partake of a semi-remote cottage for the Autumn months — no internet, no telephone land-line — however that may be a bit too much off the severely beaten path. We’ll see. Potential host notes that a major drawback is utter dearth of Thai food for many, many miles in any direction. Hm.

Speaking of Thai, a Chinese friend of mine who grew up in Thailand just sent me this. Astounding. Finally, YouTube seems to have some purpose beyond merely letting all the humans show all the other humans how unbearably cute they are.

(Not that there’s anything wrong with that, per se — but it is getting a bit redundant.)

Go Ruminants!

Permalink Comments

Labyrinth

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 1:11 am by Gregory

Ever have one of those nights? Presently everything is in pressure-cooker mode, plus I’m behind on several writing projects, plus what is normally a blazingly dull season in L.A. has turned out to be remarkably scintillating (if simultaneously almost-exhausting). I’m not money-rich (or, presently, even money-survivably-average), but I really have a great life; thank you.

Nonetheless, this evening it was with genuine chagrin that I glanced at the time whilst typing, thought it was the six-o’clock hour, quickly realised it was the eight-o’clock hour — and summarily slapped forehead in consternation-lite:

Tonight was the screening of a brand-new print of Labyrinth with Brian, Wendy and Toby Froud in attendance (at L.A.’s fabulous Nuart)!

I have attended many, many, many screenings with Special Guests — and have met Mr. Froud a few times before — but come on! Labyrinth! With its creators!

What was I thinking?

What was I stinking was more like it: It had been a hot, rough’n'tumble day (helped J.T. by shooting his audition-test video w/zany actresses down at the blindingly bright beach; munched trendy Raw Food after; not bad, not bad, not quite as pretentious as I’d figured). Errands, chores, bits of heavy lifting, and hot hot heat. By the eight o’clock hour my corporeal state was what would pass for normal in Germany, but it felt unclean to me. Okay…let’s see: Bathe, wash mop, shave? — no, no time for shave — then put on something presentable, run like hell to bus?

As there was still significant Trip Planning and Emailing and Whatever to do, all of this had me out the door at almost-too-late p.m. — and Les Frouds were set to hit the mics at nine-thirty.

We pause now to relate to you the brief tale of “Gregory and the Buses.” Gregory is okay with buses. He presently prefers them to the utter hell of automotive slavery. The thing is, though, whenever Gregory heads toward any street where a bus is due to come along pr’soon, that blasted bus always screeches past directly in front of Gregory — when Gregory is still one-to-two blocks away from that street on which the bus is (and where it shall continue to zoom along, sans Gregory). Every time. Not talking stats; talking every time. If this pattern weren’t so damnably frustrating, it would be fascinating. And it has nothing whatsoever to do with schedules (for they are as loose in L.A. as a wannabe actress’ resume) — rather, if, bus-street sight-unseen and schedule unknown, Gregory simply dashes like mad (for no apparent reason)…then he makes the bus. Otherwise, Gregory shrugs and glowers quietly and speaks to self in Amusing (To Gregory Anyway) Extreme-Underbite Posh Englishman Dialect (often about ribald topics).

Well, tonight I beat the odds. First I did that Dashing Like Mad For No Apparent Reason thing. Then the damned bus did that damned thing it always does (i.e.: showing up exactly one-to-two blocks in front of Gregory, when Gregory isn’t quite there yet, and would require a jet-pack to catch it). But I simply refused to be deterred. Even though I had already had some very enjoyable and productive words with Brian Froud down in San Diego last Thursday (that man really is a wizard), this particular Monday night had long been planned: Labyrinth with Frouds! — there are few things more enjoyable in the whole Universe.

I waved hard. I ran. I ran. I sprinted (safely) through traffic. I mean, like lightning. It probably looked either: a.) Ridiculous; or b.) Cool. The main thing is that I got my Jesse Owens on.

The driver saw me. She was nice. She told me I didn’t have to pay, and remarked that I was very lucky, because it would be about another hour before another bus would come along.

Magic.

(I paid anyway.)

I am loath to talk too much about my hair (due to recent semi-roast of popular writer who is rich and famous and does actually “blog” about his hair a lot) — however…people: Spend significant chunk of day at beach, let simmer for hours, then wash hair under incredibly hard L.A. tap water before realising that there is no conditioner left.

The knots and tangles were outstanding.

The young Japanese tourists on the bus found me interesting enough to gesture and offer a running commentary in Japanese. I moved.

Somehow I made it.

Magic.

The Frouds had just begun. They spoke affectionately of their beloved Labyrinth and answered many good questions. I’ll transcribe the thing sometime; it was interesting. My fave comments were: from Brian (that he built that show not from the Outside — via accountants and bureaucrats and penny-pinchers — but from the Inside — via an artist’s utter love for his art); from Wendy (that, at the time of the project’s pre-production phase, what she was “working on” was Toby); and from Toby (that Jennifer Connelly actually babysat him — shudder! — whilst his parents went out to dinner…and he wouldn’t mind repeating the experience now!)

The crowd, alas, at about 150, was not huge (I completely expected a sold-out house and tales of angry mobs wrapped around the block who were turned away in agony) — but Love was in the room. We love our Labyrinth, yes we do.

The Frouds adjourned to the lobby with fans (including me) so that the next screening could begin, and I was amazed, primarily, by three things: 1. La famille Froud foment glee via their very presence; 2. It’s a rather large world, and yet there stood the man (and his family) responsible for some of my fave design work (and spirit) in Cinema — ever; and 3. A semi-Goth couple waltzed in for the next screening, paused to hit the lavs, and never even noticed that the creators of the movie they were so excited to see were immediately in their midst.

I spoke awhile with M., who is just about encyclopaedic in his knowledge of film (particularly left-of-centre film) as well as being an awesome M.C. – and then I leapt into the next screening of Labyrinth just as its opening frames and first Bowie song began to fill the auditorium.

I figured I’d stay for ten, maybe twenty minutes.

I stayed for the whole thing.

I could go on and on about Labyrinth — but here I shall limit myself to five brief comments:

1. The audience cracked up loudly and knowingly for every shot featuring Jareth’s magical package.

2. I had never noticed before, but indeed, as Brian said, the beginning of the film features The Longest Run In Cinematic History: It starts to rain, and Jennifer Connelly runs all the way from England to America!

3. My own older sister hasn’t done diddley to protect me from Goblins (although she didn’t give me to them, either, thanks) — but once whilst visiting her on the other side of this land mass, I was drawn into a very, very tiny record store in a nondescript strip-mall — and there the CD soundtrack to Labyrinth called out to me (it really did — almost audibly). That CD remains a constant in what appears to be my ever-changing social universe. And this time, over cinema speakers, I really noticed that I like the songs a lot — particularly “Underground” (which used to annoy me; Faux-Gospel? In Fantasyland?)

