Luca Guadagnino during Venice Film Festival Queer press conference: “Guys, let’s be adults in the room for a second. There is no way around the fact that nobody would ever know [what] James Bond desires.”

This morning I decided to sample a few drops of CDB Oil, which affects the system in a way that facilitates or complements the strawberry red gummies. Neither the oil or the gummies are about delivering any kind of pot high, although they have a slight trace of THC in them.

About 40 minutes after I deposited several drops of oil (maybe nine or ten) under my tongue, and while idly chatting with Sasha Stone in the condo, I began to feel a wee bit ignited. There was a slight tingle in my system. Like I’d just had a couple of pulls on a joint.

My head was gently levitating with the dry mouth and all. I couldn’t even swallow. My mind was running and skipping all around and burrowing down under and juggling three or four thoughts, shifting and pivoting, idea sparks, etc.

My cautious-minded conservative self, the person who lives somewhat anxiously within and is always first to ring the alarm bell…he spoke up quickly and said “uhhm, don’t freak out but I think we’re kind of stoned…just be aware of this.”

I haven’t been high since Tatiana persuaded me to pop a pot-high gummie three or four years ago. But here I am…vaguely ripped with all kinds of crackling thoughts and intuitions popping..

I knew I shouldn’t drive as I might suddenly notice psychedelic grasshopper trucks driving next to me on the way back to Albuquerque.

So I walked into town to tell the Green Dragon counter guys that the oil drops, if you take eight or ten of them, can make you feel like you’re almost tripping, and that they should post a warning on the label to this effect

I then walked down to the Abel Gance outdoor theatre, and decided to sit at a nearby outdoor dining table. I was still too stoned to drive so I bought a Diet Coke at Steamies, parked it outdoors and began reading and texting in front of a large brick commercial building…a non-historic, vaguely ugly building that has a few rentable condos on the second, third and fourth floors.

I was just minding my own, texting and reading and occasionally glancing at the passers-by, when all of a sudden THR’s Rebecca Keegan was strolling out of the brick building. Ding–ding–ding–ding–ding!

My first, fleeting, semi-paranoid, pot-buzz reaction was, “Holy shit, it’s Keegan! If she spots me she’s gonna think I’m stalking her or something. And if she stares at me she might sense that I’m stoned and conclude that I’m more than a bit unstable. She’s very touchy so who knows? Maybe she hasn’t seen me…please, God.”

I mean, Keegan is apparently on-board with a THR consensus that I was “menacing” her in an 8.21 post in which I said I might give her a dirty look, etc. These people are very hair-trigger when it comes to expressing concerns about “safety” and whatnot.

So if any THR people are reading this, please tell Keegan I had no idea she was staying in the large brick building and that our suddenly being 15 feet apart as she walked out and went on her way… that was a total, no–big–deal coincidence. Really. I took no photos, pretended not to be there, etc. Total nothingburger.

The Hollyweed Elsewhere art is by Tex Hayward…thanks

Since arriving in the thin-air Rockies I’ve been grappling with stabbing pain in my swollen right knee and gnawing pain in my left thigh. It hurts to walk anywhere, and walking around the Telluride Film Festival like Joe Biden feels profoundly humiliating, let me tell ya.

A day or two ago I was half-hobbling toward Telluride’s Palm theatre, and a pair of Type-A women with badges passed on my left. One of them turned and glanced at me and eyeballed my badge. She wanted to know who the gimp was.

I’ve had strong legs all my life, and while I’m fairly certain this current malady isn’t permanent, the idea of resembling a member of the shuffleboard set from an assisted living facility is shattering. It certainly delivers a blow to my own self-image.

I was honestly saying to myself yesterday that I should have brought my shiny black cane with me. (I bought it during my mid-teen bout with plantar fascitis.)

I’ll say it again — walking around like Biden is hugely depressing. I have my CBD gummies, my Advil tablets, my muscle-massage gun and my Nordic Goddess body balm, and nothing really seems to help. Okay, the gummies have modified the pain somewhat but the shooting knee ache has nearly brought me to tears.

