Some Friday evenings you stay in, watch repeats of CSI, threaten the cats and think about repainting the living room. Other Fridays you spit an entire mouthful of beer in your wife's hair and end up in a pointless conversation about combining polka with eighties goth music. I am here to tell you (hell, this may be the reason I was brought to Earth) that the latter makes for a better night.
Tonight we went out to the Queer City Cinema fundraiser (unused slogan: Queer City Cinema, For If'n You Want Your Films Gayed Up - I can't believe they tossed my suggestion) at The Exchange to see the finest in bent musical entertainment, Kelly and the Kelly Girls (warning: myspace music assault) and Intergalactic Virgin (warning: more of assault on you ear).* I didn't do any sketches of tonight's gig, but I did take some notes.
I often take impromptu cryptic notes to anchor little moments in my memory. When I looked tonight's notes over, though, I discovered that I'd written the following:
- Keynote speech for annual meeting for the Advancement of Progress of Robots - 2032?Apparently I think there's still comedy to be dredged out of a movie franchise now three years in the past. Somebody come up with another turgid sci-fi trilogy quick. I guess this is what happens when you take notes in a darkened club. On the plus side, you can expect a really daft post about robots sometime soon. Here, by the way, is the first google image result for "robot progress".
- audience: Humans? Robots? Mixed? And is there a difference at that point?
- effects of peak oil on robot society
- Matrix viewed as romantic comedy?
Despite the bleak outlook for robot progress in this image - check out the dejected slouch as the ship in the background departs for the next robot-friendly planet - I really dig this picture. Although I'd like to know what a robot's doing in the country. Everyone knows that robots belong in gleaming art deco cities with vaults and arches of inhuman scale and unfathomable intent. Go visit http://penguinx.org and let the artist know that he's misplaced a robot in bucolic idyll.
Hey. Was I trying to talk about a night out with my wife and friend? And the spitting of beer into my wife's hair? I was, wasn't I? I had just funnelled a mouthful of Black Amber Ale into my mouth when the lead singer of The Kelly Girls made an offhand fart joke. The beer ejected from my mouth in arc that almost, but not quite, sailed just over my wife's head. She gave me an exasperated but kind look that said You are a total spaz, a specialized, gracious expression that acknowledged my unfitness for public display, forgave me completely and let the night proceed. I married well, as the busybodies in Jane Austen novels like to say.
*I'm really hoping that someone will come to my site by googling "assault on you ear".