Dearie me, chickens, I somehow had no idea about this until I read Neil Gaiman's blog this morning:
One really has to wonder where I've been to have missed it. I'm on the House of Tomorrow's mailing list, for fuck's sake. Grrr. Sadly I never buy SXSW tix, so I won't be able to watch it--I only do free day shows and get silly drunk and try to cut in the bathroom line at crowded coffee shops by batting my eyes.
There's a sneak preview of it in San Francisco on the 28th. If I wasn't already throwing a breakfast-for-dinner party and a birthday party for The Boy, my ass might have just flown up there for that (and some Frijole and Fink-Nottle action).
I wonder if it will be as titillating as watching Britta Phillips (Jem!) and Dean Wareham get all sexy with each other in Tell Me Do You Miss Me. That was downright shocking. Dean is not a man who you'd think would let his guard down and even show an emotion like grabbing his lady on to his lap. Whoo. I think I'll faint if I see Stephin Merritt get cuddly with someone without at least having something snarky to say while doing it.
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