Serving Celebrities: The Complete Collection (19 page)

I waited until the following shift of volunteers arrived, turned in my radio and went back to the volunteers lounge. At the Holidays we had a small table in the corner but here at the Eccles there was a large classroom designated for the volunteers to eat in and to take breaks in. Not only did they have large area but the Eccles’ volunteers were mostly Park City citizens (we called them townies, affectionately -- really). Since it was mostly townies who worked the Eccles, they would bring in their own food, many home-cooked dinners, interesting salads, home-made cider, and fresh baked brownies. Most times, it was delicious… and if there was some way they could shut us non-townies out, they would in a second, but it seemed like that battle had already been fought… over and over… and now we were allowed to eat with them and even invited to bring our own food to share.

This would be a great idea but none of us had traveled to the Wasatch Mountains to cook and bake. Every time I would buy some cookies to donate, I would end up eating the whole bag before I got to work (Park City needs a late-night diner for those people coming from a film… or Harry O’s, who are suddenly starving). I tried three times to ante into the kitty but those cookies were really putting on the weight. Most of the townies would just stand and glare at us while we ate their pro-offered food.

It was comforting to enter the break room and realize that there wasn’t a single other person there (did I mention that Brad and Jennifer was in the theater -- I think I did?). I looked forward to a nice quiet, but delicious, meal and maybe I would go back to the condo I was assigned and take a nap, preparing for whatever film we would go see that night.

I got my lunch and sat down, finding an abandoned Indie Wire newspaper, I started to read, when I was interrupted by a voice at the door. “Hey, they’ve got real food in here.” I looked up and some dude was standing at the doorway, an arm wrapped around a boney girl, both in flannel, jeans and North Face jackets. The dude looked at me and asked, “Mind if we have some lunch?”

I know what the townies would say… so I said, “Sure -- come on in.” The dude turned and yelled down the hall, “We’ve got lunch here.” The dude and his chick bounced into the room followed by two other couples, one couple being Brad and Jenn or Jenn and Brad -- whatever. They each got a paper plate and plastic utensils and filled their plates with the home-made food. I’m sure that all the townies at the Eccles would be thrilled that Brad and Jennifer were going to indulge themselves... but, of course, they were all in the theater thinking that they were sitting with Brad and Jenn.

The other room backstage was the green room. It was run by a Sundance volunteer and catered to celebrities who came to the screenings. Most times they had restaurant-prepared food. I don’t think Brad and Jenn and their friends made it that far down the hall. The Dude came over to the table I was sitting at and put his plate down, “Mind if we join you?” “Go ahead,” I answered.

One by one, they sat with me at my table and started eating. Jenn didn’t seem all that hungry; she just had a nest of salad. A few of them had the delicious chili (made more delicious without the presence of townie vultures watching you eat it) and all agreed it was awesome (you hear that Park City townie who made the chili in 2003 -- they liked it).

Everyone introduced themselves and I shook hands with all. I told Brad that I had met him at a Writers Guild Award Show, he was there to introduce Bo Goldman. I was the stage manager. He said he remembered the show and said it was “Crazy” (he obviously didn’t remember the show or he remembered a much better show than I did -- but who am I to disagree).

At most screenings, the actors and crew usually sit in the theater and watch the film. Not Jenn and Brad, they were in this unused classroom with me, ripping on how nervous the director was during his introduction. Of course, most of the people out in theater thought they were sitting with the People Magazine’s Couple of the Decade but I was actually having lunch with them.

I got the feeling that the other two couples were just there to entertain Brad and Jennifer; it didn’t seem like they had a business connection, except that all of them had recently had dinner with Robert Redford.

I realized that now was my chance to get the primo party invitation, I just had to get one of these people to invite me to the after party for the film. Of course, this doesn’t come easy -- you can’t just ask. You have to finesse them… and sure enough, this is where I usually fail.

At one point, someone mentioned having to get back to L.A. I jumped in and asked if they were going to miss the party (smooth, huh?). Brad looked at me and said, “Don’t know.” Jenn didn’t want to go. The dude wanted to go snowboarding. “Yeah,” the other dude agreed, “Let’s go snowboarding?” Everyone was in agreement. Plans were being made -- everyone skipped right over the party (God, I bet they get great swag. You know what SWAG means? Shit We All Get… and the best swag is celebrity swag -- everyone knows that. Why would anyone go to the Oscars -- but for the good swag?)

By now we were going snowboarding up at Deer Valley (or maybe
they
were going snow-boarding and I was day-dreaming). “Then you can still make the party later?” I tossed in. Brad made a face (think of your fans -- think of the film crew, who worked so hard on the film -- think of swag -- real good, celebrity, swag).

