It was time for this year's Biggest Show with YSF, and if you remember from last year, it's a crazy-fun evening. (It's crazy, it's fun, and it's crazy-fun)
Last October, the YSF Biggest Show was our first real excursion into the world of L.A., which, to quote a smart man is "a strange place full of strange people acting strangely." We had been up and down to that area quite a few times already that Fall, but this trip was especially awesome, but also immensely nerve-wracking.
We had never been to the building, so we could very well get lost (we have a joke that half our travel time is getting to the area and the other half is overshooting our destination & trying to turn around. Repeatedly.)
We had never met the Executive Director of the program, so we could very well make idiots of ourselves and then live in undying embarrassment. There were a lot of things involved that were entirely new and induced some pretty intense nervousness because we actually cared about this program and what the people involved thought of us. When the cause is awesome, the volunteers tend to be awesome, and you want awesome people to think well of you.
This year wasn't nearly as frightening. We had attended this event before, even attended other YSF functions (both big and biggest), and we more-or-less know our way around Santa Monica now. Also, the doctor has me on this daily preventative migraine medication that seems to make me really mellow and chill whenever I would normally get nervous and stressed. It really is an odd phenomenon, but no one is complaining.
Scene opens, Saturday afternoon:
First stop was the St. Monica's coffee shop, Holy Grounds, since we reached the area before our hotel check-in time. We had intended to stop in the church as well, but we altered our plan when we saw that there was a wedding occurring soon. And not just any wedding, but a huge wedding. We counted a dozen bridesmaids. There were a modest number of flower girls (only two), but there were three ring-bearers. What do you do with three ring bearers??? But I digress.
Off to the hotel we popped and rather than checking into our room at the front desk in the lobby, we were shuffled into the underground parking garage-level elevator room. Apparently, the first floor is undergoing renovations, so the elevator room has been retrofitted to be the front lobby. I use "retrofitted" loosely here... it was more like barely fitting a large desk into the small space, along with about ten people and a luggage rack dolly.
After taking a tour of several floors by way of misdirection and mislabeled keys, we got to our room and settled into our little space. I always am most comfortable sitting on the floor, which is usually great, but this floor was a freshly cleaned carpet. My leggings and rear ended up being pretty darn wet and cold. But none of these small inconveniences - which are really just components of life's comedy - could dampen the mood (haha... dampen... no pun intended, but it's kinda funny) or lessen the excitement. We assembled ourselves for our crazy-fun evening!
Master Bill gave us the most fantastic seats for this show. In all seriousness, this man is incredible and so good to everyone. I really cannot say enough good things about Bill Thompson, so I'm not even going to try. He's got as much star-power as any celebrity... but more on that later.
Oh, also, let me apologize in advance for the poor quality of these photos. Last year I brought a high-quality point-and-shoot, but since my photography hardware has been upgraded to a massive DSLR, I elected to enjoy myself and not kill my shoulder by lugging it around all weekend. My iPhone is a 4S, which I refuse to upgrade until it ceases to function, and its camera is anything but stellar. I tried to capture a bit of the spirit through the little lens, but I am not laboring under the delusion that the product is any good.
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| the writers casting their scripts with A-list actors |
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| she is remarkably calm for someone who just had her wedding dress ruined by mud splattered by her fiance's car |
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| cow man and his hired hand, who is busy nailing nails in a cow fence |
Again, I apologize for the lack of image quality, but his face really is the best. He is really just the best. (more on that later)
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| what those men on the right are doing is not as weird as it looks |
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| but again, Max's face |
The following photo features three cows and three pigs. Such good looking livestock.
I'm not sure that the explanation will make this next photo better, but here it goes: Cow man is racing Pork Chop Zoe (?), with the former riding one of his own cows and the latter riding one of his own pigs. The prize is that if Cow Man wins, then Pork Chop Zoe has to share some of his pigs with Cow Man so he can feed the poor people of the town who are tired of eating cows. Yeah. Not sure that's helping. But that's what the kid wrote.
In a dramatic twist, Pork Chop Zoe's pig veered off course and jumped into a mud puddle, which turned out to be quicksand.
This allows Cow Man to take the lead and have a chance at winning the race, but at the cost of his brother drowning in the quicksand.
But no matter the livestock needs of the people, you can't leave a brother behind. You must go back and rescue him and his pig from the quicksand. Out of gratitude, Pork Chop Zoe comes to the realization that sharing is better.
It's almost a happy ending, but then the people want chicken. You can't win 'em all, I guess.
In our next tale, these four girls (yes, John Cho was a girl for this one. What a sport!), while having a slumber party, decide to form a dance team to become cool, popular, and accepted. Oh, and it will be fun, too.
They dance it out to celebrate. A one, a two, a one, two, three, four!
They rush off to the local dance school, where they are utterly & completely rejected.
They ask another friend to join them. She knows how to tap dance and offers to help them learn. Then they have a chance of being accepted at the dance school as a group of five people with actual skills.
The script calls for tap dancing, so a man has gotta tap dance!
They finally achieve acceptance and celebrate by hugging in great joy. The dance studio owner is also corralled into the hug.
After the show, we had a chance to meet both the writers and the actors. Last year, I was incredibly excited about the promise of meeting this man --
-- only to be disappointed by fate. I think it was probably a good thing that I didn't meet him last year, though. I think I would have freaked him out with my enthusiasm. This year, with the gained experience and extra year of maturity, I was incredibly calm and understated (well, for me) when meeting him. Here's the blow-by-blow account of how it went down:
1. Bridget stands awkwardly in the middle of a very crowded, very dark room. (seriously, why are VIP rooms always so stinking dark? You can't see anything so you keep stepping on/running into people, who may also be important people. It's the worst idea ever.)And that, ladies and gentleman, is how I met Max Greenfield. With an exchange of jazz hands. That's one for the memory banks.
