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When I was smaller -- I don't know - around 23
or 24 -- I decided I wanted to be famous. Attending parties, film
premieres and being snapped by the hounding photographers of the
paparazzi, were items that caused me to lustfully drool and dream.
Now that I am a journalist and I've been to the Sundance Film
Festival -- an opportunity to hobnob with celebrities -- I'm no
closer to being famous than Linda Tripp is to being Miss America.
Wanna know something else? Hollywood and its accompanying glitz,
glamour, parties and the like, is not that cool. In fact, it's
somewhat tiresome.
Let me illustrate.
For instance, look how the bigwigs dress: Everyone is clad in
black. Am I numb to fashion, or is there some unspoken but absolute
Tinseltown rule that requires you to have every iota of clothing
in black? Shoes, pants, jacket, shirt, socks, watch, you name
it and it has to be ebony. No ivory allowed. Bonus points seem
to be awarded if any of the wardrobe is leather.
Only one exception to the dressed in black rule: If it's not
black it has to be the most ungodly, horrific piece of fashion
on earth. Period. I'm talking fur coats that look as if they were
skinned from an animal out of a Dr. Seuss book and shoes even
Imelda Marcos wouldn't want for her collection.
Hair is another big thing at Sundance. People just don't do
it. It's like an art form. Wake up the morning and whatever shape
your hair has taken from a night of sleeping on your face and
rolling in drool, then bingo - you're being expressive.
Good news and bad news about celebrity females. The good news,
Guys, is the silver screen beauties really are that enchanting.
Bad news, Gals, they're even smaller, lighter and waifier than
People magazine depicts them as looking. Some of that isn't
appealing, though. Holly Hunter is the smallest woman I've ever
met, and I'm pretty sure Calista Flockhart's problem is that she
has no butt. Just a tailbone and pants. Yuck.
Other things that inflamed my senses at Park City were the press
and the locals.
The press suck. It's as if they have no regard and walk, talk
and preen wherever their press pass allows them to wander. Be
courteous, for cryin' out loud! The worst are TV reporters. Just
because you carry a big camera and get your pretty face on television
does not mean you can shove people (me) out of your way and butt
in front of folks (me) trying to take a picture of Calista Flockhart
(no butt). You know who you are, Carol Mikita.
Locals rank a close second to the press. I realize that Park
City is their home and they look upon most visitors to Sundance
as irritating heathens on a pilgrimage to see how the highbrow,
high-class elitists live life to the fullest. However, purposefully
trying to run me down in your SUV or Lexus is an uncalled for
act of violence. Chill out. I just want to see a couple of flicks,
then I'll be gone, and you, Mr. Ski Boy, can go back to your Caffe
Latte and golden retriever.
Soon Sundance will be a distant memory. The stars go back to
their mansions, Carol Mikita and the rest of the TV folks go back
to reporting murders and death and Robert Redford continues to
sprout new wrinkles. As for me, well, I go back to class.
Man, I wish I were famous.
Left to right, Sandi Hamilton, Scott Teichert,
Neil from ShowBIZdata, Jamie Duncan and Ashley Wright speak with
Heather Mason at the Sundance Film Festival.
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