4. Hoggle is accidentally called “Hogwart.” Hmmmm.…

5. Heck, since Gaiman and McKean accidentally didn’t make the sequel to Labyrinth, I shall. Call anytime, Lisa.

To put it finely: I would walk straight into the middle of a bullfight and loudly declare myself an aficionado (among many) of The Dark Crystal and Labyrinth (they’re both deceptively brilliant) — and thus tonight (despite the intense bittersweetness of a pretty new print of a movie from over two decades ago, yikes!) was a very, very happy night indeed.

(A few photos, soon.)

Permalink Comments

Ingmar Bergman: 1918-2007

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:39 am by Gregory

I was wondering when this was going to happen; much like Leonard Cohen, Ingmar Bergman was one of those guys everybody assumed to be dead many years before actual death happened. (For the record, Cohen is alive and living in Los Angeles; he probably eats at Canter’s; Hello, Mr. Cohen — I think “Jazz Police” is hilarious!)

Anyway, the main point is that Ingmar Bergman — as of yesterday — is now actually dead.

Sad, that. He was one of our geniuses.

When I was staying in Stockholm over Jul, 1988 (that’s not July; that’s the local equivalent of “Christmas”), the father of my hostess gave me a book — in English — as a present. “A book about a famous film-maker and his MIND,” went his inscription. The book was indeed about just that: It was The Magic Lantern, Bergman’s autobiography. It was new at the time. I devoured it with sips of actual glögg (!), and then on trains.

(Astoundingly, on that same trip, my hostess and her family and I went to visit some of their relatives — who lived in the same building as Max von Sydow! I glanced at the tenant listings outside and asked; they confirmed.)

Anyway, somehow the book got away — which is weird because I tend to keep most books I like (and many I don’t like). I eventually got it in hardcover, though.

It’s a great life-story, full of all kinds of professional anecdotes but also childhood confusion and awkwardness, and stabs at finding faith, love, happiness, all that human stuff. Apparently this was harder to do in Sweden during the second world war (I refuse to capitalise that). Ingmar Bergman’s voice proves prickly at times, but ultimately nourishing.

Quite recently I sat through a screening of The Seventh Seal — and was amazed anew at how wise, creative and beautiful it is. In this sense, it blended with the best of Kurosawa in my mind.

A little while before that, in the same fine venue, I was able to view Bergman’s Saraband — which would turn out to be his final directorial effort. I was moved.

(I was also moved when Blake Edwards himself — at eighty-five! — showed up very recently to visit a full house happily viewing his classic comedy, The Party. What a moment! But I digress…)

Others will go hog-wild with reflections upon the life and work of Bergman, and I shall leave them to it at this time. No expert am I, nor would I claim to be fascinated with his work. Very impressed, though: Definitely.

Oddly, en route to Comic Con, while my much-more-movie-obsessed-friend P. was conducting his surveys of our fave This movie and our fave That movie, several directors were mentioned (my delight at Altman’s Popeye was totally ignored) — but, strangely (for he’s every bit as important as a Welles or Kubrick, and certainly more important than a Scorsese or Friedkin or whatever) Bergman only came up earlier, in the blazing sun on the way down, as we explained Last House on the Left (really hideous, succeeds at its goal) to J. — who had never seen it. (I have seen it — several years ago on VHS — and once was enough; I doubt I’ll ever view it again.) The thing is, that early Wes Craven exploitation movie is actually Bergman’s The Virgin Spring — updated to fit the parameters of wacko early 1970s America.

Having said that, I now proceed to list my Top Five Ingmar Bergman Films (and since I happen to love Swedish, I’m going to be 3/5 extremely pretentious and list them thusly):

1. Det sjunde inseglet

2. Såsom i en spegel

3. Jungfrukällan

4. Persona

5. Saraband

(Of course that’s an impoverished list, but some excellent highlights — plus I simply haven’t seen ‘em all: If anybody ever wants to make finger-sandwiches with me and sit down with Fanny och Alexander, only say!)

Goodnight and thank you, Mr. Bergman, for your many gifts to the 20th century’s greatest art form.

Permalink Comments

07.30.07

The Sean Young Report

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 7:06 pm by Gregory

The thing is, I like Sean Young.

Not sure why, exactly: I don’t know her; her Hollywood hijinx have been peculiar to say the least; and below all, she is an actress.

Lest there be any remaining doubt, Gregory does not feel romantic about actresses. Particularly American ones. That bus left the station, and subsequently the route has been eliminated. Lesson learnt, bye-bye-bye.

I like Sean Young okay, though. I am happy that she’s around.

Here’s how weird life is: I noticed that she was doing that Comic Con speaking engagement in San Diego over the weekend, with Ridley Scott et al, and that was that; I was intrigued but didn’t go.

Then, about an hour ago, I was out walking, turned the corner, and boom: There’s Sean Young.

“Sean Young,” said I, to her (a bit startled, frankly).

“Hi,” said Sean Young to me (in that “this happens to me far too often” tone).

It’s a big world. Even L.A. is a big world (in its filthy-fishbowl kind of way). So I figured I’d better say something else, to — *ahem* — seize the moment.

“Good evening,” said I, to Sean (figuring — probably sensibly – that adding “…Mary” would be inappropriate).

“Okay, honey, you stick around here and I’ll be back at [time],” said Sean Young — but not to me.

(Why did I just turn the corner and almost literally run into Sean Young? thought I — and we’re talking split-seconds here. And then I thought: Why did Sean Young just tell that person to meet her at a time which has already passed?)

I figured I’d better say something else.

“How was Comic Con?” I half-shouted.

“Oh, it was great!” replied Sean (though it was quite clear that this was hardly the same response I’d have gotten had I said, “Hey! — How’s about I buy you an island or something?”)

And that was that.

Obviously, it would have boosted my ego a bit had Sean Young stopped in her tracks and declared into my face, “Man, I love you!” (See previous entry.)

But that was all right — I certainly wasn’t expecting it.

She looked…busy, let us say. And nice. Her hair is presently trimmed very short, and it’s dark. Her elegant features are as beautiful as ever. She wore dark clothing. Otherwise, I didn’t really pause to take aesthetic stock.

But isn’t it funny, how the dots connect?

The thing is, the most popular overall movie featuring Sean Young is something to which I have been longing to create and direct a sequel for several years. In fact, I have not one but two sequels drawn up.

I first viewed that movie in 1982. ‘Twas a Saturday afternoon at the mall. I had that incredibly tasty (and explosively healthful) mixture of caramel corn and cheese corn with me. I had no idea what to expect, but I knew that I was supposed to be in that auditorium on that Saturday afternoon, viewing that specific movie. I liked it a lot. I got it. First go-round. Mind, there was no consensus about that movie at that time. Most contemporary reviews turned out to be negative, but I hadn’t even noticed them yet (and didn’t care; who reads movie reviews anyway???). I was just there to partake of a cinematic, narrative, thematic experience. That I did. There were only a few other people sitting with me in that auditorium. I never found out what they thought. I emerged very impressed (and to this day prefer the V.O. version to the Director’s Cut — and incidentally, am wondering just how they intend to milk it for yet another cut).

