movies

Monday various

House on Haunted Hilton

I took the subway from Penn Station this morning, uptown to the Hilton, where I was helping out for a few hours at an adolescent psychiatry conference we were attending. I didn’t have too much trouble finding the hotel, only getting turned around a little when I first emerged on the street — something I seem incapable of not doing every time I take the subway. (Manhattan’s essentially a grid of uptown/downtown, east side/west side, but I have a lousy sense of direction, thrown for a loop practically every time I wander underground.)

Then again, finding the hotel was a piece of cake compared to finding the exhibit hall where we were selling our books. That place is a maze.

A co-worker arrived to take my place a little before noon, and I headed back to the office, risking the subway a second time. And from there, the day progressed like pretty much any other. I sent some manuscripts out for review, received a review back, and had a perfectly ordinary afternoon.

Then this evening, I wandered downtown — walking this time — to join some friends for pizza and a live simulcast of House on Haunted Hill by the Rifftrax gang. They were joined by comedian Paul F. Tompkins for the movie and a couple of shorts (equally terrifying and hillarious). There was a brief moment of panic when I realized I’d forgotten to print my ticket — and the again, when the machine didn’t recognize either my credit or theater points card — but we got it sorted out at the ticket booth, and I didn’t have to head home in shame. (The theater was pretty crowded; I don’t know if it was sold out, but that’s a distinct possibility. That definitely happened at their first live show, where they had to show itbon two screens.)

Then I hopped on the subway — seriously, I usually don’t even have a MetroCard, much less one that gets used this much in a day — and only just made the train home. I believe the phrase “skin of my teeth” may come into play. And so my many thanks to the annoying (and possibly drunk) teens who were rushing to get on the same time…and therefore keeping the train from closing its doors for that second or two I needed to get on. (I wrote this on the train, which is more fun than writing it in Penn Station, waiting almost an hour for the next train, and not getting home until after midnight.)

I’m glad that tomorrow’s Friday. It’s been an oddly long week.

Thursday various

  • There’s water on the moon. What are we waiting for? [via]
  • I have to admit, when people talk about Doctor Who continuity, I just laugh and laugh and laugh. Case in point, the tempest in a teapot over how many regenerations the Doctor gets. Russell T. Davies, who recently changed it to 507, says:

    There’s a fascinating academic study to be made out of how some facts stick and some don’t—how Jon Pertwee’s Doctor could say he was thousands of years old, and no-one listens to that, and yet someone once says he’s only got thirteen lives, and it becomes lore. It’s really interesting, I think. That’s why I’m quite serious that that 507 thing won’t stick, because the 13 is too deeply ingrained in the public consciousness. But how? How did that get there? It’s fascinating, it’s really weird. Anyway, that’ll be my book in my retirement!

    Frankly, I sort of feel about it the same way I do when I read arguments like this, that Stephen Moffat’s characters are all Mary Sues. That’s an interesting and amusing idea, but it sort of ignores the fact that he — and in the case of the 507, Davies — is creating the show. It’s not fan fiction, it’s canon.

    And it was a canon that was ridiculously, horribly, gloriously, convoluted when they were both just fanboys watching it from behind the couch.

  • Kate Beaton on Dracula:

    Here we have Bram Stoker’s Dracula, a book written to tell ladies that if you’re not a submissive waif, society goes to hell and ungodly monsters are going to turn you into child killing horrors and someone is going to drive a bowie knife through your heart/cut off your head/etc. As you deserve! Thanks Bram! I wrote it down so as to remember it.

    There’s a little more going on it the book, but yeah, she’s not wrong.

  • Money Talks Louder Than Ever in Midterms. Looking at how campaign finance works now, thanks to decisions like Citizens United. It isn’t exactly pretty. [via]
  • And finally, Terry Gilliam’s next movie? No, not that Don Quixote adaptation he refuses to let go of? A filmette for NASCAR.

    With this and the recent Arcade Fire concert webcast — as well the opera he’s reportedly going to stage — Gilliam does seem to be picking some very weird, much smaller projects. Maybe he’s just trying to keep busy until some new kind of funding comes along?

Wednesday various

A scanner darkly

I woke up dark and early this morning to do that thing everybody loves to do on their weekend: go get an lower lumbar MRI. As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been having some increased discomfort and referring pain that might be a result of my herniated disc, but before we do anything else we need to take a look at a new scan and see if that really does look to be the cause.

So I woke up, showered, and drove over to the radiology place five minutes away. The one good thing about going out before 7 a.m. on a Saturday is that there’s practically no traffic. I was the first patient of the day, and I actually had to ring the buzzer to be let in.

The scan itself went smoothly. I didn’t luck out with an open MRI, but this is a different place than where I went before, and the machine was a little more comfortable. I’m not especially claustrophobic, though the MRI does seem designed to take you right up to that edge. Both times before, I’ve found that my arms get pinned a little uncomfortably, the chute down the middle being a little too narrow for them to rest comfortably at my side. That wasn’t so much an issue today, thankfully, and the scans themselves were a lot quicker. I’m not entirely sure why that is — a different machine, more specific prescription, better operator? — but I’m hoping whatever they show will suggest our next course of action.

I think I’d prefer it to be the disc, just since that’s a known quantity, and the alternatives that leap immediately to mind are a lot less appealing, but we’ll see what the doctor says on Tuesday. I have a CD of the scans to bring with me, since they weren’t going to make it to him if sent by mail. (I’m glad I asked on my way out.)

I came home and watched a little television, then caught up on a little sleeping. I tried to do some writing today, too — for most of the day, actually — but this particular story I’m working on has me kind of in the weeds, trying to figure it out. I like it, although it still feels kind of directionless, and I’m not really sure how to end it. The submission deadline is in a little over a week; I could probably rework it for something else if I miss that deadline, but I’d really like to try it there first. We’ll see. More writing this week, I expect.

Then this evening, I watched Temple Grandin, which I missed when it was on HBO. It really is a terrific movie, most of all for Claire Danes’ astounding performance. I have no great familiarity with autism, although I’ve read many raves from people who do — including my sister, who works with autistic children all the time. All I know is, Danes is captivating, and her performance never feels like a cheap gimmick, like “hey look at me! I’m playing disabled!” It’s an inspiring story, and Danes’ portrait of Grandin is fearless.