Joss!
Fox Studios, November 28
Joss Report
After an awesome picket experience at NBC/Universal, Jenn, Amy and I decide to take to the sidewalks again. This time, we head to Fox, site of so many triumphs and tragedies in home entertainment. The Great 20th Century Fox that greenlit Buffy, Angel, Firefly, Wonderfalls and Drive. The Terrible, Remorseless Fox that cancelled Buffy, Angel, Firefly, Wonderfalls and Drive, the last of which lasted a record-setting eight days before Fox cut the gas. Believe it or not, the purpose of this blog is not to bash Fox. This is a happy blog. This is the story of the day we met Joss.
We arrive at Fox later than we’d have liked, being collectively (Amy!) incapable of getting anyplace on time. We take the signs, bending but not breaking, ghetto-tastic with their crooked lettering and wrapping-paper-tube posts. For added excitement, we bring Amy’s roommate’s dog, Tate. Although we’ve constructed four, fabulous, “Whedon/Battlestar fans support the writers” signs, we only take two, deciding that toting Tate is a full-time job. The writers greet us-such a nice group of people-and compliment us on the signs, and on Tate. (I think they were lying about at least one of those things!)
“Nice signs,” they tell us. “He’s here, you know.”
Oh. ‘Kay.
I think we all die a little, privately reliving our first Buffy episode, the day Fred died and the first time we saw Serenity soar across the big screen.
“Do you know what he looks like?” they ask.
Um. Yeah. Per-maybe-haps.
The three of us, plus Tate, start toward the main gate in front of which the writers are marching in a sort of elongated oval. We see Buffy alum David Fury, complete with beard and signs, and squee inwardly-and less inwardly.
And then we see Joss.
He’s walking the oval, dressed in straight-legged jeans and layered button-downs in gray and red. He wears a Red Sox cap. He looks the same as he does in every interview or DVD spot and yet totally different. (I can’t explain it, so don’t ask.)
We make eye contact, and I smile; he smiles back. I don’t have many heroes. I’m not good at the whole trust thing. Joss has been at the top of the relatively short list of people I trust-respect-admire since I was fifteen. Even my mother, who prefers reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond to what she refers to as “upsetting” television, has seen all fourteen episodes of Firefly. My father, who rarely admits to liking anything, recommends Firefly to his friends. My little brother, who is cooler than dirt-God I suck at similes this early in the day-has requested that I send him my DVDs so he can convert his dormmates. To say Joss has had a huge impact on me-and by extension my friends and family-is a gross understatement. But this is LA, and we have to (pretend to) be cool. We march around and hold our signs high, trying to explain to Tate, who is really more of a TV dog, why we’re walking in circles instead of home watching Supernatural on DVD.
Joss is being interviewed at one end of the sidewalk, and we try not to stare too blatantly as we troop past. Tate is pulling determinedly in Joss’s direction-it sounds inane, but the dog really has seen an awful lot of Buffy. Tate needs a break after a few more laps, so we adjourn to the grass for a few minutes. That’s about when Joss walks over to us.
“There’s something about your signs,” he says. “I’m drawn to them. Oh, wait, it’s because I’m a Battlestar fan.” Amy tells Joss that she has a sign too, and Joss helpfully explains that, “That’s a dog, not a sign.”
He’s cracking jokes like it’s a comedy show, and we’re laughing/smiling/staring, as talking still proves a little difficult. Even if we could formulate words, I suspect we’d have a hard time keeping up with Joss’ rapidly transitioning monologue, which hits on baseball-“It’s like cricket but slightly less boring”-and the un-meeting-friendly Fox building before segueing somehow to Poland. He explains that Poland is Europe’s bitch-he’s obviously joking; don’t start crazy rumors here, people! He tells us about his college girlfriend who was half-Polish, half-Czech, and loved to trash-talk Poland. She also liked to trash-talk Joss, pointing out all his flaws. We say she’s probably sorry now, and he says he doesn’t think so.
