so i do
what i do
when i'm through
then i'm through
and i'm through
bye bye, mein lieber herr
farewell, mein lieber herr
it was a fine affair
but now it's over...
Like sands through the hourglass, so goes my first summer at home back from college. Or the Days Of Our Lives. Take your pick (but please, no Stefano for me). So, you ask, what HAVE I learned from a month away and a summer of excess?
1) Nepotism is not your friend. I worked for my father this summer, in a dead-end job, doing computer filing work. Four hours a day, eight bucks an hour, five days a week. Excellent money. Horribly boring. And don't get me started on "Project: Organize My 2000 PowerPoint Slides Jason," which left me three hundred bucks richer but sucked away weeks of my life, and perhaps, scraps of my eternal snow-white (HA!) soul. Find something you WANT to do, outside of your home, and by God don't work for your dad. New Year Resolution #1:Work in film-related field, with film-related job next summer.
2) Ideal body weight is not ideal body weight. Het and homo have different standards of fat and thin. I may meet the het one, but upon viewing "Hedwig & The Angry Inch" and "Velvet Goldmine" I can only conclude that I am a sorry, sorry excuse for thin in Queerland. I'm not fat by any means, no; I've yet to hit 160 and I'm just about six feet, and everybody says I'm perfectly thin and fine, but I also am nowhere near the chiseled, heroin-waif/smoked-crack-at-age-10 look that boiprinces the likes of Michael Pitt and Jonathan Rhys-Meyers seem to have perfected. And let's not even mention Vincent Kartheiser. So yes, I want to look a bit like those boys, and yes, I feel some pressure from that bullshit 'thin' standard they've created, and yes, I hate it very much and yes, I hate that I'm buying into it even a little, but no, I will not let it consume me and brainwash me. However, as a matter of health and the overwhelming fear of taking on the pear-like proportions of my beloved father--not to mention the necessity of keeping my crooked spine from making me a hunchback; long story, don't ask-- I could stand to start my exercise regimen, lamentably absent for the past twelve months, again. New Year Resolution #2: Ease way back into world of fitness as way to perfect aura of underage sex god. Do not become anorexic. Do not use pictures of Michael Pitt for encouragement. Do not turn to cocaine as the 2Ks answer to Weight Watchers. Do not take on Karen Carpenter/Tracey Gold/"Close Encounters Of The Third Kind"-esque proportions. Rinse. Repeat.
3) I am twenty as of the fifth of August. New Year Resolution #3: You are twenty. Please accept. Ease way into projected manner of responsible adulthood, though it may be furthest thing from truth. Say things like 'portfolio' and 'pragmatic.' Write check occasionally (note: do not cash for fear of utterly ruining fledgling bank account and being hunted down like mongrel dog by internal revenue service).
4) "The Real World" and "Big Brother" show you the way. Not because of any hard-hitting, well-done documentary work; God, no--instead, because they show you the kind of mental and emotional monstrosities that make me absolutely terrified of becoming like them, particularly when I see tiny pieces of myself in some of them. Bunky, the sobbing deposed queen of the Big Brother house, mewling to Dark Mistress Nicole that "I just want people to talk to me" and whining that he'll try not to stop on anyone's toes. There's me in that. Rachel the Idiot Girl on "The Real World," bullied into corners regularly by the twin hydras of Coral and Nicole. "I'm afraid to be alone with you!" she sobs. "You take the jokes too far!" Hee hee! Sorry. ahem. Anyway, yes, these people have some massive hang-ups, some of which frighten me because as I laugh at their pseudo-existential pain I recognize some of those honking issues lurking in my brain. So, yes, I am learning from this crap. New Year Resolution #4:Do not be like Bunky and Rachel. Do not cry and wonder if you are campus pariah. Do not obsess about social bankability. Realize these are lingering traces of childhood issues and cope with them. Exorcise inner suction-cup car window Garfield once and for all.
5) Learn to finish what you start. I have yet to complete a full script. Lots of big pieces dangling around, but nothing done yet. I'm sure with time and learning will come success, but right now it's aggravating, particularly seeing as I took on a friend's work and--well, it's just not the best of best laid plans, ja ne (God I hope that's the right Japanese) ? New Year Resolution #5:Complete full screenplay. Honor any and all scriptly commitments. Make no further scriptly commitments to others for many, many moons.
Okay, screw those. I'll think of more later but can't now.
