Cheap cut satin and bad perfume
Showtime is almost here
A few days before Halloween, I walked home snapping my fingers down the side streets of Seal, with the bouncing bass line and infectious, rubber-bandy rhythm guitar of Robin Lane’s “Why Do You Tell Lies” bopping through my head. Before I even crossed the front door, I was on a bee-line for the stereo to put on Robin Lane and the Chartbusters’ self-titled LP. Once inside, I jumped down to the record stacks and began flipping.
It wasn’t there. Neither was my copy of Crimes Of Passion. Or Hold Out. Or Mad Love. Or Parallel Lines or Eat To The Beat or The Pleasure Principle. I quietly freaked.
“Paul!” I yelled–figuring he was home, smoking pot up in his room. “Do you have any of my records up there?”
I heard his door open. “Whaah?”
I repeated my question, over the Led Zeppelin that poured down from his own stereo.
“No way, dude,” he said, “why would I listen to your shit bubble-gum crap?” He slammed the door.
About what I expected from Paul.
Eric and Brigid walked in at that moment. “Are any of your records missing,” I asked him.
“A few,” he answered, “and some of yours, too. I loaned them to the girl who’s throwing the Halloween party I’m going to this Saturday night. She’s gonna record them for the party. Don’t worry, they’re safe.”
Hmmph. First I had heard of this. I wasn’t sure how I felt about my music collection going out, unasked, for the benefit of a party that until this moment I had yet to even hear of, let alone get invited to. Geez. Well, I consoled myself, my musical contributions should at least get me an invitation, or at least I hoped so, seeing as I had nothing else happening that night.
My movie camera had yet to lose its new-toy status. From that first day, I started to burn through Super-8 stock almost as fast as I could buy it. Jim, Eric and the Fuckheads proved extremely willing subjects as we staged silly fights filled with jump-cuts, and filmed Benny Hill-style chase scenes that lacked only “Yackety Sax” on the soundtrack.
I took it with me to Foster’s and Kim graciously put up with my filming her while she worked. I snuck in on her one night, having learned how to open the door without triggering the bell that announced entering customers. I snuck around the counter and surprised her; I practically had to scrape her off the ceiling with a spatula. I never thought those big eyes of hers could get any bigger.
Later, in the deep quiet of the very early morning, we sat and talked in the prep area behind the front counter, marinating in the smell of deep-fried carbs, out of sight of casual observers. We would have heard the bing if anyone had come in—but no one did. I asked her what she was doing for Halloween (my lack of invite to that party was still chafing at me). She told me she had a party to go to. She was dressing up as French maid–complete with short skirt, frilly apron and fishnet stockings. She didn’t invite me to come along either, and that bugged me: it bugged me that she didn’t invite me–it bugged me that she didn’t even seem concerned about what I was doing. But it smarted mostly because I really would have liked to have seen her in those fishnets.
That night, taking inventory of recent events as I walked home, I realized that, according to the up-to-the-minute-tally, I was someone who–in the last seven days–had involved himself in another couple’s psycho-sexual drama, taken responsibility for said involvement, bought a movie camera, used it, and discovered that his music collection is a more desirable party guest then he himself is. I supposed that made the week a kind of pinnacle for someone who didn’t currently have much of a life. And the week wasn’t even over yet. Halloween was tomorrow night; I would be damned if it went by unnoticed, unobserved or uncelebrated by me.
October 31st fell on a Friday in 1980; the first way I decided to acknowledge the occasion was for me to show up at Ozzie’s in costume. I dug through some of Eric’s theater make-up and found a tube of Clown White–to which I added a small amount of blue food coloring. I ended up with a pale blue mixture that, once smeared all over my face and arms, made me look just like one of Romero’s zombies from Dawn Of The Dead. To this I added a bit of wax and fake blood for a few head wounds, and the image was complete: Chris of the Undead. I smiled at the artistic creation I had made of myself in the mirror, and went off to work.
Kathy freaked. I assured her that everything I had on me was completely non-toxic, but that didn’t totally satisfy her: she insisted that my hands, at least, be clean. Reasonable, since I was going to have my hands in other people’s food for the next seven hours.
