Chapter the First: In which our hero travels to the Peach City, eats too much, drinks too much, dances just enough, and meets various individuals...
Managed to drag myself out of my sweet sweet bed after three hours of sweaty, restless sleep (a little ill, and also crazy excited) at 4:30, hoofed it to the train station, and caught me the brand spankin' new Union Station LAX Flyaway, pictured herein:
Incidentally, I really recommend this baby. I mean, you just drive, walk, bus, train, or bike to Union Station, and $3 and forty minutes later you're at your choice of terminal. For us Eastsiders, it definitely beats a $60 cab ride or a $30 2-hr SuperShuttle. Comfy, commuter-style seats, carpool lanes, 101, 110, 105, ain't no jive. Just sayin', is all.
Resisted the siren song of the Cinnabon, somehow snuck through security, and here's my plane. She's a beaut, isn't she?
Today's feature was a delightful chunk of offal known as "Failure to Launch," which theoretically even the lowest level media buyer at Delta must have seen as, if not a stunning piece of irony, at least a very bad idea. Needless to say, I slept instead of subjecting myself to it, although I know, somewhere deep in my soul, that I will watch it someday, not just because I think Matthew McConaughey is a bad-ass mofo who doesn't give a squirrel dropping what you think, but because I noticed mute on the pale, washed-out screen several actors and comedians I like (Rob Corddry, Zooey Deschanel, that guy who had the Bourdain sitcom, help me out here Micah).
Anyspray, I got to Atlanta and navigated myself into the BEAUTIFUL Sheraton Midtown Atlanta Hotel at Colony Square. The staff and service here have been exceptional. All hotels should be this wonderful. And I'm sure the management will handle the "hot tub incident" with all the discretion and professionalism I've come to expect. Ahem.
So I caught up with Morgan and Laura (and Chris and Myron, albeit briefly) and as we were walking into this screening, this guy stops us:
His name's Dean, and I have to give it up for this guy. He's one of the screeners for the festival, which means he watched like 400 movies and narrowed it down. And they say America doesn't have any heroes. Anyways, turns out Dean REALLY liked the movie! So, even though we had nothing to do with the movie that was actually being screened, he called us out and we stood up to applause in the theatre. I felt like Paul Newman in the audience of the Ed Sullivan show.
The screening was "The Sisters," a film adaptation of a theatre adaptation of Anton Chekhov's The Three Sisters. Let me begin by saying the cast was fantastic. Maria Bello, Mary Stuart Masterson, Alessandro Nivola, Tony Gwynne, Erika Christensen, Eric McCormack, Rip Torn, I mean what's not to love, right? And if this cast was assembled on a stage, I think the production would get a standing O every night. But as a film....eh.
Melodramatic at times, downright boring at others, gloriously rich with human pathos at others, just generally uneven. But enough about that.
L, M, and I set out on an ill-advised exploratory walk through Piedmont Park to try to find our way back to the hotel, where we find Lori (YAY! You see, Lori had a horrible trip from LA. Many sad difficulties befell her. If only she had a blog, in which she could share them with you. I assure you, they are both touching and inspiring. Perhaps one day you can ask her about it, but do so with care and compassion.) and head out to the PARTY!!!
Yeah so the party tonight is at this restaurant named Django, yes, after the guitarist of some note, although the decor strangely evokes neither the musician nor his art, to wit:
Forgive my poor craftsmanship, the subtleties of low-light photography still elude me.
This unsavory character is the table.
But one thing Django excels at, is the food:
Laura enjoying the steak skewers. Also featured? Fried breaded calimari, fresh baked pizza slices, lime chile chicken wings, honey BBQ chicken wings, ooh LAWDY. And since we were lame (cool) enough to show up before the last movie of the night had gotten out, we got first crack at that scrumptious grub.
Joining us soon thereafter (from L-R) were Tai (sp?), party coordinator extraordinaire, Lynette (sp? (it was loud in the club)), who handles travel arrangements but mainly just sent me to Funkytown, and her sister.
This is Jake, the festival director, with Lori (YAY!), the costume designer for "the little Death". Jake is one of these guys (we've met several) involved in the festival who really really like the movie, and think I'm especially good in it. I liked him at once.
