I’ve already waited too long because I didn’t want to hurt you, but I’ve been posting at another film-related blog. Every Thursday night/Friday morning and every Sunday evening. It’s not like what we have — just about all the new movies — but a blogger has needs

I just thought you needed to know.

FtY was absent for a few hours last night and I think this morning.

We were changing hosting services — it’s possible some of you might have noticed back in September in particular we were frequently unavailable and that wasn’t nice. Anyhow, our erstwhile computer genius BKS has switched us over and everything now looks great. So, please resume your days as usual in the knowledge that this site will always be here for all of your Forward to Yesterday needs.

I’ve got a post up over at The House Next Door discussing Lenny, the first non-musical directed by Bob Fosse — think of it as a very late addition to the Fossethon some time back.

I can be so serious sometimes.

Hope everyone reading has a great holiday. Eat some good food, see a good movie, read something special, be with people you like.

And not much blogging either for just a bit. In the meantime, if anyone can tell me where this amazing clip comes from, I’d be grateful.

The world changes whether we’re paying attention or not.

The other night I found myself at Astro Burger, an eaterie that few ever intend to go to, but many often end up at. It’s better than typical fast food but not, you know, Pink’s or Tommy’s or whatever palace of junk food you care to mention. It was about 9:30 and some guys in their early twenties were talking just loudly enough that I couldn’t quite ignore them. But they weren’t “guys” really. A few years ago they would have been “dudes,” I would know that because that’s how they would have addressed each other, as in: “Dude, please the ketchup” or “Get up, dude, I have to go to the bathroom.”

But they weren’t “dudes” at all, they had become an entirely new (to me) beast: bros.

I couldn’t quite make out their conversation except that I’m pretty sure females played a major role in it. I nevertheless could catch random words like s “Bro, she’s….” and “Bro, that was totally…..” After a while all I heard was “bro…bro….bro…bro” and the F word. Which is really all the words these guys, pardon me, bros seemed to need.

And then it occurred to me, “bro” was the new “dude.” I had noticed the term more recently, but I had always assumed a “bro” was a fellow male you were actually close friends with, as in “as close as brothers. ” Though “dude” could be a term of masculine endearment, as “guy” had been during the eighties, in most usages any male (and increasingly any female) could be addressed as “dude.” Not just anyone, I thought, could be addressed as “bro” (or the older Hawaiian-derived varient, “bra”).

The word nevertheless had been seeping its way into my consciousness. After seeing Superbad recently with a very good male friend — a “bro,” if you will — he referred to that movie as a “bromance,” admittedly borrowing the phrase from some review or other he’d read. A little research reveals, however, that that term has been around in skater and presumably surfer culture for a reasonably long time, or so the Urban Dictionary tells me. (It also tells me that they let of literal minded pranksters in homosexual panic mood contribute. They also have some amusing definitions of “bro.”)

Then, the true meaning of “Don’t tase me, bro!” sunk in. A bro was not a close male friend, it was a security guard of either gender violently subduing you to stop you from making a politician uncomfortable.

All men (and I guess women) are now brothers. “Bro” is the new “dude.” It’s the annoying Carson Daley non-hug hug, that weird hip-hop macho variation on the female air-kiss of words. I hope this one doesn’t take a whole decade to recede, but I’m not betting on it.

This began as one type of post and has become quite another. For one thing, I was supposed to write it last week, but I’ve been distracted. Then, yesterday, I was going to try and write a sort of umbrella post covering a bunch of stuff.

It was going to start off breezily riffing on the Larry Craig mishegas — which, as per DailyKos yesterday and the cable news shows today, looks like it’s very far from over — and some portion of it leaked early because of a voice mail left by Craig on the wrong machine. Some days a scandal-ridden politician just can’t do a damn thing right.

I was going to move on from there to make at least some mention of Tucker Carlson apparently mistaking MSNBC and it’s audience for a bunch of gay-hating frat boys, and then maybe take a breather/not-victory lap at the Alberto Gonzalez resignation.

Then I was going to move on to how some Hollywood fools can turn a film making $200,000,000 in two months and entertaining almost everyone who saw it into a “disappointment.” (Be sure to read the comments on this one, folks. The oh-so-easily disappointed Jim Hill has some great readers.)

And then I was going turn a bit sober and sad at things that, if anyone really is getting any shameful joy out of, they should be really ashamed. (Hence, no links on that point. In a way, we shouldn’t even know about the incident from last week that I’m thinking of. But when a sad thing happens to an famous person, it’s news. No helping that.)

