Gustavo Hits The Red Carpet - The House That Jack Built

First off, gracias to all the commentators who asked I return. Secondly: the people who ran this event said TV Land told them about us. We have a reputation—COOL. Now, on to the report…

It’s telling of how low-key the premiere at the Arclight of The House That Jack Built was that the best moments of the night had nothing to do with the movie. I’m sure other places will have quotes from the C- and S-listers who strolled down the short red carpet, but my mentor told me long ago to follow the real news, not the assignment. And, frankly, when hundreds of people are waiting about 200 feet away at six in the afternoon to watch another movie (might’ve been Harry Potter, didn’t check; if it was, NERDS!) instead of mobbing the stars of this film, you know to look at the outskirts for your story.

Thankfully, we had the perfect vantage point: the very end of the reporters line, right next to the doors leading into the theaters. We didn’t mind being last; we did mind that the “reporters” (really: pretty faces) from WTV.com hogged up so much space that we couldn’t move because sycophants sandwiched us because they kept crowding next to the door, desperately trying to rub up with the film’s actors. Not only that, but their creepy cameraman obsessed over my gal Delilah’s name. “Oh, Samson and Delilah was my favorite movie!” he kept telling her. When it turned out that the last name of the reporter who stood next to him was Sampson, the old guy just about creamed his jeans. Cool coincidence, yes, but do your job, perv! Everyone else: talk trash on WTV.com for their unprofessional workers.
This was the type of red-carpet event when handlers shoved people in front of us to interview. They were mostly nice (more on the lovable weirdos and outright jerk in a bit), but I had no questions for them! I was still too obsessed about how close we were to Hollywood and Highland, original site of the massive set for the Babylon segment of Intolerance, the D.W. Griffith masterpiece whose extravagance was the opening chapter of Kenneth Anger’s Hollywood Babylon, the intellectual godfather of all Hollywood gossip blogs, (rot in hell, Louella Parsons and Hedda Hopper, you mean hags). Go ahead and yell, gentle readers: NERD.

Anyways, the highlights:

*One woman had a gorgeous combo of earrings and dresses. Too bad she had no idea about the film, saying she showed up because she knew some of the people involved. Hey, lady: when I show up to some Mexican’s house to eat carne asada, I at least bother to learn what the hell is the celebration, whether it’s a baptism or a Dodgers game.

*The doors opened behind me from the theater and two Mexican nerds popped out. “Is Zoey Deschanal going to be here?” they asked. “Not sure,” I replied, handing them the tip sheet for the night so they could check. I figured they were nerds from East Los Angeles, but the copy of Lonely Planet – Los Angeles gave them away as out-of-towners. She wasn’t there; they were sad. Nice kids, though.
*An obviously disturbed lady started shouting about the Israeli lobby dominating Hollywood. She looked at me. “Do you speak English?” she asked. “Half of the people in this city don’t speak English!”
“No, hablo español,” I replied, before continuing in English, “Why do you ask?”

That got her mad, and she railed against the Jews again, warning that if no one paid attention to her, “everyone will turn to specks of dust, and I’ll blow them away like Heidi Klum.”

“Be careful with Heidi,” I warned.

“Why?”

“Because she rules the world.”

That got her so upset that she walked away, yelling against the Jews.
*Making less sense was Fred Williamson, a former blaxploitation star and football player who was there because he’s golfing buddies with The House that Jack Built lead Joe Mantegna. He was cocky but charming with the other reporters, and then he reached us. I tried to ask him why it seems football players turn to acting more than other sports stars, but he interrupted me.

“That’s a misnomer,” he snapped. “You can’t name me five,” before proceeding to name Joe Namath, Frank Gifford, and a couple of others. Honestly, I didn’t pay attention at that point, perplexed by his use of “misnomer.”

I tried to make him answer my question, pointing out that few baseball or basketball players become actors, but he repeated again, ‘That’s a misnomer.”

“What about John Wayne?” I replied, who played college football at USC.

“That’s not football,” Williamson countered. “You can kiss all the behind you want with the good old boys in college, but that’s not football.”

Um, okay.

He kept rambling before making one final, priceless point: “I’m an egghead and a jock.”

Webster’s Online Dictionary defines misnomer as, “a use of a wrong or inappropriate name.” Williamson might’ve not liked my question, but it wasn’t a misnomer. Oh, and kids: this self-proclaimed jock’s most notable athletic achievement happened during the first Super Bowl. Williamson, who then played for the Kansas City Chiefs, vowed before the game to knock out cold the receivers of the Green Bay Packers, but it was the self-called Hammer whose candy ass had to leave the game because of a strong hit. Ain’t no misnomer there…

*Andy Richter was really nice, but it seemed he’d rather be somewhere else.
*Who’s Shar Jackson again? She caused the biggest stir of the night, and mugged with her booty. All I heard her say was, “Stay away from the hate” and “I love my family.”
*Joe Mantegna was also nice, but after mugging for shots, he immediately left! It’s rather insulting to have the lead actor leave the premiere of a film, no?
*Some guy named Yuval David was really nice and a total nerd: we spent most of the time talking about how the both of us are pen kleptomaniacs.
*But the true star of the night was a Mexican guy in a beanie who came out of the movie theater and watched us do our work. “I was a stunt double in The House that Jack Built,” he claimed. “I taught them how to strangle a girl. I saw how they did it, and said, ‘Don’t do it like that!’ You have to put a plastic bag over her head, then duct tape it shut, then choke her like this”—he stuck out his hands.
His friend tried to pull the guy away, but the strangler wouldn’t stop. “I want to do my own movie. It’ll be like the life of Jesus, starting with a carpenter and shit.”

“But what’s the next movie you’re going to do?” I asked.

“The sequel to this movie,” he said.

“What is it going to be called—La Casa que Juan Construio?” I responded.

“Nah, that’s going to be the Mexican version,” he said, seriously. “First, the sequel: The House that Juan Built.”

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