no. (roses_rejoice) wrote,

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Back before you knew me well, I was trapped inside a shell

Last Friday - yes I'm still back on last Friday - deal with it mofos - anyway, last Friday I and about 100 other people failed to get into "The Great Happiness Space: Tales of an Osaka Love Thief," which was playing at the Silverdocs festival, cuz it was sold out. This just confirmed several life lessons I should have already had down pat, namely 1) do not go to movies on a Friday or Saturday night because that's when one million idiots go and fill the theatre, 2) do not go to the AFI Silver at all unless you have an advance ticket because it's a gigantic hassle to get there in the first place and plus they're annoying in that they tend to show movies for all of one or two days so it's too easy to miss stuff, and 3) do not EVER go to "independent film festivals" because not only do they sell out, but "film people" are so annoying they make every indie rock person including Pitchfork writers seem like the sort of folks I'd like to take home for family dinner by comparison. I checked out the festival website hoping to see something about "Great Happiness" given that people were beating down the doors to see it, and all I saw was crud about Martin Scorsese and Al Bore. I have nothing against Al but I couldn't care less about "An Inconvenient Truth" and the demons in me keep wanting to say, "Al, you lost the election, OK? Now please pipe down."

Anyway, "Great Happiness" is this documentary about young Japanese gigolos who get paid thousands of dollars a night by young Japanese girls...and they don't even sleep together, they just get drunk and party together. I find this fascinating because while I think dude on the poster is cute enough (at least the way he's done up on the poster - he's less attractive in the trailer), I don't think he's cute enuf to be worth several grand a night, and if you're gonna throw money around like a drunken sailor to cheer yourself up, I think you'd be better off just buying another Hello Kitty handbag. But yung wimmenz seem to have this weird need to fall obsessively in love with somebody, and that I can sadly understand. Thank heaven nobody I used to be crackers about ever charged two grand a night. I prolly would have paid it at least once, and then have yet more reasons to hate Them and Me the Way I Used to Be.

I was somewhat put out about missing the movie, especially since the ass in back of me who didn't even know the name of the flick beat me to the lone scalper before I could open my mouth, and then I had to spend a couple hours riding around on public transportation with Young City Ppl Going Out For Friday Night, all of whom are massively loathesome and make me wish I was driving so I wouldn't have to listen to them prattle on...and on...and on...i swear most females never shaddap, yanno? And then having to come back to the office complex which was, as usual this time of year, awash with prom and graduation kids in their formals come down to see the river, I hate that, they should all fall in it and float away IMHO. Ah well, hopefully the flick will get a distro soon and come back and play someplace sivilized like the Landmark E.

Saturday night after werk I went to see Tommy Keene, who is a most eggzcellent guitarist btw, and whose show was very good, especially his out-of-character encore of "Kill Your Sons" that I almost missed the last bus to see. I did have a bit of a turn when I was standing around waiting for TK to hit the stage and I heard "Hyacinth Girl" by Winter Hours coming over the PA.

...They're falling like daisies just tell them we're through,
The girl at the window still waits
She doesn't turn away, burn away turn away
She'll never forget those three months dyinnnng...
Comb out your long black hair
We'll ride the wind till someone wa-a-ay-a-ay-a-aykes us
They called u the Hyacinth Girl
White flower alone in the woods
They called you the Hyacinth

After 20 years I still have no idea what that song is all about and I still remember most of the words, in some little semi-forgotten drawer of my brain. I see myself, not so different from those little Japanese girls dreaming of Issei the gigolo, listening to that in my 'rents living room, looking out at the snow and feeling unbearably sad and alone myself - a feeling that permeated several years to the point where I can't place the exact time, my outfit or what was going on except it wasn't good. I wasn't loved back. Does one ever "get over" this? Apparently not if you're me, not totally.

Fortunately, that record came to an end after its three or whatever minutes were up.

These are places that are gone. Now we can go on and on.
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