Cartilage! It's a science word.

Another battle in the ongoing war of attrition against my room was waged tonight. I cleared out the drawers of my computer desk: old Angband cheat printouts, sheaves of detailed pencil maps for Bard's Tale and Myst, manuals for MacWrite Pro and Aldus SuperPaint. All of my pencils are sharpened, and all of my pens write-tested. Hole-soled Converse high-tops I've had since high school were hauled from beneath my bed and dumped, along with an old hard drive that I...ah...formatted with extreme prejudice. This made room for my collection of naughty videos, now stacked neatly beneath the foot of my bed, and my Muppet Show chess set. The room is strong, but I am stronger.

Today was otherwise a bit bleak. I did, eventually, calm down after the violent events of last night, but I had trouble falling asleep, and slept late. When I did awaken it was to face plummeting temperatures. Kendra made very tasty gorgonzola toasties and ginger snow peas for dinner, and we walked into town to run a few errands, but I don't feel like I ever really managed to face the day.

For her part, Kendra finished reading the Philoctetes earlier than expected and found herself hanging from a loose end by the end of the night, too unfocused even for me to read her a chapter of Harry Potter. Dissertations are hell.

No news from last night, by the way; the police never called.

Newsworthy

I just finished talking to a fellow from Channel 4 News. Fifteen minutes before that, I talked to a woman from Channel 7. Suddenly, I'm newsworthy.

Channel 7 called me while I was still in my nightshirt, and graciously agreed to wait until I got dressed before stopping by my apartment in their Ghostbusters news van. The hulking and craggy cameraman, who looked like he'd just crawled out from under a car, had me stand in front of my Klimt poster and my Distelfink clock; the well-dressed black reporter asked me about the fight on Saturday night: what did I see? Had this happened before? How badly was the victim hurt? Did I really follow the guy? I don't know if I gave them any usable footage; I stammered, and shifted from foot to foot. But it was over in three minutes.

Channel 4 was here a little longer; they had me sit on my couch, and the helpful little cameraman moved Kendra's koala (a gift from elysdir, incidentally) out of the shot, so I wouldn't "look silly." They clipped a mike to my collar, chatted a little about the Roma poster behind me—the reporter's family was from Italy; "Do you speak Italian?" he asked me, in Italian—then ("I'm rolling!") asked me to describe what had happened. The reporter seemed attentive and a little shocked, though of course that might have been an act; my retelling was not particularly dramatic. Either way, he put me more at my ease than Channel 7. After we were done taping, he continued talking to me about movies while the cameraman got some wide shots of me.

The assailant, I learned, was indeed picked up by the police on Saturday ("He takes a nice mug shot," said the hulking cameraman) in Milan, MI—thanks, apparently, to me. The victim is still in the hospital with broken ribs and a collapsed lung. I'm slightly worried, now, about retaliation; I may call the police to ask if I need to be. I'm certainly going to ask Kendra to lock the door tonight while I'm at work.

For those in the Detroit area, the Channel 4 broadcast will be at 5PM tonight, and Channel 7's at 6. I'm quite sure I'll look scruffy and sound incoherent, yet rehearsed—if I even appear—but it was an interesting whirlwind of an experience.

Well, *bleep* me!

I was bleeped! I used the word "bitch" during my interview with ABC-7, quoting salt-and-pepper (now known to be Paul Elrod, which is a matter of public record at this point), and they bleeped it out. I've never been bleeped before. I feel like I've lost a purity point.

The NBC-4 interview came on just after Kendra got home, so I was able to surprise her with my big mug (and our livingroom) on the screen. They actually did quite a nice three-minute piece, with good shots of our marquee and lengthy, in-context quotes from me, although the cheesy voiceovers were unnecessary: "But Thorpe...wasn't scared off." "As head projectionist, he's used to seeing blood and gore on the big screen...but not in the lobby."

Fox News was lying in wait for me when I got to work, though they didn't seem to know anything that had happened; I had to relate the whole story, trying to be clear as to what was second- and third-hand information. I taped an interview with them outside the theater, and they asked the worst questions so far: "How awful was this?" "How happy are you that they were able to catch him?" And we did one of those fake "reporter-walking-with-interviewee" shots that Fox always uses.

Throughout, I tried to be as matter-of-fact as I could, erring on the side of boring, but of course the actual reports managed to sensationalize the events without technically twisting my words. I support the concept of a free press, so I wanted to tell them what I'd seen, but there is an aspect of the vulture about them. It was an interesting experience, this small degree of fame, but not something I'd seek out.

I was surprised, but pleased, when Mr. Elrod himself called the theater tonight to apologize to me. More or less. Partly, he wanted to give a mile-a-minute account of his side of the story, which may or may not be accurate; he said that the victim attacked him first and pulled his jacket over his head, and that he blacked out from a punch the victim threw, and that he couldn't possibly have thrown popcorn at him because he has an intestinal problem that won't let him eat popcorn, although his wife did have popcorn.... I'm not sure how internally consistent it was, but I appreciated that he was genuinely contrite and scared, and I tried to be conciliatory; I thanked him for calling, and said I felt better knowing both sides of the story, which seemed to ease his mind a little. At the end of the day, though, he collapsed someone's lung and left the scene of the crime before the police arrived; I feel a little bad for him, but it's a hell of his own making. At least I don't feel I need to watch over my shoulder now; I don't think he's still angry at me.