Sundance Report: Aidan Quinn Is Short

My wife grew up in a small town just up the road from Park City--pastoral and quiet rests the mountain community of Hoytsville, Utah. A town that easily keeps up with the rest of the noisy, messed-up world by means of Satellite TV and video and DVD rental. I love it up there and recently my wife and I found the perfect excuse to pack up a few days worth of crap, strap-in the kids and make the northward climb up I-15 through the heart of the Beehive State. Since my partner in crime, Adam Mast, was up in Park City covering the Festival, we saw nothing wrong with the idea of unloading the kids on her folks and getting in on the Sundance action.

First of all, a long car-trip with young children is nothing if not a harrowing proposition. Still, my girls are young enough that, theoretically, I should be able to enjoy a few moments of "quality time" during the trek. My idea of the perfect road trip is to have the kids crash before Cedar, then listen to as many Cds as possible. My wife, on the other hand, views a long car drive as the perfect opportunity for two married adults to engage in serious conversation. It never fails. The moment I begin to orchestrate the ride with my menu of tasty audio treats, I detect an unsettling presence looming on the horizon. "Hi honey." Nice try. She has no interest whatsoever in any of my stupid Cds--no, she is armed to the teeth with ominous topics of grave concern.

And thus it begins--the battle of the volume knob. My wife has always stood firmly against volume of any kind, which has been a considerable challenge to our union, as I've always been a big believer in volume. This dramatic difference in decibel desires has lead to childish spats that often escalate into bitter exchanges of hitting and slapping--not at all conducive to the safe operation of a vehicle.

On this particular voyage, however, the playing field would change. Yes it would tilt dramatically in my favor. First of all I must thank my parents for the epiphany I would soon experience, for they'd kindly offered to let us make the trip in their new high-tech van. Alas, this would be a strange and magical odyssey that would thrust upon the Boneman, an awesome power. Caressing the steering wheel as I pulled away in this new craft, I was to soon discover a marvelous little secret. Hidden very discreetly on the inner left-hand side of the wheel (the exact spot that I always use to steer any vehicle) were a full set of remote controls to the stereo system. Oh my good Lord--this is going to be fun!

I played it real cool at first (using only slight changes in volume) I didn't want to tip my hand too early. It didn't matter much anyway because she immediately turned the volume all the way down and launched into a passionate preamble aimed primarily at my shortcomings as a husband and as a breadwinner. Unsolicited testimony that never fails to soothe the small bones inside my ear much like a 3-year-old learning to play "chopsticks" while another competes for attention with a whistle. But this time the music crept back into the van as if summoned by my very will. Un-fazed, she once again turned down the volume and continued our fun little chat. Yet, slowly, but surely back came the music--louder and louder. "What the hell's the matter with this stereo?" she fumed--showing the first signs of the total melt-down that was certain to follow. "I don't know--it must be messed up--you'd think a new outfit like this would have a stereo that worked," I was good. I was going to play this for all it was worth. I really figured she'd smoke me out soon enough, but I kept up the act--as far as I was concerned, this is a stereo system that's clearly not right.

Increasingly confounded by this obviously haunted van, she began playing with the faders, moving the music front to back, right to left--but it just kept coming back as loud as before. "Maybe it's just this Cd," I offered, so she quickly tried another, only to suffer the same maddening results. Naturally, her solution was to just turn the damn thing off. But, oh my God, it just came right back on. "Wow, how weird is that?" I lied..

It all became too much for her to bear and it wasn't long before she was reduced to cursing, garment-rending madness. Hissing and spattering she crawled all the way to the back-most row of seats and openly wept. She didn't even wake up the kids. This was quite possibly my finest hour. Alright, I'm kidding. And, to be honest, I finally made enough of a blunder that she figured it out--but not before I was well on my way to becoming King of the trip.

It was nice, the kids slept practically the whole way--and my music would carry the day. Unfortunately our experience at Sundance was far from charmed. Our main objective for the evening was to meet Adam at Harry O's and try to get into HBO's big party where Starsailor and Charlatans UK were supposed to play. Naturally getting into such an event would require luck and a good deal of bullshit and charm. Thus I started working the door even before Adam arrived with his press-pass. The young lady in charge was named Maggie and right away I tried to establish myself in her good graces. "What are the chances Maggie? That a nobody like me, a total zero--is going to get into this place?" "Do you have a ticket she asked?" "No but my partner has a press-pass" I confidently interjected. "Well let's wait until he comes she advised." Okay no problem--my breath coming out in great blasts of steam in the sub-arctic temperature, my wife shivering in the wings.

Starsailor sounded pretty good, considering we were outside convulsing from the cold. We kept ourselves from giving-in to the sweet, sweet release of death by looking for celebrities. My wife claims she saw Michael Keaton sitting in a car, but the only star I saw was Aidan Quinn. You may remember Aidan from Desperately Seeking Susan or Brad Pitt's older brother in Legends of the Fall, he was able to gain entrance, but not before we noted how short he was--Aye, a wee lad, he. Hobbit-short. Sure he gets in because he's the big star, but if we're playing by Disneyland's height rules, it'd be a different story--boyo!

Time passes slowly when there are so few degrees for it to pass through, so I decided upon a more bold approach. "Okay Maggie, here's the deal--you see I really am famous--only my fame is kind of a regional thing." She was scarcely listening to me now, so I decided to bring on the BS. "Maggie, listen to me--I'm the Boneman. You may not have heard of me yet, but I have legions of fans who call themselves ÔBoneheads' and there's been talk of T-shirts. T-shirts Maggie!" It all failed spectacularly.

Turned away into the bitter cold in search of food, I thought to myself "Screw this festival, I'm going back to southern Utah where it's warm and I can, at least, pretend to be some sort of big shot."

It's good to be home.