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  Trying Not To Think About It

8 May 2000

9:59 PM: Once again I tried to see a movie at the Sony Metreon, and once again it was sold out. Funnily enough, only two shows were sold out: Romeo Must Die, which we were trying to see and which only shows twice each day, and Gladiator, clearly the big draw film of the weekend. And only one other movie was playing any time in the next hour: Frequency.

We were speculating that New Line Cinema was kicking money back to Loews, the chain that runs the Metreon, to funnel people into see Frequency. It sure worked - the theater was packed, and with a bunch of teenagers and other unsavory types, who I don't really think came out that evening with the idea of seeing a tender-hearted, for-god's-sakes-don't-call-it-science-fiction movie about the bond between a father and a son. I could be wrong, of course.

In any case, Frequency did turn out to be a good flick. Credibility was a little bendy. But if you granted them a few basic futzes, the rest of it was worked out with unusual care and imagination, for a mainstream film. Peter Braunstein's article in Feed pegs it: life is science fiction anymore. It's just that no one dare call it that, because the term means nothing to most people but spaceships, bad dialogue and whizbang special effects. And to think we were excited when Star Wars came out for how it would revitalize the genre...

Worked this weekend, though mostly only Saturday instead of both days, a nice surprise. I was closer to finishing than I thought. Saturday night I came home from the bar and started reading Patriarch's Hope, the new Seafort book by David Feintuch. I put it down around, oh 8:30 Sunday morning. Oosp. I'd forgotten how compulsive those books were. Is it a Good book? I dunno. It's still a weird combination of elements. There's a lot about the main character that's just absolutely repulsive, but he spends so much time reviling himself, it somewhat defuses the issue. Of course, he also spends most of his time dealing with the shiny-eyed worship of nearly everyone he's ever met - all the way to a Laying On of Hands scene with the beloved Masses. Oy. But it's still fun, and man, does Feintuch believe in killing people off. He should write for Joss Whedon.

Today is bla. Tomorrow's my birthday. Bla.

Willfully blind self-indulgent nebbish or amusingly quirky old coot? And how bout that local sports team? Discuss among yourselves.

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