So you know how in those old Bugs Bunny/Daffy Duck cartoons, Daffy's all (legitimately) upset because he's the more talented (he certainly works twice as hard) of the two and thinks he should get first billing? It's kinda like that here with Chris. I'll be all, "Yeah, I'm in this movie the little Death," and the festival honey will be all, "Oh yeah, isn't CHRIS in that?" Except that Chris is a way more talented and dedicated actor than I am. Unlike Bugs, who was really just phoning it in the last 10 years. Pictured here with Tatiana, who is excellent in the film.
This is Myron (remember? I mentioned him earlier). He lives in Hawthorne, poor bastard, and is an actor Chris knows from the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, where Chris was the most wonderful fantastic blahbittyblah blah blah in the whole blah. Also pictured, somewhat mischievously, is fellow OSF alum Crystal Fox, an Atlantan I'm sure we haven't heard the last of.
So anyways, the DJ was pretty good, spinning some old-school hip-hop after the band had packed up and gone home, but it turned out he was just filler as a new band was coming on. More on this later, but suffice it to say, I went outside to hear something besides the noise inside. There I met young Dunnovan [sic] G. Waddell, Credit Manager at Wells Fargo by day, mad slam poet by night:
My boy laid down some sweet poetry, but had to bounce. He gave me his card so that he can let me know where to see some more slam poetry while I'm in town. After Dunnovan got done, the bouncer started in. Maybe you know this one:
In days of old,
when knights were bold,
and women weren't particular,
If you don't know the rest, please contact a middle schooler immediately.
So I swear, it's nothing against this guy (Nick Brubaker, "The Folk Singer's Son", self-published, see myspace for more info) personally, he did some pedestrian Dylan covers but also some of his own stuff and I have ridiculous respect for anyone willing to stand in front of a mike at a bar and inflict their passion on others, and he definitely had all his friends and their girlfriends out, but you know, we had been dancing to that DJ and then you couldn't dance anymore and so we were all just hoping he would stop.
Btw, when I asked him his name (just so that I could properly blog the experience) he was super nice and just gave me his CD and basically showed me up for the cynical ass-clown I was/am and so if anyone wants to hear this talented and committed young man's CD, I'll be happy to pirate it for you.
Anyways, so the DJ comes back on, only this time he's playing dancehall reggae (oh I'm still down) but then, I kid you not, this fool (I found out later his name was Hunter) walks up:
and straight challenges me to a dance-off. Now, y'all know me, and you know I'm all about the love. So I tells this guy, "Why's it gotta be a competition, yo? Why can't we both just dance and have a good time?" Without missing a beat, Hunter counters with, "Because it will be funny." And since that's my kryptonite, I took off my festival landyard, set down my drink, and set to schooling this fool.
He gave me the start, so I pumped the hip, dropped it once or twice as if it was hot, and finished with a kick-ball-change-spin combo. Right back with a hippity-hoppity, one-leg spin and drop. The crowd's getting into it now, so I start doing my break-dance strut, first this leg, then that, then transition from the Molly Ringwald breakfast club into a full-on, knee-kick, knee-kick BIG-dance, slide it out to the side. Here's where fool drops his trump, and takes the run into a knee-slide right up into my grille. I was ready to give it to him right then and there, but something told me, "You know you ain't gonna do that, but you can get just as low." So I did. Worthy of a South LA krumper, I jiggled it to the floor and back up, and the verdict was in. Max 1, skeezy loser 0.
So then Chris shows up. Where's he been? Oh yeah. While we were all bemoaning the music and where were all the people &c, he's been downstairs at the REAL party. These pictures won't do the dark, sweaty, funky, feverish jam justice,
but I think it's fair to say I wouldn't have won a dance-off down there.
Schooled, yet invigorated, we broke up and headed back to our crashsites. As I write this, even though it is only 9:40 PM LA time, here in the hotel lobby it seems like 3AM. In scant few hours, Ashley and James arrive, bringing the party with them.
That is, if last night's evacuation of LAX for several hours doesn't hopelessly screw with schedules and travel times for several days! Ha-ha! Ha. Hm.
More later, and as always, don't shy away from public comments. I certainly don't stand by anything I've written here.
crunked up,
m@x
Incidentally, I really recommend this baby. I mean, you just drive, walk, bus, train, or bike to Union Station, and $3 and forty minutes later you're at your choice of terminal. For us Eastsiders, it definitely beats a $60 cab ride or a $30 2-hr SuperShuttle. Comfy, commuter-style seats, carpool lanes, 101, 110, 105, ain't no jive. Just sayin', is all.