By now we’re slowly recovering speech capacity. I won’t attempt to replicate the flow of conversation here-honestly, I’m not sure I could. But, for your reading pleasure, I present the highlights:
Jenn tells Joss she’s reading Astonishing X-Men.
“That’s funny, ‘cause I’m writing it,” Joss says.
“Can I make a request?” Jenn asks. “Please don’t kill Kitty.”
“Joss kill a main character?” I say. “Never?”
Joss agrees that he “never kills strong female characters.”
“When can we expect Dollhouse?” I say. Joss responds with, “Keep picketing.” He says that Fox promised seven episodes-not just a pilot. When Amy asks whether the episodes will air in order, he says, “We can only hope.”
Jenn tells Joss that we waved at David Fury, who then left rather quickly. Joss explains that David Fury has a deathly fear of waving.
I tell Joss that I’m teaching a writing course with a sci-fi bend at USC and have been showing the students Firefly. That they seem to enjoy it gives me hope for eighteen year olds. Joss says he’s glad, and that he has no hope for his generation. “All we do is start wars.”
Joss asks us what time it is, and we all look frantically for the watches we’re not wearing. He looks at his phone, says “fuck” and then apologizes for swearing. (We’re really not offended.) He says he’s supposed to be making a conference call but left the number at home, where he isn’t. I say it’s okay, I’m supposed to be registering for classes. Jenn says she’s supposed to be working, it’s all good.
Joss tells us he doesn’t really like dogs but thinks that Tate is “pretty adorable.” He also tells us that he just got a kitten.
Joss asks our names. He shakes ours hands and repeats the names back to us-“Amy, April, Jenn”--then decides to call us Fred, Luigi and Boccho (sp?).
And that’s (pretty much) all she wrote. Joss thanks us for coming-“Thank you for everything, Joss!”--and says goodbye. The gals and I hang out for another half hour or so until the writers are wrapping up. All in all, it’s a pretty incredible day. Equally incredible is the fact that, at the tender and unwise age of fifteen, I had the sense to choose this guy as a role model. The man did not disappoint.
-April
Joss Report
After an awesome picket experience at NBC/Universal, Jenn, Amy and I decide to take to the sidewalks again. This time, we head to Fox, site of so many triumphs and tragedies in home entertainment. The Great 20th Century Fox that greenlit Buffy, Angel, Firefly, Wonderfalls and Drive. The Terrible, Remorseless Fox that cancelled Buffy, Angel, Firefly, Wonderfalls and Drive, the last of which lasted a record-setting eight days before Fox cut the gas. Believe it or not, the purpose of this blog is not to bash Fox. This is a happy blog. This is the story of the day we met Joss.
We arrive at Fox later than we’d have liked, being collectively (Amy!) incapable of getting anyplace on time. We take the signs, bending but not breaking, ghetto-tastic with their crooked lettering and wrapping-paper-tube posts. For added excitement, we bring Amy’s roommate’s dog, Tate. Although we’ve constructed four, fabulous, “Whedon/Battlestar fans support the writers” signs, we only take two, deciding that toting Tate is a full-time job. The writers greet us-such a nice group of people-and compliment us on the signs, and on Tate. (I think they were lying about at least one of those things!)
“Nice signs,” they tell us. “He’s here, you know.”
Oh. ‘Kay.
I think we all die a little, privately reliving our first Buffy episode, the day Fred died and the first time we saw Serenity soar across the big screen.
“Do you know what he looks like?” they ask.
Um. Yeah. Per-maybe-haps.
The three of us, plus Tate, start toward the main gate in front of which the writers are marching in a sort of elongated oval. We see Buffy alum David Fury, complete with beard and signs, and squee inwardly-and less inwardly.
And then we see Joss.
He’s walking the oval, dressed in straight-legged jeans and layered button-downs in gray and red. He wears a Red Sox cap. He looks the same as he does in every interview or DVD spot and yet totally different. (I can’t explain it, so don’t ask.)
