Ah, the beauty of alliteration.

It’s that time of year again. That time I both love and hate with equal passion. That time when something like 30,000 assholes Hollywood-types descend on Park City, a town used to housing about 7,300 permanent residents and a few thousand more skiers for a quarter of the year.

2005 is the 8th year I’ve participated in the Sundance Film Festival in some way. Obviously, there are plenty of things I like about it. I like seeing some great movies, and even a few not-so-great ones that try hard (’cause I’ll never be able to see ‘em anywhere else again - that’s how not-so-great they can be). I like that Sundance visitors spend an average of $1,400 in Park City over an average 5-day visit. I like that, for once, cool bands and people actually come to Utah. And I like trolling around trying to catch a glimpse of those cool bands and other celebrities.

I just wish all those cool people wouldn’t bring their publicists, their managers, their assistants, and everyone else who thinks they’re the shit because they work in “the industry.” If one more black-clad, wire-rimmed asshole with a cell phone permanently attached to his face name-drops to get seated for dinner on Main Street before me, and then bitches about the liquor laws in “Yooo-tah” the entire time … I might have to send that ski-pole up a different kinda valley.

Really though, the perks outweigh the bad. My friends and I have managed to spot, and sometimes even talk to, dozens of “movie stars,” including Nicole Kidman, Joan Allen, Sheryl Crow, Matt Damon, Uma Thurman, Javier Bardem, John Malkovich … and several others I can’t remember right now.

It’s not like the streets are just swamped with famous faces, but Park City is a resort town and people like to get out and look around a little. A few of our sightings have been on the streets, like when I saw Kirsten Dunst pretending to actually eat at a diner on Main Street, but the majority were at after-parties not officially endorsed by Sundance. That’s the open secret: Nobody goes to the official parties unless the party happens to be specifically for his or her film.

One year, I collided full-on with a guy as we were walking in opposite directions and both looking into store windows. After I removed my mouth from his sweater and the shock and embarrassment wore off, we both apologized and I actually took a second to look at him as he walked away. I thought I was gonna die when I realized I’d just RUN OVER Ben Affleck. This was a little after Good Will Hunting and long before JLo, so he hadn’t been tainted yet, and I was pissed. Had I known in time who it was, I would’ve at least groped him a little during the collision. Just for informational purposes, ya know?

That was one year before I went to the Salt Lake Opening Night VIP party and had my worst celebrity encounter ever. I was standing at the buffet, wedged between an older man and a truly legendary folk singer when someone abruptly and loudly called my name. I was startled and swung around full-force, sending my elbow directly into said folk singer’s left breast - and HARD. She made a pained noise that still gives me nightmares and nearly dropped her plate. To her credit, she remained composed and was very kind as I profusely apologized, absolutely mortified at what I’d just done. But I did at least get a good story out of it. Now I get to tell people how I nearly gave Emmylou Harris a partial mastectomy. At that party I also accidentally (really!) grabbed Sam Rockwell’s ass when we were standing at the bar. I didn’t mind that one though. It was a nice ass. And he either didn’t notice or didn’t care, so no harm done, right?

On Tuesday, Patrick and I saw the Scissor Sisters at club Suede. It was a benefit for the pretty-cool Queer Lounge, a non-profit gathering place for queer Sundance attendees. I knew a couple Sisters songs, and thought it’d be fun, but I didn’t think there was any way they could live up to the press hype, the gay hype, or the blog hype that preceded them.

Damn was I wrong.

So, the lyrics aren’t groundbreaking. The music is nothing more than a combination of some very established styles. Jake Shears often sounds like he’s just imitating Elton John circa 1974 (and I love ’70s Elton John). But oh-my-god can they put on a live show. It’s not special effects, or lights, or staging - it’s them. Plus, Jake and Del Marquis are cute cute cute. (By the way, the black and white photos below are from Iona Bateman. The other two are mine. Keep in mind they were taken at 8x digital zoom, in the dark, so they’re not very good.)

The costumes, the attitudes, the dancing, Jake’s BODY (and yes, I’ve seen the BUTT magazine with him), and, of course, the music. They’re great musicians, and they do the retro-comeback thing so well, with such sincere love for the sound, and so much passion and over-the-top camp, that I couldn’t help but fall madly in love with the entire trashy, fabulous thing. Seriously - I have never seen an audience get so into a concert before. At one point the lights on the ceiling were bouncing nearly six inches up and down - from the crowd dancing below.