I’m still impressed. Not at all obsessed (although there are several copies lying around). Impressed. It’s one of the greatest movies ever. (Yes, even with guns in it — alas!)

That’s why I want to make a sequel. And then another sequel.

Concepts were created with a dear friend — but then we agreed to disagree on some very vital points. Points of conflict. My treatments are here. They are nothing like the book sequels. They take the whole game to another level — and then…to yet another level.

Hey, Warner Bros. — want another massive franchise? Call me.

Bottom Line: I feel kind of dutiful about it all: I was there a quarter-century ago, the concepts have steeped ever since, and now I simply know I could do a great job with it. It’s not as if I’m thrilled to be tethered to somebody else’s copyrights; it’s just that I know I can launch that rocket.

So there’s that.

(Mind, I really prefer doing my own original work — but since absolutely nobody is tending this fire, I’m volunteering.)

Incidentally, I don’t just think about that movie when I run into Sean Young — which has happened a few times now. But it is her finest film, overall.

Anyway: Hi, Sean. Here’s wishing you and yours much happiness.

I mention this, above all, as an example of how magic works: You think of it, and it happens…or springs into being.

It’s just that simple.

Another example: Last night, just prior to being told by some stranger that she “loves” me (also learnt my lesson about the — let us say flexibility — of that word) I had been reflecting that there are a couple of books I seek. Walking back, I chanced to meander through an alleyway. There lay a box of books. Most of them were not books I really want. But there…

There within the box sat two copies of each of the two books I had been wanting.

In an alley, in the dark, next to a bin, about to be cast off into oblivion.

The Universe simply said, “Here ya go!”

Funny how magic works.

In closing, I know full well now that actresses are mad: But just as a knight must encounter the occasional dragon or manticore if he wishes to continue his quest — so must the storyteller encounter his own special brand of eyelash-fluttering beastie.

Songs du soir:

“Shattered” by The Rolling Stones

“Going to California” by Led Zeppelin

Permalink Comments

Love, Love, Love

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 1:42 am by Gregory

A rich and lovely and hot (and restless!) past several days and nights; now it is Monday, and a new mini-chapter must take precedence over the recent adventures.

Which is not to say that anything good is eclipsed or forgotten; only that this week starts off (in modern parlance) hella busy! And then I board an aeroplane for parts known and yet not. Shall report.

Stardust review here. Good on ‘em.

The entry below shall continue to grow; I have some rather iffy pictures to add, plus the Details of That Day. Much like Two Days In The Life, it was an amazing time for me — but slightly more manageable in terms of describing it. I find really loving all the details to be quite delicious.

Since Monday won’t offer any time at all to build new thoughts here, I close with this notion: I Feel Love. Love, Love, Love. Scorpios go very, very deep — but when nuked, we quickly set about Healing and Starting Over. Starting Over is officially here. And the Love is of that Happy, Good, General Variety: Very appreciative.

Unrelated but symbolic, the tumble-tumble adventures of the past few days (I’m a person who likes to take breathers; and haven’t) reached a nice coda this evening as I walked home from a diner where I ate both chocolatey and salady things and allowed “Jersey Girl” to keep echoing over the ugly nu-punk until “Jimmy Jazz” started up and I left the place, whistling along in tune. I passed a late-nite bar, out of which were spilling several of what we used to call “yah-dudes” (Cali frat-types: sandals, shorts, t-shirts, baseball caps, sneers, extremely retarded-sounding voices) and lost-looking young women (most of whom were smoking). I like people, but never have a clue what to say to that crowd as I walk past, so I don’t. But tonight I said, “Likewise.”

My energy must have been up (despite no real sleep), because as I passed a close-cropped brunette in a black party dress with big tats on her upper arms (who appeared to be with her boyfriend, or at least her male human du soir), she stopped, looked straight at me, and said, “Man, I love you!”

What could I do? I simply and kindly said, “Likewise.”

And on strode I.

And on strode she.

And that was that.

Although it is my highest personal dream to be married and to share Life with one woman for the happy duration of our years, I also feel that the world could use a whole lot more of that kind of exchange.

Le chanson de lundi: “I Feel Love” by Donna Summer (and Giorgio Moroder)

L’autre chanson de lundi: “(Just Like) Starting Over” by John Lennon (with assists by Yoko Ono)

Permalink Comments

07.27.07

Con Heir

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 2:42 pm by Gregory

Let us begin with toenails and regrets.

Heh.

(Actually, right up front, I should mention that this particular posting will be slightly unorthodox, in that I don’t really feel like writing it all at once, plus today has its own fair share of business to which to attend. But I’d like to keep it all together, so basically I’m going to keep coming back and adding to it, as whims and reflections strike. Scroll down occasionally, and something new may appear.)

Well, it’s “toenails” in that I actually managed to snag a couple of minutes in the frenzy of yesterday morning to clip my own. Yes, this is more or less expected of civilised adult humans — it doth bring peath of mind — and yet you’d be surprised how easy it is just to put on some almost-fresh socks and “pretend.” But not me, not yesterday, no Sir and Ma’am: Clipped, they were. All those who use “blogs” to discuss their bodily cycles are cordially offered this aspect of my existence.

That’s about as yucky as it gets, though.

As for regrets, I regret, to some extent, that I am not presently at Comic Con International XXXVIII in San Diego, CA, USA — because of all the days, this one seemed to feature the panels I would enjoy most:

The Spotlight on Neil Gaiman, for instance, is underway right now…

…and in a few minutes the Warner Home Video panel for Blade Runner: Final Cut will begin (featuring director Ridley Scott — apparently finally noticing that this is by far his best film — plus Sean Young and Joanna Cassidy and others from the cast; Sean used to live a couple of blocks away from me, but “the actress” told me that she moved recently; weird; Blade Runner is her best work, too).

And this morning I missed the “Comic Book Law School 101″ panel — which apparently featured lots of useful information about IP and how to protect it…

…plus director Zack Snyder (he and his producer wife are very pleasant and sharp; noted at preview screening of 300 footage last fall) was discussing making Watchmen (which he revealed to me — Ooh! Post-Dated Exclusive! — to be his next baby, also last fall).

Paramount is catching up again, but Warner Bros. is still the tops in this field.

On another, minor regretful note, I was informed that Les Bros. Warner also deposited an actual Speed Racer “Mach 5″ in the ginormous merchant commons of the convention centre. Somehow missed it. No complaints, as the day yesterday went, tactically speaking, brilliantly — however I thrived on Speed Racer as a kid (and even quit Cub Scouts because it happened to interfere with my Speed Racer schedule) — and thus that car (me! caring about a damned car!) would have been nice to see (particularly prior to seeing the movie — which I seriously doubt could ever hope to approach my expectations, but good luck anyway).

