Is getting into my 25th film festival comparable to a 25th wedding anniversary? Do I get a silver-themed gift? I checked my mailbox, and all I had was an advertising slip which on one side featured a pretty nifty age-progression of a kid who went missing back in ’96.I’ll take it. Thanks for the sentiment, Chem-Dry of Santa Clarita.
Number 25 is The HollyShorts Film Festival, located right here in SoCal. Lately, with each festival acceptance, I’ve been paying tribute to the city in which the fest takes place with a little good-natured bashing. But what do I do when it’s my favorite city?
Not to worry – fair is fair. Commence fire:
• There’s no change of seasons here. I miss New York’s winters, what with its zero degrees and high winds, followed a few months later by 100 degrees and all five boroughs smelling like a cab driver’s armpit.
• There’s no culture here. Culture, as in the Puerto Rican Day Parade in Manhattan. You know, rapes were down 12% at this year’s celebration. I’m just saying.
• The ratio of women to men in Hollywood is just too lopsided. Four women to every guy? Horrible if you hate making a decision. Or having to change your sheets often.
• Too many people with aspirations in this town. Unlike Pittsburgh, where I spent 13 months listening to people bitch non-stop about their lives, their jobs, their families, the city, the state, the galaxy – and not do a damn thing about it. Now that is real.
• The traffic here is terrible. Eh – I’ll take a little snarl on the 110 Freeway over getting raped at the Puerto Rican Day Parade (it is one bottomless well of punchlines.)
• We’ve got earthquakes. Yeah, but no hurricanes, floods, mosquitoes or tainted Boston Red Sox championships. In fact, nine out of ten plagues skipped over this city.
How cathartic. HollyShorts Film Festival, you rock. See you next weekend.
