A couple years ago, The Rock hosted Saturday Night Live. If I recall correctly, AC/DC was the musical guest.
I know a couple of the people in the cast of SNL in a rather peripheral way from Chicago. We all share very good friends, from the old days of improv comedy. I used to watch Tina Fey (now the head writer, and the fabulous chick who does the Weekend Update) perform improv, years ago, in a teeny raucous club in Wrigleyville, with all of my friends.
Mitchell (a dear friend of mine) is very close to one of the cast members – and she got us tickets to the show.
Mitchell and I did not sit in the regular audience. We were in the plush VIP room at the back of the theatre. This room has a glass window, tons of TV screens, and a table of drinks for all. It’s like being in the important-people boxes in baseball stadiums. So Mitchell and I were crammed in back there, having some cocktails, hanging out with the other VIPs, having a great time.
The show was fun – and The Rock was actually quite good. Willing to laugh at himself, poke fun at his image, all that.
Afterwards, we met up with our friend in the cavernous backstage hallway, and she took us down the street to the cast party.
The SNL cast party is a rotating affair, held in a different venue every week. Fans somehow get wind of where the party will be, and line the block, waiting for the cast to arrive. It’s invitation-only, obviously. I got my first kind of red-carpet experience, as Mitchell and I walked with our friend, through the throngs, as she signed autographs, people yelled out to her, and frantically scanned OUR faces to see if we were important.
As you can imagine, it was a riot. We had a blast.
There was a huge dinner served. I can’t help it, but I have to name-drop. It’s not my fault. It’s just that they all were there.
I talked with Molly Shannon for a bit. I LOVED her. She was very sweet, very neurotic, concerned that I was having a good time and felt welcome, and we also had a couple of friends in common.
Colin Quinn’s manners were repulsive. Can’t stand that guy.
I fell so in love with Will Ferrell that even though we also have friends in common I couldn’t say one word to him. I feared I would blurt out, “I LOVE YOU!” and make some huge embarrassing scene at the Saturday Night Live cast party.
Lorne Michaels and all the big-wigs sat over at the important table, wining and dining their guest of the evening The Rock.
I could have cared LESS about The Rock.
I was too busy quivering in my stilettos about Will Ferrell. And taking Colin Quinn’s sleazy arm off my shoulders.
Mitchell and I were two peas in a pod. We star-watched, but we also just had a blast with each other. It was great.
Finally – Mitchell told me that he works with two 17-year-old kids, both of whom LOOOOOOOOOVE The Rock, and he had promised them that he would try to get The Rock’s autograph. However – in the scenario in which we now found ourselves – it was quite a daunting proposal. The Rock was sitting next to Lorne Freakin’ Michaels, eating shrimp, sipping a glass of wine … and it was clearly a crowd where everybody there (except for Mitchell and I) were famous. Asking for autographs was kind of not cool.
So Mitchell somehow roped me into going over to the VIP table and asking for The Rock’s autograph.
It took 20 minutes of convincing for me to agree to do this.
Mitchell said, “It won’t work if I do it! It’ll be weird – cause I’m a guy – and he’ll feel weird about it … Just go over there and be all girlie, and flirty and he’ll LOVE it – he won’t mind giving you an autograph at all!”
My natural temperament is the opposite of girlie and flirty. I am also (all evidence to the contrary) very shy. I resisted this with all my might.
“No! I don’t want to! I’m too embarrassed!”
(If it had been Ewan McGregor, I would have had no problem. But – to debase myself for The Rock???)
Finally…. what the hell … Mitchell’s pleading got through. How could I disappoint those two 17 year old kids? How excited would they be??
So. I basically decided to just not act like myself at ALL, in order to get through the experience unscathed. I put on a completely different personality, in order to deflect my embarrassment. (The beginning of a psychotic “Sybil” split, I realize). I could not go over there, and just be Sheila, because then I would ONLY be aware of my embarrassment, and my shyness, and my not wanting to intrude on his privacy. The man was having a nice dinner after a hard night’s work! And he was sitting next to Lorne Michaels! The only way I could survive would be to put on another personality, the kind of personality that doesn’t care about intruding on someone’s privacy, the kind of personality who is OBLIVIOUS to embarrassment.