I also would have preferred to be in San Diego today to catch the panels conducted by Henson and Vertigo…

…but my main regret today (and boo-hoo! grown adult doesn’t get to geek out today in outrageously overcrowded sci-fi-lookin’ building filled with “Slave Leias” and “Suicide Girls”) is actually this:

At six p.m. this afternoon, one of my Honourary Grandfathers — Ray Harryhausen! — will be screening his brand-new, Fiftieth Anniversary Edition, colourised version of 20 Million Miles to Earth!!! Now this is supremely cool. Not only has Ray notched up eighty-seven Earth-years as if it’s no big deal, he’s also currently in pre-production of Ares: God of War — his all new Jason and the Argonauts movie! I loathe freeways, and buses-to-reach-much-more-comfortable trains aren’t much fun either — however were I able to teleport to Con today, in terms of presentations specifically, this would be the prime motivator. Fortunately, I have seen and enjoyed Ray (and that other Ray!) around L.A. quite a lot over the past couple of years, thus the anguish is manageable (heh) — some of the most fun was seeing him present the early She in B&W, then return with it colourised (and actually slightly improved!) — however it really would have been an ideal way to spend an early Friday evening, letting Ray play host to his fifty-year-old classic, commentating throughout. Alas. I hope that somebody makes a report, as I’d love to read it.

Also hoped to be down there for a casual evening (San Diego can be pretty and fun — if sun-blasted), but that’s okay: Tonight there’s this.

Next Up:

Cons I Have Known: Capsule-Reflections Upon Previous Visits…

Hello, lovely readers! Neil Gaiman here, back to comment whilst Gregory warms up. As I was sitting and being whimsical, it occurred to me that, most likely, it wasn’t actually Warner Bros. that deposited the Mach 5 in the showroom, but rather some company dealing directly with the animated series. But then again, what do I know? — My specialty is making magical characters say unconventional things! It’s not as if I do “Cars With Improbable Appendages” all that often! Ha-ha! Blimey, I’m English! Has anybody seen my sushi? Now here’s Greg — er…oops, pardon: Gregory!

Um…thanks, Ne — er…oops, pardon: Neil!

Right, so the first time I attended San Diego’s Comic Con International was in The Year of Our Lord (Vader) 1995. I didn’t really know what the hell was going on, but I knew it was something kind of cool, due to the tales of a girl-woman on whom I had been bearing a massive crush, at that point, for three whole years. She will not be named here, because she’s really not a particularly nice person (that upon which I was crushing was actually not her but her total dedication to creativity — which was serving her well, if extremely selfishly; she totally strung me along), but she did go to Con pretty much every year, and at that point had already drawn and done covers for some big titles (although her canvases and sketchbooks were actually superior). Remember, this was at a point when “Tori” Amos still ruled the minds of intelligent white folk, and her buddy Neil Gaiman had just about capped off his run on The Sandman, and — for me — a strange mystical quality still permeated most of my experiences (or severely clouded my perceptions; whichever). Thus, the Con was weird to me as well. I recall that Tim Pope (videos: The Cure) had claimed the huge Hall H in order to chat about directing some-or-other Crow sequel (it was all about the Crow sequels back then), and that he grew embarrassed during a rare screening of his selfsung video for “I Wanna Be a Tree” (or something) and had it switched off partway through. And there were representatives for Star Wars and FarScape and whatever. The sheer volume of stuff I found at once exciting and challenging to comprehend (in truth, my specific interests at Con are rather limited, although I enjoy the creativity generally). And how did I get there? My then-duplex-mate D. drove us down there. At the time, this seemed like a lot of work — possibly because D. was very unaccustomed to waking up before three p.m., but also because he’s a very nice person who also happens to be darned near socially intolerable. Loud videogames in tighty-whities (and nothing else) literally all night long. Sentence-finisher (and almost always wrong). Cackled — no, I mean really cackled. He was my friend, but he was work. But he drove, so I gave him no friction until he started bitching at me because one of my nostrils was very lightly whistling. This nearly made him crash the car in sheer discomfort. I took care of the “problem,” and we arrived safely in San Diego. It was cheaper to get in, back then. In we went. When we finally found the “Artists Alley” table of the woman I then thought I loved, she was vaguely receptive (her default setting), and yet, as we stood there and my passion was overflowing, D. took it upon himself to keep declaring “My feet hurt!” in a loud and very annoyingly cartoony whine — over and over and over again. I was crushed; he wouldn’t give me a minute, and he wouldn’t shut up, either. Having been emotionally used by that girl-woman for three years, I wanted to see if there was “something” or if all that energy had gone to waste (it had); instead I had to get into a car with a crazy cartoon character for another three-hour drive. We ate in some hellish country-style restaurant in Orange County, one with live country karaoke. Miserable! But I had only just moved back to SoCal from PacNW, and so I was more accepting, at that time, of Utter Discomfort. The Con itself wasn’t bad; we had some fun.

