By Anthony Paull
Hi, I'm Anthony Paull. I'm punk rock, and I'm with the press, but dear God, I'm not supposed to take a picture of Jake Gyllenhaal's crotch at the SXSW press conference for "Source Code." Well…actually, I'm given two minutes to take Jake's pic, but I need to keep the camera at eye level. After all, that's most professional, and I wouldn't want to blur any boundaries. Not like that brave, yet tacky, press member who followed Jake into the bathroom to photograph his penis. Why, that foul man, he ended up a TMZ "star," rolling in gold. And I ended up…here.
Hi, I have no money. Last year, I broke up with my boyfriend, the love of my life, because I wanted to make it on my own, but I never could figure out the right method, at least financially. So a year later, through a series of twists and turns, we ended up back together, and I'm still broke. But hey, at least I have my ethics. However, my crew – let's just say they're lacking in that department, particularly when it comes to meeting Jake. For instance, take my camera girl, Jessica. For some reason, she wants to snap a picture of Jake with some paper doll called Flat Stanley. And my assistant, Skip…well, I'd rather not know what he wants because he keeps making strange sucking sounds, particularly when eyeballing Jake at the conference.
"Can I ask Jake a question? Please?" Skip asks me.
"That depends. What's the question?"
"Sluuuuuuurp."
"That's not a question."
"It could be."
Such statements are why I no longer allow my crew to drink before a work obligation. You see, it's never good to mix celebrities and cheap vodka. But I suppose, these are things one can only learn through trial and error, after suffering the fate of having an assistant simulate oral sex during a press conference.
"Skip, I need you to listen to me. We're working," I explain. "I'm serious. You can't proposition the celebrities."
Overhearing, Jessica begins tee-heeing. "I think it's funny." Taking the Flat Stanley doll from her purse, she dances him on her knee. "Do you think I should ask Jake if he likes to play with dolls?"
"Not if you like your job."
"Why? Celebrities love Flat Stanley. He's an A-Lister," she sings. And sadly, she's right. Whether at SXSW or Sundance, that stupid doll has been in more pics than me. But that's ok because I'm supposed to be 'working'.
So I'm off, interviewing celebrities, musicians and directors while Jessica returns to the hotel, held up by a hangover. A Starbucks trip later, she phones to tell me she accidentally gave Flat Stanley to a homeless man, who was asking for money. "He was folded in my pocket with my cash," she cries. "I let him go!"
"Um, I'm trying to interview the drummer of HOLE," I mumble.
"Oh, get over yourself. THIS is more important!"
Hence, an hour later, we join together, along with Skip, to scour the streets for the man who has Flat Stanley. Of course, he's nowhere to be found, resulting in a meltdown for Jessica, who can only be aided by, well…more vodka.
Yes, I know; I don't learn from my mistakes. I'm supposed to be working, figuring out a way to make a living as a full-time writer, and here I am, drinking in a bar with Jessica and Skip until 2 a.m., when we hitch a cab to the hotel with some drunken stranger, who squeezes in the back seat between Skip and me. Soon, I hear whispers as the strange man reaches for Skip's hand. Offended, Skip groans loudly.
"What's going on back there?" Jessica asks, seated up front.
"Skip's a fucking queer! Skip's a fucking queen!" the drunken guy yells.
"Now, that's not very nice," Jessica replies.
"Well, Skip wasn't very nice to me. I offered him many things!"
"Sorry, but I don't think my boyfriend Jake would appreciate such things," Skip states.
"Oh yeah? Well, my boyfriend wouldn't appreciate them either!" the drunken guy exclaims.
To which, I start groaning, because none of this is making sense – my life, my career, this "cab ride" conversation, steering out of control.
Dear God, where am I heading? With my writing, I'm beginning to feel like I'm typing in circles, forever on the verge of making it, but never quite making it enough. I have one novel on the shelf, and one that I have to completely rewrite. When will I be taken seriously? When will I take myself seriously? I'm running out of time. My fellow writers, they're racing around the festival, discovering the latest film, the latest star, and I'm blacking out at the hotel. Why did this happen?
"Well, there's no question about it. Flat Stanley is gone," Jessica says. Back at the hotel, she turns out the light and flips on her stomach to sleep. "I lost him."
"Yeah, and I lost half my chances to work the red carpet," I sigh.
"Hey, at least you found a story," she says. "Who cares about the red carpet? Your readers don't give a crap. They want to hear about you."
"Yeah, you and Jake's penis," Skip adds.
And falling asleep, I can't help but laugh, thinking it might be a blessing to feel "sucky" about where I am in life, because sometimes, the best of times happen when you're drowning in it. You just have to learn how to enjoy the sluuuuuuurp.