My personality-transformation occurred on my stroll over to The Rock’s table.
All intellect and cerebral worrying disappeared during that walk. All shyness and capability of embarrassment was somehow stuffed into the background. My walk changed. It became a sultry un-worried stalk through the tables. I even adjusted my blouse so that the cleavage would be more apparent. And perhaps he might notice THAT as opposed to be annoyed that I was interrupting him at a VIP party.
I told you. It’s embarrassing.
I cannot defend myself. My behavior is indefensible. I know. But I’m just telling it to you like it happened.
I whored myself for an autograph from The Rock.
It’s terrible.
Stridently ignoring my own inner shriekingly shy personality, I sultrily leaned down next to him, giving him a flirty oblivious smile. He glanced at me blankly, like: “What the hell do you want?”
I said, in a whispery giggly voice completely not my own: “Oh God, I’m so excited to meet you … I’m friends with some one in the cast…” (I hoped that that would convince him that the cleavage leaning in on him actually BELONGED at this party. I went on, needing to get it over with as quickly as possible) “You were SO GREAT tonight.” (I blush to report that I actually GUSHED. I GUSHED about The Rock’s performance.)
He nodded, calmly. Like a dignified Scorpion king. “Thank you very much.”
“My two young cousins promised me I would ask for your autograph. Would you mind???” (Yes, I spoke those exclamation marks.)
He kind of didn’t want to give me the autograph – it made him uncomfortable in that setting – Lorne Michaels glanced up at me, like: “Who is this woman? Is she supposed to be in here?”
But I remained oblivious (on the outside) to how much I was disturbing him – and it was that very oblivion which made him give in. If I had actually been acting like myself – well, first of all, I never would have gone over there at all. New Yorkers, in general, let celebrities have their privacy, because we see them all the time. And second of all, if I had been acting like myself, and had seen the look of discomfort on his face, I would have immediately said, “Oh, I’m sorry to disturb you – Never mind!!” But because I put on this “I am oblivious” act, he had no choice but to sign an autograph for me, just to get rid of me.
Once he was done with me, I raced back to the table, gave the autograph to Mitchell (who had been watching the entire thing, just LAUGHING) – and writhed in embarrassment at the entire affair.
We talked about it obsessively.
“Oh God, Lorne Michaels had NO idea who I was … The guy SO did not want to give me the autograph!! … I re-arranged my CLEAVAGE to get an autograph from THE ROCK – HOW AWFUL!!”
Now that’s friendship, debasing yourself before The Rock in order to get autographs for a friend of a friend.
If you felt a slight sting, that was pride screwing with you.
Definitely. Only Mitchell could get me to debase myself like that.
So, this Mitchell fellow is something of a sadist, is he now?
Though I do have a delightful picture in my mind of you as a Betty Boop-type character — “Come up and see me sometime.”
Betty Boop is the perfect image.
I had a whole revelation later about what it was like to actually BE that kind of woman. But that’s for another post entirely.
Mitchell and I have a little problem in that – for the most part, we see other people as characters in a drama that we are making up as we go along. We turn people into either tragic-symbols or comic-relief. The Rock wasn’t real to us, he was a character. He provided some comic relief. Also, we like to put ourselves in situations where we can completely goof on one another.
You would love Mitchell, Emily. Sadist that he is!
I meant “sadist” in the nicest possible way! I love putting friends through torture like that for my amusement.
Remind me sometime to tell you about the time my friend N. lost a bet to me, the payout being his having to wear ladies underwear of my choosing for a day. I picked out the pinkest, laciest, fluffiest, girliest pair I could find. With little bows and everything. He was terrified to leave the house, thinking, of all days, THAT would be the one where he got into some kind of accident that landed him in the hospital, the staff handing his “personal effects” over to his mother, among them, these panties…
“I love putting friends through torture like that for my amusement.”
I don’t know why – it’s just your casual wording in that sentence that made me burst out laughing. It’s like you’re suddenly the Marquis de Sade. I relate.