A couple of years later, I went with friends P. and S. (A different P. from the one with whom I went yesterday.) At that time, P. and S. and I were all slaves in a heinously-run talent agency. That Saturday (for Saturdays hadn’t sold out far in advance back then) was our Big Getaway. S. drove a big red Camaro, and it was with glee that its very, very loud horn woke me (I simply do not get up at seven a.m. on Saturdays — I go to sleep at three, earliest, on Friday nights) — glee because the horn was far nearer the inhabitants of the other side of the duplex — who were extremely inconsiderate Noise Pigs. Ha-ha on them; good mor-ning! Then, somehow, I got myself together in a matter of three or four minutes (very probably brushing my teeth in the back-seat), and away we sped — through that semi-ghastly SoCal glare-heat, that swoops in too early and overstays its welcome. We had great laughs, though. S. vanished a couple of years later without a word, and P. and I miss him a lot — but at the time we were close to being Les Trois Amis, and fun, indeed, we had. There are plenty of people to mock (and who deeply deserve mocking) when one works in a talent agency. But any discussion led to fun. I recall that at that time all the gas stations were stocked with little model cars of sporty and exotic and antique varieties. My eyes were so wide that even these distracted me (though I never purchased any). And then we arrived in San Diego. Since we were all flat-broke due to working for a tyrant-cheapskate (the Better Business Bureau eventually nailed him), we decided to volunteer for the Con, in order to gain free entry. This entailed an hour or two of our time. P. and S. immediately discarded their volunteer papers and commitments, and disappeared into the fray. I honoured my commitment, and ended up taking a position in which it was my job to hand name-stickers to the famous guests when they arrived. Basically, nobody did, but I sat there anyway. When I found Bryan Singer’s name-sticker, it sort of shocked me — for to me Bryan was always the hyper friend-of-my-friends with whom I occasionally dined and took in screenings at USC. Bryan, to me, was not in any way a “famous guest” (although he did prove, later, to be a kindly fellow). I was frustrated because he got to be a famous guest whereas I had to sit like a dork in the sticker booth in order to gain entry to the big marketing extravaganza in the first place — thus I uncapped a pen and wrote “KANK!” on Bryan’s sticker. Why? Because Bryan is apparently tone-deaf (maybe; not a fact), and his method of interpreting songs he likes is to “sing” them via a series of flatly-delivered KANKs; for instance, “My Sharona” would be translated in Bryansong as, ”KANK-KANK-KANK-KANK-KANK-KANK KANK-KANK KANK-KANK-KANK KANK-KANK-KANK-KANK-KANK-KANK KANK!-KANK-KANK-KANK!” Etc. It seemed only reasonable to afford Bryan a nice KANK; it felt like justice. Anyway, I’m not sure exactly what happened that year, because it all tends to blur together, but I do recall P. leading us past a Rankin-Bass booth (he loves Bumble!) and at some point getting a photo of S. with a Boba Fett. The guys weren’t very interested in the panels (although there may have been another Crow sequel that year; there usually was: That Vincent guy was the funniest: “Anybody could be Crow! I can be Crow! Or you could be Crow! Or you could be Crow!”), and so we just sort of admired all the geek stuff and ogled the boobies — pretty much like any year. I shot a lot of video of that trip — on VHS, with the big, honkin’ camera — and then extremely stupidly recorded over a large section of the tape with some or other soul-searching soliloquy (then as now, being in L.A. mostly on my own was mostly unhappy). Around that same time, I made part of a Batman spoof (kind of; no relation to my more celebrated first one) with S.; all of that tape still exists; S. better hope he never runs for government office. Lastly, I think that this (’97? ‘98?) was the year during which I took a break by sitting on the floor of the huge lobby area of the San Diego Convention Centre — and as I did, a nice and pretty girl sat near me and we started talking. She asked me where I lived, and I said, “L.A.” Her reply: “OH MY GOD, WHY??”

I think I attended Con during at least one of the other years near the end of the alleged previous millennium. I seem to recall being with friend E. — and afterward somehow landing in the dwelling of other friend E. (plus his brother) somewhere south-ish down there. The second E. (who is now a PhD) found the term “ComicCon!” funny. He was right. I’m a little sketchy on how that particular year came about, or who was in the car, etc. But then, I’m in some ways the opposite of average people: They clearly recall things from bright sunlight; I clearly recall things from the gloam and shades of night. It was another fun year, anyway (apart from those increasingly frustrating swoops past Artist Alley). I also usually encountered some of my Golden Apple cohorts and Neil Gaiman. For some reason it seemed acceptable to eat “Con food” (crap pretzels and pizza for ten bucks or whatever); I don’t do that anymore.

It would take a thorough search of all printed matter in my files to determine exactly which years I attended (from which I could then extrapolate what I did, and who was guesting, and when), simply because I kept most of the souvenir books, because they were (at the time) Something, rather than Nothing. All those amateur-artist drawings of Spidey and Shmoo and all that. The movies and storytelling and costumes always intrigued me much more than the actual comics, but again: Creativity In General = Good. One of the years was more of a nightmarish waste than the others. Whatever.

In, I think, ‘99 or ‘00, I rode down with P. (as in, the first P. with whom I attended the Con, but the second P. in chronological order of acquaintance). We did a day-trip and spoke much of the woefully vanished S. It was that typical hot drive. He had a black Jetta. I think we did about four or five hours down there, then turned around and drove back. We didn’t bother with volunteering; we had a little bit of money (finally), so we simply waited in the evil-long line (we’re talking perhaps forty- or fifty-thousand people!) and paid and did everything legitimately. How boring. I don’t recall what we saw or did, but I do recall that it still wasn’t as insanely crowded as it is now, and I enjoyed wafting about the building, admiring the costumes. I think that was also the year that I closed off the day by finding the table of the artist-heartbreaker-jerk, making darned sure she saw me, and then not saying hello. That felt good. I haven’t seen her since. She draws well, but she’s a total idiot in all other discernible ways. I think P. and I ate something good on the way back. Who knows.

By that point, I had attended the Con four or five times, and was starting to get the hang of it. It no longer dazzled me. I liked it, though, and had been transferring my affection to its sort of smaller sister-Con, the L.A. one, which is held pretty much monthly. At the L.A. one I’d buy Star Wars crap (got a vintage X-Wing in perfect condition with Luke pilot also in perfect condition; five bucks; ain’t complaining) and stare at the guests and whatever. Fave experiences include when they trotted out all the guests for that P.O.S. Lost In Space movie (got to ask Gary Oldman why he always plays rotten bastards; he didn’t provide a satisfactory answer — also got to ask the dipshit screenwriter if the Jupiter Two would ever visit The Vegetable Planet; my fave episode by a light-year; dipshit merely mocked the question and didn’t answer) plus a truly awesome moment: Filled with Del Taco semi-food, I was walking through the sun-blast back toward the doors of the Shrine just as Adam West and Frank Gorshin were exiting after several hours of signing their names on glossies of their younger selves for twenty bucks a pop. “Where do you want to go now?” asked West. “Let’s go get drunk!” replied Gorshin.

Meanwhile, down in San Diego, something had happened: Lord of the Rings had overtaken the public fantasy consciousness (and it wasn’t hurting Saul Zaentz’ wallet any, either). I may have skipped a year or two, but suddenly there were Hobbits all over the place. Maybe 2002? Oh yeah, no, in 2002 I think I went with S. & N. — a persnickety German couple who bought my shit-Escort to use as a beater while they roamed California as architecture interns (then they each bought classic Mustangs to ship back to Germany at enormous expense). N. didn’t go in, but S. did, and somewhere I have a copy of the drawing I made of him, holding his first lightsaber. But Rings was really the thing. Of course Ian McKellen was always showing up as well — either to support his buddy Bryan, or to plug LotR. By this point I was a Real Journalist (albeit barely) and so I entered via a legitimate Press Pass. This proved interesting. Rather than fearing the wrath of security goons (who love the brief dollops of Power afforded them by their station and especially earpiece), suddenly I was able to waggle my pass at them and walk straight into over-capacity rooms, straight up to the stage, and start videoing everything as if it were my job. Somewhere in a box here are a whole bunch of Hobbits cavorting all over the stage, leaving voice-mails on people’s cell-phones, whatever. (When I started attending Con, normal people simply did not carry telephones around with them; it was very, very rare! Can you even imagine that anymore?) Angie Voigt also showed up at Con one of those years (Tomb Raider or inferior sequel), but I didn’t particularly care. I later interviewed her for one of the silliest of her several Fake Vampire Dialect roles — as Alexander’s Mother, in Alexander. I still didn’t particularly care.

