another film festival, another evening walk home in an official tee i probably should have washed at some point. i bartended at this one, sort of! i mean, i bar-backed for the guy in charge of the beer and wine. i took a social-darwinism liking to him, as i was otherwise the oldest person associated with the festival, at least as far as i could tell. when i asked him what he did when he wasn't bartending, he told me he'd retired in december, and that he'd lived in malaysia for 15 years before that. what did he do there? "i like to tell people i helped men have more sex," he said. "that...could mean almost anything, really," i said, busying myself with the pilsners. "i manufactured fine jewelry," said he. "think of the last time your husband bought you a really nice pair of earrings, or a necklace, or a ring. you had sex that night, right?" "i would never let my husband buy me jewelry," i replied.
it was a scrappy festival, a loose festival, a festival that felt a bit like zork; direction was minimal, but the work was there if i could find it.
You are at the top of an apparently four-story spiral staircase. To the west someone with a heavy Brooklyn accent mutters about shiraz. Your old friends, three dozen bottles of tepid pink lemonade, are at your feet.
You are carrying:
A comically large iPhone
A dusty white Tic Tac
>get ice cubes
There is no concession stand here.
and so on. when the lounge emptied out for screenings, the staffers danced for each other. i met a delightful 22-year-old who introduced me to his boyfriend and asked if he could friend me on facebook and ask me for writing advice. i thought about wearing my chandelier-print skirt for closing night and chickened out at the last minute. to be fair, it's too hot for tights.