People in costume came in and out of Ozzie’s all afternoon. A friend of Kathy’s named Christine, who worked at the little women’s boutique down the strip, came in showing off a flowing little fairy outfit that looked like something from a Heart album cover. Kathy’s boyfriend, a scrawny, bearded little man, came in and accosted Kathy and Lori in his flasher costume; he walked in with a trench coat, opened it–and out popped a huge, erect, foam rubber penis. I was convinced the screams could be heard in San Clemente. Later, I noticed Lori, as she left and met a friend in the parking lot, talking animatedly and punctuating her speech with a pantomime of the opening of the coat and the popping-out of the fake appendage. It was clearly the hit of the afternoon.
On my walk home, some people recognized my costume and shouted their approval; others gave me a wide berth. Making a public spectacle of myself on the streets of Seal Beach gave me an odd sense of satisfaction. I wanted more: I wanted to cut loose; I wanted to party.
At home, I found Eric in the bathroom–decked out as Alex from A Clockwork Orange. All in white with black combat boots, suspenders, cod-piece and black bowler hat. He was up to the mirror, applying the trade-mark fake eyelashes, upper and lower.
It was time to work some things out with him.
“Eric,” I said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I would like to come with you to the party tonight.”
This stopped him for a moment. I could tell that he was a little annoyed. I didn’t care.
“Okay,” he said finally, “but don’t expect me to be your entertainment for the evening. I’m there to have fun with my friends.”
“That’s fine,” I responded, “I don’t expect you to, but right now you are my main conduit to any kind of social life. If I can’t get out and meet new people, I’ll go crazy.”
That seemed to satisfy him; I didn’t need to bring up the fact that my music collection had already been invited. I was going to this thing–damned if I wasn’t.
The party was in a walled-off section of Huntington Beach known as Beachwalk. It was a gated community of multi-million dollar homes, along tiny little, speed-bumped drives. When we pulled up to the house, things were already underway–and the Halloween trappings were already all over the front of the house, particularly a plethora of lighted Jack-O-Lanterns, made out of real pumpkins.
Most of the Fuckheads were there, in addition to a houseful of people I didn’t know. This was exactly what I wanted. Festivity. Lunacy. Loud music and pimped alcohol. My blue-tinged face melted into the larger canvas of costumed and masked faces that alternately glowed or sank like darkness under the black-light radiation of the interior.
To my surprise, and pleasure, Jim was there: decked out in a hand-crafted Phantom of the Opera get-up. His cape was a remnant of an old plaid bathrobe; the old pattern showed up through the black dye under the ultra-violet light. He had a white party-mask and a black cane, and seemed to be as ready to cut loose as was I.
It wasn’t my first keg party. That would have been the cast party for the senior variety show back in Weston. But it was new enough to me that I had yet to encounter the term “kegger.” The beer flowed freely and, as I was a novice to alcohol consumption, inebriation quickly followed. It was another one of those instances when I was able to get out of my own way and get social. Before long, I heard selections from my own music library blasting in the dining room–which had been cleared for a dance floor. Jim was getting a tad looped himself, and took it upon himself to demonstrate the proper way to dance to “Rock Lobster.” He took over the floor, his cape and cane flying to the raging beat, the wailing vocals of Kate and Cindy. I joined in with the crowd that came in to envelop him; dancing alone, dancing with everyone. I had never danced like that before: completely cutting loose–surrendering to the music and the people and the interactions of movement and body language and sound. It was good. I was good. I was part of something larger than myself, and I allowed myself into it. This was what I came for.
Our hostess was a pretty young thing by the name of Shannon, and she and I got along very well–although this would be the only night I would ever know her. She was very social and friendly and allowed me to work on cutting my own social teeth with her. Late in the evening, Jim and I were on the sofa in the living room, with Shannon between us. I stuck my blue-painted nose into her hair and commented, tongue glibly inserted into cheek, “Gee, your hair smells terrific!” (This was an ad line for a popular shampoo of the same name.) Shannon laughed out loud and Jim groaned with feigned anguish.
“That’s my line!” he shouted over her at me, his Phantom mask glowing purple under the black light. “You stole my favorite pick-up line!”
My final and lasting image from that party was watching Eric and the Fuckheads–all decked out like the Droogs from A Clockwork Orange–breaking out their canes and descending upon the sagging Jack-O-Lanterns in the driveway. In a weird and lunatic echo of that film’s “ultra-violence,” they threw the pumpkins out onto the speed-bumps of Beachwalk, jumping down on them like a pack of hyenas, laughing madly and smashing them to pieces.