It was fun, though — suddenly having Sala Baker (whom I still owe twenty bucks — he signed two tenner autographs for me as “Sauron” — one for a friend — and he left out the comma, so it reads “FEAR NOT MY FRIEND” — which is pretty funny — and I was in such review-deadline delirium that I simply neglected to pay him) and various Hobbits and Elves and whatever around. I deeply enjoyed 2001-2003 due to the enormous prevalence of Lord of the Rings.

(Wonder if that magic may be reignited with the His Dark Materials trilogy? Saw the big polar bear yesterday. We’ll see!)

Possibly 2003 I drove myself down there on a Sunday (the lamest of the Con days), and met up with friend L. (who had spent WAY too much money on rare collectibles — not that I wasn’t going overboard on “Invisibility Spray Fozzie” and the like also) and ended up giving him a ride “home” to L.A. We stopped somewhere in Orange County and ate at some almost legitimate fresh-Mexican place where outdoor tables faced a parking lot and sort of very small park. It was kind of fun, in a modest way. I am remembering some guy dressed exactly like Liam Neeson in The Phantom Menace; I was simultaneously impressed and embarrassed. I also think that year I beheld shithead Dave Prowse for the first time in person (loser has way too much time on his boring old hands, and thus polices eBay for “forgery” autographs as if it is his job; c’mon guy: Act!) and Sam J. Jones of Flash Gordon fame. I didn’t speak with either. The whole Autograph Table thing still freaks me out a bit. Erin Gray is still pretty, though.

If you really want a celebrity’s autograph, you should corner them while they’re on the toilet; then it really means something.

I think I went to the Con in Indy — whatever it’s called — in 2003 as well. Nobody I knew wanted to go. I shot lots of video and stills of Sean Astin and Kenny Baker and whoever plays that blue Jedi chick and whatever. Didn’t buy much — again mostly LotR materials. Kind of enjoyed the Press privilege, though. And the vibe was pleasant. Emerged and told friend M. and his lovely family all about it; they seemed amused (and, perhaps, also relieved that they did not attend).

By that point, I was sort of a Con Pro.

In 2004 (I think) and 2005 and 2006 I went not to San Diego. Well, I went to meet my friend C. and his then-pre-fiancee for a wander and some dinner, but missed Con. Started noticing that it’s the same every year — just bigger, with slightly altered exhibits. Almost met a different friend S. for it (he describes himself as “Joss Whedon’s Bitch”), but motivation stalled. Too hot, too far, too crowded, whatever. I took to reading about the Con online, rather than actually going.

Something like that, anyway. That’s the gist of my Con experience. Aren’t you happy that you read all that?

(Reminder: The very next bit is simply weird satire.)

Hello again, readers and clickers-in! Neil here. I was just taking a break from receiving awards in order to be whimsical for a few moments, when suddenly it occurred to me that one of my several warehouses which deals exclusively in storage and maintenance of my trademark Black T-Shirts (also see: NeverWear booth; no, seriously) is managed (on the sly) by Gregory, right here in Southern California (in the States). Gregory never would have told you this hisself, as he still struggles to sustain his remaining cred as a Writer and thus doesn’t want too many people to know that he mainly toils as an hourly employee (part-time; no benefits) for Neil Gaiman Enterprises: T-Shirt Division. Feeling a bit silly, I rang him up and said, “Hey, Gregory — I’m tired and burdened with awards and really want my sushi and also happen to like kittens very much (Awwwww!) — but more to the point, have you got any particularly cool t-shirts over there?” So he searched, and he came up with one from my Guardian Angel Tour, 1999, for the See-Bee-El-Dee-Eff — otherwise known as the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund (which mainly concerns itself with posting bail when comic books go out and do naughty things). Apparently the t-shirt is unworn, too, and in perfect condition — simply because Gregory does not wear t-shirts, particularly ones with stuff on. Furthermore, it’s definitely not one of my trademark Black T-Shirts, owing to the simple fact that I don’t go around wearing clothing of myself (in public). Gregory doesn’t even know where it came from, actually, but I’m glad he mentioned it, and now I’m mentioning it to you. He has agreed to include a couple of images of it. Gotta go: Whimsy calls. Ta. -Neil (Gaiman).

Hi, Gregory back. Astute readers may note that the preceding paragraph is indeed a strange and largely unnecessary parody, revealed by the consciously-planted clue that it is outrageously unlikely that the real Neil Gaiman would employ the term “hisself” — unless writing dialect. Very good! You noticed! (And no — I don’t use “hisself” either; I don’t think I’ve ever heard anybody use it! My only experience with it, at all, was in primary school grammar books which pointed out that it was wrong, well duh, thank you very much. But I digress upon several digressions…)

Anyway, here are the photos of the t-shirt art, as promised…

front:

and back:

So there’s that. Pretty good — for a t-shirt. And it’s true: I really do not know how this t-shirt came to reside with me. It is welcome, though — as a reminder of good things.

Side-note: Apparently a line of fragrances based on Neil Gaiman is also being released this year. I’ll tell you what: I’ll leave the research on that particular topic to his groupies.

Before I continue, I’d like to note that the official Song of the Weekend is:

“Moondance” by Van Morrison.

(Heard it recently in Overpriced Natural Foods Market, smiled about friend P. in car taking survey of favourite movies in various genres, when asked my “scariest” movie, I replied, “Wall Street,” and when asked my fave horror movie, I replied “An American Werewolf In London“…which features “Moondance.” Plus, this weekend, all one need do is look up. How nicely it all connects.)

Okay, since lots of other people are “blogging” Comic Con and doing a great job of it — former colleague and his team are doing an excellent job in words and pictures, but conscience does not allow me to link to their efforts, since, even though they’re nice, they work for The Fascist Corporation — I’m going to focus here, for the remainder of this really ridiculously rambly post — on my Thursday swoop (with P. and J.) down and back, lickety-split. Also, unlike many, my camera is low-res and thus delivers somewhat abstract images (which I consider, compared to Super-High-Res-”Reality,” something of an accidental advantage), which is another reason that, if you want to know The Scoop On Con, you’d be better off seeking it in various elsewheres. Here’s but one I found: this guy is doing a good job.

Me, I’m gonna write my Con Thursday from a totally self-indulgent POV, in inconvenient installments, starting with this one:

Gregory’s Con Thursday, Part One: We’re Going? Really?

Sometime between nine and ten a.m., the telephone rang. I had been asleep for approximately five hours — not really enough — and when I looked at the number it did not immediately register. I got up anyway. I checked the message. I checked my email. Both said the same thing: My request for An Extra Seat on the business-trip of my dear friend P. and his producer-friend J. had been granted.

A heaviness immediately set in. I’m doing all right, but once all the bills had been paid, I was looking at a very tight next couple of days. Going to Con is pricey. Would I? Should I?

