The mass blurterer strikes again
This time my victim was Parker Posey.
Hours after I wrote this, less than 48 hours after I walked the streets of the French Quarter with my children, a horrific attack wreaked havoc on the beautiful people and community of New Orleans. My heart is with New Orleans.
I keep doing this again and again. How many times can one person die of humiliation? It’s like I’m a blushing vampire whose life force can only be quelled by the deepest depths of embarrassment.
In order to get past this, I must process it the only way I know how: revisiting the event in my brain on repeat as the cringe slowly relinquishes my sanity. I will dissect this completely inconsequential interaction in a most myopic fashion until it’s shredded of any value or consequence. A Parker sym-Posey-um if you will. Let’s get started, shall we?
I was in my pajamas sipping on a mini-Moet watching Friends at the Monteleone Hotel in New Orleans, when I got the text from Dave:
“Shut the fuck up!!!” I scream way too loud, scaring the crap out of my son. I quickly assure him everything’s better than fine, and explain that one of my all-time favorite actors is at the restaurant across the street. “It’s like if Kanye West were across the street from you,” I translate as he nods, now understanding the excitement.
“What are you waiting for? Get over there!,” Jed said, cheering me on in a way that only a 15-year-old would. I waste no time. In fact, Jed has to remind me he’s in the room as I switch from pj’s to jeans Superman style in the bathroom, bolt out the door, fly across the street, and burst through the doors of Mr. B’s Bistro breathing heavily, wild-eyed like a rabid hyena. The dark wood and white tablecloths made me suddenly very aware that I forgot to put on a bra, but there was no going back.
I gravitate toward the bar with my built-in bourbon GPS, and there she is: Parker Posey, sitting with a friend, enjoying her dinner. My friend Carey described her best, “She’s a whole vibe, she transcends her filmography.” My heart pounds as I lock eyes with Dave across the bar. He and our friend Ashley are waving their hands like drunken air traffic controllers in slow motion mouthing, “Noooo! Don’t do it!”
“She’s going to do it, she can’t help herself,” Dave says to Ashley. He’s totally right. But not just because Parker Posey is famous, it’s because she’s this iconic influence on my life. If it were Gwyneth Paltrow or Taylor Swift, I probably would’ve stayed upstairs with my Friends.
Extremities buzzing and heart beating out of my chest, I make my approach. She and her friend are clearly embedded in a delightful private conversation. There was no graceful way to do this, so I tapped her shoulder until she turned to face me. “I’m so sorry, I know you’re a human being—”
“You’re a human being, too! I’m Parker,” she says extending her hand, smiling with her whole face, as light and warm as her rose-tinted glasses. The next few minutes are a blur. I definitely asked for a picture with her, which I’m not proud of, but no regrets. I meet her very cool and kind friend Tanya, who’s a screenwriter and a novelist. I want to know more about her writing. They ask me about my writing. I tell them I’m working on a screenplay and a novel and that Parker would be perfect for my screenplay. (She wouldn’t be, I don’t know why I say these things.) I want to know more about Parker, but mostly, I want her to like me. I think it’s some not-so-subconscious fantasy that if we connect on a certain level, she might remember me, and one day we could be best friends. What can I say? I’m a dreamer. I definitely said something horribly lame like, “So, what are up to? What’s going on?” And to my delight and surprise, she actually shared a few personal things happening in her life and we are having an actual conversation. And then I say it: “Last Days of Disco is one of my favorite of your movies.”
She makes a face like she’s trying to solve a hard math problem, and she and Tanya exchange a look. I notice this, but I don’t know why it’s happening. I continue to gush a little more, but I want to leave her with a good impression and don’t want to take up more of her time, so I thank them both. Tanya even says, “Bye, Lindsey!” She remembered my name! I’m glowing. I’m on cloud nine floating all the way back up to the fourth floor of the hotel. And then it hits me in a panic. My mug of hot coffee crashes to the floor as the truth becomes Keyser Soze clear. She’s not in Last Days of Disco. It could have been all the pent up emotions from the hurricane, at least I hope it was, because when I pieced it together I lost it. Have you ever sobbed out of sheer humiliation? I realize that Parker has probably given this zero thought since our interaction and that she’ll never think of me again. Not in a mean way, but because that’s reality. I’m one of thousands of fans she’s graciously interacted with in her lifetime. I know all of this, yet that didn’t stop me from asking Jed if he would run back across the street and apologize for me. Dave, the voice of reason, put the brakes on that quickly. Do you know how out of my mind I must’ve been for Dave to be the voice of reason? Apparently the idea that I told one of my favorite all-time people who I don’t know in real life that I loved her in a movie she wasn’t in, was the straw that broke this anxiety ridden camel’s back. I had so many other compliments, connections and insights I could’ve shared instead. Which brings to my new Raveled subsegment:
Things I Could’ve Said Instead
“I loved you in [FILL IN BLANK].” Dazed and Confused, Best in Show, The Staircase, etc. Really any other movie or series. Speaking of series,
“Can’t wait to see you in White Lotus.” The premiere of season three shines like a beacon of escape in the mental health black hole that is February.
I just had dinner with a new friend who moved to Asheville from LA, and she was a makeup artist on the set of The Staircase. I could’ve asked if Lauren did her makeup.
I could’ve shared my story nugget for a Christopher Guest-style mockumentary I’m forming loosely in my head called Disaster Relief.
Nothing. I could’ve said nothing. I could’ve actually showed her the respect she deserved and not interrupted her meal at all.
Parker Posey, my anxiety hopes you will forgive me. It hopes you aren’t too offended by my momentary mix-up with Kate Beckinsale. And if you’re still mad at me, my anxiety wants to point out this review of Last Days of Disco, wishing for a sliver of validation for my Party Girl party foul:
“Sevigny and Beckinsale, looking very Parker Posey-esque here, give solid performances…” ~ Tom Meek, Film Threat
My anxiety is also telling me to shut the fuck up, no one cares about this, children are dying in the cobalt mines in the Democratic Republic of The Congo, move on. Getting this all out has helped me arrive at the acceptance stage. I got to meet one of my idols, and not only was she nice, but she spoke with me, like human beings, and took a selfie with me in a crowded restaurant risking way more exposure.
Ok I’m still not totally over it but I feel incrementally better. Resetting my clock for a fresh start to the new year:
See you in 2025 and thanks for reading! And thanks to my tens of subscribers. I see you and I appreciate the shit out of you.