Monday, December 17

Memories Of A Trip To SNL From Whatever's Left On My Phone, The Internet And Elsewhere

It's like Sarah Jessica Parker once said: "If you're a nice person and you work hard, you get to go shopping at Barneys." Except sometimes, Barneys is actually Studio 8H, and it magically happens to be full of everyone you've ever dreamed of looking at from a close enough distance to give them an airborne disease. By some perfect Saturday evening storm of an unexpected mid-season finale episode and having a friend who I'm currently very indebted to, it all came together, some how, some way, and as per usual, I woke up this morning with a phone full of pictures and foggy tweets and a late-night hunger not satiated by a 6am egg and cheese sandwich on the way home.

I spent the majority of the time on set with one foot steadfastly posted in the "playing it cool" camp, and with the other, not starstruck, but completely terrified that someone would realize I'm a hack and drag me out on my bony ass from the fleshy part of my earlobe. I, naturally, didn't take too many pictures, but instead opted for mental notes to throw in the future soccer mom archive to remember "the good ol' days" when my life consists of shuttling around smelly jewish-looking boys to and from extracurricular activities.

With some of those memories sparkly clear like a dishwashing detergent ad and others as fucking fuzzed out as I feel right now, I'm piecing together the evening in a public setting, step by step, like a humiliating puzzle I hope the network never discovers. Fingers crossed this doesn't comes back to haunt me? Though, I'm already three hairs away from being fully unemployable, so why don't we just get on with it:

They roll out a cart of gelato pre-show, just because. There's a llama herded into a corner, which may or may not be there because Lorne thinks its good luck. You'd think you were on some sort of maddening Percocet trip if it wasn't for the fact that you could never readily remember what Joshua Jackson's headshot circa 1998 looked like, and boom, there it is. And when you walk up the stairs to stuff your coat away in a dressing room, there's Alec Baldwin, chatting with Kenan in his full What Up With That silky suit, before he walks away and you snap ass shots of him tutt-tuttin' along. Good lord, this is a wonderland.

I was so close to Tom Hanks I could smell him. I was so near Paul Rudd I could have hugged him if he wasn't inherently terrified of me like a Rottweiler that can smell out Clueless-obsessed creeps. I saw Alec Baldwin make fun of Samuel L. Jackson for swearing on camera with my own free eyeliner and old MAC eyeshadow-caked eyes. I literally witnessed things I will never see again, and hope my shitass memory doesn't fail me with forgetfulness like it has on everyday objects, co-worker's names and wherever the hell my keys disappeared to.

Having worked in music for a handful of years, there's not much at this point that can knock me out like an attractive character in the first few minutes of Law and Order: SVU. Last night though, viewing a Beatle's performance from between Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson's heads, was one of those moments that you watch through the eyes of the future, knowing you'll remember it forever. And, having Paul McCartney play with Dave Grohl on drums while Alec Baldwin and I did an accidental dance so he can shuffle past me be almost as fantastic as dancing along to the non-filmed post-show rendition of "Birthday" and "Get Back" next to Bill Hader and Tom Hanks?! Literally listening to a mini version of The Beatles while sharing the same oxygen supply as Stefon and Forrest Gump?!? That's going in the musical memory spank bank for fucking sure. Life: complete.

What, you thought I wouldn't make good on my word and pester him on his way out of the after party? Once I said hello, I honestly with all of my heart expected him to go "You! I've been waiting my whole life for you!" and magically throw his woolen coat over my shoulders and whisk me off to a life filled with sending back steaks for being undercooked and never being able to order soup without someone giving us a hard time. But, until that day, or our pending nuptials, or the next time I just hug him tight-tight-tight until a bodyguard peels me off his equally pale, nearly geriatric body, I'll never forget this: I thanked him for making it so much easier to be a self-deprecating Jew, to which he laughed and slowly walked away, stopping at the last second to turn around, mimic a pointed finger-gun at me and say:

"Well, don't be too self-deprecating!"

After which I melted into a puddle like Alex Mack and slithered under the bar where I remained in a goo pile for the rest of the evening.

Oh man. My mother makes me live my life by two rules. One: Never park in a parking garage because you will absolutely be raped and killed there. (Oprah says so.) Two: If you ever happen to be in the same room as Alec Baldwin, show him her photo, and tell him she's down for whatever. (Case study: I told her he was there at 10:45. She texted me a headshot at 10:46. This is a well-rehearsed routine.)

Having completely blown it the first time, last night was my night to pull ahead of the genius-surgeon son my parents also bore and earn some serious child points I could cash in for things like charging Chicago-bound flights on their credit card, or an extension on my parental health insurance that's running out in a matter of weeks. There are few people who hate doing the photo-rounds more than Alec, and few people who hate asking for them as much as me, but I love my mother. And hey, if someone shoots you out through their vagina, the least you can do is accost a celebrity on their behalf. It's only now that I'm regretting I didn't tell him how much I enjoyed his work in Beetlejuice considering I just saw it for the first time and think he would have been next-level annoyed by it. Anyway, this one' for my mom, and I'm partially embarrassed about it, despite her levels of massive Facebook popularity. Unlike....

Because, COME ON, if you give me the chance to schmooze with the two last living members of Nirvana, I am going to take it and ride it all the way home. (Spell check don't count after 4am, by the way.) Dave Grohl is obviously the coolest human on this climate-changing planet, which he effortlessly proved even further, but Krist? The red velvet-clad friendly giant and part-time farmer who owns a tractor and grows a garden and doesn't think greens should be in smoothies and dresses exactly like I would if I was of his caliber? What a fucking dream.

And oh my god, I will spend every day of my life just dreaming of somehow doing it again.

(PS- Lorne, if you're reading this, please don't ban me from the set for life. I promise I'll never accost you. I may send over an ice cream sundae to your table if I ever lock down a steady source of income, but will leave you alone. Unless it has toffee crumbles. Then I'm totally scooting in and having a bite. Just one! C'monnnn. Just one.)

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