But I’m not doing that? Why? I’ve felt stuck for a few days. Maybe it’s the extreme heat wave which, as I rewrite this, has finally left Southern California, or maybe it’s the adjustment I’m having now that me and my day job have gone our separate ways.

Now, trust me, folks, when I say that I’m not unhappy about the end of the day job itself. I even have a new contract writing gig that I’m actually fairly excited about, though it’s obviously no replacement for a full-time position, especially in our present economic climate. So, I’m just a hair financially nervous, which is probably a good thing. I’ve learned from past experience that un- or underemployent and complacency do not mix.

All in all, I was feeling a bit off my feed. Little things that should have bothered me, bothered me. And, as I moseyed through the blogosphere, stuff was bugging me. Like, kind of going back to the Larry Craig story but not really, another post I saw stopped just short of outing a much better known, more or less center-right Republican politician. Since the man has voted against gay marriage and other civil rights advances, I suppose you can argue hypocrisy here as well. I’m still not at all sure that’s an appropriate thing to do.

He just doesn’t seem harshly anti-gay enough to make me feel okay about violating his privacy, especially as he hasn’t been arrested or done anything illegal. Besides, as someone opined to me a few nights back, is it really hypocritical to be a closeted gay politician if you actually believe that gays should stay in the closet? Isn’t this a case of walking the not-talk?

Now, you’d think my mood might have improved when I went to the cinephile side of the street, but it actually got worse. In discussing last week’s dismissal of Minnesota-based alternative weekly film editor Rob Nelson, Andy Horbal made a depressed but very possibly all-too-realistic appraisal of the current job outlook for film critics last week. Now, a story I either heard on NPR or hallucinated about the results of a recent survey regarding blogs and blogging awareness had some positive sounding data regarding using blogs for advertising which could help out anyone who hopes to make a living writing in our present messed-up media scene, but that seems like a pretty distant hope right at the moment.

But then, I took a look at Burbanked and saw Alan L.’s post about at least one blog that achieved precisely what it set out to do. Its goal might have been both extravagant and extremely tiny, but in a tiny way it affected the greater world — or at least a moment in a very famous celebrity’s day in an entirely pleasant and voluntary way, and giving lots of other people a big smile. Sometimes, that’s all you can hope for.

Thanks be to the Deity or Non-Deity of Your Choice, this is the final entry in my chronicle of my “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” film week audition. If you want to read the whole story, you need to start here. If you don’t want to read any of it, you have my complete sympathy.

It was eight-thirty and, after four hours in line, we were out of the line, out of the already semi-stiffling desert heat, and inside the air-conditioned theater. I was seated next to the Shoo-In, the Washingtonian nurse and the David Mariniss-reading Republican were seated on his other side. A youngish woman with a take-charge/no b.s. attitude stepped onto the stage and started giving us instructions — warning us not to ask a lot of questions as there would be plenty of time to answer those once she got through the basic instructions.

Those instructions really could not have been more simple. We were to be given two tests: one on film trivia for the movie week, one on general knowledge for the regular show. Each test would be in an envelope we were not to open until time was called. They would be thirty questions each and we would have ten minutes to answer them. Also, if selected, we would be expected to pay our own ways and find our own accommodations in New York — and we might have as little as 24 hours in which to make the arrangements. (I guess that’s why the first few questions are so easy. You need to hit the $1,000 level just to break even.)

Also, she reiterated that we would not be able to leave the room to use the bathroom — unless we were willing to get back into line and restart the whole process. I had consumed probably at least two large cups of coffee and a bottled water before entering and had been to the bathroom at least twice — but a third trip was clearly in my future. I began to feel just a bit concerned.

Then it was question time…never ending question time. Would we really have to pay our own way? Yes. How many questions was that? How much time would we have?

How many answers would have to get right to make the first cut? Not allowed to say.

Can you give us an approximate idea of how many of the questions we need to get right in order to make it to the interview? Not allowed to say.

Roughly how many questions….? And so it went. So much for game show contestants being smart people, I thought, beginning to feel a bit more bladdery than I care to feel.

Eventually, though, it was time for the first test, which was for film trivia. The questions by themselves should not have been hard for any film fan….If you can name the moves where lines like “Round up the usual suspects” and “fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night” came from, you probably would be able to answer most of the questions correctly.

