Remember I told you a while back about my roommates at South By Southwest, the zombie film making people?
â€˜member how they wouldn’t speak to me while we were in Austin and â€˜member how they freaked out when I told them I didn’t want to be their roomie any more?
â€œBreaking up, la, la, la, is so, so very hard to do ooo.â€
So, several months later I was at a shindig thrown by the Northwest Screenwriters’ Guild. NWSG usually has very serious events, like guest speakers, readings, pitch-fests and such-like. This time they shook it up a little and had a mixer in a bar. Dive. Dump. Joint. Hole. Pit.
Well, it might very well be that every bar in Seattle is a dump. Very likely. I’ve only been in three or four, ever, in that town, and they all were the kind of disgusting that makes you cringe if you touch the walls.
Shot a short film in one that was so bad my sneakers kept sticking to the floor.
Saw a film festival in another one where the seats wereâ€¦umâ€¦the crawly things on the seats were still crawling.
Oh, yes, the ridiculous ElimiDATE shot in several barsâ€¦what else, of courseâ€¦there’s no way anyone could do that show sober.
So, bump up my count: I’ve been in about a dozen bars in Seattleâ€”all dives.
Then, the Screenwriter’s bar. By the time I arrived, at the exact time the event was to startâ€”no sense getting there early and having to actually socialize with anyoneâ€”screenwriters are a surly, misanthropic lotâ€”the Guild President, golly, was already sloshed. He had 7 empty glasses of blended scotch whiskey on the bar in front of him. Schnockered. I like that word; I’m going to say it again. Schnockered.
So, I go upstairs and whom do I find? Yes, that’s right, the ZOMBIE FILMMAKERS. The same. The very same. Four of them are sitting at a table together, socializing with only themselves. There were already twenty other folks at the eventâ€”actors (they always show up), screenwriters, producers, auteurs, directors, industrial shooters, proctologists. You get the picture. Yet, the zombies are socializing with themselves.
In a way, I don’t blame them. I’m not a very good socializer myself. All that self-promotion and networking gives me a migraine.
I walk over to the zombies’ table and say hi to each of them. Zuleika, Zinnia, Zandorf, Zhozsha. They all stare at me like they don’t know who the frick I am. Yo, I’m the fat chick who was sleeping naked on the floor of your hotel room.
Oh, forget it.