We make eye contact, and I smile; he smiles back. I don’t have many heroes. I’m not good at the whole trust thing. Joss has been at the top of the relatively short list of people I trust-respect-admire since I was fifteen. Even my mother, who prefers reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond to what she refers to as “upsetting” television, has seen all fourteen episodes of Firefly. My father, who rarely admits to liking anything, recommends Firefly to his friends. My little brother, who is cooler than dirt-God I suck at similes this early in the day-has requested that I send him my DVDs so he can convert his dormmates. To say Joss has had a huge impact on me-and by extension my friends and family-is a gross understatement. But this is LA, and we have to (pretend to) be cool. We march around and hold our signs high, trying to explain to Tate, who is really more of a TV dog, why we’re walking in circles instead of home watching Supernatural on DVD.
Joss is being interviewed at one end of the sidewalk, and we try not to stare too blatantly as we troop past. Tate is pulling determinedly in Joss’s direction-it sounds inane, but the dog really has seen an awful lot of Buffy. Tate needs a break after a few more laps, so we adjourn to the grass for a few minutes. That’s about when Joss walks over to us.
“There’s something about your signs,” he says. “I’m drawn to them. Oh, wait, it’s because I’m a Battlestar fan.” Amy tells Joss that she has a sign too, and Joss helpfully explains that, “That’s a dog, not a sign.”
He’s cracking jokes like it’s a comedy show, and we’re laughing/smiling/staring, as talking still proves a little difficult. Even if we could formulate words, I suspect we’d have a hard time keeping up with Joss’ rapidly transitioning monologue, which hits on baseball-“It’s like cricket but slightly less boring”-and the un-meeting-friendly Fox building before segueing somehow to Poland. He explains that Poland is Europe’s bitch-he’s obviously joking; don’t start crazy rumors here, people! He tells us about his college girlfriend who was half-Polish, half-Czech, and loved to trash-talk Poland. She also liked to trash-talk Joss, pointing out all his flaws. We say she’s probably sorry now, and he says he doesn’t think so.
By now we’re slowly recovering speech capacity. I won’t attempt to replicate the flow of conversation here-honestly, I’m not sure I could. But, for your reading pleasure, I present the highlights:
Jenn tells Joss she’s reading Astonishing X-Men.
“That’s funny, ‘cause I’m writing it,” Joss says.
“Can I make a request?” Jenn asks. “Please don’t kill Kitty.”
“Joss kill a main character?” I say. “Never?”
Joss agrees that he “never kills strong female characters.”
“When can we expect Dollhouse?” I say. Joss responds with, “Keep picketing.” He says that Fox promised seven episodes-not just a pilot. When Amy asks whether the episodes will air in order, he says, “We can only hope.”
Jenn tells Joss that we waved at David Fury, who then left rather quickly. Joss explains that David Fury has a deathly fear of waving.
I tell Joss that I’m teaching a writing course with a sci-fi bend at USC and have been showing the students Firefly. That they seem to enjoy it gives me hope for eighteen year olds. Joss says he’s glad, and that he has no hope for his generation. “All we do is start wars.”
Joss asks us what time it is, and we all look frantically for the watches we’re not wearing. He looks at his phone, says “fuck” and then apologizes for swearing. (We’re really not offended.) He says he’s supposed to be making a conference call but left the number at home, where he isn’t. I say it’s okay, I’m supposed to be registering for classes. Jenn says she’s supposed to be working, it’s all good.
Joss tells us he doesn’t really like dogs but thinks that Tate is “pretty adorable.” He also tells us that he just got a kitten.
Joss asks our names. He shakes ours hands and repeats the names back to us-“Amy, April, Jenn”--then decides to call us Fred, Luigi and Boccho (sp?).
And that’s (pretty much) all she wrote. Joss thanks us for coming-“Thank you for everything, Joss!”--and says goodbye. The gals and I hang out for another half hour or so until the writers are wrapping up. All in all, it’s a pretty incredible day. Equally incredible is the fact that, at the tender and unwise age of fifteen, I had the sense to choose this guy as a role model. The man did not disappoint.
-April