It's Day 6 7 8 of the Cleveland International Film Festival, and I was unavoidably detained. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I was unable to make it to the CIFF in time, and by "circumstances beyond my control" I really mean that I had to fire Mechanic and Pilot because the windshield wiper on the Cessna needed to be replaced and there's no way I'm flying in that ramshackle death-trap. I'm not really sure what a windshield wiper on a plane does, but I'm certain it keeps the plane aloft and I'm not willing to risk careening to earth in a gentle April shower. Since I have to do everything myself because Mechanic and Pilot suffered an "unfortunate accident" and plummeted down the elevator shaft, I ran out to the Auto-Zone to see if they have a windshield wiper for a Cessna, and they don't.
I'm astonished. How can the ordinary person replace parts on their private planes if they're not readily available at the store down the street? I honestly don't know, and there's no way I'm flying commercial, because commercial flights are full of ordinary people. I wholeheartedly support their need to purchase replacement parts for their private planes, but I don't want to sit next to them. Yes, I realize that I have to sit next to ordinary people at the film festival, but I have special passes that allow me to do stuff ordinary people can't and that's all that matters. I recommend having all-access passes that allow the ordinary person to just walk into any screening they'd like plus complimentary valet parking. Everyone should have some, but then the VIP area with the complimentary snacks will be filled with ordinary people and now that I think about it, that sounds like a living nightmare. I don't like sharing complimentary movie snacks or VIP area air with ordinary people.
So I gassed up the Alfa Romeo convertible to make the drive to Cleveland, but it began to overheat because apparently Alfa Romeos break down all the time. I need to have something called a "water pump" specially ordered, and Mechanic suffered the afore-mentioned "accident", so the repairs weren't done. I decided to take the 1966 Volvo 1800 instead, and got lost. I'm not sure why I'm telling you this, because it's all in my first novel I just finished writing.
Yeah, I know! I just finished writing a book, and before you get all excited and start asking me stuff like, "When is it going to be published?" and "Can you actually read?"; I'm in the process of trying to acquire something called a "literary agent". I did a little research on the internet about these things, and I'm not pleased. Apparently, a "literary agent" is someone who represents writers and attempts to get their novels published for a cut of the writer's revenue. As a self-made billionaire industrialist, I generally don't need someone else acquiring chunks of my revenue. I like to keep it all to myself. It's the American way. However, I've been told by Administrative Assistant and Legal that I need to acquire an agent by writing something called a "query letter". A "query letter" sells your book to the agent, who then sells the book to a publisher. That seems like too many cooks in the kitchen for my liking, but I suppose it needs to be done. I wrote a query letter, and by "wrote" I mean I dictated it to Administrative Assistant, who forwarded it Legal, who both said, and I quote, 'There's no way you can send that to anyone.' So I shoved them both down the elevator shaft and now the elevator shaft is full. Here's my query letter for your perusal:
We'll see how that goes. I'm quite optimistic, so much so that I went to the hardware superstore and purchased a barrel in which I'll cram my piles and piles of book-cash. It's currently residing in the middle of Administrative Assistant's desk.
Anyway, I'm in Cleveland. It's a nice city, with plenty of rust and decay. Sure, I suppose there are swank suburbs with fancy shopping malls in Cleveland populated with ordinary upper middle class people. I hate those things and try to avoid them. Between screenings I took a brief ride over to the Franklin Castle, which is allegedly the most haunted house in Cleveland and I can't think of a better way to spend one's vacation. It's decrepit, eerie, and right up my alley.
After that I had lunch at Palookaville Chili. I had the Spicy Veggie over macaroni with all the toppings and a side of cornbread. Not overly spicy even with the addition of chopped jalapenos; it's a balanced, colorful chili with beans, corn, green peppers and a hint of quinoa. Chili purists will probably never notice such a healthful ingredient is there.
Before I left for my trip I had my daughter snap a photograph of me with her vintage Polaroid camera. Here I am, looking blurry and apocryphal yet again.
I'm now at least 9 movie reviews behind, so I'd better get to it.
No comments:
Post a Comment