You Can't Sit With Us

I promise I will be a really awesome celebrity.

When I ran for Student Council President, I didn't create a platform. Instead, I argued that platforms had a history of proving themselves pointless, and that my record of leadership spoke for itself. I lost, but I was right. There was no sofa in the bleachers at varsity basketball games to be raffled off to lucky students as promised, and I was left in charge of prom and graduation.

But when I am elected a celebrity (and that is how it happens), I promise my entire platform of cool shit I will do is worth your vote.

I always wonder what kind of celebrities famous people planned on being. Every adolescent has envisioned a publicly celebrated existence at some point in their future, so the "I'm just a normal person who got very lucky and all of this is so unexpected" card is bullshit. If you're a normal person, stop being driven around. If it was unexpected, you wouldn't have been at the award show. You would have found out the next day when the Starbucks barista was like, "Hey, where were you last night? You won an Oscar, but you weren't there."

I expect everything. It's in my platform. I promise not to act surprised when I win awesome stuff, because I worked my ass off and am incredibly deserving.

However, I will still be humble when people tell me how pretty I am, because I didn't work for that. I was gifted that, and I haven't been to a gym in months.

My fascination with celebrity psychology was reawakened when I was invited by a friend to the dress rehearsal of James Franco's directorial debut. As we entered the small theater, we were told by some Guy With a Bag to sit anywhere but the first four rows. This should have seemed obvious because the first four rows appeared purposefully empty and James Franco was sitting in the center of the fifth, but I guess most people were thrown off when  met by the officiously aloof gaze of Mr. Franco. My friend and I found seats in the seventh row, and then I watched magic happen.

No, not the play. That wasn't very good.

Right after we sat, a short haired middle aged brunette woman walked in. She was wearing a chunky knit vest in warm earth tones. It's July of 2014, so naturally I was fascinated by her. She seemed to pick up on the anywhere-but-the-first-four-rows rule and walked to the back of the theater. Just as I thought I would never see her again, she walked back towards the front and stopped at the fifth row. She glanced towards the Guy With a Bag, and in a swift move of what felt like defiance, leaned in to James Franco and said

Woman: Are we supposed to sit behind the computers?
JF: What?
Woman: The computers? The designers? Is it OK to sit behind them?
JF: Are you...are you asking me where to sit?
Woman: Yes.
JF: I don't...I don't care. Ask Ben. (shouting to Ben) Ben! This woman has a question.

And with that, James Franco stood, breezed past her, and exited.

No play could have topped the awkwardness of the interaction as witnessed by the ten people in the 75 seat theater.

I like to think this woman had no idea who James Franco was, or perhaps had scrolled through his Instagram account and found him unexpectedly approachable. But as somebody who has had their own share of awkward celebrity interactions, let me tell you that James was giving off ZERO social cues that suggested he was affable.

That exit, in his tough leather jacket with flawlessly tousled hair, will stick with me forever. I promise if you elect me a celebrity, I will always know where you should sit. I will never walk out on you.

Or maybe James just had to pee. Who cares.

For your consideration,

TJB: Making It