I just finished reading Mark Jacobson's essay about a man disguising himself as a zombie to sell DVDs of his ultra-low-budget Bed-Stuy zombie flick. I can dig it. I identify with - and have been guilty of indulging in - relentless self promotion. 

The essay reminded me of a boneheaded thing I did a couple of years ago. Against my better judgment, I sunk some money into a locally-produced horror film. It's not a great film by any measure. It's unlikely that I will ever recoup my investment. What was I smoking? you may well ask. 

I'm still asking myself. Was I tipsy when the story idea was laid on me? Yes. Was I feeling on top of the world, confident that my picture would appear in Slog the next day? Yes. Did I find that I was still reeling from the remnants of a crush on the best city councilmember Seattle never had? A bit. Did I have money to burn? Not exactly. Was I terribly impressed with the rough cut of the film that was lent me? Not really. Was I delusional? I don't understand the question . . .

Funny how our occasional bouts of star-stricken madness are tempered with the worst jolts of real life. I was saddened to read last week that the (very nice) guy who wrote the film and who gave me such a good spiel for financing his film was gay-bashed last week in Belltown.