During the first week of November we had what seemed to me a once in a lifetime opportunity. Monty Python was performing at the world renown Hollywood Bowl.
The evolution of my sense of humor could, at that time, be traced to three critical influences. They were: Steve Martin’s early standup, the original Saturday Night Live, with the original Not-Ready-For-Prime-Time Players—and the sketch comedy of Monty Python. To this day, these three remain a crucial yardstick by which I measure funny.
So missing them on their first American tour in years was simply not an option.
I went with Eric and a few of the guys. Eric drove us in Mom’s 510 and when we arrived in LA it was already dark. I was dazzled by the lights of the city and by the time we parked I had no idea where we were. It hardly mattered though: all we had to do was follow the migrating crowd winding up the greenery-lined walkway to the main gates of the venue.
The amphitheater was nestled in the Hollywood hills, surrounded by trees, the faint outline of larger hills still barely visible beyond the tree line. The stage, under its iconic art-deco shell, seemed smaller than it appeared when I saw it in movies or on TV. (But then again, so did the set of The Gong Show when I saw a taping of that a few years before.) Rows of stadium seating spread out as they climbed the hill, and below them the box sections, nice little partitioned party spaces that grew in size, and presumably in price, the closer they were to the stage. Our seats were in the stadium section, fairly close to the front row and slightly uphill from the walkway dividing the seats from the boxes. We were hardly close enough to see the beads of sweat on anyone’s head on stage, but the seats weren’t bad. And I had my binoculars with me, to get closer to the action.
The lights went down and the show started and what followed was a ninety-minute greatest hits of my favorite Python sketches. The Argument Sketch, the Dead Parrot Sketch, the Nudge-Nudge-Wink-Wink Sketch and the songs of the Lumberjack and the Australian Philosophers (aka The Bruces). I had been watching Monty Python’s Flying Circus pretty much since grade school, had a well-worn copy of the script to Monty Python and the Holy Grail and an equally worn LP of Monty Python at Drury Lane at home. So these routines were practically written into my comedic DNA. When John Cleese came out in drag, toting a dead seabird on a concessions tray, he walked up and down the aisles during the sketch, and at one point looked directly at me and screamed, “ALBATROSS!!”
There were additional highlights. During the intermission I got up to stretch my legs. While I stood at the top of the steps leading out of our section, I became aware of a figure just to my left. I glanced over reflexively at a guy lighting up a cigarette. Then I had to look again.
It was Richard Mulligan—one of the cast of the sitcom Soap. He played a character who believed he could turn invisible by waving and snapping his fingers. My jaw dropped slightly and I searched my head for something to say. This was particularly problematic because at the moment I couldn’t remember his name. He saw my mouth trying to work, smiled in a friendly way and shrugged. Then he pulled out his pack of Marlboros and silently offered me one. I shook my head no. He smiled again and continued down the steps.
While considering the odds of such an encounter, it occurred to me that that it could not have been a statistical anomaly.
There were famous people here. There had to be.
I looked down at the field of box seats between me and the stage. I took a few tentative steps towards the gate of the box seat area, anticipating some angry usher telling me to get back to my own seat. But that didn’t happen. So I picked my way down the steps, glancing left and right as I went.
I wasn’t wrong. As I wandered the aisles I recognized a number of faces, most of whose names, as with the encounter I just had, I couldn’t place. I did recognize Jack Riley and Peter Bonerz from the Bob Newhart Show, standing together in one box, looking older than they had when they were playing Mr. Carlin and Jerry the Orthodontist.
I kept going. As I came closer to the stage, I cut across so I could come back up by a different route. I had half forgotten my original purpose and was now wandering somewhat aimlessly, killing time before the show started back up, wondering if I should drop twenty bucks on a souvenir T-shirt.
As I walked the aisle in front of me got more crowded. I shouldered my way through a small glut of people standing outside of one box. I glanced into the box as a couple of bodies shifted apart and—
No. Freakin’. Way.
Seated not two paces distant was Debbie Harry of Blondie, sitting next to her band mate and partner, Chris Stein.