So, yes. Hedwig. Saw. Loved. Michael Pitt. Oh, my God. Oh. My. God. Also: John Mitchell looks amazingly like Cate Blanchett in his Hedwig getup. Favorite line:" He sucked, from this MILKLESS TEAT, everything there is to know about this business we call show!"
Otakon. Anime convention. Went to it. THAT was different. Let me tell you, kids of kids of kids, my left foot was FALLING. OFF. by Saturday night. We (moi and friends) were staying at a motel several miles outside of downtown Baltimore, and so there was taxis to deal with, and then walking all up and down the massive convention center, trying to meet people, trying to find people, trying to go to screenings, trying to go through the Dealers Room...a mess. To my non-surprise, the foot stopped hurting within hours of my return home Sunday night. I was pretty sure it was mostly stress-induced. I was right. Highlight moments: Attempting to rave in the square-foot of "rave" space on my dying, pain-wracked foot, with the fortysomething overweight Otakon staffer twirling around like Stevie Nicks in the "Rock a Little" days a few feet away. Spending somewhere around seven hundred dollars in the Dealers Room (NEVER. again.). Dodging the over-perspiring, under-dressed chicas and chicos dressed like Sailor Moon, Trigun, Rei Ayanami, and that one guy from Gundam Wing, in that order. Staring in dull placidity as my friend of a friend told us that he couldn't retrieve his car keys from the slumtown lot he left the vehicle in at 3 AM Friday night in *downtown.* *Baltimore.* I know I bitch too much and so despite those moments, I have to say it was a blast and I am SO going back. I got a lot of great shit and met a lot of lovely people and saw a lot of kickass shows and films. As Smithers would say:"I'll see YOU at StacyCon 2002 in the Los Vegas Airport Hilton!"
I should be writing this in a few days, when I'm back at school in Santa Fe (I leave Friday--this is Tuesday the 21st) , ensconced and ready for my new FULL LOAD OF CLASSES INCLUDING AT NIGHT the FOLLOWING MONDAY OH MY GOD HELP ME! but I prefer to do it now. Just to do a bit of a summer wrap-up thingamabob, I guess. It's true; I learned the most this summer sitting on my ass watching reality TV. Don't ask me why. It just is. I had all these philosophical bullshit insights planned but I find that they all ended up in my Resolutions.
Cabaret. Good movie. Go Liza Minnelli. RAWK! on, Joel Grey. Bob Fosse eez crazy, crazy director man. Must see Jennifer Jason Leigh/Alan Cumming version.
One of these days I'll discuss the MTV 20th Anniversary Farce, as I don't think I have yet. All part of my campaign to destroy MTV, blissfully ignorant to the fact that if I actually succeeded I'd have nothing to watch and would be crying like a overused Parisian whore.
My summer was lazy and simple and fun and boring and probably more than a little ill-spent. But I'm happy with it. I'm scared but mostly ready to go back to school, too, today more than ever. Not because I'm sick of here, but because I think I'm just ready to tackle things and people again. Sloth and safe was nice, but it's time to have some *managed, engaging* sloth, and even a little danger, in my life again. Because when I'm through, then I'm through, and I'm through--toodle-oo! It was a fine affair, mein herr, but now it's over--and I'm off to my desert mirage, and my wonderful little pocket-size room, and my insomnia and my coffee and my beautiful dime-store chicken Caesar salads...give me it all, babycakes. I'll eat it and I will never, ever complain again.
Next month: College life again, for better or for worse--one hopes the former; more Real World/Road Rules trashing; ruminations on anime, cartoon boobies, and the cultural divide; movie fanboys and film students, and the divine and holy SCRIPT!
and though i used to care,
i need the open air,
you're better off without me, mein herr--
Jason Hoffman is a bisexual twenty-year-old Film major and sophomore at the College of Santa Fe in Santa Fe, New Mexico. He originally hails from the bonny gravel and mud of Washington, D.C, or more accurately Chevy Chase (yes, you heard right), Maryland, a suburb just outside the city, which lives up to its reputation as a bourgeoise fascist paradise. He is overly single and hugs his stuffed monster Blinky and girl friends for vicarious comfort. Ask him about Peter Gabriel, Bjork, or Tori Amos and get a kiss. Ask him about Neon Genesis Evangelion and get a smack in the face and a "Shinji-kun is MINE!!" Jason is by trade a writer, screenwriter to be exact, but you wouldn't know it from his lack of output. E-mail him (me) at email@example.com.