Last night I was about to leave for a 9:30 pm Galaxy screening of Pablo Larrain‘s Maria — roughly a 10-minute uphill walk — and I was so intimidated and gloomed-out by the idea of each right-leg step delivering a twitch of pain…I was so bummed that something collapsed inside, and I decided to just crash on the couch. I slept until 4:30 am.

I’m hoping that an injection or two of cortisone when I get back home might make the knee pain subside. Thank God my life activities mostly revolve around sitting — writing, watching films, driving — but the idea of being less inclined to walk here or there because of acute discomfort…that’s the end, man. “When your legs go, so do your professional opportunities” — William Wyler.

Sasha tells me my leg troubles will be alleviated if I start wearing therapeutic ugly shoes. Sasha knows I’d rather die than wear ugly shoes so I don’t know why she mentioned it.

Nancy Pelosi has experienced true menace and stark physical fear — the Jan. 6 Capitol attack by Trump’s bumblefuck hordes, the subsequent invasion of her San Francisco home and the wounding of her husband by rightwing wacko David DePape. Awful stuff.

Yesterday I was gravely accused of having menaced THR film editor Rebecca Keegan. The menace was conveyed, I was told, by posting on 8.21 that I was very angry about Keegan having cheaply slandered me in that 8.14 Sasha Stone hit piece, and by my stating the following: “If I see you in Telluride, I’m going to give you a dirty look. Fair?”

That‘s being menacing? I’ve been the recipient of dirty looks for decades, and they’re nothing. You know what the dirtiest look is? When a person you know pretty well spots you and pretends you’re not there…that you’re vapor.

[Saturday, 9.1, 2:50 pm] I’m not able to share my thoughts about Jason Reitman’s Saturday Night, which I caught last night (7:15 pm) at the Palm. I felt more respect than affection — I can at least say that much. I’ll try to get into it later…sorry.

HE had an absolute blast watching Sean Baker’s Anora at 9 am this morning. My second viewing, having caught the world premiere in Cannes last May. It’s so hilarious during Act Two, and the finale is so sad and touching. Mikey Madison should take the Best Actress Oscar — no question about this.

Which is to say I’ve always felt a certain degree of distaste from all things Corbet, acting and directing.

I’m nonetheless looking very much forward to seeing Corbet’s The Brutalist, which has debuted to rave reviews at the Venice Film Festival. But 215 minutes, bruh…

During this afternoon’s post-Apprentice screening q & a, which featured director Ali Abassi, costars Sebastian Stan (Donald Trump) and Jeremy Strong (Roy Cohn) and screenwriter Gabriel Sherman, Strong explained his approach to playing the demonic Cohn by quoting the opening passage from Joaquin Miller‘s “Byron“:

If I were Special Counsel Jack Smith, roaming around Telluride like an average T-shirted beardo (and with no special pass), I would have certainly attended this afternoon’s (12:30 pm) Chuck Jones screening of Ali Abassi‘s The Apprentice. I was there, you bet. [Photo Credit: Sasha Stone.]

Succession star Kieran Culkin is now a likely Best Supporting Actor nominee for his performance as a hyper-obsessive, emotionally out-there, semi-Asperger’s dude in Jessie Eisenberg’s A Real Pain.

Culkin did a post-screening q&a with Eisenberg yesterday at the Chuck Jones theatre.

It followed Saturday’s 12:15 pm showing, and was full of confessional stream-of-consciousness blather about this and that. Great minds, great entertainers. I loved the film. A fascinating, character-driven, anxiety-propelled road movie (i.e., the “road” being a journey through Poland).

I can’t not acknowledge that Culkin, who’s just shy of 42, has serious, moussed-up rasta hair. I’ve never seen this kind of hair on a noteworthy white actor in my entire life. Some of those strands are almost a half-foot long.

And consider Culkin’s bloodshot eyes. The man is obviously smoking a lot of weed and maybe doing a little drinking. It’s hard to pinpoint but he definitely has that baked and wasted look.

Which is fine with me. It comes with the genius thing. I’m just familiar with this kind of biological signage…I know what it means.