Resisted the siren song of the Cinnabon, somehow snuck through security, and here's my plane. She's a beaut, isn't she?
Today's feature was a delightful chunk of offal known as "Failure to Launch," which theoretically even the lowest level media buyer at Delta must have seen as, if not a stunning piece of irony, at least a very bad idea. Needless to say, I slept instead of subjecting myself to it, although I know, somewhere deep in my soul, that I will watch it someday, not just because I think Matthew McConaughey is a bad-ass mofo who doesn't give a squirrel dropping what you think, but because I noticed mute on the pale, washed-out screen several actors and comedians I like (Rob Corddry, Zooey Deschanel, that guy who had the Bourdain sitcom, help me out here Micah).Anyspray, I got to Atlanta and navigated myself into the BEAUTIFUL Sheraton Midtown Atlanta Hotel at Colony Square. The staff and service here have been exceptional. All hotels should be this wonderful. And I'm sure the management will handle the "hot tub incident" with all the discretion and professionalism I've come to expect. Ahem.
So I caught up with Morgan and Laura (and Chris and Myron, albeit briefly) and as we were walking into this screening, this guy stops us:
His name's Dean, and I have to give it up for this guy. He's one of the screeners for the festival, which means he watched like 400 movies and narrowed it down. And they say America doesn't have any heroes. Anyways, turns out Dean REALLY liked the movie! So, even though we had nothing to do with the movie that was actually being screened, he called us out and we stood up to applause in the theatre. I felt like Paul Newman in the audience of the Ed Sullivan show.
The screening was "The Sisters," a film adaptation of a theatre adaptation of Anton Chekhov's The Three Sisters. Let me begin by saying the cast was fantastic. Maria Bello, Mary Stuart Masterson, Alessandro Nivola, Tony Gwynne, Erika Christensen, Eric McCormack, Rip Torn, I mean what's not to love, right? And if this cast was assembled on a stage, I think the production would get a standing O every night. But as a film....eh.
Melodramatic at times, downright boring at others, gloriously rich with human pathos at others, just generally uneven. But enough about that.
L, M, and I set out on an ill-advised exploratory walk through Piedmont Park to try to find our way back to the hotel, where we find Lori (YAY! You see, Lori had a horrible trip from LA. Many sad difficulties befell her. If only she had a blog, in which she could share them with you. I assure you, they are both touching and inspiring. Perhaps one day you can ask her about it, but do so with care and compassion.) and head out to the PARTY!!!
Yeah so the party tonight is at this restaurant named Django, yes, after the guitarist of some note, although the decor strangely evokes neither the musician nor his art, to wit:
Forgive my poor craftsmanship, the subtleties of low-light photography still elude me.
This unsavory character is the table.
But one thing Django excels at, is the food:
Laura enjoying the steak skewers. Also featured? Fried breaded calimari, fresh baked pizza slices, lime chile chicken wings, honey BBQ chicken wings, ooh LAWDY. And since we were lame (cool) enough to show up before the last movie of the night had gotten out, we got first crack at that scrumptious grub.
Joining us soon thereafter (from L-R) were Tai (sp?), party coordinator extraordinaire, Lynette (sp? (it was loud in the club)), who handles travel arrangements but mainly just sent me to Funkytown, and her sister.
This is Jake, the festival director, with Lori (YAY!), the costume designer for "the little Death". Jake is one of these guys (we've met several) involved in the festival who really really like the movie, and think I'm especially good in it. I liked him at once.
So you know how in those old Bugs Bunny/Daffy Duck cartoons, Daffy's all (legitimately) upset because he's the more talented (he certainly works twice as hard) of the two and thinks he should get first billing? It's kinda like that here with Chris. I'll be all, "Yeah, I'm in this movie the little Death," and the festival honey will be all, "Oh yeah, isn't CHRIS in that?" Except that Chris is a way more talented and dedicated actor than I am. Unlike Bugs, who was really just phoning it in the last 10 years. Pictured here with Tatiana, who is excellent in the film.