So, there ya go. Thanks, again, to Sundance, I’m fully on the Scissor Sisters bandwagon, if several months late.

Sundance is also where I met Duncan Sheik for the first time. He was going to be in town for 5 days, playing occasionally at the Music Cafe. I didn’t have VIP access that year, so I couldn’t go hear him play, but he was also scheduled to perform at a couple different clubs in town. I wasn’t legal yet, so on the first night’s performance, I waited outside for him for over three hours - in temperatures in the teens. Of course, he never came out. At least not from that door.

The second night was my last chance, and I was absolutely determined that nothing was going to stop me from meeting him. This show was in a small private VIP club that also served as a cafe during the day. I went into the cafe in the late afternoon, when it was still open to the public. As the cafe closed and they began ushering people out to prepare for the VIP portion of the night, I … well, let’s just say I found a way to blend in with the people who were supposed to be there.

After waiting another hour or so, I spotted him coming down from an upstairs dressing room. I not-so-subtly rushed over, but he had just turned and was walking away from me. I remember being surprised that he was an inch shorter than I, and that he was so damn cute. I touched his shoulder, controlled myself from downright stroking it, and said, “Excuse me … could I get an autograph?” He turned around, looked at me for a second, then got a HUGE grin on his face and said, “Sure!” I realize now that it was pretty early in a very modest career, so fans must have still been a thrill.

I’d come thoroughly prepared for this encounter with dozens and dozens of Duncan-related items. If it’s Duncan Sheik, be it poster, CD, magazine, video, whatever, I promise it’s somewhere in my house. Of course, in my mad excited rush at seeing him, I forgot to actually get any of those items in my hands for him to sign.

So I handed him the Sharpie I was holding (see? prepared!) and started digging around in my massive messenger bag. (Hey, it was the late ’90s and I’m a gay man - what kinda bag did you think I’d have?) He kept that adorable grin on his face, looking totally amused the entire time, and I said, “I’ve got a CD here somewhere.” “Great!” he said, still really enjoying my fluster.

Finally, the elusive CD case popped up and, with hummingbird fingers, I managed to get the insert booklet out on the fourth try. I handed it to him and he said, “What’s your name?”
“Uh… oh - Nick!”
I was so proud I knew that answer. Suddenly questions were so hard.

He bent his head down, began writing, and the next 15 seconds were among the most blissful of my entire life. With his head bent down, I could smell his shampoo. I remember watching the hair on his arms move with his muscles as he wrote, and the way his t-shirt hugged his chest and abs. I spent a lot of brain power engaging the self control mechanism to keep myself from jumping on top of him, sticking my tongue down his throat, ripping off all his clothes, and havin– geez, is it getting hot in here?

I had such an out-of-control crush on that man. Still do. I’m getting all tingly giddy writing about it. I’ve met more than my share of famous people, either at work or Sundance, and I don’t ever really get flustered. But Duncan Sheik … oh man. What an exception.

It’s definitely my favorite celebrity moment. Of the several times I’ve met and spoken to Duncan, it was the best because it was just us, though he’s always amazingly friendly. But this was special because there was no line to see him, no one waiting for me, no place he had to be. There wasn’t even anyone around in that area of the club. I wish now that I’d had the composure to talk more. It was a rare opportunity. But I don’t think even now I could manage any better than I did.

Anyway, he wrote way too quickly, because all of a sudden it was over and he was handing me the Sharpie and booklet and saying, “Better let that dry a little.”
“Thanks,” I squeaked. “A lot.”
And I, in my teenaged little brain, naively hoped that from those three little words - which were so difficult to get out - he knew I didn’t just mean for the autograph.
“Sure,” he said, and of course he didn’t know all I meant to say with that thanks, but I convinced myself he did, because I needed him to.

He stood there as I turned to walk away. I was fully aware he was watching me go, so naturally I was completely incapable of walking in any way but one that can only be described as “retarded.”

I shook with excitement for the next three hours, and held the CD booklet by its edges the entire time.