Back in my college days circa 2003-ish, I managed to get an all-access press pass to the Savannah Film Festival.
By bald-faced, straight-up lying. My mother would be ashamed…and at the time, my conscience was knotted up in my stomach.
Well. Until I realized how freaking awesome my life was going to be for the following week.
So here I am, following up on my Hunt for Alec Baldwin with my musings on actors, egos and the worst pick-up attempt in the history of pick-ups.
Getting an all-access pass to film festivals is fantastic in more ways than the obvious. Yes, we were at every party and after party. Yes we got to attend special events, and yes we met some great people. But the best part, for me anyway, was getting into every movie I wanted, and sitting in the best section reserved for fancy people. Like me.
So I’m sitting in the fancy section with my popcorn and Coke, chillin’ and minding my own business when a guy comes and sits right next to me in a fairly empty fancy section. Seemed innocent enough. And he was cute so I obviously wasn’t too upset about it. This is how I met the man I will refer to as Mouse Barf. MB was pretty famous at the time having been in some big films that spanned across the Atlantic and I recognized him right away. I smiled. He smiled. We all smiled.
We hit up some parties together, met up at the bars, did the whole ‘thing’ I guess. But since I had a boyfriend at the time, I wasn’t going to flirt all that much because I’m a fucking lady and I’m not an asshole to people I’m dating. So it remained friendly, and as far as I was concerned, he was also keeping a distance and there was no inappropriate engagement. It was refreshing! And we had a great time scoping out the crowd, poking jokes, talking movies. Whatever. He was cute and famous. No harm in hanging out, right?
So one night I’m at a party downtown and I find a note in my jacket pocket that Mouse Barf must have put in there at some point the night before. It basically said to come by his hotel before the night was through since he was leaving the next day.
Ok. Oh Kay. In hindsight, this is obviously a booty call. But I, in my infinite wisdom, decided to head over there anyway, alone. So the front desk buzzes up to him and he says to meet me in his room. Which I DID NOT DO. Obviously. Duh. THAT would be absurd. But instead of seeing that obvious attempt at getting me into bed and thinking ‘this guy’s a dick’, I said he should just meet me in the lobby. Because I’m a lady.
I’m not sure what imagined Mouse Barf to look like in the middle of the night coming down the stairs of the hotel, but it was definitely more hilarious than I imagined. In a beam of glorious light, Mouse Barf reveals himself to me in a grody old Mickey Mouse t-shirt which he either ripped or cut off the sleeves, and what appeared to be a barf stain down the front. He also smelled odd, though I can’t pinpoint what it was. The barf stain was old, which was a relief, because his breath was just fresh enough to try to plant one on me at the fucking front desk counter with the concierge staring at us like we are monsters.
And for what it’s worth, we were monsters. I showed up totally ill-prepared for a booty call and shocked, just shocked! I tell you at this behaviour, and the visiting celebrity looked like he got into a fight with a dumpster.
I removed myself from the situation, moderately ashamed, wholly amused and with most of my dignity intact. Later I thought of all the trouble he had gone through just to try to get me in his hotel room. I mean, we met up and chatted for a solid 3 days at films and parties and all for nothing. Had I not been a fool and realized he just wanted to lock and stock his smoking barrels into my pants I would have saved him the trouble from the get go.
But then I wouldn’t have this story, would I?