This is Myron (remember? I mentioned him earlier). He lives in Hawthorne, poor bastard, and is an actor Chris knows from the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, where Chris was the most wonderful fantastic blahbittyblah blah blah in the whole blah. Also pictured, somewhat mischievously, is fellow OSF alum Crystal Fox, an Atlantan I'm sure we haven't heard the last of.So anyways, the DJ was pretty good, spinning some old-school hip-hop after the band had packed up and gone home, but it turned out he was just filler as a new band was coming on. More on this later, but suffice it to say, I went outside to hear something besides the noise inside. There I met young Dunnovan [sic] G. Waddell, Credit Manager at Wells Fargo by day, mad slam poet by night:
My boy laid down some sweet poetry, but had to bounce. He gave me his card so that he can let me know where to see some more slam poetry while I'm in town. After Dunnovan got done, the bouncer started in. Maybe you know this one:In days of old,
when knights were bold,
and women weren't particular,
If you don't know the rest, please contact a middle schooler immediately.
So I swear, it's nothing against this guy (Nick Brubaker, "The Folk Singer's Son", self-published, see myspace for more info) personally, he did some pedestrian Dylan covers but also some of his own stuff and I have ridiculous respect for anyone willing to stand in front of a mike at a bar and inflict their passion on others, and he definitely had all his friends and their girlfriends out, but you know, we had been dancing to that DJ and then you couldn't dance anymore and so we were all just hoping he would stop.Btw, when I asked him his name (just so that I could properly blog the experience) he was super nice and just gave me his CD and basically showed me up for the cynical ass-clown I was/am and so if anyone wants to hear this talented and committed young man's CD, I'll be happy to pirate it for you.
Anyways, so the DJ comes back on, only this time he's playing dancehall reggae (oh I'm still down) but then, I kid you not, this fool (I found out later his name was Hunter) walks up:
and straight challenges me to a dance-off. Now, y'all know me, and you know I'm all about the love. So I tells this guy, "Why's it gotta be a competition, yo? Why can't we both just dance and have a good time?" Without missing a beat, Hunter counters with, "Because it will be funny." And since that's my kryptonite, I took off my festival landyard, set down my drink, and set to schooling this fool.He gave me the start, so I pumped the hip, dropped it once or twice as if it was hot, and finished with a kick-ball-change-spin combo. Right back with a hippity-hoppity, one-leg spin and drop. The crowd's getting into it now, so I start doing my break-dance strut, first this leg, then that, then transition from the Molly Ringwald breakfast club into a full-on, knee-kick, knee-kick BIG-dance, slide it out to the side. Here's where fool drops his trump, and takes the run into a knee-slide right up into my grille. I was ready to give it to him right then and there, but something told me, "You know you ain't gonna do that, but you can get just as low." So I did. Worthy of a South LA krumper, I jiggled it to the floor and back up, and the verdict was in. Max 1, skeezy loser 0.
So then Chris shows up. Where's he been? Oh yeah. While we were all bemoaning the music and where were all the people &c, he's been downstairs at the REAL party. These pictures won't do the dark, sweaty, funky, feverish jam justice,
but I think it's fair to say I wouldn't have won a dance-off down there.
Schooled, yet invigorated, we broke up and headed back to our crashsites. As I write this, even though it is only 9:40 PM LA time, here in the hotel lobby it seems like 3AM. In scant few hours, Ashley and James arrive, bringing the party with them.
That is, if last night's evacuation of LAX for several hours doesn't hopelessly screw with schedules and travel times for several days! Ha-ha! Ha. Hm.
More later, and as always, don't shy away from public comments. I certainly don't stand by anything I've written here.
crunked up,
m@x
posted by m@x at 11:27 PM
2 Comments:
No Max. I aint doin' no blog. I will say that my flight was "cancelled" in that it wasn't really cancelled but they thought it would be fun to fuckin' call me at 3 am (up since 2) and reschedule me for a flight at noon. Did I mention the initial flight actually departed only scant minutes late? Delta BITCHES! Got in late. Coulda seen a movie. Took a nap instead.
So Jake the festival director talked to me a lot about wicca, Salem Mass, and seeing angels. No shit. A large lovely black lady in a powder blue dress haunts his life. I didn't imagine this guy would have such tales. The support he gave us and the film was amazing. He was SUCH the proud daddy!
I was also being chatted up by a fledgling film composer whose name I've erased from memory. Alls I remember is this old closeted gay was tryin' to get me to drink Long Island Ice Teas. Not only was he SUPER not getting any of me, that nasty cocktail would so not mix with the freebie Stella Artois beer I was sippin' on. They really couldn't give those beers away!
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