It's been a rough few days for my sense of status.
First, I found out Tuesday that I will not be attending the Emmy's this year.
Considering that I am not employed by any facet of the television industry nor dating a woman who is employed by any facet of the television industry, perhaps my absence from this Sunday's award show should not have been a startling revelation. But, see, I went last year. Sure, it was a fluke, but I kinda got attached to the concept of my attending on an annual basis. I imagined conversations wherein my tone forced friends to filet me.
Sigh. Pause while waiting for listener to respond.
"What's wrong, Jamie?"
Sigh. Sigh. Hand wave.
"I was just thinking how I so don't want to go to the Emmy's again! I mean, I have to get my tux dry cleaned...and the traffic leading to the red carpet? Don't even get me started. But, pfft, why am I complaining to you? I mean, you've been, you know."
Pause.
"Oh, right. You haven't. You don't. My bad."
But my delusions for this year's event were actually grounded in some reality, as my 2007 benefactor was nearly forced to bring me again. Though her older sister in the northeast had promised to fly out, I was assured the likelihood of that happening rivaled that of a hockey mom being added to a presidential ticket. My Emmy date told me to have my tux cleaned and ready for action! I complied and began rehearsing what I'd say to Emmanuelle Chriqui when I got within 25 feet of her again.
Alas, Big Sis bumped me. Not only is she making the highly unlikely trip, her fellow neighborhood wives are so excited that they are sewing her gown. (Or just shopping for it. It's tough for me to get a handle on things right now.) No limo. No walk down the red-headed stepchild's red carpet. No stalking at the Governor's Ball. Sigh.
Hot on the heels of that crushing blow, I learned Barack Obama held a fundraiser in Beverly Hills Tuesday night. My evite to this star-studded event must've been intercepted by my spam filter, because I never got it. WTF?! Will Smith, Leo DiCaprio...Jamie Reidy. When did I fall off The List? Did the Obama people assume that just because I can't sell a %^&$#@ screenplay that I can't afford the $28K cover charge? That is a poor assumption, as I've got several credit card companies who would be more than happy to allow me to sink further into their clutches. If it's not money, then it must be...me.
I feel like Vince in "Entourage." I'm no longer in; I'm out.
Hey, wait a sec. Maybe Adrian Grenier is looking for a man date to the Emmy's...