Archive for the ‘Movies’ Tag

Cannes day 9   Leave a comment

Yes, I skipped day, six, seven and eight because I didn’t have any internet a the hotel and too much was happening to really document. This blog will summarize the most recent events. 

Day 9

 

I’m in my first party and I’m getting a taste of the life. I’m in a villa owned by a few Lebanese billionaires, staring at one of those hundred inch plasma screens that cost the price of three or four kidneys. (Maybe five kidneys).

I tagged along with a friend for a party celebrating the 24 Hour Cannes Film Festival competition. On the way to the party we tried to walk through the  Grande Hotel to get a shuttle heading up to the villa (aptly dubbed, “The Mint”) and we were stopped. My friend is a Cannephile, this being her third or fourth trip to the festival. As we walked through the hotel, a tall doorman said to me in a thick accent, “I’m sorry sir, I’m sorry, you can’t go through.”

These statements are now meaningless.

 

Since I’ve been in Cannes, I’ve become pretty ballsy. You have to be—getting in anywhere you have to walk like you own the place, know the bouncers and have all the women, even if you are sharing a hotel room with a couple of other people, and you live nowhere near the Croisette (the uber exclusive strip of shopping malls where the access to all the beach parties are).

I traipsed through the hotel like it was my own. I didn’t hear the doorman calling to me, and when he eventually did a light jog to the back door to stop us, I looked through him. It was weird, but it felt pretty cool in a strange way. It wasn’t a big deal, because we only walked a short way around the hotel to access the cars to the event. I am Cannes! haha.

The last few days have been literally a whirlwind. I didn’t really think I could do so many things in a day, but I really have.

I’ve directed a short film, which I’m pretty proud of. I’ve done a few shorts, but directing a short Film in France just felt different. Then I entered this film competition the Short Film Corner was hosting in association with a company called “Theauters.com”. I interfaced with this crazy artistic guy named Jesse who is a member of my program.

“I want to win this ten thousand dollars,” he said to me. I nodded. There’s nothing wrong with ten thousand dollars.  “But,” he says to me afterward. “You’ll have to be in a scene where you run through the street… in your underwear.”

I did a huge Scooby Doo.

Aruu?

I thought about it for a second. Either this guy was really crazy, or really inspired. The competition was shooting a three minute film with a tiny and very cheap “Flip Cam”. Each entrant gets a camera (which they can keep for themselves afterwards) and you just run with a story.

Our story is badass.

It is essentially a roundabout story of cheating. A guy (me), meets a French girl somewhere, I hookup with her and her boyfriend finds out. There are chase scenes, fights, some serious Cinema Verite’, a dream sequence and the money shot—me chasing after the French girl in my underwear. It was amazing doing the film, even though some aspects of it were a bit weird. More than once a bus filled with French passengers drove past, wondering who this tall black guy in his underwear was doing in the street at 1 a.m, standing next to a young woman at a bus stop while a guy points at us with a teeny tiny camera.

 

At some point during the night, I said to Jessy. “I’m not shy about standing in the street in my underwear. Its standing in the street in my underwear in a foreign country that make me a little nervous!”

 

All in all, it was fun. Not only did I end up in bed with a French girl (who we recruited mere hours before the shooting started), run through French streets in my underwear, scare a crowd half to death by being chased in realtime, but I did some real acting for the first time I can remember. There was a sequence where I screamed, I did creepy laughs, and we were doing so well we even drew a tiny crowd.

 

At some point a tiny Japanese man tagged along with us to help out with the shoot. At this point I headed to aforementioned party.

 

If my blog isn’t making perfect sense, its because I’m all over the place. I’ve been waking up at 9 and going to be at 3 or 4.am each day for the last week and a half, and I have no signs of slowing down. I’ve been networking like crazy, and I’ve gotten on my first “list” in Cannes! A cute English actress I met sent me a text saying she has me on a list somewhere. What it is and where, I have ZERO idea. But its cool to get some sort of hookup.

Before I end the blog, I jus thave to say that networking feels very natural for me. These parties are just people saying hello, people pitching themselves, and people having drinks. The party at the Mint was sponsored by Perfect Vodka. The two drinks of the night, were the Red Carpet, and the Perfect Pussy. “I’m not making this up.” At some point during the evening Alfonso Ribiero (a.ka. ‘Carlton’ from the French Prince of Belair) shows up. He orders two Pussies and two Vaginas.

Exact words.

After the party I finished the film and fell asleep in a friend’s room. The next day I would see footage on his FlipCam of me asleep on the bed. What will tonight bring? Who knows. There has been so much happening that I haven’t the time to document it all. I’ve been so busy trying to meet people I haven’t really been watching any movies, but today I snuck in a viewing of Everyone dies but me a Russian film about teenagers that makes you want to cry, or put your little sister in a safe FOREVER.

Cheers to a good night. More details tomorrow.

Bonne Nuit.

 

 

 

 

Nerdy Models, Touchy Feely and Dinner Parties   2 comments

SUNDAY 11:45 P.M

 

I’m in the middle of a Kitchen in Mount pleasant, and four people are touching my head.

“I love your hair.” My friend says. She is an adorable Serbian, with classic dark European features; almost six feet of height, dark hair and sharp eyes. A few other people are touching my hair as well, including a moody guy named Peter, and a quiet Asian-American named Rebecca. The hair touching exercise came from a height comparison between myself and Peter.

“We are both almost six two right?” he says.

“Well, I have on these sneakers,” I say. “They push me up to about six two and a half, but I’m really six one.”

 

I had been drinking a lot of wine, so I can’t remember why everyone started touching my hair. They said it was cool, and the attention was interesting. I was at a dinner party.

 

During the night, our conversation was interesting. It floated between talking about breaking paradigms of thinking, the discourses of our failing social system, mother-love complexes and being attacked by wild animals.

 

This weekend has been interesting, as many of my weekends have been. I went to a 90’s dance party on Saturday night that had a high ratio of women and gay men. So high in fact, that many of the girls were dancing with themselves, amped up on brownies, mixed drinks and the sound of La Bouche blazing through the airwaves.

 

SATURDAY >:

 

It seems at these parties I always meet a very tall, very attractive woman. Last week, I met a statuesque Serbian girl ( a different Serbian ) who looked like she used to model. She went to American University and habit of punching me as I spoke to her. Tonight, it was a girl form Minnesota who looked straight out of an Italian Vogue catalogue. She was at least 5’10, with dark olive skin, jet black hair and those large eyes that make you think of porcelain dolls, or 1960’s European movies.

 

I found it funny that she referred to many of the patrons at the part as “white people”. I laughed to myself whenever she said this. “White people eh?” I replied. “I have identity issues.” She told me.

 

During the night, in between drinking a little too much, scarfing down brownies and dodging the advances of a drunk and very gay Latino guy, we salsa danced and talked about her job in IT. I found her fascinating. Probably because she was the hottest nerd I’ve ever met. Take a prototypical model-chick. Put her in an IT job, and you had Kristen.

 

At the party I saw a classmate of mine I hadn’t seen in at least 10 years, who was now married to a tall white guy from the Bahamas. They were an adorable couple. During the night I realized I had been drinking too much because I kept talking about myself being a writer to everyone.

 

Writers hate talking about being a writer. We just like to write and hope people appreciate it.

 

Nothing crazy happened. I met a girl named Virinda who goes to George Mason University who immediately told me that her friends said she dates too many guys. “I’m not a whore she says.”

“I believe you.” I reply.

 

In reality, I didn’t believe anything. I was more than tipsy and there was this cute girl sitting on a couch by herself. Her dating numerous guys was actually a plus. Later in the night I would see her gay friend dancing in what can be described as “nasty” with her.

 

There were a few good moments. I was upstairs waiting on someone to exit the bathroom and I suddenly heard “Marcus! Marcus!” echo from downstairs. A La Bouche song was playing and it was my Jam. I ran into a throng of girls, all screaming as I appeared. That was a good moment.

 

Miss model-nerd left and gave me her card. I found it funny that the address of where she worked was in a place called “Milky Way”. Doesn’t get more hot and nerdy than that. Maybe I’ll see her someday.

 

At some point during the party I start snapping pictures and try to catalogue the chaos. Elli, the cool Greek girl, was celebrating her birthday. My friend Cathryn, who I’ve also not seen in like ten years, was having a blast. I also met a few cool Harvard students with heavy accents. One, I thought was Indian.

“I hear an English accent.” I said.

“Well, I’ve lived in London, but I’m not English.” She replies.

“Oh, are you Indian?” I ask.

“No, I’m from Bangladesh.”

“Ah…”

 

It has been a while since I’ve met someone from Bangladesh. Everyone make sure to remember, Bangladesh is beside India, and they are different people! Say otherwise and you’ll be in trouble :p

 

Her friend was an Aussie who also went to Harvard. I made a lame joke about being an Aborigine which didn’t fly. After I was sufficiently buzzed and found myself doing a particularly intense running man dance, I decided to go home.

 

—- —–

 

SUNDAY 5:30 A.M

 

For a brief moment, I am in a movie. I’m sitting on my bed beside my cute friend, who is playing my guitar. With vodka in my system, I explain at length the mechanics behind learning basic guitar and try to motivate her to do exactly what I’m saying. As she sits there, occasionally sipping on a cup of water (which we later find out has mysterious white particles in the bottom) I realize I don’t want to try anything with her. I’m completely tired and buzzed to the point where all I can focus on is what is presently on my mind. In this case, it is teaching guitar. Its 5 A.M and I do a shoddy rendition of a song I’ve been playing for a while. I walk out into 30 degree weather in slippers and follow my friend to her car. I shoot her a text asking her if she got home safe. Then I fall into dreamland without wondering why I didn’t try to kiss her.

 

8:45 P.M

 

 

This is the day of the dinner party. So everyone at some point was touching my hair, I drank lots of wine and again found myself trying to understand why I’ve been very hesitant about certain things lately.

 

I’m trying to plan a proper Eurotrip, and thankfully, I know a bunch of European women now who all have places to recommend. My tall Serbian-glass-of-water friend says:

“Go to Croatia. It has the most beautiful beaches you have ever see.”

 

(Okay she said “seen”, but I’m just being an ass.”)

 

Another friend, the cool Asian, says I should definitely checkout cheap airfares to fly wherever I need to go. I think its cool. I think I might go to Greece and hang out with Zeus for a bit. I’m tempted to go to Cologne. My friend said the hottest women in history were there. A country chock-full of six foot blonde women with interesting sexual dispositions. Can anyone say “hrrrmmm..”?

 

Alas, the weekend is over. After a semi-chilly bike ride home, I’m back in my room, staring at this very computer screen. My fan is echoing in the background and I’m still wearing a fleece vest and my scarf. I want to sleep, but I feel like writing. Typing pages of prose until nothing makes sense and life itself it some weird kind of aberration. Should writing be effortless? Should women be less hesitant around me? Or should I shave my head? Who knows.

 

I realize tonight that I might be in a phase. A phase where I’m hesitant for subtle subconscious reasons. Or I might just be tense because of my impending foray into the real world. Whatever it is, I’ll deal with it, and hopefully meet some more Serbians with soft lips and tall glasses of wine for me to sip on.

 

Toodles.

 

 

 

The Super Pants Return!   1 comment

I’m sitting down, and breaking in a new pair of pants.
.
This amuses me, because breaking in a new set of jeans usually requires physical activity, a party or two, and a few thousand steps of walking. I recently bought a new pair of black fitted jeans (the word “fitted” is a gross understatement) and I’ve started the breaking-in process by wearing them and sitting at my computer desk. I was at my friend’s house last night, watching Live Free or Die Hard on his massive HDTV, playing Gears of War and eating a snack I’ve concocted which consists of Tostitos and shredded cheese (mixed cheddar.) “I got a new pair of paints today.” I say to him.
“Tight pants! Rockstar pants!”
He laughs. This observation is true because these are quite possibly the tightest pants i’ve ever worn (Purple versace jeans not withstanding). As soon as I tried them on, I knew they were me. They aren’t as bad as the “Skinny” jeans I tried on at Urban Outfitters two weeks back. Although these are skinny jeans, for some reason they don’t feel like fluffed up Spandex. They have a nice tight fit, have a little leg room and make me feel amazing. These are pants designed for men who wear briefs, but I dont’ fall into that category and I can’t see myself wearing no underwear (at anytime, not just wintertime). The pants are designed by a guy who named the line Bowie after the original pretty-man himself, David bowie. I didn’t spend that much time looking at the rest of his line, I just saw these jeans at a GREAT price and decided to “cop” them.
My last affair with the first pair of pants I dubbed the “super pants” was in early 2007. I was heading off to Europe and French Connection was having a sale. I couldn’t resist, as I had been searching for a pair of proper straight leg fitted jeans for a while. I had a venerable pair of black Dolce& Gabana jeans which put up a good two year fight. The Dolces had seen at least four tailors, had the crotch patched an equal number of times, and had a hole or two stiched up near the thigh. Now that I think about it, my D&G’s were my first real pair of super pants. When I wore those I felt powerful and classic. Ready for any number of paparazzi pictures with me walking with a nameless soon-to-be supermodel. In retrospect, there are many things I should have never done in those jeans:
1) Play a heated game of Badmington while wearing dress shoes
2) Play a second set of said game
3) Learn a German rave-ish dance called “Jumpstyle” in the jeans.
Now my D&G’s are lying on my floor. They are weathered and a little rugged with the tell-tale sing of faded black jeans. I still wear them on occassion, though they fit a bit loosely. The reigning set of super pants from FC still get regular wear, and they are well broken in. “Tight but not toight.” is what I like to say, following the description of Goldmember from Austin powers. If he were to see me in my jeans, he would say. “They are toight! Toight like a Toiger!”I am not entirely sure why I feel so drawn to a well-fitted pair of black designer jeans. I have an ongoing anti-blue jeans crusade ( fodder for another post) and I like to feel “snug” when I walk around. Either way, the current king will know soon enough that a new pair of jeans have creeped in to slowly dethrone him. As time passes and the jeans become more broken in, I will give them a test run, maybe even this Friday. However, walking to the bathroom I could feel the pants hugging my thighs like a lecherous woman and affecting the speed with which I walk.
Its a little sad when you begin to grade how tight your pants are by what you can’t put in the pockets. For a few pairs of my pants, they cannot hold my:Wallet, cellphone or keys… only chapstick.

I should call these the super-tight, superpants. A whole new category. Actually I think I have a name for them:

Pete Wentz Pants.

Yes! The super pants will remain as they are, and now these are the Pete Wentzes.

Ciao.

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