The air in Indigo is tense, thrilled, tangible. You know, all those usual ‘t’ words come with the signing of a Boring-Ass book by a boring-ass individual who has eked past the system with an account of his boring-ass life (literally, a collection of his blogs). It’s one of those things that people everywhere can identify with. We all live within our own boring-ass space, hoping that someday all our wasted time will amount to a low-budget, overly verbose generational flick upon which we can build a boring-ass empire.
I arrive late from an exceptional time at Tortilla Flats at around 7:15 and am banished to the ‘end of the line’ at the top of the stairs. Basically, there were three queues and I am at the end of the last one. This might worry me, but at the time I am assured I can have my picture with him and that is far more important to me than his signature. After all, dude has stacks of pre-signed books for the buying from his Stash stores. The boy next to me notices my ardent shutterbuggery and that I haven’t a good Kevin Smith view. He offers to hold my spot but I tell him, “It’s okay.” And it’s true. There must be a wealth of random long-distance photos taken with a 4-year-old digital SLR type on google (googley?).
He descends the stairs unannounced, balding, rotund, trench-coated. Just the way he likes to be. I realize he was up on the same floor as the rest of us and I momentarily wonder where the greenroom could be in Indigo. The emcee then calls everyone else’s attention to Mr. Kevin Smith, film making’s most talented fluke, citing that his ‘Boring-Ass Life’ must be anything but! I’ve read his book though and I assure you, it is.
The Q&A lasts less than ten minutes and the content is trivial. I have heard these up-and-coming project questions, pleas for a fellow ‘artist’s’ screenplay to be read (just this one time if you would make an exception it would be worth it), comments on how hot his wife is, and all before. What is any of this to me, the cutesy anecdotes of film-production from fuck-all-pissing-around? This event is about being within the personal space of someone who is really no one. This no one who has made it; who is humble to his credit and to a fault. To wax poetic about him seems almost an insult to his intelligence but, hey, I’m human. I idolise nobodies, and this is universally true of all creative souls.
Of course, my idolatry has thankfully turned into professional crushing (by which I mean crushing on his profession, retards) and why not? He gives organized religion type hope to the do fuck all in all of us. There are other fans here: overweight women in do-rags, convinced he secretly loves the BBW (wake up, ladies. his wife is at least 100 times smarter than you, 1000 times cooler than you and infinitely better looking); boy fans ranging from a heartwarming paraplegic with Kevin’s entire collected works in his scooter bin, to a tuxedo-shirted ten year old, sporting floppy sandy blonde hair and doing the ‘mother mother fuck fuck’; one erroneous douchebag in a red and black blazer with LACROIX obnoxiously spelled out in rhinestones on the back, and a Vuitton belt where the Vuitton is in a square (this fuckup talked about his career in the entertainment industry to anyone who would listen, and even to those who were not the whole two hours I was in line).
At ten to nine, I ask one of the nice men if they are staying open past closing. He rushes off to check and returns with an ‘it’s up to Mr. Smith’. Of course, this means they will. He is very aware of who pays his mortgage. Finally, it is my turn. The people in front of me part and he is there, looking at me. I heave a sigh of relief as he says, ‘Give me your book!’ I hand it to him and nod when he tries to say my name, not bothering to correct a man who has been doing public appearances all day long and looks like he could seriously use a timbit. ‘Hello!’ quoth I, ‘I’ve had to pee for two hours!’ ‘Haha!’ sayeth the clearly easily amused Mr. Smith, ‘thank you for waiting!’ -CLICK-
I left the store then quickly, still feeling the scratch from the wool on his trenchcoat on my arm, without looking back. Excellent form, sir, I thought to myself. Totally excellent. (natch)