Debbie mother-grabbing Harry, close enough for me to smell her perfume, just hanging out like she was at lunch. She was conversing with a couple of onlookers; most of the rest of them were taking pictures. I berated myself for leaving my Pocket Insta-Matic at home. She looked like she had walked right off of one of their album covers, and she seemed—literally—to sparkle. It occurred to me later that she probably had glitter in her make-up, but in the moment it felt like magic. I just stood there and stared until, after a few minutes, I started to feel self-conscious. I wondered if I should talk to her, but I couldn’t think of the first thing to say that wouldn’t make me sound like a star-struck moron. And Debbie Harry considering me a moron was something I definitely wanted to avoid. Reluctantly, I pulled away from the cluster of bodies, and continued up the steps back toward my seat.
I crossed the crowded lateral walkway thinking that I should have at least said something to her, just to have the experience of having her attention, even if just for a moment. Even still, I anticipated that Eric and Jim were going to freak when I told them I merely laid eyes on her. Just then, a white-clad figure walking the opposing direction flashed across my peripheral vision. I thought nothing of it for a split second—but then I stopped.
Turning, I saw the back of a tall man with salt and pepper hair in a white dress suit, retreating down the walkway. I was quickly losing sight of him in the thickening crowd.
It couldn’t be.
I stood locked in indecision for a few heartbeats. I already sensed I was going to regret not talking to Debbie Harry, I couldn’t even fathom missing this opportunity. I broke into a run, dodging and weaving through the crowd.
“Mister Martin,” I called. “Mister Martin!”
He stopped and I skidded to a halt in front of him. I didn’t hesitate this time; sounding like an idiot was a price I was willing to pay.
I stuck my hand out. “I’m your biggest fan,” I said breathlessly.
Steve Martin smiled a friendly smile and shook my hand.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. Then he turned and continued on his way.
It was early November, and the nation had just elected Ronald Reagan as president. One sunny Sunday afternoon the Fuckheads arrived at the apartment to pick up Eric for tech rehearsals of HB High’s latest dramatic production—a comedy by the title of Scapino, which was opening the following weekend. I had no idea what the play was about, but I was mildly interested in seeing my brother do his work on stage. Jim was over, and we were filming goofy stuff and brainstorming a possible attempt at animation. There was a fresh roll of film in my camera, which spent much of its time in my hand, while I wandered aimlessly, composing interesting shots. I had an idea: Jim and I should go down to the high school with the Fuckheads, and film the goings-on backstage.
Eric and the gang were beginning to get used to the idea of my camera on them—so they readily agreed. They took off in one car, and Jim and I piled into Wicca and followed them south, down the long stretch of PCH that connected Seal Beach with Huntington, by way of Sunset Beach and Bolsa Chica.
Bombing down the Coast Highway in Jim’s passenger seat, I felt a kind of satisfaction, elation, that I felt had been eluding me up to this point. As the palm trees and the pounding surf raced by us, with the radio blasting, I felt as if I was beginning to get a life.
My friendship with Jim was beginning to develop into something solid. In him, I found someone who was like me—quiet, introspective, a quirky Sci-Fi nut—and who accepted me pretty much unconditionally. In him I was beginning to find a social network similar to the one I had in Weston which, though I barely thought about it anymore, I missed at the edges of my awareness.
I lifted the movie camera in my hand and tracked things as they passed at highway speeds: In-N-Out Burger billboards, oil rigs, palm trees, the Day-Glo derrieres of bikinied young women on the boardwalk that ran between the beach and the Coast Highway.
Girls. Girls remained a sore spot in my still-hormone-dominated consciousness. There were so damned many of them out here, why the hell wasn’t I meeting any? I wanted so badly to meet that one girl who was going to set everything into place for me. I could see her—practically smell her; it was like that old Eagles song:
I been lookin’ for the daughter of the devil himself
I been lookin’ for an angel in white
I been waitin’ for a woman who’s a little of both
And I can feel her but she’s nowhere in sight…
Again, I felt as if Eric was ahead of the curve from me on that front: he had Brigid. Rich Jackson had Glynis. Jim was still smarting over his break from Debbie and, although there was no remaining tension between he and I over what happened the night of her birthday, the fact that he still had something on his radar screen, even if it was moving swiftly out of range, served to remind me of my own lack of female companionship. Although I was still friendly with Debbie, I was uncomfortable thinking of her in that way after what had happened; besides, in my intervening meetings with her since that first night, she seemed impartial to me. Of course, Kim remained the biggest blip on my own radar screen—but I felt paralyzed over how to, or whether to, act on my feelings for her.