I decided that I should — and furthermore that I would…somehow. Myra “Tori” Amos’ lyric, “I’ve got twenty-five bucks and cracker do you think it’s enough to get us there?” from “Silent All These Years” ran through the still-limited quantity of functioning synapses. It was either a hot day here of feeling off-track and lonely, or else just fling self into the fray down there in Geekopolis. Obviously, the latter won. I called P., and he said to meet him at his place — most of the way across L.A. — at one p.m.

Hm.

Three hours. Beats the hell out of three minutes.

(From this point forth, we’ll go with present tense.)

Scraping together some buckage, I begin to assemble my very limited Master Plan for what, I figure, will turn out to be the next couple of days. Hotels ain’t cheap, the likelihood of vacancy within a ten-mile radius of the Con pretty slim. But I’d better pack extra clothes anyway. And don’t forget blazer. Yes, it can be the subtly floral one, the vintage ’80s one. But a blazer is vital. Check. Then the food. Hummus wraps and a bag of herbal salad and soy-yogurts and tea and VitaminWater and three bananas, two apples and an orange. In other words, just enough to make sure that one of the handles on my canvas tote-bag rips within five minutes of entering the Con (but I’m getting ahead of myself).

[Okay, stayed up significantly past dawn writing other things such as this; am very sleepy; more soon; good day...]

Permalink Comments

Thursday of the Gods

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 3:59 am by Gregory

Hi. Gregory. Back already.

We Conned it — P. and J. and I. I’ve been going, erratically, for years — and this was the best, and by far the most concentrated, Comic Con experience I have ever had.

Revelled among the revellers.

Talked shop with Brian Froud.

Stardust soiree avec Gaiman.

That sort of very happy thing.

Spoke with someone I have been finding quite beautiful.

(That was the best of all.)

I apologise for the harsher bits of the Gaiman mockery; he is a sensitive fellow; I, at times, am not — or am more directly assertive about discomfort and its origins, or something. In truth, I am simultaneously wowed by his works and acutely aware of their original sources — and I have a tendency to afford that which I respect and/or enjoy the harshest scrutiny. Plus his public persona is growing more amusing with the years. Thus the wily mock. However, Neil Gaiman is at once a nice person and a leading candidate for Coolest Guy In The World, and as happenstance had him standing right next to me during the climax of Stardust this evening, I realised — with his black-leathered left elbow two inches from my right ear — that he’s pretty much the epitome of the older brother I have always wanted. So that explains that. Around 1990, when he was rising to meet his impressive and expansive literary potential, I was feeling assailed by an enormous absurdity and thoughtlessness in the Universe — and thus there is a part of me that feels mildly snarky about someone who has cultivated such a lovely life and career whilst I haven’t even been particularly fortunate with receiving an “All right” to “How about dinner?” It’s more strange in that I didn’t really choose Gaiman’s presence as an artist: It actually feels, to me, as though his work appeared and has lingered in order to goad me to do better work of my own. Pardon if that’s gushy, but there it is. On Thursday night I thanked him sincerely for the inspiration of his efforts (it’s nice of him to sustain congeniality in the midst of flagrant thanking), and that felt good. I’m already comfortable and confident with my own work, however I think I needed to find an artist (an artist actually alive) to appreciate and to thank, in order to take some of the weight off my own shoulders — to go: Okay, you did that wonderfully — and yet there is much more left to do. Does that make any sense? I may write again in quasi Gaiman-speak, simply because it is pretty funny (and I’ll leave up the previous sample in order to reveal, in one tiny way, how good feelings can sour slightly and then turn right around again) — but the bottom line on this curious topic is that I’m really happy that Gaiman is around and doing such excellent and provocative work in the realm of the imagination; may he and his kittens have as much sushi as they like!

A proper report on this wild Con adventure will follow shortly, but in the meantime here’s a photo, just to give The Folks At Home a taste:

This from the WETA Ray Guns exhibit, promoting old-school sci-fi and rampant sexism. Photo not selected on basis of firearms (not even fantastic ones; loathe ‘em all); but rather on bases of: A. It’s an attention- (and very possibly crotch-) grabber; B. These are not actual humans, and thus the anthropomorphic titillation isn’t stealing anyone’s fire; and C. It’s one of the few photos I snapped (on my woefully low-res camera) which actually look like I paused for two whole seconds to choose a suitable angle.

Permalink Comments

07.25.07

COMIC CON GUEST BLOGGER: NEIL GAIMAN!!!!

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:41 pm by Gregory

Hello, ladies and gentlemen. This is actually Gregory (Neil will be up in a moment). I am reasonably well-established as a second-tier movie critic (won an award once; half a million words published), and yet I am generally not particularly famous and certainly not at all rich, and my writing credits, thus far, include some sketch comedy and a couple of plays from my teen years, some eyeball-searingly bad screenplays from my undergrad years, a clutch of short stories and poems, vast epistolary tracts, and a First Novel nobody has seen yet because I’m wrangling the copyright issues because it’s actually quite good and once it’s out there it’s gonna take off and I’d rather not have my second book be about all the legal problems I had with my first book.

In addition, coerced by various friends and associates, I started doing this…this…this enormously self-indulgent online-journal thingy a couple of years ago (give or take) because…well…because there really wasn’t much else to do, and I had given up snowboarding forever. I learnt some things, too, not just about the world and myself (free-flowing through a spectrum of effervescence and bitterness, often simultaneously, frequently clumsily, but indisputably persistently), but also about the nature of keeping a public web-journal — which is that it’s really quite similar to trying to contain one’s entire existence within a laptop computer…which one simply cannot. Thus, the angle here — at times reactionary, romantic, riled, ribald, ridiculous, rabid, rabbit, even (I love rabbits) — tends to be an acutely acute one: It simply isn’t The Whole Story.

Then again, it’s as honest as it can be, under the circumstances.

The reason I mention this is that — having endured some rather significant abuse from very badly behaved employers and “girlfriends” and the like — I have grown weary of explaining how terrible everything is. Sometimes it really is terrible — try wasting time with a wannabe actress and you will learn all sorts of new things about psychological horror — but above all it is wearisome. Like many of life’s obstacle courses, first it’s tragedy, then it’s comedy — then it’s damned boring.

Yes, even for me.

After spending all these words on these foul foibles, at last I can rein it all in with a tight little formula: You hand Them a nice piece of chocolate; in turn, They smash a large, fetid turd into Your face.

Q.E.D.

So…yeah: It’s finally down to a science…

[cue The Who's "Won't Get Fooled Again" here; set your turntables on 78 if you can, so it's funnier]

…and although I have decided to persevere with this process (I have opted to throw in my lot with Communication, rather than Non-Communication), this doesn’t mean that I need to waste any more time and energy on what I’ll call the Obvious Negatives. They’re pretty well covered. Plus I have learnt to duck. I’ll still snark out once in a while, as befitting this mad, mad (etc.) world — but I have decided, being of reasonably sound mind and pretty nice body too actually, to employ this mechanism less as a puke-receptacle (most people puke; it’s just a matter of where) and more as a Sacred, Spiritual Altar of the Great Spirit…

(…naw, kidding…)

…as a Garden of Pleasure.

