Black and White and Blue All Over
Went to a film industry bash last night organized by some bank. It was a ‘black and white’ affair, so you had to scrape off the daily crud and dress up nicely. I even brushed my teeth. So, as I mulled on whether to wear the greased bondage outfit with chiffon or the foot long black vampire phallus strap-on thingy, I geared myself for the fabulous night ahead. Finally, after much deliberation, I settled on a fine pinstripe Italian suit with white shirt and festive silver tie. Miraculous… from geek to chic. Oh, happy day, my first ‘holiday’ party!
What a crock. Three hours wandering about the most self-centered, ego maniacal, self serving arseholes… and me without a gun, knife or hammer.
The evening began with me refusing to drink. Not because I’m looking out for my health, mind you, but the piss yellow and nuclear green cocktails they were serving looked bad enough so as to be turned down by even Liza Minnelli. Where’s the whiskey? Also, the bartenders were juggling shakers like trained orangutans. I’m not interested in leaning in for a drinky-poo and getting nailed by some errant steel shaker. So, no booze… my first mistake. Should have pinched the nose and knocked back a few to dull the impending pain.
Three hours milling in and about some of the biggest asswipe hangers-on in society. ‘Producers’ who spend taxpayers’ money making drivel you wouldn’t stoop to scrape off your shoe… Bank people so starched and cold you’d swear you’d have more fun on the dirty bathroom floor eating a urinal cake… “Art directors’ so morally bankrupt that only a well placed stake through their blackened heart could keep them down…
Personally, I was fortunate enough to not only run into people I dislike, but also those I out and out loathe with a Grinch-like zeal reserved only for cab drivers and CBC 'actors'. So, I broke out the fake smile and tried to make talkie-talkie to the asshole producer/director who fired me years back, who smugly recounts how he was "sure I had died". What the hell is that supposed to mean? Looking back, I should have kneed his groin and hoofed it out of there. Over the blasting 90’s hits, we screeched stilted commentary into each others’ faces until no more could be had, and I begged off (i.e. lied about needing to meet so-and-so), hoping for a quiet corner where I could finish crawling out of my skin. However, the epileptic jukebox passed off as 'musical entertainment' was ever pervasive and I could not be afforded the luxury of a moment in the warm, intimate embrace of my own thoughts. Remember that scene in “love actually” when they ascertain that the Dj at the wedding is perhaps the worst ever? Well, it seems I stumbled upon his ruddy North American counterpart, and his name is Serge. Serge. Serge will die, mind you… and it will be at my capable hands. I implore all those out there reading this, if he puts out a dance-mix cd, like that horrid M.C. Mario, buy it and erase it.
And, no strippers.
This party had it all. 40-something moron shirtlifters prancing drunkedly to Gloria Estevan, producer/whores ‘working the room’ like unkempt vultures pecking at the steaming arsehole of some rotting stag, dead-cat hairpieces more obvious than Dubya’s idiocy, severe-looking bank managers, pulseless and pale… how could I not enjoy myself in such a swirling pool of putridity?
It gets worse. In the movies, here’s the point where that would happen. (you can picture me being played by john cusack, if it helps. The lovable loser, but shorter. Not 4’2” short, mind.)
A connection. I kept catching and getting caught in the eye of a wonderful-looking lady, one who stood out from the others. She was tall, long dark hair, looked wonderful in that slim black dress… a vision in a pack of rutting hyenas. For at least an hour it seemed we played that game, positioning ourselves in eyeline, casually looking over, trying as hard as possible to convey that ‘come talk’ look to each other. But, I was sober, no liquid courage coursed through my veins. No Booze, I now lament. So, I left, went home, and watched porn. No happy ending to this marquee, alas.
“…And to all a good night!”
Go read my friend Angela's blog, dammit. Stop loitering. Go on, now.
What a crock. Three hours wandering about the most self-centered, ego maniacal, self serving arseholes… and me without a gun, knife or hammer.
The evening began with me refusing to drink. Not because I’m looking out for my health, mind you, but the piss yellow and nuclear green cocktails they were serving looked bad enough so as to be turned down by even Liza Minnelli. Where’s the whiskey? Also, the bartenders were juggling shakers like trained orangutans. I’m not interested in leaning in for a drinky-poo and getting nailed by some errant steel shaker. So, no booze… my first mistake. Should have pinched the nose and knocked back a few to dull the impending pain.
Three hours milling in and about some of the biggest asswipe hangers-on in society. ‘Producers’ who spend taxpayers’ money making drivel you wouldn’t stoop to scrape off your shoe… Bank people so starched and cold you’d swear you’d have more fun on the dirty bathroom floor eating a urinal cake… “Art directors’ so morally bankrupt that only a well placed stake through their blackened heart could keep them down…
Personally, I was fortunate enough to not only run into people I dislike, but also those I out and out loathe with a Grinch-like zeal reserved only for cab drivers and CBC 'actors'. So, I broke out the fake smile and tried to make talkie-talkie to the asshole producer/director who fired me years back, who smugly recounts how he was "sure I had died". What the hell is that supposed to mean? Looking back, I should have kneed his groin and hoofed it out of there. Over the blasting 90’s hits, we screeched stilted commentary into each others’ faces until no more could be had, and I begged off (i.e. lied about needing to meet so-and-so), hoping for a quiet corner where I could finish crawling out of my skin. However, the epileptic jukebox passed off as 'musical entertainment' was ever pervasive and I could not be afforded the luxury of a moment in the warm, intimate embrace of my own thoughts. Remember that scene in “love actually” when they ascertain that the Dj at the wedding is perhaps the worst ever? Well, it seems I stumbled upon his ruddy North American counterpart, and his name is Serge. Serge. Serge will die, mind you… and it will be at my capable hands. I implore all those out there reading this, if he puts out a dance-mix cd, like that horrid M.C. Mario, buy it and erase it.
And, no strippers.
This party had it all. 40-something moron shirtlifters prancing drunkedly to Gloria Estevan, producer/whores ‘working the room’ like unkempt vultures pecking at the steaming arsehole of some rotting stag, dead-cat hairpieces more obvious than Dubya’s idiocy, severe-looking bank managers, pulseless and pale… how could I not enjoy myself in such a swirling pool of putridity?
It gets worse. In the movies, here’s the point where that would happen. (you can picture me being played by john cusack, if it helps. The lovable loser, but shorter. Not 4’2” short, mind.)
A connection. I kept catching and getting caught in the eye of a wonderful-looking lady, one who stood out from the others. She was tall, long dark hair, looked wonderful in that slim black dress… a vision in a pack of rutting hyenas. For at least an hour it seemed we played that game, positioning ourselves in eyeline, casually looking over, trying as hard as possible to convey that ‘come talk’ look to each other. But, I was sober, no liquid courage coursed through my veins. No Booze, I now lament. So, I left, went home, and watched porn. No happy ending to this marquee, alas.
“…And to all a good night!”
Go read my friend Angela's blog, dammit. Stop loitering. Go on, now.
posted by Blog Monkey at 9:24 a.m.
1 Comments:
"… and me without a gun, knife or hammer. That makes you the arsehole. Hee.
went to the television version only without the b&w. no strippers. sheesh.
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