I am feeling really emboldened right now (and miserably embarrassed. It has been an hour since the event that I am about to chronicle transpired and I still feel flushed).
Last night, nursing a cold, I settled into my apartment. Unfortunately, in my apartment I am completely cut off from civilization as I am deprived of cable and internet. At 7:00 I was facing early retirement if I didn't find something compelling to occupy my time. That's when the germ of an idea sprouted.
The Sundance Film Festival is happening this week. Every year I tell myself I am going to go. I am going to bask in the creative presence. You know, feel a small part of this artistic community that I continuously convince myself I am not cool enough to be a part of. (As the last movie I made was probably a shoddily produced music video set to some Good Charlotte tune, it really doesn't take much convincing.) Anyway, I went up first with my sister and we saw Reality Bites specially rereleased to commemorate its premiere at Sundance 18 years ago, and it was a delicious dose of angst. Especially since I can go on and on about how I am in the throes of an existential crisis (because I am your typical 23-year-old. Nothing new to see here people, move along.)
Anyway, Reality Bites made me excited about the festival and I resolved to see more. But the movie I really wanted to see was Mike Birbiglia's Sleepwalk with Me. I saw his show at Kingsbury Hall last Friday, simply because I loved his storytelling on This American Life. At the end of the show he announced he had a film at Sundance, something I had not known, and when I learned Ira Glass was a cowriter, my resolve was titanium, sort of.
Monday after work, I drove up to Park City. It was a little like running away because I actually left work early (my existential crisis was in sort of a crescendo roar that day) and Park City seemed like a different world. I stood outside the theatre where Sleepwalk with Me was playing
next to a girl with a sign that said "I Need Tickets." It was a supreme act of moochiness, but that way I didn't have to say anything, and I didn't have any paper of my own to write something like "I want tickets more than her." (Not that I would do that. Because that certainly wouldn't endear me to potential ticket-sellers. Maybe if I had a sign that read, "I am going to die at midnight and my last wish is to see this movie", but like I said, I had no paper.) Anyway, I didn't get a ticket that night, and my feet were so cold and wet that it felt like Thor had taken his mighty hammer to my little toes when my circulation resumed. On the shuttle bus I was wincing like a madwoman. Hopefully, no one looked at me (who know what onlookers might have thought, gastrointestinal problems? I pray not).
But long story short. I saw the movie on Tuesday. And loved it. But more than that I got that cheesy sentimental feeling toward the filmmakers. I loved being in their presence, and sure, a good portion of that was being starstruck; I mean, I was 15 feet away from Ira Glass and Mike Birbiglia! People who tell stories and make money for it. (Actually, in m head I kind of think of Ira Glass as a story pimp (even though he does pepper the radio show with his own anecdotes at times), and his featured storytellers are sort of story whores. But I think of him as a benevolent pimp. I don't know why prostitution analogies come so easily to me...) I would love to be a story whore (that looks so crude. Perhaps I should say chanteuse or trollop.) I would love for my work to be telling and collecting stories. (I could get into some analysis that seemed profound to me on the importance of having storytellers in society, but I am already rambling like a lunatic.)
Anyway, loved the movie and wanted to be cool enough to hang out with the crew. But I have no experience in their area, so when I was bored last night and too tired and under the weather to go to the library to check out a DVD or book, I took out my embroidery tools, and in about 3 and a half hours had crafted a pillow. (Seemed appropriate for a movie called Sleepwalk with Me.)
I didn't know if I would have the courage to give this pillow to the one of the filmmakers, and the Lord knows that I don't need another hand-stitched pillow for myself. So all day I worked up the bravado to give it away. I didn't think I would really have the audacity to bestow it upon its intended recipient for a couple reasons 1) any time I respect someone's opinion and desperately want them to think highly of me, I almost immediately lose the capacity to speak 2) I would seem like a stalker 3) I would seem like a stalker. But despite my fears, I showed up at the Tower Theatre in Salt Lake with the pillow in my bag. I intended to get a ticket to see the show again, but that didn't work out (I could get into the details of that, but I haven't exactly been thrifty with words and this is already an excessively long post).
Near the entrance of the theatre, I saw a guy who had stood with the filmmakers to discuss the movie (I had also seen him the day had silently begged in the cold for a ticket.) I tried to pawn the pillow off on this man, Jakkob Jaffe, one of the producers. He said, "No, you should wait and give it to Mike. He'll love it." I told him I thought it would make me seem crazy. And he said, "We love crazy people." We then ventured on to amiable chit-chat, despite me feeling foolish, but we talked about NYU and student debt (because I wasn't very good about talking about films. I didn't know anything about the ones he was talking about). But then, he had to go in and introduce the film, and Mike was late. So I sat out there, with a pillow in my hand feeling like an obsessed fangirl (which maybe wasn't so far off) when finally, Mike came around the block rushing into the theatre. I sort of threw the pillow at him and mumbled some random incoherent sentence along the lines of "this is for you and have a nice day" as if I was his waitress or something. He moved along into the theatre and I ran from the scene of the crime.
However, despite feeling that this may be near the peak of my silliness (becoming emotionally attached to a pommello is probably the peak), I also feel so bold. Suddenly, I am thinking, "Hey, I'm brave. I should quit my job." "Look at me, I'm fearless. I should move to New York City."
I had the courage to give Mike Birbiglia, a minor celebrity, a pillow. I can do anything (because obviously, my shame and embarrassment threshold is pretty high.)
No comments:
Post a Comment