But, at this moment, I was able to subsume these feelings by the happiness I felt, gripping my camera, booming down PCH with a good friend, and off to go do some filming.
HB High was a big school, a regional high school that incorporated a number of the surrounding cities, including Seal Beach, and had a student population well into the thousands. This was a far cry from what I was used to: Weston High, with its population of around eight hundred and less than two hundred in my class. I hadn’t a clue what it must have been like for Eric—disappearing into a mass of student life the size of the town I grew up in. The school itself was about a mile inland from the HB pier, off PCH. A sprawling stucco, mission-style edifice, with a front lined with an arched ambulatory and a tower that made me think of the climactic scene from Vertigo. We pulled into a parking lot just a few yards away from the theater department stage door, and I could hear an animated ruckus issuing from within.
As we came close to a set of steps that led up to the open door, the ruckus resolved itself into a familiar lyric. Franki Valli. A song made popular in our circle by its prominent use in The Deer Hunter, another one of our favorite films at the time:
You’re just too good to be true
Can’t take my eyes off of you…
This was familiar territory to Jim, so I let him lead, and as I followed him in I powered up the Canon.
Inside was a large carpeted room, with a teacher’s desk to the left and to the right, a small stage. On the stage, two figures in the most optically abusive, loudest, amateur theatrical garb, cavorted and sang. One of them was my brother. I raised the eyepiece and pulled the trigger of the camera as they continued to sing.
I love you baby,
And if it’s quite all right to say
I need you baby,
To fill the lonely nights…
The backstage was a hubbub of activity—populated with people I mostly didn’t know. Sticking out of the crowd as they came and went, I saw members of the Fuckheads, in various states of dress and makeup. While Eric busied himself with his rehearsal duties, Jim took me around and introduced me to some of the people there.
I quickly immersed myself in the atmosphere and the “zaniness” of the backstage vibe. My role as observer and recorder seemed to lend some legitimacy to my presence there—and as I kept shooting film, I soon found myself accepted by most of the people there, including the bearded, bombastic and rotund director of the play, Eric’s new theater teacher, Ron Albertson.
I got the immediate impression that the Fuckheads did not take Albertson that seriously. My guess was that they saw him as a weak substitute for their late and beloved former teacher, known affectionately as “chief,” and who from the descriptions I received, was a ringer for Roy Schieder’s Bob Fosse character in All That Jazz. Albertson was the seeming opposite of everything his predecessor was. My introduction to him came when, while exploring the dark edges of the set itself, I saw Glynis—Rich Jackson’s girlfriend—wearing a waitress outfit and dancing alone on the empty stage. I crept past the backdrop to get a better angle on her, and I heard a booming voice:
“Who the hell is that?”
It was then that I realized that a dress rehearsal was in progress. After an apology and explanation, he seemed okay with my presence there, but I learned to look where I was going and to keep aware of what was happening around me, production-wise. I kept my filming that day limited to the backstage and dressing rooms.
The Fuckheads, as always, provided excellent fodder for filming. Some I knew fairly well already, Jackson for one, but some I didn’t really come to know until this week.
Richard Cohen, a funny kid with a round face and a shock of curly dark hair, and an infectious blend of snark and sincerity in his manner.
Todd Marshall, a tall, string-bean of a guy who had the title part in the play. He was weird, charismatic and a natural performer, both on stage and in front of my camera. Kind of the Mick Jagger of the Fuckheads.
Matt Earnest was a combination of standard-issue southern Cal pretty boy and late-70’s computer nerd. I think the big wire-frame glasses had something to do with that impression. A low-key guy with a deadpan demeanor and a quietly twisted sense of humor.
Mike Neidermayer looked like a cross between 50’s greaser and GQ model and worked the whole bad-boy vibe with enthusiastic purpose. Manic and over-the-top, Mike was a wiseacre with few thresholds. If you thought that Mike was trouble waiting to happen—you were occasionally right.
Jim introduced me to one of his old theater buddies named Todd Hancock—who was playing one the show’s romantic leads. He was also aggravatingly good looking, in a Gene Wilder, Errol Flynn kind of way. But a very nice guy.
Brigid was also there in a stage-hand capacity. She and Eric spent much time cuddling at Albertson’s desk during lull periods. Aside from her and Glynis, a few other females came into my periphery that week. The tall, spunky, and Mediterranean Allegra Veloce; the rough-around-the-edges, Chrissy Hynde-ish Kathy Newman. And on that first day, while sitting on the floor of the main room backstage, filming the goings on around me, a face fell into the frame of my viewfinder that immediately grabbed my attention.
