This weekend was full of excitement and adventure and noisy, dirty boys with questionable hygiene. And beer. Looooots of beer.
I offered to drive the majority of the group down to San Antonio in my SUV. We all could have gone in comfort and style, plenty of leg room for all, and a DVD player for the fellas in the back! What's not to love? Oh. Four of the seven are chain smokers, and they're not allowed to ride in my car and smoke. (I offered to make frequent stops.... No dice.) Since it didn't make sense for me to drive alone in my big car and pay all that gas money, I agreed to ride with my bro-in-law and the gang in his car.
Even when you roll the window down you still stink up a car with cigarette smoke. And while I believe adults have the right to make their own health decisions for their own bodies, I'm not going to lie to you: I fucking hate cigarette smoke. HAAAAATE. I'm slightly allergic to it (#2 almost has an asthma attack around tobacco smoke) oh, and when I know I'm going to be at a shindig I don't like smelling like an ashtray. Here's a surprise: even if you brush your teeth, Smokers, put on perfume or cologne, YOU STILL REEK OF TOBACCO SMOKE.
5 hour ride with boys who don't mind farting, belching, chain smoking (really? It's 100 degrees outside, and you're drinking a cup of coffee and smoking? Feh.) We get to the hotel that I booked using my husband's hotel points, and one of the tagalongs (not involved in the movie, but a supportive friend of the directors) asks where he can LIGHT UP. As in: POT. In my hotel room. Um, no. Look, I don't give a shit about pot. I really don't. I think it's stupid that pot is illegal and liquor isn't, given the ability to kill someone when drunk and not so much when high, but IT IS STILL ILLEGAL. So automatically, I'm the asshole with this jerk. And if you look really closely, you might find the care in my eye. Maybe.
I didn't realize that everyone wanted to go hit some bars before the event, bars not at the event. So we ran around San Antonio's Riverwalk (which really is beautiful, if not slightly like being at Disney World, what with the mediocre food and high prices and pressing crowds everywhere) on the cobbled streets. Did I mention I was wearing a pair of stiletto-heeled sandals? Because I was. And I was good for about three hours. And then my feet just screamed "No More." I'm no Carrie Bradshaw.
The actual festival was interesting. They didn't really promote it, so the crowds were small. Which, hey. That's fine. But it was a weird mix of folks, and they didn't know that our movie is THE MOST OFFENSIVE MOVIE EVER. No, I'm serious. But the weird thing was the shock garnered for this viewing. The things I always expect people to gasp and storm out over weren't the things that they gasped and stormed out over. (10 people left, mostly women, mostly in their early twenties.) (Aww, and one of my lines was cut for this showing, in anticipation. :( It'll be back in for subsequent viewings. WTF?)
I kept telling the producer, "But Italians love my sleaze! I'm an award winning Sleazy Actress!" This always got a nod from the director, "She's right. They love her sleaze. So I've got that going for me. Which is nice.
The folks that ran the festival loved the movie, so that was cool. One of these people was an 87 year old man from Chihuahua, Mexico who's wife didn't speak any English. Which is why, he told us, she stayed through the whole thing. HAHAHAHAHA. He loved how dirty we all were, so that was really funny to me. Way to go, old timer!
We spent the rest of the night at a bar that served ONE DOLLAR DOMESTICS and TWO DOLLAR IMPORTS. Bottles. So... they all got 'faced. I don't like beer, so I sipped on a Coke all night, fending off the advances of some old biker dude that really wanted me to go to some Cowboy games with him. I kept explaining how my husband gets tetchy when I go on dates. Finally, the guy that plays "Bone" (the hot, muscled anti-hero of the movie) got me out of there. You know what sucks about being the only sober person in a group of drunks? Being the only sober person in a group of drunks.
When guys are by themselves drinking, they get stupid. How stupid? Let me tell you. Our Executive Producer just finished his third tour of duty in Iraq. The pot-smoking "friend" is a tall, doughy boy, awkward socially, with coke-bottle glasses. They both decided it would be AWESOME to find a fight. And maybe get mugged. We leave the bar trying to find our car (we walked ALL OVER the city, oh my god, and I walked barefoot, holding my shoes. Thank god San Antonio has the cleanest streets you'll find) and they're going on and on about this, getting louder as we pass other roving bands of people on the streets at 2 a.m. I explain that I have a VAGINA IN MY PANTS, and would prefer to not be attacked or mugged, I thank you very much.
Then they decide to show us the beer they bought off the bartender, down several, and start flinging beer bottles. WHEEEEEEE. Hey, how about you guys cut that shit out, or I'm stealing the keys and leaving your asses on the street? FREAKING BOYS. They're all in their late twenties, so they know better. Evidently not...
Long story only slightly less long, I wrangled the kittens, er, fellas back to the hotel by 4 a.m. I haven't seen 4 a.m. in a looooong time. I don't want to get too familiar with it, either. We left the hotel the next day at noon, with them rolling out of bed and into the car, hungover. 5 hour ride back home with them moaning and smoking like chimneys.
Next time there's a road trip? I'm fucking driving myself. Moral of the story: drink to enjoy the flavor, people. Why get drunk and feel like crap the next day? Oh, and be out of ALL OF THAT MONEY. Oy.
(Side note: I was looking forward to this trip because it was going to be a relief from my mother duties. Um... apparently not.)
Positive things: meeting some new people, how GORGEOUS San Antonio is (I had forgotten), how unbelievably nice and friendly every one is there (and this is a Southerner saying it) and talking for two hours with a guy in the movie that I never got to know well, and finding out how nice he is. Yay! Oh, and the editor drove down and brought his girlfriend and they were SO FUN. We talked on and on about Lost and Battlestar Galactica which is the definition of a god time. (The editor wore a shirt under his sport coat that read "I am not a Cylon." Hee! I like how we fans find each other through code... :D
For the record: San Antonio is better than Austin because it's just as funky and eclectic but has NO pretension. And instead of patchoulie-stinking hippies, you have awesome and friendly Mexican-Americans that know where the good food is. AWESOME.
I did come home to a spotless house and happy kids, so there's that. *loves on my family* In other news, last Friday I got a wild hair and rearranged the furniture in my office and dining room, including moving my 1200 pound piano with almost non-functioning caster wheels. I'm still sore, and I'm riddled with bruises to the point where I look like I need a heroin intervention. o_0 (I'm a delicate rose-petal, skin-wise.)
Lastly, I'm reading a really interesting and funny book, The Peculiar Memories of Thomas Penman by Bruce Robinson. I'm only 48 pages in, but I'm enjoying those 48 pages immensely. (Um, not for the squeamish, by the way.)