I'm home from the gala early. Why? Because I'm retarded. Let me preface this by saying, I haven't had a drop of liquor. I'm sober as I write this. Sobered by humility and humiliation and the biggest crush I've had since Joe McIntyre. Here's what happened...
The first part of my evening was spent at the Rafael Theater, at I *heart* Huckabees, where I rubbed elbows with the director, who looked like he was 12. The highlight of the Rafael was the hot Irish guy from the office who told me I looked hot, and the newspaper photographer who kept taking my picture because I apparently looked like a cross between Christie Brinkley and Jeaneane Garofalo, which I decided to take as a bizarre yet much needed compliment. Then, I went over to the gala.
I'm an aesthetic snob and this place blew the Redwood Room out of the water. You weren't allowed in unless you were stunning (or worked for the festival). I instantly hung out with the scruffy but quite cute band, and we set up camp on the couches in the VIP tent. I cannot tell you how many hot guys were there, and the ratio of guys to girls was by far in my favor. I kept pointing out cute boys to Keith all night, as we've agreed he gets to sign-off, but that KiKi wouldn't approve anyone. We also agreed, if I really thought someone was fabulous, Keith would go over and make it happen, whatever that means. I was on the clock, so I didn't plan to hit one of the SEVEN bars until later. But, I was feeling good, liking my outfit, getting the nods from the fellas.
Then I spotted him, under the heater. He stood alone, wearing a black Armani suit and the most fabulous, trendy glasses I've ever seen. Think Jake Gyllenhaal, John Cusack, and Josh Hartnett rolled into one tall, built, well-dressed, drink of water. (That's actually pretty acurate. Seriously.) It takes me a second to take this guy in, he's so ridiculously wonderful. I must chat him up. So I do.
I'm not my best when I'm nervous. Or completely sober, for that matter. I'm really quite an idiot, prone to extended obnoxiousness and raised voice. I won't shut up, really, and try to keep talking in some vain attempt at trying to recover. I try in some stupid way to mask the last stupid sentance with an even more stupid sentace. Sadly, I get much worse when I realize I'm speaking to my boss' son, Noah. And by boss, I don't mean Kiki. I mean the founder of the festival.
It was bad, folks. Bad in a way that would make you turn away if you were eavesdropping. Bad in a way that will haunt me for years. Bad.
You know when someone is so classy, you can barely tell that they're blowing you off, because they're so goddamn cool and confident and nice about it, you don't realize you just got shot down until they're halfway across the room. Yeah.
I'm rambling on and on, until he suddenly says, "Well, it was great to meet you."
By the time I had "Oh! Well, it was lovely to meet you", he was in the tent talking to George Lucas or similar.
There I stood, under the heater, entirely alone. It was if the party had formed a circle of shame around me. Desperate to leave, I pretended to see someone I knew, and bolted.
Immediately, I found Keith. "I'm in love!"
"Again? With who? Point him out." I explained the situation.
"Oh." says Kiki. "Yeah, he does look cool. But he didn't reject you. He just...he just...well, he just wanted to talk to someone else."
Yeah. Anyone else.
Normally, when rejected, I recover quickly, dismissing the fool as a retard with bad taste. Nope. My love lingers still. I told my tale of woe to Erin, the recpetionist, who commiserated with me, then proceeded to trip and spill chanpagne all over me. Not two minutes later, Henry, a drunken old British volunteer spilled vodka on us both. This didn't stop me from stalking Noah. I ran around that place, watching woman fall over him, pushing to get near him. I tried to befriend people around him, working my way into his vicinity. Nothing. So, I got a cup of tea (yep, tea), stood in a corner, and spent the night watching him from afar.
Ugh, everything about him is flawless. It's obscene. Really, it isn't fair. He's so much cooler than I thought possible. He's charming and gorgeous and witty and friendly. He's so nice, he talks to the crazy employee attacking him under the heater.
I couldn't take it anymore. I had to leave. I went outside and called Bonnie.
"So how hot was he? Are we talking Justin hot?"
"Justin who?" I say, somehow forgetting Justin, the incredibly hot and hilarious and out of my league film-maker, with whom I enjoyed intense and profound experiences in May. I blush when I think of Justin, he was so....attentive. Justin was so fucking hot, we now refer to people as Justin-hot. And I actually said, Justin who.
"That's the booze talking." says Bonnie.
"I haven't had a drop."
"Oh my god. You sound drunk."
Yeah. Drunk on love.
You guys, this Noah guy thinks I'm an asshole, if he even remembers me at all. But my god, I want to bear his children.