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Touching Me, Touching You

By Brian Prisco | Industry | March 15, 2009 |

By Brian Prisco | Industry | March 15, 2009 |

Seriously? Are you kidding?

Austin has got to be the nicest fucking town in America short of Mayberry and Twin Peaks and their goddamn good pie. We’ve been spending the entire week standing in line, having a fucking blast, talking film with everyone from professional bloggers to common housewives who take the entire week off just to watch independent film. It’s fucking rad. These women have their little spreadsheets marked off with the movies they want to see, scribbling down the name of our site in pencil on their programs, and marking down the movies I can’t help but get all giddy over. That’s what a film festival’s got to be. And Austin puts on a particularly badass one.

But seriously, you bitches are taking umbrage at our Ain’t It Cool News burns? Are you fucking kidding me? Dude, they KNOW us. They expect us to take potshots at them. They don’t give a fuck; they’re the top dog. Us movie bloggers are all just a bunch of hypernerds, talking about the stuff we fucking love. We’re all on the same fucking team. Except, you know, WE actually offer opinions, as bitter and pissy as they may be. And our commentors don’t spend 400 comments flaming about who’s the bigger asshole for liking Miley Cyrus. We already know who ours is. I used to love the fuck out of Ain’t It Cool, when they were just like us, talking smack and firing up a guerrilla warfare campaign ensuring they’d be the first to the lines with fresh scoops and buzz. Now, AICN panders to the studios, because they’re somebody and through the magic of the internet, they matter. Which is why they get to stand up there next to the directors during the screenings and get exclusive interviews, while we squat in line in the rain talking with the commonfolk. But at the end of the day, I get to tell you how I really feel. They get the glory, we get to stab the corpses taking time to die.

And that’s about all I’m gonna say on that.

Instead, I’m going to tell you how I dragged my ass out of bed at the crack of ten to get to the Paramount, because they were showing a documentary called Sweethearts of the Prison Rodeo. I’m not always keen on documentaries, but goddamn if this wasn’t practically perfect in every way. Oklahoma runs one of the only behind the walls prison rodeos in the world, and in 2006 they started letting the women participate. Once a year, the prisoners get a chance to bust some broncos, and take pride in wrestling down bulls. The movie splits it’s time between the prisoners coping with doing time and the chaotic ballet of the rodeo. It hits on so many emotions, from gut-clenching laughter to horrific disgust to tear-jerking sadness. Watching the prisoners earn “money the hard way” — by trying to pull a ribbon and string from between a bull’s horns — the prisoners are hurled skyward and trampled by the raging beef. It was awesome. Also, some of the prisoners (paroled of course) were actually at the screening, and it was a really positive film. In a state with double the women behind bars of any other, 80 percent of which are mothers, it’s good to see a few women changing their lives for the better.

After meeting up for my first disappointing meal on 6th Street with an awesome producer friend for Small Coup Films, I made a valiant effort to attend the Jeffrey Tambor acting class, but was turned away because of my lack of badges. It might have been the ratty sweater and hobostink, but mostly it was the lack of badge. Instead, I met up with the rest of the Pajibans at Darwin’s bar. Yes, most of the weekend has been spent going from bar to theatre to bar. It is what I imagine heaven is like.

Much like a yard-sale Voltron, until today we were a leg or arm short. But today completed our mighty swarm, for TK rode a bat out of hell to deliver vengeance and chaos upon the hordes of drunken wanderers up and down Sixth Street. And then, we finally got the buns for our sausage fest, for Stacey and Shep rolled in from Filthadelphia. And Smokin returned for more of our company, proving we’re not as horrible as you would think. Or else, he’s really, REALLY LONELY. To celebrate, we drank. And drank. And drank. And forgot to eat. Cause we were drinking. Business write-offs are the tits.

Everyone wanted to see Moon, a clever low budget sci-fi flick starring Sam Rockwell, so we hauled ass to the theatre. Moon was a thorough mindfuck, a combination of Cast Away and Event Horizon. Sam Rockwell plays a miner on the moon, signed to a three year contract, when he begins to get the “Space…MADNESS!” Nobody must eat his ice cream bar. To get any further into the film would spoil anything. It’s going to be one of those polarizing films that you either love or hate, splitting the Pajiban Hierarchy in twain. TV Whore and I gave it a thumbs up, Dustin hated it because he doesn’t like anything without Ryan Reynolds’ abs. Dan got to interview Sam Rockwell. We don’t know if he handled his schlong. We did get an eyeful of Sam Rockwell ass though. For the ladies. Smokin.

PStep wants no part of the films this week, because he hates everything, which is evident if you’ve every read any of his contributions to our site. So he held down the fort with TK, Shep and Stacey at The Library, one of the fourteenthousand fucking bars all over 6th Street in Austin. We joined forces and decided we had enough of this shit, and it was time for some goddamn karaoke. At that point, we lost the Boozehound to a heroic intake of cocktails and Dan Carlson to his desire to maintain his reputation of professionalism and excellence. We did however pick up a few more commentors. Justin, who sometimes comments as Graaagh, and our dear occasional contributor, Eep.

We stumbled through the city to Ego’s, which is out in West Wherethefuck? Ego’s a darling little divebar hidden in a parking garage that offers up a massive karaoke book. It was a pretty intense crowd of mostly local yokels, who managed to kill with renditions of “All That Jazz,” and some girl purging her soul of dark voodoo with a little GNF’NR. Pajiba represented. Shep, Stacey and I busted a move, Justin did a little Dani Californication, I danced with myself, Shep suffered from some tainted love — but then again he is dating Stacey — and our fearless leader Dustin did the ol’ Neil Diamond. “Sweet Caroline,” leading the entire bar in song. We had to wake Stacey up to sing “I Think We’re Alone Now.” We managed to close down the bar. Literally. Smokin took a TK dareoke and sang Duffy. We were sorely missing Dan Carlson, who’s sainted voice can raise the dead. I wish Jay was there. Not to sing karaoke, but because I ran out of stuff to bet TK he couldn’t punt into traffic.

After ransacking a taco cart for some tender vittles, we staggered home through the drunken throngs invading downtown Austin like some Spring Break sponsored mongols. As I type this, the boys are conked out on couches, snoring gently, Stacey and PStep are polishing off a bottle of wine, and I’m plotting my day tomorrow. I’m pretty sure I’ll get my wish and get to check out , but I think I’m gonna be SOL on catching the work-in-progress screening of Sam Raimi’s Drag Me To Hell. However, I bet the badgers will managed to breech the forces. I was pretty bummed tonight that I skipped out on checking out Black, a french blaxploitation flick starring one of dudes from District B13. Instead, I spent four hours ripping my vocal cords with Billy Idol and raging with the rad Jibans (especially the commenters. Justin, Eep, and Smokin, who are welcome to tip back brews any time.). The Boozehound might be dead, Stacey’s liver’s going to revolt, Dustin drank himself blind, and I sound like I’ve been drinking a broken glass colada. I made the right choice.

And Pookie, I meant come get some DRINKS. We’ll find some place wheelchair accessible.

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