2. Bridget spots Max a few feet away, standing alone, looking around the room, but also looking very lost and uncomfortable.
3. Bridget approaches Max, makes eye contact when about five feet away (miraculously, no one was standing in those five feet, so she's able to initiate contact without invading his personable bubble). She smiles, does a funny jazz-hands thing and says, "Hi, may I fan-girl about your for a minute?" Max smiles, imitates the jazz-hands, and says "Ok!" in a sort of high-pitched, goofy voice. Oh, he was imitating my voice? That makes sense.
4. Bridget maintains a distance of about three feet from Max, so he won't feel cornered and uncomfortable. She speaks to him for a few minutes, expressing appreciation for his work and thanks for his presence here... well, she tells him she's a big fan and that she's so happy he is here for the students.
5. Max thanks Bridget, and calmly, but rather shyly, that he is happy to be here and that he thinks YSF is a great program. He tells Bridget that, "As long as they keep having these events, I will be here! I am so happy they invited me back." (Hear that, Bill? He wants to keep coming back.)
6. Bridget again expresses what a pleasure it is to meet him and that she hopes he has had a wonderful evening and has a great night. Nods and smiles are exchanged as Bridget and Max part ways.
I am going to take this time to point out that there are rules for approaching your celebrity: 1) Always allow your celebrity to have an easy escape route. 2) Don't assume they want a photo with you. 3) Be polite and mature, not ridiculous and inane. 4) Don't touch them. If they initiate a hug or a handshake, reciprocate in kind, but don't make the first move. 5) Make contact, share your appreciation for their work, allow them to respond, and then read the situation. If they seem interested in continuing the conversation, continue with it, but again, calmly and maturely. If they seem uncomfortable, initiate separation.
But since I'm Bridget, I could not possibly have gotten away from this big event without embarrassing myself somehow. After I left the VIP room (just when I think I'm safe from myself), I leaned up against a wall, pulled my phone and an apple from my purse, and set about munching on the apple (hypoglycemia, ftw!) while posting a couple of photos from the evening on Instagram.
Right after I took a huge bite of apple, which led to a big squirt of juice dripping down my chin, that I was absently trying to clean off with the back of my hand, I heard approaching footsteps. I looked up and who did I see walking towards me, witnessing my messy apple-eating? Max Greenfield. Yeah. I was standing there, probably looking like the ultimate slob, leaning on a wall, mouth stuffed with apple, and this guy, who I had just managed to meet without embarrassing myself, witnesses it all.
Then he wiggled his eyebrows at me, not saying a word. I wiggled my eyebrows right back at him. He continued past me and out the door.
Then the universe was satisfied. I had met my embarrassment quota for the evening. But at least I got an eyebrow-wiggle exchange with Max Greenfield out of the scene.
But meeting Max and the subsequent embarrassing scene is not the only thing worth mentioning about that night. There are a couple of other things, too.
First, did you note how easy it was for me to get a minute to meet Max? There was no mob of people surrounding him, all waiting for a chance to talk to the great Max Greenfield. That didn't surprise me too much, since this event has a lot of important people at it and both they and the slightly less important people who are there with them are mature enough to act like civilized adults. The social atmosphere there is pretty similar to any other sorta awkward and large mingling party. The exception to general attitude was the attention paid to Bill Thompson, the above-mentioned wonderful man. He had celebrity status that night. There was an almost-line to say hello to him. Everyone wanted to congratulate him on a great night, say hello, and visit with the man. Me, my sister, and another friend of Bill's - Greg, a man I met at the last YSF event and discovered him to be a smart, considerate gentleman - had to "make a move" and sorta elbow our way through to Bill just to tell him thank you and briefly exchange the standard friendly niceties.
I do not say any of this to complain or gripe. Quite the contrary, really - I am happy to see such a wonderful guy get the appreciation he deserves! He works hard as the Executive Director of YSF and is the kindest, most thoughtful, well-spoken, and gracious man I have ever met. He always knows exactly what to say to put you at ease and is completely sincere in his concern for others. As Greg said, "He has found his bliss." I wish him all the success and nice things, both in this world and the next! (yes, I'm showing my Catholic colors again, haha!)
The other moment worthy of mention was that I had a chance to meet Rob Corddry. He is a man of great talents, who also understands the importance of presentation. When introducing himself to the young writers, telling them his name and a special talent he possessed, he quipped, "My name is Rob and I know how to dress like an adult." Indeed, he does. On Saturday evening, he was wearing a crisp white shirt, tucked into dark wash jeans (not skinny jeans like some fashionisto), completing the outfit with a sharp blazer, even including a pocket square. The man has class and I had the opportunity to meet him and tell him so. I appreciate a well-dressed man, I said. The art of presentation and putting effort into one's appearance is undervalued, he said. I agree wholeheartedly, sir, I said. We shook hands, smiled, exchanged names and mutual appreciation for the others' presence and went our separate ways.
Curtain closes on scene.
Curtain opens on scene. Sunday morning, St. Monica's Catholic Church. Mass was wonderful. The choir sounded lovely, the priest gave a solid homily, and it was a soothing, peaceful, prayerful experience. My one consistent take away after attending Mass at that parish is "why aren't there this many young, good looking, and apparently single men at my parish?" It simply isn't fair.
I say this in jest.
Mostly.
Oh, Los Angeles. It's a city where, when you see that you don't have to exit a freeway for six miles, you don't really pay attention to road signs until twenty or thirty minutes have passed. This is a consistently safe way to operate... except when traffic is moving at the speed limit. When this miracle occurs, you will have overshot your exit by about six miles by the time you even start looking for it. Yep. That definitely happened.
Until next time, L.A.
End of act.
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