More foxes at Cape Cod.
I’ve been gearing up for my next short, “Five Points,” which is about revenge of the roadkill on a really mean-nasty driver. It’ll be about five minutes and feature puppet zombie squirrels, and a monster truck (depending on where we shoot it). I think it’s funny and awesome. Everyone I’ve shown the script to has also thought it was awesome. So I of course have taken this as a moment to obsess and second guess and confusticate and neurosisize. I think that this is mostly about fear.
Pretty All the Time was so sweet and adorable—it seems like every second woman learned about sex from romance novels, and every single person in the world has had the experience of liking someone who didn’t like them back. Monks have had that experience. I bet that there are twin zygotes who get all desperate and go “why are you ignoring me?” to their brother or sister. And it dealt with body image, a little bit! It was easy for me to justify making it.
I was at home for Christmas, among my many (many) very accomplished cousins and relatives. My dad’s family is very big on the lawyer/doctor/policy spectrum, and I’m the only artist. (Let’s put the term “artist” to one side for the moment: yes it’s totally pretentious. Whatever. It’s also less cumbersome than “person who seeks to make her living from creating stuff out of her brain”.) To be blunt, I could win an Oscar for one of my films or scripts and still be beating myself up for not making a difference in the world as a…I don’t even know. Someone who makes her living by saving the world. An athletic AIDS doctor in Africa who designs malaria fly traps on the side.
But Five Points—Five Points has puppet zombie squirrels. It’s AWESOME. And hopefully hilarious. And I’m consumed with guilt for wanting to make something awesome and hilarious! I really, really bet that men do not have this problem. I’ve struggled for ten years with this problem: I pure and simple think that entertaining people and giving them a surcease from their problems for five minutes is valuable. Equally, I pure and simple feel that I should be making a positive difference in the world: this is, for the moment, limited to complaining on Facebook and donating to the ACLU every month.
Will update on my internal moral struggle as I make a kick-ass movie.
Susan G. Komen stopped its granting to Planned Parenthood.
Josh Fox (Gasland) got ARRESTED at a hearing on fracking at the behest of Republicans.
What the hell.
And then you go from the sublime to the ridiculous. Took him ten minutes tops to dismember his new stuffed squeaky toy, Templeton the Rat.
NYC is loud, crowded, smelly, occasionally angry, and filled from top to bottom with income inequality.
But also there’s heartbreaking beauty.
So Scalzi’s cute and well-named daughter, Athena, was handed an LP by her dad. He filmed it and stuck it up on Youtube, where a gazillion people watched it and then called it fake. Other people on the Internet saw it, started discussing it, and insulted Athena.
She’s thirteen. This is aggravating to me as a former 13-year-old girl. I mean, I suspect that Athena has had a less traumatic time as a 13-year-old than I had because she is waaaay more on the ball than I was at that age.
At the same time, Finslippy wrote about letting her hair grow grey and having been an object of catcalls, public masturbation, and just nastiness because of her external sex characteristic.
It’s not new, but Jesus. Sociopathy isn’t an attractive trait. It will not actually help you get laid; you are almost certainly related to someone who gave birth to you, who probably didn’t enjoy getting comments about her breasts or general attractiveness level.
In conclusion: I have no actual answers here. No solutions that are either quick or satisfying (like pretending I have dragon breath and can broil them on a stick). I dunno. Scalzi’s daughter is cute. Finslippy’s hair is grey. I hate sexism.