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 more SUNDANCE FILM FESTIVAL
 
 
 
issue no.
  thursday
161
  january 22
2004
c o n t e n t s
 
Tread Lightly and Carry a Big Beard: Two New Bands Enter the Scene
RED Reviews
 
Projecting Self: Erica Church Presents Myth and Video
 
 
Sundance and Sundon't: The Only Reason We Still Feel Special Rolls Into Town
 
 
 

  

 

Sundance and Sundon’t
The Only Reason We Still Feel Special Rolls Into Town
 
by Craig Froehlich
 
A host of Sundance groupies flock to the latest independent director to hit the big time. Later they bought T-shirts on Main Street. It was wild.

   

y experience began with a safari into snoredome. I dare not sleep in public places for I fear someone shall snatch my magic bag and its array of mind-boggling trinkets.

Keep away from my magic bag.

I paced amongst the last bastion of loserdom as the sun lazily began to present itself.

We squatted for tickets—oh so special tickets we were lucky to get. Tickets that obliterated our Atheism. We wants to meet Courtney Cox.

We is guilty.

We think we saw her, or maybe Delta Burke swallowed a prize watermelon.

She finds Major Dad sexually attractive.

I bet she and Jennifer Aniston used to make out.

The security guards of Trolley Square don the smartest of cowboy hats. I want to break them like an angry bronco. (With them as the bronco, I’m not gay or nothing.)

The eloquent prose of the moment oozed from me like puss from an aging knife wound.

Class reunions suck.

I wanted premiere tickets and only my preserverence and oral proclivities emboldened my chances for prime time, front row seats.

I could suck the chrome off of a trailer hitch, providing my saliva was very, very acidic.

I melt lips.

If anyone was to hear about the dangerous dyes put into Fig Newtons , they had better come to me.

I saw the premiere of “Fig-yer of Speech.”

I was all over the documentary section, and I swear I saw Tony Danza.
I carried popcorn into a showing, and someone glared at me. Popcorn is for pussies.

Welcome to Sundance. Check your normalcies at the door.

The rules of Sundance are simple: Act like a fucking idiot. Spend the 15 minutes prior to the screening craning your neck in hopes of seeing a star that makes your life worth living,

Everyone likes to be validated, and there is nothing like a chance encounter with the chick who played the lead in “Tank Girl” to add a notch to your belt o’ celebrities.

Park City manages to maintain its small, mining village persona. The men like to spit. The outsiders like to smoke pot. For purposes of diplomacy I spit pot on people. Later, I executed a ferocious maneuver on a half-pipe and then ordered a pizza. I have a dream.

The key to the best restaurants is gorging at any place in which a Panda Bear represents the major theme. Panda Bears rule. Yet, they can maul you like yesterday’s bamboo sandwich. However, they make smashing greeting cards and a little mauling never hurt nobody.

I like foreign films. They like fucking.

Try to ignore the egregious shortage of advertising blimps.

The Sundance Film Festival is important because they say it is (important.)

I think Sony only has our best interests at stake.

Disagree and I will fight you.

Only once a year does the opportunity come for Robert Redford to launder his gambling debts.

Hey Bob, I have yet to grow tits! Excuse me if Miramax breaks your legs. I don’t think they put real butter on the popcorn.

Enjoy.
craig@red-mag.com



 
 

 

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