By Benjamin Leatherman
By Robrt L. Pela
By Katrina Montgomery
By Robrt L. Pela
By Kathleen Vanesian
By New Times
By Ray Stern
By Eric Tsetsi
We all have a few good laughs at Chuck's expense, because he lives with men all the time, but soon find ourselves jealous of just how many women firefighters actually get.
"It's the uniform," Chuck eventually tells me.
Sean I and look at each other and decide maybe playing guitar wasn't the cleverest of ideas.
After some celebrity hunting and talking to some folks from Moving Pictures Magazine, which just went local, we're feeling pretty good about film in Phoenix. But the icing on the cake comes from seeing Chris LaMont, the executive director and president of the Phoenix Film Festival. We run into him entirely by accident on the way back to Maria's clown car, and find him to be smart, charming, and someone who really knows his shit.
Turns out he made a spoof of Fight Club some years back called Film Club, and, as necessity is the mother of invention, Chris started this whole thing, which is now huge. He tells us, "You are not a real city unless you have a real film festival."
And he's right.
So I show him my SAG card and pop the question about it being worth less than a subway token.
After telling me I should register with so-and-so, he informs me that soon lots of films are going to be made out here, and even the governor is helping to lead the way.
I imagine myself starring in a remake of High Plains Drifter, and wonder if I could grow the facial hair.
And then, for the first time since I've moved to this blast oven, I actually entertain the thought of going back into "the business."
Hell, I shouldn't be paying my SAG dues for nothing.