Not surprisingly, the questions I found the hardest came from more recent films. I guessed/remembered right about how Harry first met Sally (and for me, that’s a recent film) and probably blew the question about Prof. Klump’s scientific field, because I’ve never seen the Eddie Murphy Nutty Professor. The Shoo-In, a Ph.D. in some combination of physics and chemistry, didn’t know that the Maltese Falcon was a statuette but he was pretty certain that Klump was a microbiologist. I think psychologists call this “salience.”

Those are about the only questions I can remember…though I remember that one multiple choice had both Michael Curtiz and Billy Wilder and Carl Theodor Dreyer actually got mentioned somewhere along with Bergman or Fellini. I guess that makes it automatically hard for a lot of people.

Then came the general information quiz and that was, not surprisingly, somewhat more challenging for me. There was a question about species of flowers that I could not begin to answer. I blew one about John Edwards’ home state. (I knew it was either South Carolina or North Carolina….Edwards definitely seems more like an upscale North Carolinian to me…which somehow led me to decide that the opposite answer must be correct in a bit of logic to make George Costanza proud.) And I for the life of me could not distinguish between a comfit and a compote. (As we were leaving, I learned that compotes are made from fruit and comfits from meat.)

After about twenty five minutes, both questions were done. Now, all we had to do was wait for the scan-tron forms to be read by the scan-tron gizmo (which I’ve never seen — the technology goes back to my childhood, so I can’t imagine they use PC type computers to read those #2 pencil marks now…or do they? Anyone know?). I suddenly became more aware of the state of my bladder, and suffered through more inane questions and some okay jokes. They threw a bunch of t-shirts at us, but I was in no mood to leap for them.

Finally, it was time to read out the people who had passed the test. Not with names, of course, but with numbers we had been assigned outside based on our place in line. First they read the numbers of the people who passed the general trivia test. The Schoo-in passed, of course, and so did the Washingtonian Nurse. The David Mariniss-reading Republican however, did not.

I didn’t pass the general trivia test either. (Damn those confusing Carolinas and gourmet food words beginning with the same prefix!) But as the lone film geek among my little group, I still had another chance. Neither the Shoo-in, the Nurse or the Republican passed the film trivia test. Probably the Fellini questions did them in. But not me, my number had been called.

The good news now was that I had a shot at getting into the hot seat. The bad news is I had no idea whether they were going to allow me to use a bathroom for another hour or longer.

As the mildly saddened non-passers left, their dreams of easy money and nightmares of public humiliation gone for the time being, the rest of us were herded into a line and guided backstage, into a large greenroom. Polaroid…yes, polaroid…pictures were taken of each of us, inscribed with our number, and then attached to our questionnaires. (Digital technology apparently hasn’t caught up with the world of game shows. “Weird,” all us wannabe contestants agreed.)

The good news about the polaroid was that my eyes weren’t shut as they usually are when someone takes a non-digital picture of me. No, this time my eyes were wide open and with my apparent lack of sleep and the polaroid’s less than flattering aesthetic effects, I had the overall appearance of a cheerful, upbeat zombie.

We were told to sit and wait for the number being called and once seated, still next to the Shoo-in and the Nurse, I was off-handedly told there was a bathroom we could use. I leaped over about thirty people to get to it. I really didn’t want to be squirming my through the interview — we were told they would be short. By itself, that was not really good news for me, with my lackluster questionnaire and all. Concentrating on my bladder wouldn’t help any.

Despite my rush, the bathroom was occupied when I got to it and my body didn’t want to wait. I asked if anyone there knew if it was a man or a woman in there. Someone said they thought it was a man and my only hope was that it wasn’t a gastric issue. A slightly uncomfortable three of four minutes later, he was out. (Possible prostate-related delays hadn’t occurred to me.)

Now quite relaxed, I returned to my seat.

The rest was pretty uneventful, I retook my seat next to the Shoo-In, the Washingtonian Nurse was quickly called to her interview and would be escorted out, possibly never to be seen again by us. So, all there was the waiting. And trying to figure out who the other film geeks were. Well, there was the young guy in the Army of Darkness t-shirt with the joke I didn’t get because I hadn’t seen it. (The Shoo-in, however, had.) Why did I even bother to ask if he was there for the movie quiz?

After some pleasant conversation with the Shoo-in, my number was called and I was escorted into a tiny room with an incredibly chipper young woman. This is probably not good for my game show chances because, while I’m actually a pretty enthusiastic guy when talking about subjects that interest me, the presence of really enthusiastic people tends to turn me more calm and low-key. Two ultra-enthusiastic people in the same tiny room is just too much enthusiasm.

