It must be something in the water these days. Perhaps there’s some form of roadkill in the mountain creeks, rotting its little heart out, and everyone is drinking the diluted stuff, pepped up with fluoride and antibiotics put in there to neutralize the eau du fetid stag. It makes them overexcited. I received a rather telling email yesterday explaining to me that this rather rinky-dink anime convention held annually in my neck of the woods has been forced to put a cap on attendance this year. (The cap is gawking teen anime freaks X 700– yes, I give you permission to laugh). That means nearly 200 extra g.t.a.f.’s will be in attendance, up from last year. Now, the reason this solicits musings on our poor dessicated wildlife there, is because I was wondering why 200 more people got the idea to get out their space-suits and ice-picks and schlep the ol’ pig-skin up to the barren, northern wastes. People are raised by wolves up here. When crossing the border, instead of confiscating aforementioned ice-picks and any other sundry articles or armaments, Homeland Security gives them toboggans and an extra slab of lard and sends them grimly on their way with a prayer.
On an entirely (although not irrelevant) different train of thought, we are now officially well into the first week of October. I noticed, because I saw those great monstrosities of inflatable pumpkins, deflated in the dewy murk of the drive-to-9-to-5. There are a few holidays which I truly enjoy– among them are Christmas, my birthday, July 4th, New Year’s, and Tanabata [July 7th]– and Halloween is not one of them. We’ve ceased the spooks and hit the calories. To be fair– I said ‘we’. This year, however, the ripe venison in the aforementioned paragraph has truly stepped in on my behalf. This year, the (again) aforementioned convention will settle its calorized flanks over Halloween weekend. The cosplay at this convention is usually surprisingly good, and this year I expect pumpkin fever will possess the g.t.a.f.s into great feats of costuming ballistics. (Goodness, don’t look at me).
I would like to make a formal request as I close off this topic now– that request is that the West Coast anime con-goers not be smug. Jrock is so very alien in this icebergian tundra that it was voted out, either through lack of popularity or collection, at the con’s resident dance party. It was with a great issuance of ennui that I beheld the switch from head-banging to dir en grey till ones ears bleed to bopping along to those repetitive techno loops of echoing female and male voices mysteriously chanting in ominous tones, in the darrrrrrk forest…..
I know it seems a pathetic and meandering topic without premise, but its purpose is to assure–myself, more than anyone– that Gacktpause carries on. That rather hysterical and often invasive thing, ones real life, has been asserting itself forcefully of late, and it seems I am powerless to resist its harrowing call. With the turning of the weather, the coming of great costuming events that are conventions and Halloween– whether you cosplay or merely flaunt your usual frockage–, something tells me it’s time to turn mascara-ed eyes to Visual Kei. Coming up next, on Secret Garden.