Lonely Day

Today was horribly, horribly lonely for me. Although it is unfair to say that without qualifying that today had its good parts. But understand that the good parts consisted of my parents celebrating the anniversary of thirty-three years of married life (not helping with my feelings of acute loneliness) and my dear friend Paul’s wedding announcement phone call (also, not with the helping).

All day I was surrounded by swarms of people, yet felt completely isolated. Bell jar styles. Entirely my fault, really. I was in a black mood from the moment I rolled out of bed, and I spent the day pursuing my own freakish little interests, all by myself. Went alone to the Toronto Comicon for a couple of hours, just to get my bearings for tomorrow, and then stayed up late watching the live performance of ‘Evil Dead: the Musical’, also alone.

At the Comicon, I didn’t take any spending money, and didn’t really try to meet people (although I did have a decent talk with Janet Hetherington of Lulu fame, and discussed fonts and child-friendly comics with her partner Ronn Sutton who pencils Elvira). Every time I go, I find I’ve forgotten what big, geeky conventions are like. So many people, so much noise, so many obsessions. Masses of people wearing odd smelling combinations of leather and felt and wool, and The Masquerade isn’t even until tomorrow.

I used to find this atmosphere incredibly charming and relaxed, especially when going on my own. Everyone you met was a potential friend through shared interests and the bonds of nerd-dom: everybody just letting their fake green hair down, expressing their individual passions and kinks in a comfortable, safe environment. I was one of them. There were many young women today who reminded me of me at 14, but I wasn’t feeling that connection. Conversation with my fellow redhead Alex, Purveyor of Buttons and Partner in Crime, was a great comfort. Eventually, however, I had to leave her be so she could flog her wares, and I set up wandering aimlessly through the hordes again. I experienced some difficulty navigating the Artists’ Alley, which is my favorite section, due to a desire to avoid causing discomfort. Hopefully will do better tomorrow.

Left the convention at around 8:30pm, to avoid the closing rush and because the solitude of crowds was starting to choke me and my feet were sore (people kept stepping on the back of my flip-flops all day). The soreness and solitude continued as I decided to walk back to my place and make a detour along Queen Street — not the best idea. Sat down and cried for a while in a park on the way home. When I got back, there was the sound of tumbleweeds rolling over my answering machine. Nobody had returned my calls, so I indulged in about three minutes of abject self-pity until the phone rang, and who should it be but my friend Paul.

Cutting to the chase of the matter, he told me he had asked his long-time girlfriend Amy to marry him five days ago and they’ve planned the wedding to take place in less than two months. I am ecstatic for Paul, and supremely happy to be going to his wedding since there is no question I will have a good time, but I have to admit I was having some trouble mustering the necessary “huzzah!” tone in my voice. Call it a little girl fantasy if you will, but I was sort of hoping by the time Paul decided to tie the knot, I wouldn’t have to attend solo. Just sort of brought the loneliness of the day to a new low.

I had to cut the phone call short to run off to the Tranzac Club and get my reserved ticket for Evil Dead. The advantage to going to shows alone is that there is never any trouble finding good seats. I had a perfectly clear, close-up view of Ash beheading his girlfriend, and his demon-possessed sister taunting him from the chained cellar door was right at my eye-level. The production was marvelous. Although a couple of the musical numbers were weak, and the second act lost some of the momentum of the first, it was well worth the $17 admission. The actors were hilarious and had decent singing voices, the band tight, and the staging inspired. I have to give it two evil, severed thumbs up.

It’s two-thirty am. I’m sleepy. There’s a cold breeze coming in my window from the street, and I’ve wrapped my duvet around me like a cocoon. I wish someone warm and nice-smelling had their arms around me, holding me close. Sad.

2003-08-23 – 2:25 a.m.

Why so blue, Scott?

Went to see ‘Underworld’ tonight with Christie and Chrissy and Co. Then went to the Foxes Den and got drunk off my ass on Strongbow cider. Can’t believe I have to drink again tomorrow at Rob and Alyssa’s -1 year Wedding Anniversary party. Jesus. **Warning: movie spoilers ahead**

The ‘Most Sassy Award’ for uncalled for comments during the movie goes to Christie, who, when Kate Beckinsale bares her vampy fangs to get a taste of the lupine-a-licious Scott Speedman, said, “Mmm… finger lycan good!” She’s so funny sometimes she makes me want to throw up, but in a good way. In the opening sequence, where Kate’s character, appallingly named ‘Celine’, is posed dramatically on the dark and stormy, rain-battered stone turret of what seems to be a castle rooftop, she leaned over and whispered, “Are you suddenly jonesing for a pint of Stella Artois?” And when Viktor, the vampire clan leader, beat the living daylights out of a werewolf with his bare hands and then shish-kebabed him with a broadsword purely for effect afterwards, we simulataneously blurted out “Yes! Kickin’ it old school style!” God, we were obnoxious, come to think of it. There were a lot of loud remarks about telemark landings coming from me when vampires and the like would jump out of sixteen storey windows and land on their feet. And some amazed murmurs about the fact that anyone could perform in the role of Irishman-turned-bloodsucking-fiend with a less convincing accent than David Boreanaz (amazingly, the actor who played Craven achieved this, sounding even more like he’d lost his lucky charms than Angel). Other totally unnecessary exclamations included “Bad doggie! No biscuit!” when Scott Speedman first started to change into his lycan form, and “Why so blue, Scott?” at his anguished screams when he turns into the indigo-toned half-breed at the end of the movie. And of course the inevitable comparisons to the soap opera “Days of Our Lives”: really, the resemblance was striking, elaborate sets and costumes, horrible dialogue and delivery, a sleeping patriarch named Viktor, and all that jazz. I suggested that instead of a sequel (which will undoubtedly happen), the producers should consider turning it into a new, edgy daytime serial called “Nights of Our Deaths”. It could become the hip new hit for housewives everywhere who want to escape from Maury Povich, Price Is Right reruns, and As the World Turns.

We sound like complete assholes after this description of our behaviour, I know, but sometimes you’ve got to make your own fun at the movies, and this was one of those times. It was either get down with our snarky MST3K selves, or start playing scissors, paper, stone in the dark. Besides, by the end of the film, the whole audience had joined us in mockery. The death of Viktor was a masterpiece of gore-hilarity, taking the old trope of the time-delay beheading to a new and inglorious level. After a ten second staredown with Celine, a thin line of blood bisected his face diagonally and one eyeball started to slide away from the other (still managing a shocked facial expression, despite synapses and capillaries being severed). Roars of laughter rolled up and down the aisles. Sadly, although the whole point of the movie was getting the audience to ponder the question “Why can’t we all just get along?”, I think my crew pissed off Jamie’s girlfriend Erin mightily by laughing too loudly throughout the performance, which she was clearly trying to take really seriously. I’d have felt worse if the film had been an Ingmar Bergman classic, and I’d have felt better if she’d come out to the pub afterwards and let us buy her a pint in apology.

Tired now. Must go to sleep before I do the bad drunk thing and pick up the phone and start calling people.