Announcements Meta True/False Film Festival Words

Pre-Festival Confessions of a Narcoleptic Urchin

Unfor­tu­nate­ly, I’m an author­i­ty on Colum­bia, Mis­souri.
 
Just two hours away from the math­e­mat­i­cal cen­ter of the Unit­ed States by motor­car, the hun­dred-some­thing thou­sand peo­ple of this midropo­lis find them­selves clus­tered around the cen­ter of most intel­lec­tu­al spec­trums, hud­dled togeth­er for com­pa­ny. The ide­o­log­i­cal one, in par­tic­u­lar, is absolute­ly smelly with foot-to-foot-shuf­fling lib­er­als, and they’ve had their palms fac­ing a very par­tic­u­lar fire for over a decade, now.
 
It’s called True/False, and it must be the least famous most pres­ti­gious film fes­ti­val in the world. In a local radio inter­view, co-cre­ator David Wil­son (who stopped by my house for din­ner once, I think) claimed that 50,000 peo­ple showed up last year, but I can’t imag­ine where they all slept. Per­haps on air mat­tress­es in the back of their Sub­aru wag­ons. No, I have no use for cheap jokes any­more. (The Mura­no Cross­Cabri­o­let is the offi­cial vehi­cle of this god­for­sak­en place, any­way.)
 
Let’s just say that the pop­u­la­tion is halv­ing-again around me as I write you. It’s not unrea­son­able to bet on an even more sub­stan­tial turnout this year, giv­en Tump’s fun­da­men­tal­ly anti-Columbian vocab­u­lary, and well… the title of True/False.
 
The lat­est joke I’ve been toss­ing around is that this publication’s pri­ma­ry cov­er­age to date has actu­al­ly been of my own emo­tion­al devel­op­ment. If this is “true” from your per­spec­tive, I’m not par­tic­u­lar­ly both­ered. Reflec­tion may not be New, but I think — and hope — it can be help­ful in mit­i­gat­ing con­tra­dic­tions, dis­crep­an­cies  and oth­er species of obsta­cle in your own life.

A Confession

I fell asleep for the entire­ty of the last True/False screen­ing I attend­ed.
It was a film about the sto­ry of a young woman’s flight from an abu­sive house­hold. Or at least… some­thing like that. I’d skipped sleep­ing the night before and found myself strug­gling to keep my eyes open just min­utes after the lights had dimmed. 
 
And I didn’t return to con­scious­ness until they bright­ened again as the applause fad­ed in and the occu­pant of the seat imme­di­ate­ly to my left stood up, alone, and made her way to the stage. I’d slept through every frame of the doc­u­men­tary of which she was the sub­ject, right next to her.
 
Guilt is one of those moti­va­tors that pos­sess tru­ly gar­gan­tu­an, uni­ver­sal pow­er over human beings. I decid­ed that the cul­ture and I were tox­ic for each oth­er, and haven’t been back, since. (I think that was 2015.)
 
It’s day #1 of screen­ings, and I haven’t slept, but I have every inten­tion of intro­duc­ing myself to my imme­di­ate fel­low audi­ence to con­firm their lack of involve­ment in the pro­duc­tion of the film, should I begin to lose gump­tion again.
 
Amongst the Real Mag­a­zine Boys, there is a cul­ture of silence regard­ing day-to-day oper­a­tions, per­son­al career sto­ries, and indus­try meta, in gen­er­al, because their expe­ri­ences with absurd­ly low wages and salaries learns them a mean greed of their words (and infor­ma­tion, in gen­er­al,) as they accu­mu­late over time. It may be glut­tony, but it is sim­ply a law of nature in the expo­sure-bound servi­tude of the ad mod­el.
 
Extratone’s adver­tis­ing chasti­ty means that we are free to devel­op our own sys­tem of self-appraisal, and if our innocu­ous lit­tle web­site real­ly is cov­er­ing my late mat­u­ra­tion, it is also cov­er­ing itself, so it’s worth not­ing that we have been giv­en a media pass to this year’s event, as much as I want­ed to play it cool.
 
Tech­ni­cal­ly, it’s the first press cre­den­tial of this — my nine-month-old Online son, and I am very proud. It’s a big deal; True/False atten­dance can cost hun­dreds or thou­sands of dol­lars, and we get to send one body for noth­ing at all. To be hon­est, con­tact­ing the press office did not occur to me until a week ago, so I cer­tain­ly didn’t expect any­thing more than pol­i­cy doc­u­ments, but I received An Email just hours after my request.
 
I’ve already over­lapped too much with this month’s (upcom­ing) Editor’s Let­ter, I’m sure, so I’ll do my best to min­i­mize trans­paren­cy this week­end as much as I can. 
 
True/False’s par­tic­u­lar nature does not lend toward any sort of live cov­er­age or urgent cor­re­spon­dence, and nei­ther do we. But we are coun­ter­cul­ture, so I’m going to brew up a live­blog ded­i­cat­ed to con­ver­sa­tions over­heard while queu­ing, and may con­tin­ue this sort of unre­vised “blog­ging” non­sense as my atten­dance pro­gress­es, depend­ing on how bored I am.
 
The ass­es of Ben Stokes and Leo Marx have the pick of the lot over my own, which should be excit­ing news, giv­en their unique per­spec­tives on film and cul­ture, respec­tive­ly. I’ve been try­ing to con­vince Tim to wear his pink suit to the thing — espe­cial­ly the “VR Arcade.” Do me a favor and both­er his Twit­ter about it.
 
When nei­ther are avail­able though, I will be mak­ing every pos­si­ble use of this priv­i­lege, even though my net worth is cur­rent­ly nill, so I may actu­al­ly end up need­ed to keep a fuck­ing loaf of bread in my car. 
 

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