Like every other unpaid intern in LA, I was silently waiting for the day when all of the boring, ultimately meaningless tasks I had completed at my job would be appreciated...and rewarded with the appointment of a totally awesome, ultimately meaningless task. I was sitting at my desk, probably surfing the net, when that opportunity finally came: The biggest movie of the summer was about to have its world premiere next week and the studio needed someone to sit in Brad Pitt's seat before he showed up. Only a few weeks in LA, and I'm about to go to one of the biggest, most anticipated premieres in history. If they told me I'd have to sit in Mel Gibson's lap and listen to him deny the Holocaust, I still probably would have done it. Unfortunately, the experience was almost as unsettling. I eagerly raced over to the theater in Westwood in my nicest the only nice clothes I owned. Surprisingly, despite thousands of eager fans part-time stalkers swarming the barricades, getting past security was almost effortless. If you happened to know a name on the list, you were in. No questions asked. After walking down the red carpet and making my way into the amazing lobby of the Westwood Fox, I settled into my Brad's seat.

The whole reason for me being there, I was explained, was that even though every single seat in that row had a sign with Brad Pitt's name on it, there are apparently assholes in Hollywood big enough to sit there anyway. Surprising, but true. So I was enjoying being able to see the spectacle of it all up close...the crazy movie stars, the legendary moguls, the unbelievably hot (even for LA) women, when things took a turn south. An amiable seeming female guard approached my row in order to further secure it from assholes/illiterates. Which is good, because if Harvey Weinstein and his posse want to sit in Brad Pitt's seats, some kid who looks like he just hit puberty isn't going to stop him. It turns out that the guard was not the good kind of friendly, however. She was one of those types you meet in LA every so often, the "I Coulda Been A Contender." They're usually over 40 and will, no matter how hard you resist, ever stop talking about how they used to have a promising future and could have been someone important if it wasn't for some evil outside force that stymied them from reaching their full potential. The key to dealing with these people is to get away before they go into their full on angry rage, because at that point you have to get completely shitfaced just to keep from becoming suicidally depressed.

But because I'd made a commitment to sit in Brad Pitt's seat and not leave it for any reason until given further notification, I had to endure this woman's recounting of an entire lifetime of pain and suffering. Of course, she could have been somebody if she'd just been able to go to college and pursue her dreams, but her shitty parents blew all their money on her older brother's education at Julliard. Now she works as a security guard, a karate instructor, a teacher at a Jewish preschool and some other jobs she mentioned while I wasn't paying attention. "I wish I was a Jew!," she screamed. "Those people take care of their own. Not like my parents." Around this point, she was getting really emotional and started talking about how she hated all the rich, spoiled women sitting around us. Its the kind of talk you'd expect to hear from someone before they walk into a crowded place and shoot a bunch of strangers. Which would be easy for her to do since she's in a packed theater and the only person wearing a gun. So now, mentally disturbed security lady is about two minutes away from a total breakdown, I've just about lost the will to live and, thankfully, Brad Pitt has just showed up outside the theater. Nobody in the history of the world has ever been so happy to know of Brad Pitt's arrival anywhere than I was at that very moment.

After getting the cue to leave from the event planner, I bolted out of the room. I may not have gotten to enjoy the movie amongst the stars but I also didn't get my head blown off.

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