Last Night at the Wrap Party

Sometimes I don’t feel like writing; and then…deus ex machina…a good thing comes out of a bad thing.

  • It’s a bad thing not to feel like writing.


  • It’s a bad thing to have a “friend” who wants every conversation to be about him.  That old dumb joke about the ego-centric actor: “Me, me, me, me, me, me.  Well, enough about me; let’s talk about you.  What did YOU think of my performance tonight?”  That joke was written about my ex-so-called-friend.


  • It’s a good thing to dump that “friend” or drift away from him gradually so it doesn’t seem like a dumping and so that I can start having conversations with people who sometimesEveryOnceIn-a-While want to hear about me.


  • It’s a good thing to go to a wrap party;


  • but it’s a bad thing when the ex-so-called-friend corners me.


  • It’s a bad thing when he does the “me/me/me/me” routine


  • but it’s a really good thing because now I have a topic for this column, whereas–before the party–I didn’t feel like writing.


Friend starts out,

“Hi, baby.”

Yeah, we’re so Hollywood that we call everyone “Baby” even if we haven’t spoken to them for a year and we are in the Mutual Dislike or at Least Ignore Club.

Fred the Friend continues,

“Remember that class we took together?  Remember how the teacher hated me?”

No, actually, I don’t recall it that way.  She was a hard taskmaster for everyone.  Besides, Fred, it’s been eight years since we took that class together; and I have not been focusing on how Suzy hated you for the past eight years.  Actually, Dude, I have had other things to think about.

Friend Fred blathers on,

“…that piece I wrote…Suzy hated me…that performance I did…that chick in the class thought I was bzzzz bzzzz…what was that chick’s name?  Shaula.  Shaula…bzzz bzzz. Shaula was weird.”


“Yes, she acted like she thought I was a vampire last time I saw her.  She wouldn’t …”

FredFriend interrupts,

“You were in a film with her?”

Jealousy here.  Every time I work and Fred doesn’t, he starts to quiz me about how I got the gig, who cast me, bla, bla, bla.


“No, well, yeah.  Sort of.  I cast her in one of those 48-hour film marathons…”

Fred interrupts,

“Was that the Basement Café television series?  I was in that.”


“No, it was a 48-hour film…”

Fred (you are getting the drift) interrupts.  Every conversation must be about him.

“Did I ever tell you about that Basement Café?”

Me, quietly,

“I was in that, too, remember?”

(And you’ve only told me about how poorly they treated you, like, maybe, I dunno, 17 times already!)

“They treated me so poorly.  They told me they’d write a character for me and then they just cast Samson instead and they told me I could…and then I had my brother, my friend the editor, my shrink pay a call on them…bzzzz, bzzzz.  They are so poopy.”

I zone out because I HAVE heard this story before.  Matter of fact, I was on set when it happened; not that Fred would even remember the presence of someone else other than his famous and poorly treated self.

As I edge away in search of more interesting company, Fred dashes to the sofa.  Lays full-length, face-down on the back of the sofa, humping the cushions like he’s in some kind of stoner sex-scene.

“Did I tell you about this audition I had?” he says, pressing his lips into the sofa-back and rocking his hips.  “They told me to be sexy.  So I humped their couch.”

He moans and grunts.  He can be heard above all the cocktail chatter; but I am no longer paying attention.


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