Another wonderful Cinema Wasteland has come and gone and, as usual, I feel like Spring has finally arrived. Of course, the temperature plummeted from 80 degrees down to around freezing, bringing with it snow flurries, hail, frogs, locust, the usual lake-effect results. But did that deter any of us? Nay! Nay, I say!
By Sunday, all of us suffering from two-day hangovers were greeted early in the near-noon by the great big flaming ball of death we like to call The Sun (which is a mass of incandescent gas…
), searing our blood-shot retinas and revealing to the world that those of us who hadn’t woken up in the same clothes had gotten dressed with the assistance of animated… not birds, the other things—boll weevils.
), searing our blood-shot retinas and revealing to the world that those of us who hadn’t woken up in the same clothes had gotten dressed with the assistance of animated… not birds, the other things—boll weevils. My personal highlight of the weekend was the surreal moment when mysterious bagpipers arrived and paraded through the bar. Nobody knew where these brave souls came from nor, later, where they went. Nor if they were indeed playing “Amazing Grace” or “Camptown Races”, NOR did it matter! Fortunately, my drunken shriek—“Oh, no! Terrible monsters are attacking those little old ladies!”—went unheard. No bagpipes were harmed during the making of that merriment.
Moments prior to the pipers and a mere half-hour before Jill of LixOnline asurped a corridor for some impromptu hula-hooping, there was some ill-advised inebriated rounds of Twister, wherein many a spectator learned that “Left Foot Red” and “barely-there thong” did not go, so to speak, hand in hand. The less said about the deafening echo the better, but a lightening storm of camera flashes lit up the lobby.
In the “I must be beloved or else I’d be pummel’d” Department, I twice discovered the nippy nature of the weather adverse to my liking, leading me to steal jackets right from the backs of exterior smokers—one person I knew, the other person I knew not. While I brought “borrowed” jackets right back upon my return from my car, I was met with only bemusement. That’s typical of the love amongst the Wastelanders.
My important lesson learned: never laugh while inhaling medicinal medication. It holds up the circle and yields much pointing and mocking. And you risk burning your fingers as you attempt to pass. Also, for future reference, it is ill-advised, after meeting 42nd Street Pete
’s daughters, to refer to them directly as “The Spawn of Pete”. Neither of them appreciates it.
’s daughters, to refer to them directly as “The Spawn of Pete”. Neither of them appreciates it.Amy and I participated in two film projects—a Canadian-helmed mockumentary starring Rachelle Williams and a non-mocking documentary about Chris Seaver’s Low Budget Pictures oeuvre. As a reward for our participation in the latter, we were given screener copies of two of the newest LBP productions, Deathbone and the oddly touching Geek War, both of which were written, performed and edited by Seaver and company in the car on the way to the show. Six more were filmed in the elevator prior to their screening of I Spit Chew On Your Grave
.
. All attempts for Michael Varrati, Amy and I to speak only in exposition were thwarted by the demons rum, vodka and “Shut the fuck up!”
The ever-ubiquitous Troma booth was oddly subdued, possibly due to the absence of your Uncle and Mine, Lloyd Kaufman. He was greatly, greatly missed by fans and friends and acquaintances alike. I myself missed being accused of homosexual activity any time I attempted to pass by. And I mean that with all of my heart.
Attention Tom Savini, we have your grandson. In case you were wondering.
To all bootleggers: while I neither condone nor condemn your behavior (not officially, anyway), the MPAA is not a law enforcement organization. If someone comes to your table brandishing an “MPAA Badge” and “confiscates” some of your product, it’s a scam. Please feel free to accompany them outside with your largest neighbors and reduce them to pavement stains. (Legally, I neither condone nor condemn physical violence. Assholery, on the other hand, is not something of which I am a fan unless I am the perpetrator. And even I have more class than that.) If they identify themselves as F.B.I. and their credentials look legitimate, I offer my congratulations for stimulating the economy in such a way that the big boys have taken notice—Kudos!
For Happy Cloud Pictures, it was a banner event, for we unveiled the 10th Anniversary DVD of a little thing we like to call The Resurrection Game, along with the companion Dead Life Graphic Novel and annotated screenplay / scrapbook. Records show that we gave away more DVDs than we actually sold but that’s primarily due to the fact that nearly everyone in attendance had something to do with this release in one way or another. The included documentary features many faces familiar to the Wasteland family, including Mario Dominick (“Films on the Fringe”), Michael Felsher (Red Shirt Pictures), Art Ettinger (Ultra Violent Magazine) and the immortal 42nd Street Pete. (If you haven’t ordered your copy yet, you’re the only one. And don’t you feel foolish?)
Even Manic-Depressive C'Thulu loves CINEMA WASTELAND!
