Thursday night marked the first of the 11-day 2008 AFI fest here in Hollywood. I’m a wishful would-be writer with a highly undeserved AFI press pass who watched last night’s red carpet gala from out of my foggy bus window (the disagreeable No. 217) while Nouvelle Vague’s ‘Making Plans For Nigel’ wistfully whispered through my earphones. LA traffic, vile on its best days, was at a complete standstill on that three block stretch past the Arclight’s Cinerama Dome where blazing flood lids blinded drivers and fans alike. And I smiled–me– sitting next to my overgrown fellow metro companion with the grinding teeth and rather offensive body odor, thinking how exceptionally comedic life is. This week I’ll be sipping wine with these pearly-white specimens, even though I’m nothing myself, but it won’t matter: because here we are all in the same boat.
Here, we are all willing and wanting concubines of that flickering celluloid darkness …
… for the next 11 days this blog will be my home … sometimes sober, mostly not, but my haven nonetheless … so do me a favor, won’t you? Take everything I say with the saltiest grain.
For who am I … who are any of us, really … whether a misty-eyed outsider on a smelly LA bus or a manicured beauty under a paparazzi flash …
The Kitty Packard Pictorial 