Sunday, September 17, 2006
I'm so tired, of playing
Playing with this bow and arrow
Gonna give my heart away
Leave it to the other girls to play
For I've been a temptress too long
Just give me a reason to love you
Give me a reason to be a woman
I just wanna be a woman From this time, unchained
We're all looking at a different picture
Through this new frame of mind
A thousand flowers could bloom
Move over, and give us some room
Give me a reason to love you...
-Portishead - Glory Box
Ah, what a wild, fabulous evening I had last night. I didn't do the scene with Rain after all, so sorry but there will be no audio / visual / video evidence of me acting "really camp and a little bit retarded." Thankfully. In the immortal words of Joan Jett: I don't give a damn about my bad reputation -- but even I have limits. I woke up yesterday morning with a feeling like the opposite of a hangover, that is to say the feeling that I was about to do something colossally stupid which I would later come to regret. He replaced me with a mutual friend of ours who is a brilliant comic actress and the former owner of the coffee shop where we used to perform at her infamous open mike nights last year. She did a way better job than I ever would have done, and I got to wear a significantly less slutty getup which was more appropriate for the Hollywood party I'd been invited to later that night.
I wore a pink shirt with black lace trim which I really like but just about never wear because I rarely get invited to events where something so glam and girly is actually apropos. I paired that with black pants and my favourite black suit jacket avec hood, and black shoes. With my collar and hood up and the pink hidden under my jacket, I was pretty sure I looked like a giant black crow, and that ensured that I didn't get harrassed downtown. The club where the party was being held was in Yaletown, home of Vancouver's rich and famous yuppie culture and the locale of many chic bars, restaurants, and clubs.
The guy who invited me was about 5'10", Korean, and a handsome lad with affable features and a lot of shall we say 12 o'clock shadow, which gave him a bit of a rough-around-the-edges cuteness. Let's call him Stan. I called his name from the street, which was littered with probably a hundred people trying to get into the club just to catch a glimpse of said VIP party. He recognized me right away and smiled from the top of the stairs. He whispered a few words to the big guys at the front and ushered me through the red ropes guarded by bouncers the size and shape of tanks, announcing to them that I was his guest. They parted for me like the Red Sea for Moses, and readers, I admit it, I was a bit thrilled.
Stan was a gracious host, and introduced me to everyone, who introduced me to all their friends, and before long I knew dozens of people by name and occupation. I didn't see any of the big names there (David Duchovny, Halle Berry, Benicio Del Toro), but I did see several of the actors from Saturday Night Live, as well as all the producers, directors, writers, assistants, and movie executives from the film. Stan himself is a junior executive for a huge production company which I'm sure everyone can guess the name of if I tell you that their logo is of a boy fishing from a cloud.
Everyone was startlingly nice to me, especially once they discovered that unlike the mainly blonde and skinny, legsformiles 5'10" eye candy girls swishing around the place, I could and was absolutely willing to carry on a conversation with just about anyone. I asked people about their projects, joked, laughed, and complimented people's clothing, hair, writing style, and taste in music where compliments were due.
Everyone also seemed to be flirting with me, but especially Stan and another guy we'll call Shay. Shay was a wonder, and I honestly cannot remember the last time I've been that attracted to a guy I'd just met. I commented on his spectacular height (6'7" -- this party made me feel very short indeed), and we started talking about music, feminism, the film industry, art, and culture. He was spectacularly intelligent, well-read, and witty, not to mention an absolutely beautiful, tall, well-built boy with fawn-brown eyes and little three-inch-long dreadlocks.
Stan was very sweet and also really smart, but he was a tad insecure for my taste. He kept announcing how drunk he was (totally unnecessary, since post-high-school clearly one can get it together to either shut the fuck up or stop drinking), and he was evidently jealous of my conversations with Shay, who I couldn't possibly resist going back to every fifteen minutes or so for another little chat and more flirting.
The drinks were free all night, although the bar did run out of the liquor the screenwriter had purchased for the party around 2:30 am. I still didn't pay for a single drink. In fact, aside from tipping the bartenders, I didn't drop a single cent all evening. Someone was always there asking what I wanted and buying it for me, and no one would take no for an answer. Not that I was saying 'no' particularly often.
The girls at this party were also incredible. I was pretty sure that most of them were flirting with me until I remembered that drunk straight girls are pretty much like that with everyone. I made a mental note to self to queer-down and just act straight for a while, and it seemed to work. It had been a long time since I'd hung out with a big group of (presumably) straight girls, but some things you learn in high school never quite leave you.
Near the end of the evening, though, I couldn't resist flirting with the bartender, this tiny little blonde creature who was laced-up tightly into an honest-to-god black-and-white sparkling corset. I asked her if she'd had help lacing it up the back, and she giggled and replied "nope, I did it all by myself." I told her I was impressed, and said that she pulled it off beautifully. She smiled a perfect white grin and asked me my name. We introduced ourselves and she insisted on buying me a drink. She was a party in a bottle, that girl.
All night people were inviting me to LA, offering to show me around Hollywood, inviting me to the film set, and asking me to act as a Vancouver tour guide for them. I collected and gave out so many email addresses and phone numbers that I was glad for my constant and bordering-on-the-obsessive pen-and-paper-carrying habit.
Near the end of the evening, Stan invited me to go back to his hotel and get high with them (they called it "green," which I found very adorable and American of them). Then, he kissed me. It was a really drunken, wet boy kiss, and it didn't do much for me. If it had been Shay inviting me to his hotel, I might have had to think about it, but for Stan I definitely had to leave something to the imagination. He was just such an exuberant little boy in some ways, to the point where he actually kissed my hands and gave me a little bow when I said goodbye to him.
I'd never been to a VIP party in my life, or for that matter any kind of invite-only event at a club, and I was surprised at how well I felt I was working it. I'm starting to think it's an advantage to be kind of cute and young-looking with a little voice and the willingness to flirt my tail off when necessary. I try not to manipulate appearances to my advantage, but honestly I think that if I were really stunningly beautiful, people would respond to me in an entirely different way. I have a feeling they'd be more intimidated, and thus more sexually aggressive, manipulative, and determined to go above and beyond in order to impress me.
And so it's nice to be cute, I suppose. It's even nicer to have a bartender's knack for conversation and a little bit of a wild side. It certainly served me well last night.
I went to the art gallery today with a stunning redhead I met online. No, not that redhead. This one is about 5'7" and tiny, with beautiful long red hair, bright cat-like green eyes, and, um, a boyfriend. Suffice it to say that while I did meet her on a website for queer girls, she's currently hanging with a shaggy-haired Northern European guy with a large nose and slightly eccentric mannerisms. I don't know why the most beautiful ones always seem to have such unremarkable boyfriends, but who knows -- maybe he's a stallion in bed (I doubt it).
Sorry this is sooo long -- I guess I get fairly carried away in the play-by-play.
Thanks to anyone who's still reading.
p.s. kudos to Dag for the two photos of me with purple hair.