Anyhow, I don’t think she really learned much about me. She asked me a few general questions. Had I stayed overnight at the hotel? Had I gambled? (Yes and definitely yes.) I managed to work in this blog, which I suspect is probably my only distinguishing factor as far as the producers’ minds are likely to go — though I don’t know if they would consider it a positive, a negative, or actually not such a distinguishing factor, just more proof of my geekhood.

Anyhow, the chipper young lady thanked me for time, told me I’d getting a card in a few weeks which would tell me whether or not I was being considered for the show and that it was it. The day’s work was over and it was barely past 9:30 and I was already tired. And, people were still getting in line and the odds of their auditioning looked better than excellent. Why had I checked out of my room at 4:00 a.m. again?

****

So, how do I assess my chances? Not great, just based on my numbers, my lousy handwriting/lackluster questionnaire answers and my lack of extreme chipperosity. Getting on isn’t easy even if you can answer the questions, just in terms of odds. There were about seven or eight other film geeks in that first group with answers just as good as mine. Probably at least seven or eight more groups of them, which makes for probably about 60 people competing for, I’m guessing, about ten slots for a single week (and some of those poor shmoes might not even get on the air). There’s always the Publisher’s Clearinghouse.

I’m convinced, however, that the Shoo-in is a shoo-in.

(This is the second part of my two-part three-part report on my audition for “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” and its upcoming film trivia week. The first part is my just below this post.)

So, there I was, with a long form to fill out, and no pen. It quickly became clear that, if anyone near me had brought a working extra pen, they weren’t sharing. There was nothing to do but wait for one of my companions to finish. I went off for more coffee and a trip to the bathroom.

The David Mariness-reading Republican schoolteacher said he’d be done soon, but he was still writing furiously when I returned, as was the Washingtonian nurse. In a few minute it was, quite naturally, the Shoo-In who finished first and kindly offered me his pen. I started in with the easy stuff: name, address, various legalish disclaimers and the like. Then came the questions and the clever answers I didn’t have handy.

First, there were questions for general-trivia Millionaire contestants: How would having a million dollars change my life? Well, I’d certainly have more money. What would I do with it? Bonds? A condo when real estate prices finally hit bottom? Supporting my life of indolence? I’d be happy not humiliating myself by providing an incorrect answer to insanely easy $500 and $1,000 questions.

Then came the questions for us film geeks: What kind of cool film memorabilia do I own? Actually, nothing. Except for my now apparently near-worthless collection of yellowed silver-age comics, I’ve never collected anything. Sorry.

Had I ever missed work or an important event to see a movie? I’m sure here they were hoping for something a long the lines of “I was absent from the rehearsal dinner to my own wedding because I missed the afternoon opening day screening of The Phantom Menace and had to see the early evening show, and boy was I pissed when it turned out to be an utter piece of crap and my would-be bride canceled the wedding and I couldn’t stop talking like Jar-Jar Binks for three days.’” I wrote that I had skipped work to see all three of the Lord of the Rings film, but I failed to add that I did it mainly because of peer pressure from certain shiftless geek pals of mine. Actually, I did the same for Phantom Menace, but not to the rest of the afterthought trilogy; mentioning that would just muddy the waters. (And do I regret that lost vacation day? Since I’m hoping to finally see La Vie en Rose this week, I can only say, non je ne regret rein. But that’s only because of the very nice deli lunch that followed.)

Lost amidst such deep thoughts, I was shocked out of my reverie when it was announced that, even though it was only 8:00 a.m., one hour before the official start time, they were going to start seating auditioneers. As the line slowly edged forward, I was forced to rush through my remaining answers. This was especially unfortunate because I have unusually bad penmanship which has been proven to make readers regard my prose as merely meeting or exceeding minimum requirements.

I rushed through the last few questions, keeping one eye on the line’s mercifully slow movements. The question about what movies are my favorites or I have been obsessed, undoubtedly received insufficient attention. How do I explain my connection to The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp or the 1973 The Wicker Man in a way that will attract the attention of a game show producer? Of course, If I’d really wanted to play the geek card, I could have brought up Serenity. Fortunately for my sanity, there was no time.

We got to the front and I noticed a collection of water bottles on the ground. Realizing they didn’t allow drinks inside the theater, I quickly downed most of the bottled water I’d been given — actually for free — by the casino. Together with my heavy coffee consumption, this was an action I would later come to regret.

So, I lied when I said this was going to be the thrilling conclusion. I have now decided it’s the thrilling middle. Stayed tuned for Go ahead and read part III in which all questions will finally be answered, unless I decide to make it a four-parter.