It’s a good thing I checked my email Saturday morning. I received a message about 11:00 pm Friday night, from one of the organizers of the NYC Midnight Madness Movie Making Competition saying that they had screened my film a few times, and when they went to screen it again, it wouldn’t play.

Wha? Your VCR ate my fucking movie?

And could I please overnight another VHS copy of the film along with a MiniDV backup? Of course, I would be reimbursed for my troubles.

Of course.

So I quickly made VHS and MiniDV dubs, and overnighted them FedEx to Brooklyn. Well, technically, it’s not overnight, because there is no Sunday delivery, but it was guaranteed to be delivered before 10:30 Monday morning.

Good enough for me.

After I called the contest organizer and relayed to him the FedEx tracking number, I drove back to my place to pack some clothes and head down to my brother’s place in Bethesda.

As I slid an extra pair of boxers into the bag, a rather pleasant thought crossed my mind.

Since the results are posted on Tuesday, my film must be in contention for them to want another copy so quickly. If the film had no chance, then why bother to ask for another? Just chuck it in the trashcan, and move on to the next one. So I felt rather optimistic about our chances.

So the winners were posted last night at midnight on the website.

We were 1st runner up in our heat. Sweet. 2nd place.

If, for some reason, the winners are unable to compete in the 24 hour part of the competition, then we get to compete.

So I made a call this morning to a Columbian Hit Squad. I’m expecting to hear some good news any day now. Any day now.

Seriously, though, I am thrilled. To win 2nd place with our first short film. And to have been on a tight deadline. It’s really great news.

And technically, we are now award-winning filmmakers.

I wish you could see the smile on my face.

In other news…

Just so you think I’m not a complete and total asshole, Saturday night I drove down to my brother’s place in Bethesda where we went to a wine tasting event to support Lite the Nite (www.litethenite.org). The Lite the Nite walk benefits the Leukemia and Lymphoma society.

A friend of mine, Mike, who went to college with my cousin Ryan, was diagnosed last January with Stage 2 Hodgkins. But he has undergone chemotherapy and radiation and is apparently, according to the doctors, “all better now.”

Last week, he had his first haircut since he started chemo. Go Mike!

So we were at our friend Bert’s bachelor party the other week, and Mike leans over to me. “You know, you don’t come down enough.” He was referring to the fact that I live far away (relatively) and only make it down to Bethesda once a month or so.

I apologized for my delinquency in visiting.

“So what are you doing next weekend?” Mike proceeded to tell me all about Lite the Nite and the wine tasting event some participants were putting together to raise money. I told him that sounded like a great idea and that he could count me in.

I then told him about the monthly wine classes I had been attending (for the women) and he said he knew virtually nothing about wine. I told him I usually don’t pay attention during class (again, the women) but I’d be happy to share any knowledge I had on the subject of wine, or wine making, or wine tasting, or ignoring wine discussions in favor of hitting on women.

Flash forward to Saturday night where we all (about 15 of us) met up at Mike and Laura’s (Mike’s wife) house to all drive around the corner to the house that was hosting the event.

So I’m standing in the living room having a discussion with Laura, Ryan, and my brother, when Mike comes up from the basement.

“Jeff! What are you doing here?”

Dick.

“Umm. You invited me, Mike.”

I should add at this point that Mike’s tolerance for alcohol was severely affected from the months of chemo and radiation. Now, he drinks one wine cooler, and he’s floored. Lush.

So it’s no wonder he can’t remember inviting me, after drinking three gin and tonics and a few shots of whatever bottle of alcohol was closest to his hand.

And just so you don’t think I’m trying to paint myself as a saint here, my motives, while including the whole Lite the Nite thing, also included the possibility of picking up single women.

Hey, I’m honest.

So we drive over to the house, and Ryan upon seeing a blown-up portrait of a child on the front door shouts “No one told me this was a birthday party!” Naturally, his wife, Jen, elbowed him in the ribs explaining, “This event is probably for him. He probably has leukemia. Ass.” Hee!

I walk up to the sign-in table and pay the eighteen-dollar fee with a twenty-dollar bill, which the seven year old guarding the cash box takes, sliding it into the box and closing it, while staring me down. The little fucker. Trying to rob me of two dollars.

While trying to ignore flashbacks of “Better Off Dead,” I notice that he has stiffed my brother as well. Little shit.

So I slap on my nametag, after debating whether or not to use a fake name (Sven? Antonio?), and walk into the backyard where the liquor shop has set up two stations for tasting. One for reds and one for whites. I glanced at the list, and made a mental note that no bottle was more than $17.

Then I looked around the backyard and noted that there were an awful lot of women carrying babies. Absolutely zero single women in attendance. I guess that serves me right for having less than pure motives.

We stayed for an hour or so, sampled the wines, sampled the food, and left after failing to win door prizes. I was hoping to win free karate lessons, but my hopes were dashed after discovering it was only for kids.

And now for the weirdest coincidence of recent memory…

I was sitting on my brother’s couch, not tired enough to fall asleep. This couch used to be in my parents’ house, and was so abused by us that it has virtually no padding left. There is only one tiny sweet spot left to rest your head on. It’s like a quarter inch of foam, and then wood and metal.

Anyway, I’m lying there reading “You Shall Know Our Velocity!” by Dave Eggers, which I am enjoying immensely, and I’ve come to the part where Will and Hand are in Senegal and are devising a plan to strap cash to a mule. Hand has come up with a suitable note to leave with the money.

“Here I am. Rock you like a hurricane.”

I read the note, just as my brother, upstairs watching football, changes the channel, and I hear the Scorpions, clear as day, singing, “Here I am! Rooooock you like a hurricane.”

Told you it was weird.

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