(erm…)

…Citadel of Sensual Delight?

(ahh…)

Antechambre of Yum-Yum?

Well…

Let’s put it this way: At the age of four Earth-years, I produced my first variety show (on audio cassette), enlisting a couple of local friends to participate in the sketches and songs.

It was called: The Giggle Club.

Will this be that?

No; I doubt it.

But it may be a continuation of that.

The Grownup Version.

(Because I still totally love to giggle.)

And is The Giggle Club anything like The Ugly Stick?

No; it is not.

And why do I mention this at all?

Well, this whole ramble is actually an Introduction.

First of all, it is an Introduction to me (Gregory) taking a bit of time off from “blogging” (hate that “word”) — in many ways because most of my immediate circumstances and elements have been a total pain (leaf-blowers, ghastly girls, constant LOUD “emergencies,” wretched neighbours, killer SUVs, people generally being nasty on purpose — and worst of all, the crushing loneliness of “living” in a city where one’s friends are mostly movie-dorks and thus very, very rarely actually do anything that actual friends do, since they’re too busy “upgrading” every relationship for maximum personal gain). Note: I encounter very nice people every day — I really do — however in terms of intimacy and sincerity and consistency and heart, this is a rotten place to live, and my spirit is weary from that, plus I’m totally sick of writing about it, so I’m going to give it a rest.

We’ll be back with irregularly-scheduled Gregory in a few days. And no, I’m not in any way losing my grip. That merits stating simply because of what I’m going to do here during these next few days.

Thus beginneth the second Introduction:

I have decided, entirely for my own amusement, to “blog” Comic Con International XXXVIII as famed writer Neil Gaiman. In jest. As satire. For my own amusement.

Now here’s the thing: I like Neil Gaiman. He’s a hell of a writer, a pleasant human being, and kind of shockingly normal for an escaped L. Ron disciple (look it up).

Really, though, he’s pretty cool. Neil Gaiman became a part of my constellation of Personalities sometime in the early ’90s, with his very impressive 75-issue (plus) run of Sandman comics, and at one point I was working at the Golden Apple store on Melrose and he did a signing, and there he was, and so on. Years passed, and it seemed like he was always there, on the periphery — so I’d go to his events and readings and whatnot (one of the best was a reading of short stories he did on the Queen Mary — which I attended via a borrowed GTO that was more like an actual rocket). It seemed like I was always at some book fair or bookshop, and there was Neil. The most fun encounter (for me) was a couple of years ago at Henson studios, during which I interviewed both Dave McKean and Neil for their then-new movie, MirrorMask (seems like only yesterday; sniff!) — and I even omitted a couple of Neil’s comments because they didn’t present him the way he typically presents himself.

Well…

Once again, I like Neil Gaiman. When casting was afoot for Stardust, I emailed him anonymously, asking him who the casting director was. Within minutes — early on a Monday morning! — he got back to me with the proper info.

Nasty, selfish people do not do such things.

Thus, yes, once again, before I introduce our SATIRICAL “Guest ‘Blogger’” — I’d like to make it clear (no; not “Clear” — just regular clear) that no harm here is intended. I’m not bothered if Gaiman is chased around San Diego all day long by Hot Topic girls with prosthetic fangs and/or she-male groupies who’ve all, at one point or another, had Steven Tyler (and are looking to upgrade!) — for the traps and trappings of Outsider Chic are his worry. For me, here, this is more akin to Robert Smith of The Cure — I think he’s great fun, and I actually respect his work — and he is in certain ways an hilarious caricature of himself.

Hm.

With that in mind, and with no further ado…

Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome Guest “Blogger” NEIL GAIMAN!!!!

Hi. Wow. I just flew in from Manila and Oostende and Port-Au-Prince and East Grinstead – where they all love me. Everybody loves me. Have you noticed my hair? Looks a bit like a libidinous badger, don’t you agree? But it is cute. My hair is extremely cute. Have you seen my new kitten? Oh, there she is — luxuriating in my cute hair! Ha! Ladies, are you catching all this adorableness over here?

Sushi. I was promised sushi. Where is my sushi? I knew Douglas Adams personally.

Oh, these blasted interviews! Interviews! Interviews, interviews, interviews! (Oops!) It is so terribly difficult for me, being interviewed, and then being particularly brilliantly interviewed! Take pity on me! My life is so hard, being whimsical for huge pay and then being interviewed about it! (Oops!) Where is my sushi? Is my sushi here yet? Have you noticed that I wear all black? Pretty cool, eh? Like the hair? Cute, eh? I am so tired. Yet cute!

You there, please continue paying attention to me. Thank you. Harry Potter is based on Tim Hunter. I invented Tim Hunter. You do the math.

Kittens! You Gothic people enjoy kittens, don’t you? Well, so do I!

It is terribly difficult for me to travel first class all the time, all over the world, with a per diem only slightly larger than the annual salary of the average high school teacher. I have a nice iPod, though. It is the best iPod. Steve Jobs forged its casing for me from rarest fossilised Etruscan bone with his bare hands whilst he was hanging around one of Sting’s houses. Because I am Neil Gaiman, I get the best iPod; oh, how discourteous of me; please pardon; I am tired because flying first class is exhausting. Where’s my sushi? Tori Amos is my close friend. On my iPod are not only her songs, but All Songs, Ever — plus all three of the new feature-length films based on my works because Hollywood finally woke up and realised how mind-shatteringly cool I am. Sorry! Pardon. (I am English.) (Cute, eh?)

Tonight at Preview Night at the Comic Con I signed six hundred thousand books whilst waiting for the lift, checked out the 1:1 scale, talking Jabba, and then Roger Avary and I had our buttocks memorialised in Titanium alloy for special Collector’s Edition Fantasy Genius Buttock Maquettes (available Christmas ‘07; Zemeckis Buttocks sold separately) whilst doing forty-five simultaneous television interviews (pity me!) en route to a special advanced screening of clips from Beowulf in 3D, into which you could not get because you’re simply not as cool as I am.

Oh, but I jest; in fact I am excruciatingly humble and I shy away from attention as a kitten shies away from that which is not adorable — but I am adorable so apparently there’s no problem (note cute kitten in cute hair). Have you noticed that I am English? Cute, eh? In a few minutes, I need to board a plane (first class) to Ankara, where a massive statue of me in my dressing gown with a kitten atop each shoulder is being–

PAY ATTENTION! NEIL GAIMAN TALKING HERE!

Indeed, Madam, I would be most pleased to sign your bosom. Where is my sushi? I’ll be back tomorrow with another report.

Love

Neil

(That’s an order!)

Permalink Comments