Fluffy girlie undies with bows .. Yes, if he had been in the ER or something, his mother might have had to re-evaluate her entire idea of her son.
hee hee
Note to self: never make a bet with Emily.
*Ahem* — Marquessa de Sade, thankyouverymuch.
Bill: wuss.
Oh God, and here I was paranoid that I was misspelling it as though it were a theatre marquee…
We’ll just call you Sade, like the singer, and call it a night.
Call me a wuss all you want, Marquessa, I still won’t be playing dress-up for you.
I’m with Bill on this one.
I’m a devoted fan of Emily, but I’m also wise enough to fear her. ;-)
Oh, come on you two, just one little petticoat…it doesn’t have to be pink, or even pastel. PLEEEAASE?
No, that would actually be Marquise de Sade, Emily. Marquesa is Spanish; Marchessa would be Italian, and Marchioness is the English translation. So there. :-p
Sorry, Emily. Being cute and making the word “please” last ten seconds isn’t enough to make me wear a petticoat.
I… Mitchell:Friend of Sheila…herby apologize for any and all embarassments and cleavage enhancements that may have occured due to my need to get The Rock’s autograph for Dominic and X-tina(who were ecstatic btw). It was above and beyond the call of space-twin duty and one of the freaking funniest things i’ve ever seen in my life. Don’t let Sheila fool you…playing the sex kitten came easier than she would like to admit amongst you erudite crew. I love you Sheila..you are my..pardon the expression..Spirit Warrior!! Long Live Ly-SIS-stra-ta!
oh…Alex wants to hear the Liza Minelli sleeping during ur last class of grad school story…i’m sure i won’t do it justice!
“like a dignified Scorpion King”- ha!
Emily – I regretfully must decline as well.
I have a strong feeling that the more sublimely spectacular the inducement, the greater the likelihood I would end up wearing some sort of pink thong torture device…
Red – I forgot to mention that was a very cool story. The stoic, dignified championship wrestler, wanting only a few precious moments away from the adoring but all-too-persistent masses, was set upon by a shameless autograph-seeking hussy. Why, one could even see the man’s entire subsequent career as having been shaped by the impact of that brief but significant encounter. That may have been the precise moment when The Rock decided to abandon his serious acting ambititions, resigning himself to his fate as the muscle-bound action-figure his public craves.
Yes Red, YOU actually bear responsibility for that great exposition of modern cinema, Walking Tall…
I hoped that that would convince him that the redheaded cleavage leaning in on him actually BELONGED at this party.
Eww. Hairy cleavage? No wonder he didn’t want to talk to you.
You know they make depilatory cream for that….
Dean –
Bite your tongue. Re-wording that unfortunate sentence now.
You BASTARD
Mike R –
The last sentence of your comment cuts me to the very core of my being.
Mitchell:
My struggle throughout my life, as you well know, has been to be both erudite AND a sex kitten.
Also, as I believe I said earlier: I would GLADLY be a sex kitten for Ewan McGregor or any of those Chicago improv boys I love so well. But … for The Rock??
However. Very glad I made two teenagers happy.
Maybe I’ll work on the Liza Minelli story next. But … could I get in trouble for character assassination, you think?
“The Erudite Sex Kitten”. I think you have a new tagline, Ms. O’Malley.
I don’t know… Sheil..i mean it happened…the Liza thing…u could change the name?? You’re right of course..being a sex kitten for Ewan Mcgregor (or in my case the boy who plays Clark Kent on Smallville) is so much better and i am eternally grateful for ur brave misuse of ur powers. Erudite Sex Kitten!!! Thats perfect!
“could I get in trouble for character assassination, you think?”
Assassinating Liza Minelli’s character?
That’s a task whose degree of difficulty is roughly akin to climbing Mount Everest solo, without the aid of supplemental oxygen.
I think you’re safe.
I think we’re all in agreement here – The Erudite Sex Kitten is a perfect tagline…
Mike R –
That is a very good point about Liza with a Z. What harm could I do to her, at this point?
Exactly.
girl, i would rearrange my cleavage to meet YOU.
Jimbo – now that’s an image I would like to see.
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