TIFF 06: I See Dead Things, Babies.

It's an interesting phenomenon, this film festival where you live thing.

I had a parking chip. I wanted to get it validated, because that would make my parking cheaper. But Zach Braff, and Rachel Bilson were blocking my way in. I know. I know. I don't dig on the whole celebrity thing either, but Summer? Her I dig.

Anyway, I couldn't get my chip validated. Too many people. So I had to go get a coffee first. Write a bit. Wait it out.

That's kind of my whole strategy for the Toronto International Film Festival. I rarely see any films. I can't get it together to book tickets ahead, and gone are the days when you could just walk up day of and expect to get in.

What I do, is, I go to parties. Not all the parties. I don't try very hard to get into the ones I don't get invited to, because, really, fuck them. This must be your attitude. I think of all the people trying to get into Hyde or any swank club and waiting in the line where you can't get in and all I can think is "he's just not that into you." Move on.

I have two modes. I'm what I call an introvert-extrovert. This means that if I've met you before, I'm actually quite outgoing. Sometimes too outgoing. Many of my friends from University all sort of do the same thing: "I don't remember meeting you, and I don't remember you for the first few months...and then suddenly you were there. Everywhere."

Right. Cause...I'm an introvert extrovert.

The problem with being an introvert extrovert is that schmooze parties are difficult and awful. You have all the awkwardness of the introvert without any of the valve mechanisms. Because people take pity on introverts. They help 'em out. Introduce them 'round. But because I'm perceived as ... well ... very outgoing, I don't often get the tip. By the way, if I'm at a party and I don't know anybody, and you help me make the rounds and the introductions, I will take a bullet for you. Seriously. I will lie to your wife about where you were. I will drive you to your parents and stand there beside you while you come out.

Serious. Word.

Anyway. What ameliorates the dance a bit is that I'm not currently looking for gigs. It's nice being able to go 'round the mulberry bush and say, "Yeah, my show goes to camera in a week. Ack." Not bragging. Just so. It also helps with a really much nicer side effect: when you run into a friend who's just had some success at the festival or selling their film or something, you feel pure happiness for them, without the gunked up envy. That's a nice feeling. Selfless, almost.

So last night at the CHUM Schmooze party, I did enjoy the chipotle caramel popcorn and the skirt steak sangwiches. I also managed to be inside, talking to my agent's lovely and fun wife and a bunch of other cool types when the rain hit. So that felt like victory too.

And because I wasn't desperately on the schmooze tip, I didn't overcompensate by overdrinking. A few Stellas, a few waters, and in bed by 1am. All schmooze and no play makes Denis a dull, dull boy.

In fact, if anything, the weirdest (and most delightful) thing about the CHUM Schmooze this year was that I found myself actually being schmoozed. L'il ol me: a schmoo-zee. Way. It's pretty goddamn cool, cochise. That I'll tell you proper.

Then this afternoon there was a Telefilm party. I hung out with the compatriots I usually lean on at these things. The Montreal Crew -- people like old Alex "Bon Cop" Epstein. I missed the always misanthropic stylings of superstar half hour sex machine writer Rob S. and the Big Bald Hebraic Moxie of the Tribe's Favorite Agent Provacateur, Big Bald Marvin, but you know, that's okay. Absent friends and all. Builds character.

There were South Africans there who I got to talk to, which was fun. There were a few people I met who I've not talked to for a while. But it was crowded. Crazy crowded. And all those months working alone take their toll. I get a little rangy that pressed in. Better to stay to the margins.

But there's also something to be said for anonymity, though it seems to be disappearing slowly. Canada is small, and for the first time ever, I get the sense that people are actually reading this blog. Interesting. I gotta hold back some stories, or I'll have no bullshit left for cocktail chatter.

I got to listen to a delicious conversation about Canadian industry bloggers by two people standing right next to me. Yes, if you were at Ultra, and you were talking about Canadian Screenwriting Bloggers -- I was right there, babies. Like the wind. I heard everything. And I would have said something, but your body language was seriously closed off, dude. I know when there's no oppo for a jump-in. Torontonians are masters of the talk-block.

Anyway, some of your critiques were right on, but no, I will not stop bashing the CBC. Because I bash from a place of love. I will burn this village in order to save it. Heh heh.

Now. It looks like Rachel and Zach are gone, and I can finally get that chip validated. So I'll go. How am I spending my Film Fest Saturday Night? I'm renting DVD's.

LIVING. THE. DREAM.

I got a series that's bleeding my brain. I only schmooze recreationally right now. But by the way, I'm all about the little curried beef and salmon things at Ultra. Thanks, Telefilm.