SPURNED! Da Boss didn’t expect to win any awards, but he was a bit miffed about not getting anything at the free-for-all festival where another SATUR-19 segment was playing over the weekend. “You know, they have an award for everything: Best Director, Best Actor, Best Screenplay, Best Cinematography—there’s the genre awards, Best Horror, Best Sci-Fi, Drama, whatever… it’s like a million awards. And I didn’t get any!” He threw his phone to the ground and then fell to the floor himself, curled up in a ball and moving around in a circle like a lunatic. “It just says ‘screening’! Might as well say, DON’T SEE THIS.” I looked at the schedule Da Boss was referring to and saw that this festival was somewhere in the Rockies. “Are there pictures of this thing? Is this a real festival?” Da Boss turned away. “I’m not sure. They said they were still looking for ‘a tent.’”
A TENT? I wouldn’t even spit in a tent. And yet they’re showing my work in one, somewhere in the snow and up in the mountains. (Who goes there?) But I wouldn’t know what to do even if I did get accepted, because I couldn’t go, customs wouldn’t allow it—and I’m not going to be transported in a duffel bag. Not even for Cannes. No. Not again. Last time was in the 1970s. Da Boss paused when he heard me say that out loud. Didn’t know I was talking. Thought I was thinking. “You know this section needs a full color grade, right?” Da Boss got to writing the new narration for “Scream 22,” shot over two years ago at this point, named for the year, and shot before the release of the most recent Scream movie. “Nobody remembers any of this stuff,” he said. “I don’t even think some of these actors remember they were in a movie I did.”
Da Boss often underestimates how long these memories are. I’ve been out and about doing my thing—unlike Da Boss, I leave the house—and many people have come up to me and said they enjoyed my work, and thanked me for putting in that close-up, that take they preferred. It’s nice. They’re always very nice about Da Boss, which I guess they would be, because they’re the ones that come up to me; I’m sure there are others that avoid me like the plague, probably because they think I actually have the plague. If so, I’m glad they’ve stayed away, because fuck them. I don’t have the plague. I eat well and I exercise. And I look good as shit for my age. Why aren’t you talking to me? What’s your fucking problem? We’re about to finish a feature film and you’re walking away from me? You’re not coming up to me with congratulations and little niceties? Jesus Christ, what’s your fucking problem?
But I really am polite in public and that’s all that counts. People read this column and thinks it’s “not the real me.” Well GUESS WHAT, BITCH? IT IS!
It is. Now say a prayer and light a candle for Monica. It’s time for bed. I’m still adding layers over here.
—Follow Monica Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits