Something in my gut told me to go to and eat at the Main Street Pizza & Noodle joint in Park City.
Was it a hunch? Not quite.
Reporter's instinct? Hmmmmm, no.
Hunger. Plain and simple.
But let me start at the beginning.
The Utah Jazz played an overtime game Wednesday night against the worst team in the NBA. My desk has a television so I can keep my eye on CNN and such, so I can make sure www.desnews.com is always current. While preparing to go to Park City and generate a story for the Internet about Sundance, I accidently watched part of the sports drama that was the Jazz losing in overtime. Stupid overtime, stupid Jazz, stupid me.
So by the time I drove to Park City, found a parking spot, grabbed the shuttle, chatted with an agent on the bus and walked to the Egyptian Theater to wait in line for "Fido" (premise: what if people in the '50s kept zombies around to mow the lawn?) I was a bit later than I planned.
My press badge was of no help except to get me in the standby line with the hopeless-sounding number 76.
I waited, alone with 100 other people dying to get in a movie that may shine or may suck, which is part of the fun. It is only a movie, right? But my anxiety level was off the charts, which may have had something to do with me knowing that I was going to turn in a mileage form for the drive to Park City and 48 cents a mile adds up fast — and my higher up runs the accounting department, and I didn't have a story.
Like everybody else in line, I was suddenly sure that "Fido" was going to be the greatest movie in the history of the Sundance Film Festival. The quickly burgeoning genre of zombie comedy ("Shaun of the Dead," anyone?) would probably reach its zenith in the movie I was about to (not) see, and it would get nominated for an Academy Award this time next year.
All I could think about was the day I spent in New York City as the 11th person in the standby line for the David Letterman Show. The moment of truth came, and the first nine people in line walked through the door, and I was stopped just in time to watch the doors close while the velour ropes and posts vanished into thin air. I stood dumbstruck on the sidewalk.
So I stood in line, stress raging, an ulcer starting and feeling individual hairs jumping off my head like it was the Titanic while inside the crowd settled in to watch what I now believed to probably be the best film in the world. Number 69 got in, then 70 and 71.
And then, Letterman happened all over again. Ropes, doors, outside, done. Argggg!
And so it was, after kicking myself for watching five extra minutes of post-regulation NBA basketball, I found myself in front of the pizza place and something in my gut demanded I go inside and order buffalo wings.
Sometimes, you just have to follow your instincts, even when they tell you to eat at midnight, because moments after I sat down and ate a few wings, in walked Jared Leto, a famous guy. He isn't famous enough for my Mom to know who he is, but then again, in her opinion there hasn't been a good film made since "The Sound of Music."
But the guy is a rock star with his band 30 Seconds to Mars, which is far more than a vanity project for a Hollywood elite. He is also in movies, including Sundance's "Chapter 27" about Mark David Chapman and his murder of John Lennon. But I knew him from the television show "My So-Called Life," where he perfectly portrayed the aloof and dreamy object of desire for Claire Danes, which is good work if you can get it.
I felt obliged as a reporter with a camera to get the guy's photo, thinking of justifying mileage reports. Turns out Leto is a pretty nice guy, but he insisted that I be in the photo as well, very politely foiling my career as a paparazzi.
Back at the table I checked out the digital photo and a few things were instantly clear.
1. Leto really was worthy of Claire Danes' affection, while I am worthy to work for a newspaper where nobody needs to see my face.
2. I should be jogging daily to Park City and saving the gas money. I am twice the man I used to be.
3. I absolutely need to completely ignore my gut instinct from now on after 6 p.m. — no matter what.
Stupid Jazz game.