It Happened Last Night: "Che" After-Party

If the following becomes an incoherent rambling, I apologize. I'm typing this after merely two hours' sleep last night. So what makes sense to me is probably a foreign language to the well-rested.

Matt Damon didn't show.

Benicio Del Toro did. As did Steven Soderbergh. But we didn't exactly hang out. Apparently there are bodyguards to protect me from the advances of everyone's favorite Puerto Rican....

It was cold out last night. And it was late. I'm usually in bed by 11, not venturing out to parties in Liberty Village. But I make exceptions to my own rules every once in a while just to keep things interesting. So when I (and my lovely date Andrea) arrived for an 11:30 dinner, my already-altered reality just accepted the fact that at the table in the corner sat Steven and Benicio. Why wouldn't they be there? Isn't this how the world operates after I fall asleep?

I spent the majority of my evening mingling and chatting and not remembering names. Thanks to a strategic coffee earlier in the evening, I was alert and upbeat and highly amused by the strangers cleverly intercepting my path.

See, I'm not used to this, the cute-boy-approaching-me-to-actually-talk-to-me thing. Because in real life, it doesn't happen. In real life, it's crazy men on the subway who spew out incoherent semi-suggestive compliments. But at VIP events, encouraged by ample wine-consumption, the schmooze is quite the thing to behold. I see how it could be addictive, this lifestyle of hobnobbing. Of course, it's all rather superficial and nonsensical. And occasionally veering into Awkward City. But it still beats Tuesday-night TV. By far.

For the sake of blog efficiency, I'll try to boil down my evening to some specific observations.

I have a wine strategy. It took me two hours to drink one glass. This was completely intentional. You see, if you have a drink in your hand, no one tries to hand you another drink. It also gives you something to hold onto (I never know what to do with my hands) and, when conversation lulls, you can sip. It's the ultimate accessory, I tell you.

Tips for the boys:

Sometimes a perfectly charming stranger can quickly overstep the charm boundary and expose a lot of pent-up hostility and insecurity, probably without knowing it. A tip to the men out there: We love being called beautiful, but don't then talk about how you feel sorry for the ugly ones. We girls stick together. I don't want to know that you're judging us. Insulting someone else does not compliment me.

Another tip: Never ask a girl what her dress size is. Seriously. Or what her eye color is. Especially if she tends to talk with her eyes open. Nor should you start listing off assumptions and observations: "I bet you're the quiet, conservative one, right? I have this theory: writers are either extremely sane or extremely insane. I bet you walk that line...."

If I tell you my friend is not my sister, she's not my sister. "You two have the same nose." Oh, now that you mention it, she IS my sister. And every girl dreams of a man staring at her nose.

It's official: Brits take the cake when it comes to drunken charm. Once again, the highlight of my night was a Hugh Laurie-esque Englishman helping to strategize how we could take out the bodyguard and then monopolize the attention of Soderbergh. I believe YouTube-friendly violence and a reenaction of Lord of the Rings was involved in such a scheme. Wit and charm will keep my attention. Especially when there is no sleaze whatsoever. And how can Brits retain such a vocabulary when inebriated? Ah, the mysteries of life....

George Stroumboulopoulos showed up. Exactly two seconds after Andrea said, "Wouldn't it be cool...?" he was there. And then he was gone. The end.

Benicio and Steven stayed long after us. At one point, they left their exclusive part of the patio to mingle with the common folk. Of course, this meant that certain scandalously clad women chose to move in. So we did not say hello. Because Benicio and I each have own reputations to uphold. But really, what would I have said? "Uh, I didn't see your movie. But I like Traffic. I think. It's been a while...."

So we left without any significant celeb-interaction. But a good time was had by all. And I felt unusually pretty all night, satisfied that I decided to grin and bear the bare-legged situation in the cold air. Because Andrea was right, black tights would have made me look like a witch from MacBeth (okay, so she didn't word it like that....)

The film festival wraps on Saturday, so if there's any more partying to be done, it shall happen soon. I'm not sure if arriving home at 3 on a weeknight is the smartest idea ever, but now I have a story to tell: "I once walked past Lou Diamond Phillips at a party...."

I should sleep now. After Ben Mulroney stops stalling and makes Theo the Canadian Idol.

Read the recap of last night over at ShoeMinx.

Note: the pic of Rachel McAdams is from the screening, not the party. I would have died.

And if you don't find Del Toro particularly attractive, I'm usually of the same school of thought. But the man has presence. Seriously. There's a magnetism about him that makes complete sense of all the weakened knees.

I'm soooo officially a writer now. But if you say you write for The Daily Pump, be prepared for questions about footwear. Clever ones, like, "What do you think of Soderbergh's pumps?" Over and over again....