She was dark and petite, with eyes like onyx. One lock of her hair was braided and fell ornamentally down the left side of her face. I zoomed in, captivated, until she saw my lens on her and she quickly spun away, her braid swinging out as it followed her face out of view. It was a strong deja vu moment—where had I seen her before?
Her name was Lisa Rafferty, and she was a friend of the Fuckheads. Theater department regular, and another Scapino stagehand. As I kept trying—usually unsuccessfully—to steal a close up of that face of hers, I finally realized what it was about her. She was a dead ringer for one of the characters from Realm—the sci-fi-fantasy that Fred and I had been working on before I left Weston—whose features I had based on legendary horror-queen Barbara Steele.
After the rehearsal was over, and Jim and I rode home, Lisa’s image still rattled around in my head. And later that night, I dug through my boxes to find the folder of my old Realm character sketches. She looked the part so closely it was downright unsettling. It wasn’t long before my mental template for the character morphed away from Barbara Steele and over to Lisa.
I went to the rehearsals for Scapino every night that week, burned well over an hour of film in that time, and solidified some of my connections with the Fuckheads, whom I still knew primarily through the filter of my brother. As the recorder of the event, I began to feel a part of the production, people saw me with the camera and let me be, figuring I knew what I was doing. I didn’t really—I had no idea what was going to come of all these reels of Super-8—but it felt good to simply be accepted in a particular capacity. In my position as relative outsider, I was the perfect documentarian.
I filmed it all—or tried to. The dressing up, the clowning around, I even sat through an entire dress rehearsal (this time, to Albertson’s relief, from the front row), catching the high points of physical comedy, and concentrating on Eric’s histrionics as he pushed his comedic talents to the limits—going so far as to incorporate obscure but hilarious references to so many of the movies we had all seen.
I made it part of my mission to get a good close up of Lisa. She kept up her camera-shyness with a persistence that matched my own determination. It became a game of tag, resulting in shot after shot of her spinning away, that braid flying in the centrifugal force of her spins, and I remained It.
Lisa wasn’t the only girl to turn my head that week. I found myself befriending and being attracted by a dark-eyed sophomore with flowing dark hair and braces named Karen. She was cute and willowy and sweet, and loved to smile for my lens, even with the braces. I wasn’t old enough yet to feel sleazy for feeling attracted to someone so young; after all, she was the same age as Debbie, who had dated Jim. And the previous year I had sported a crush on Lea—who was a freshman at the time. So Karen fit right into that sequence. I spoke to Debbie once about her, she said I should ask her out. I never did, which I regretted for for some time after that. There was an upbeat snappiness to her that made me think of her whenever I heard the opening pop strains of The Police’s “Da Do Do Do Da Da Da Da.” I still think of Karen when I hear that song.
On the closing night, I finally got my close up of Lisa. In the meantime, she and I had become friendly, and the subject of my persistent attempts to get the shot had become something of a running joke. I finally snagged the shot in the dressing room, under the lights of the arrayed bulbs of the make-up tables. She came around a corner as I was filming the application of old-man make-up to Mike Neidermeyer and fell right into my frame. I zoomed in and held it, until she noticed and started to turn. It was at this point that, amid the playful laughter of everyone present, a few of the guys dragged her back around and dramatically begged her to relent. Smiling, she finally did.
As the final curtain approached, my filming became more business-oriented. I paid more attention to the actual goings-on of the production. I followed Albertson around a bit and stood in the big circle-up of the cast and crew right before the show. I rounded out all this craziness I had spent days recording with a solid anchor of purpose. And when the last performance was over, I recorded the jubilance backstage, as costumes and make-up appliances came off and lipstick graffiti was applied to the mirrors, proclaiming “The F*ckheads are #1!!!!!”
I felt the euphoria that overflowed from them, and I felt charged. I had done something tangible. Recorded something real. And I was enough a part of it to have people asking me to sign their programs and invite me to the cast party. Given my continued appetite for social interaction—this was a major triumph. Most of the Fuckheads were sincere, as well, in their anxiousness to see my film, once it was it would be a daunting task. But I put that thought aside for the night—and went to the party.
Coming next month: “You May Ask Yourself, ‘How Do I Work This?’”