Volunteer or Voyeur

I'm not just sittin' around waiting for the stork to drop movie tickets down my chimney. I've been to the TCFF site more than once, clicking through and torqueing up my movie madness.  I ended up on the Volunteer page, arriving there not a click too soon.  Many of the primo jobs like information ambassadors and green-room people and party ticket takers and, of course, volunteer spots on the Nauti-Cat movie cruises were already full. (Remember, primo is in the eye of the beholder.)  

I'm happy to report I've just signed up and confirmed my volunteer gigs.  I'm kicking off my festival experience by serving as a Caterer's Assistant at the Opening Night Party on Tuesday. I figure folks will stream out of the opening film full of excitement, pumped up on popcorn and adrenaline, ready to party. 

I have no idea what a Caterer's Assistant does, but that hasn't stopped me from also signing up as a Caterer's Assistant at the Filmmakers Party on Saturday night.  Is anyone following the trend here?  Operative word: Party. Even if I have to carry heavy chafing dishes, or scrape out dirty pans, I just might get to see somebody I admire, maybe even somebody famous.  (I'm not proud, there's a twelve-year-old girl inside me who is hoping to see screen idols.) 

What I'm seeking out is a job serving up food in the only available line, the line where everybody files through and chats pleasantly with me, raves about my novel, and then begs to read my screenplay.  If not, maybe I'll get to see Michael Moore bust out a few dance moves.  

Wrapping up on Sunday, I've volunteered to do surveys at "The Buzz", one of the new venues.  (The rest of the year, it's the Inside-Out Gallery in the Warehouse District.)  The films are free this year at The Buzz, and they serve alcoholic beverages.  I promise I won't say the word "buzzed."

I think I first volunteered the second or third year of the film festival.  Colleen and I both ushered at the State. It was back when everything about the good old days of cinema sounded wonderful. I'm sure the maroon vests with the gold braid and the Phillip Morris hats for the ushers sounded like an incredibly romantic and nostalgic brainstorm.  I get it; they fit with the State Theater. Of course, all those vests had to be made, sized, and occasionally cleaned; and I'm sure it was a labor of love. But then vests and hats had to be stored so volunteers could change into them before their shifts.  Where did they store them, you ask?  In the basement. Any fascination with going down to the basement of the State Theater soon lost its luster.  I don't know whether the vests fell apart or just fell out of favor with the volunteers, but they're just a memory now.  There's a limit to what lengths a volunteer will go.  (I think.)

PS.  There is a rumor the basement of the State is haunted.  Just go down there on Halloween.