“What about… (The director of her film, who, I’m too lazy to look up for this piece or really care)” asked Jenn, dripping with loyalty. Yeah, think of What’s-His-Name… in a few years people won’t remember his name or even try to look it up on IMDB. I nodded, agreeing with Jenn -- that’s why she has so many friends -- she’s nice. But the dude said, “What’s-his-name won’t even notice -- he’ll be drunk before the bar opens.”

“Yeah, baby. That’s the party I want to go to,” I thought to myself. Brad just smiled. “Maybe we can go back to the condo?” “Crap,” I thought, “I’m watching my swag bag float down
A River Runs Through It
.”

In a desperate attempt to save my swag (they might have one of those
SWAG ROOMS
-- swag, swag, everywhere… swag on the walls, swag on the floor, even the chairs are made of swag… you can take them home. It’s a swag-ganza! The WGA Awards Show had a Swag Room one year -- the woman who ran the room eventually sued the Guild for having sub-par celebrities -- we called her the Swag Hag) I leaned forward and asked, “Hey, can you guys get me into the party???”

I may have farted -- though, I don’t think so (I didn’t hear or smell anything) but it felt like I did. You could feel the cold front come in. Brad smiled at me and gave me a, “I don’t know… we’ll check into it.” I recognized that answer; it was the same answer I got from my father whenever he had no intention of letting me drive his car when I turned sixteen or as he would say, “We’ll see…” Everyone in my family knew it was a hedge for “No way, Jack -- not while there’s an ounce of blood running through my veins.”

Then the worst possible thing happened -- the dude looked at his watch and stood up, “We’ve got to get back for the Q & A, after the film.” “Oh, too bad,” said Jenn, standing. “Back to work,” added Brad, as they threw out their lunch plates. I shook their hands and thought about pressing the party but I decided it was better to pretend it never came out (also, a good thing to do with farts).

They left and went back into the theater, to be in their seats when the lights came up and everyone can say that they sat through the film with Brad-ifer… Brennifer... Pitt-istan (isn’t that the new country between Tribeca-stan and the Soho Province?). I sat back and finished the article in the Indie Wire, my imagination spinning about how I was going to tell my friends about my lunch (Hey, did you get to see Jennifer and Brad, too -- I had lunch with them). After a few minutes I felt a lingering presence behind me. Did they come back with the party passes? Have I been too harsh on them? I can’t wait to boogie down with my new best friends, Brad, Jenn… the dude… the other dude… the boney chick… the director; I still can’t remember his name… it could be a moving van filled with swag.

“Are you people ever going to bring anything in for the pot luck?” I turned to the townie, surveying and making a mental note on everything that was missing from the food table. I smiled at her and said, “We’ll see…”

Wouldn’t It Be Nice... To Hang With The Beach Boys

“W
e have a rock band staying with us this weekend,” the Food and Beverage Manager informed me. The Food and Beverage Manager was a small man from Ecuador, who spoke in measured sentences. “What rock band?” I asked. He thought about it and replied, The Beach Boys. Sure it was the Beach Boys, we were on Martha’s Vineyard, it is an island, that has beaches. I was impressed and excited that they would be staying at the Harborview Hotel. “I hope they don’t cause damage,” added the Food and Beverage Manager. I went on with my bar managing duties, at the moment, it was trying to get the chef to make me a hamburger for lunch (this was not easy -- some ass would need to be kissed).

Later that night; at a very expensive house somewhere in Edgartown. The parents of some lucky trust-fund children have let them, and their friends, have the house for the weekend. Now every single person with nothing to do on the island is at this beautiful mansion in the middle of nowhere. It was Friday night, I had nothing to do -- so I’m at this mansion with my friend Fiona, who is in the throes of trying to decide if she should approach her ex-boyfriend and hit him with golf club, she just couldn’t decide between the large wanker wacker (a driver) or the small penis looking one (the aptly named -- putter) that she had found in a bag, in the garage.

While Fiona was making up her mind, I noticed two large vans pull up into the drive way. I left Fiona and went to investigate, the vans looked very much like they belonged to the Harborview. Since the hotel’s name were on the sides of the vans, I can confirm that they did belong to the hotel. I felt, as the only manager at this house party (please realize that the title Bar Manager is the very low end of the executive paradigm -- I always felt that I was only invited for when the meetings ran long, at least there was someone who could do something constructive -- like make margaritas).

I approached a bellman who driving one of the vans. He was an Irish kid, Gavin, dressed in the hotel’s uniform. I asked Gavin what he was doing at this party with the hotel’s vans. Gavin told me that he had picked up the Beach Boys at the ferry and that they wanted to go out and do something. Since Gavin was under age the only fun thing for him to do was go to this party... and since he was working, this was the only way he could go. I asked him where the Beach Boys were?

He walked me to the side of one of the vans and Gavin slid the door open. Sure enough, there were four of the Beach Boys, including the singer, Mike Love, just sitting there, each holding a beer, “They wanted to go to a party.” I said “hi” to the Beach Boys. Then I turned to Gavin and said, “You’ve got to get them out of here. What if cops come, what are you going to do?” Gavin thought a minute and asked, “Where should I take them?” “To a bar, to the hotel’s bar, a restaurant, but get out of here before the...” That’s when the spotlight hit us. I have to say that the Edgartown Police must have something like a cloak of invisibility. They would just appear from nowhere, especially when we were having a good party, with loud music and not paying attention.

The Edgartown cops wanted to know why the hotel’s vans were at the house. I could’ve walked away and pretended that I didn’t have anything do with the hotel -- but I’m not that guy so I had to go over and help Gavin get the vans out of there. We finally got the Police to allow the vans to leave after the Beach Boys all gave autographs. The police then had to leave and subdue Fiona who had decided on the massive wanker-wacker.

I had Gavin drop me off in downtown Edgartown, after encouraging the Beach Boys to visit the Harborview’s bar (I never mentioned that I was the Bar Manager -- we needed the business). Later I would go and see about getting Fiona out of jail. They held her in protective custody for the night (never mentioning who they were protecting by keeping her in jail, it was obvious it was the Kiwi with a massive wanker-whacker-welt on the side of his head).

The next day many of the Beach Boys came to the hotel’s bar. Mike Love had a few drinks and visited with friends. The guitar player for the band, Dorian, was hanging out with me most of the afternoon. Dorian told me that they had been hired to play a wedding on the island on Sunday. Dorian also admitted that he was one of the few real Beach Boys on this trip that was part of the regular band (I know a lot of bands have a second string. The Jukes played at the hotel for Judy Belushi’s (John’s widow) wedding reception -- they were without Southside or any of the original jukes).

After I finished work that night, I went home and found Dorian hanging out with Fiona and some of the Irish girls in the house next door. Realizing that this was my chance, I found an extra guitar that had been floating around the staff housing. The guitar was beat up so I put new strings on it and tuned it. Taking my own Ibanez guitar with me, I went over to the neighbor’s and offered the guitar to Dorian to play for the night.

Dorian was really cool. Unfortunately, I had only been playing the guitar for a few years at the time and didn’t know many songs. I got Dorian to help me with the song “Wouldn’t it Be Nice.” But as good as I was doing trying to play the song, all the Irish people in the room kept diverting Dorian’s attention from my struggles with learning the chords by requesting what songs they wanted to hear -- which didn’t involve me (most of them were really sick of my beginner guitar playing, anyways).

“Dorian, can you play a Beatles song?” Dorian would go to a Beatles tune, “The Beatles are brilliant.” “Dorian, do you know any Stones songs?” Dorian would quickly switch to a Stones song. “Dorian, play a U2 song?” “U2 are a bunch of slaggs,” added Fiona, but Dorian would still switch to a U2 song. I struggled along with him, but I was in way over my head. Finally, losing my temper I exclaimed, “Hey, shut up -- let us play one song through. Dorian, let’s try
Wouldn’t it Be Nice
? Dorian and I started playing and Fiona started bitching about Bono and U2 again. “Shut up, Fi -- I’m trying to learn a song, here.” I shouted. Fiona got real quiet.

Dorian and I started again. I was concentrating on watching Dorian’s fingering on the fret board when suddenly I realized that my guitar wasn’t making any sound, or actually, I wasn’t even holding the guitar anymore. When I realized that I didn’t have my guitar, I looked up in time to see Fiona, holding it by the neck, over her head and aiming it at me. She swung down with all her might but I had enough time to duck. The guitar made a sickly sound, wood cracking, strings snapping, as it hit the wall behind me. Fiona started yelling, “Don’t tell me to shut up!” Those Irish tempers, don’t ask me to go on about them -- they totally explain the IRA thing.

The room went quiet as it usually does when someone loses their mind and tries to kill another person with their own instrument. Fiona handed me my guitar. She laughed and said, “Missed ya,” like she did it as a favor to me. Dorian took this as a good sign that it was time to leave, “I’ve got to get up early for this wedding tomorrow.” The gathering broke up... as broke up as my poor guitar was. Dorian, Mike Love and the Beach Boys left right after the wedding. Fiona offered to help me pay for the repairs to my guitar. But after all that, I did get play with a Beach Boy -- I also spoke with more respect to Fiona. No need to see if I could work my way up to a massive wanker-wacker.