A syringe in the arm, the first puff of nicotine enhanced smoke. Both subdue the errant itch of addiction.
Honestly, I've never experienced either, but the throes of addiction are nothing new. Wrapping around my brain, suffocating my coherent thoughts, that's what fandom does to me.
It's not alcohol, drugs, sex or gambling.
No, my vice dwells under the inconspicuous guise of fandom.
Reaper
The end of my high school career sputtered into an anticlimactic stop, but something else clung to me like melting chocolate, quickly picking up speed as my public education drew to a close. No, it wasn't my burgeoning relationship with The Office.
It was the CW's Reaper.
Ridiculous and wisecracking devil? Action comedy genre? Possible secret familial ties? Witty banter?
Are you kidding? I was hooked.
The snowball effect drug me down a ragged path, where I eventually rewatched every episode, some twice. I scoured the internet for any snippet of information concerning the show. Old news, newer news, interviews, ratings, plans for renewal. My obsession hurled me through the much darker and less legitimate alleys of fan theories, rumors, icons, fan art, and even fanfiction.
I traversed it all, and eventually the otherworldly fist of fantasy loosened its choke hold from my rather vulnerable throat.
But not before I made a secret admission. I'd tap that. Bret Harrison.
Not in an overzealous and sexual way of course. More like a shoulder nudge or something.
The rampant demands of vice subdued, I began to loll around the house aimlessly. No schooling? No secret obsessions? My purpose had bled from the earth. What was it that I normally did? The usual tide of homework stood at an unnatural stand-still. I had nothing.
Stephen Chow
For two weeks I melted a little, molding to the very fibers of the couch that supported me. The first week, the third, I was drugged and lulled into a sleepy pain-killer oblivion. We don't count that one.
The innocuous act of reviewing a favored movie. That's all it took to wedge the splintering stitch in my side again. It began as a minute curiosity of the man's previous works, then manifested itself as the fleeting desire to watch one of these said movies.
Then I watched another.
And another.
The man's talent for sight gags is uncanny, but I can't even begin to appreciate his flare for double entendres or his brand of mo lei tau comedy.
What? Does it look like I speak Cantonese to you?
His performance in both parts of A Chinese Odyssey even caused me to temporarily renounce my bizarre dislike of primates. His Sun Wukong was great. In the Forbidden Kingdom, Jet Li's was acceptable, but this one I genuinely liked.
The seeds of perdition have even been planted.
I have ever so briefly come to find myself wishing to learn Chinese just to better appreciate him. Move over ardent desire to speak Nihongo, here comes Cantonese.
That's right, I'm not even interested in the widely spoken variant of Mandarin, you know the version of Chinese that could actually help me someday.
But this shall pass.
Probably.
...After I've seen more of his movies.
So far checked off the list
--A Chinese Odyssey Part 1 : Pandora's Box
--A Chinese Odyssey Part 2 : Cinderella
--Love on Delivery
--God of Cookery
--King of Comedy
--Out of the Dark
Isn't he cute as a button?
Dramatic Music
What better to listen to when fending off closeted fangirlism?
When I can't speak about my other hobbies, at least I won't feel ashamed to discourse at length my taste in music.
Unless it's the anime soundtracks.
We still don't talk about those or my video game stash.
Surprise. It's Disney's the Hunchback of Notre Dame collection this week.
I do not, however, condone abbreviating and desensitizing Victor Hugo's work, so that he can roll over in his grave.
Not that it was a bad movie.
I just didn't think much, or anything of it really, as a mere child.
Even with the heavy editing, and super extended lifespans and blatant character alterations of its many stars, the story simply was not meant for children. It's gritty.
I have by no means actually rewatched the movie, but the brief snippets I have entertained myself with are dark. The theological discussion between man and monster? Is a mature topic.
More to the point, I've found myself absolutely smitten with The Bells of Notre Dame. Clopin's exposition is dramatic and magnificent. The way his voice crescendos at the finale with the music - my appreciation for it knows no bounds.
I literally listened to it so many times on youtube that one video was removed. The administrators must have thought something fishy was going on and removed it. You know how long it takes to garner that kind of censorship? A couple of hours.
Sanctuary has also found a way to embed its way into my heart.
But The Bells of Notre Dame is my true love. Sung by the warped jester caricature of Clopin, and the only man in Paris to actually speak with a French accent.
Although I have often been jealous of those who took French in school, listening to this does not actually motivate me to learn the language. It's sophistication appears much great then that of Spanish, but its practicality is curbed.
Clopin. Clopin.
My new favorite Notre Dame character.
The poor gypsy woman's demise, the eyes of an insentient church, and the fear for Frollo's immortal soul.
These aspects are better understood with an educational capacity greater than that of a seven year old.
"Sing the bells of Notre Dame--------------!"
- Funk Out
How am I supposed to take a debilitating crutch like this to college?
