Rope Burns

I was at the newly renovated MOMA last night, drinking a vodka tonic and nibbling on a tiny bleu cheese sirloin burger brought to me by a servant in a rented suit, when I glanced over my left shoulder to see Kevin Bacon standing behind me.

"I'm only one degree away from Kevin Bacon!"

I know. Hilarious.

Scott had to see Hillary Swank's new movie (he's writing a profile on her this week), so I tagged along. Just so happened this viewing was also the NY premiere which meant I was rubbing elbows (metaphorically!) with quite a few celebs and pseudo-celebs.

Clint Eastwood was there. He directed the movie and also stars in it with Swank. I was actually able to fit my index finger all the way up to the first knuckle into one of the crags on his face.

Morgan Freeman plays a wise, old, one-eyed black man in the movie (quite the stretch), but he had to leave the party early to catch a plane to Dubai. (Du sigh!) He was the only non-white person there except for this dude , Richard Parsons, the Chairman and CEO of Time Warner. He's one of the richest people in the world, so the situation was ripe for a farcical mix-up in which a plastic-faced wife from the Upper East Side who's had two too many glasses of white wine tries to foist her empty wine glass on him for a refill. But alas, reality is not an episode of Frasier. (I wish it was! That dog they have is so funny!)

Andy Garcia was also there. Alone.

Oh, and did I mention the girl who played Tony Soprano's russian girlfriend, Oksana Lada, was there? Yeah. She's pretty.

But eventually it weirded me out being so close to someone I had never met whose bare breasts I had already seen, so Scott and I decided to take our seats in the theater.

Andy Garcia was already seated. Alone.

The movie is called Million Dollar Baby (or MDB to the boot leggers). It's a darkly-lit film with a bad title about a girl from White Trash Land who moves to Somewhereville to become a boxer. Cranky old Clint Eastwood doesn't want to train a girl!! But eventually he breaks down (at the behest of our sagacious narrator Morgan Freeman), and they quickly realize they are the father-daughter combo both of them never realized they needed so badly.

Or as the IMDB blandly states it: "A hardened fighter-cum-trainer works with a determined woman in her attempt to establish herself as a boxer."

Only, there's a horrifying twist! I won't give it away here, but to give you a hint while quoting from another, far superior film, let me just say, "Stool Boom." Or to give you a hint while referencing a now-cancelled cartoon series, "Chair Face." Or if you want a hint you can read in a mirror: ".seod eh dna reh llik ot tnilC sksa ehs neht ,dezylarap steg dna loots a no daeh reh stih ehS"

At the end of the movie, the ridiculously over-perfumed woman sitting beside me was sobbing uncontrollably. As the first credits appeared on the screen, she let out an audible gasp and leapt to her feet, clapping as wildly as she could while still remaining socially acceptable. I'm sure, three rows behind us, Hillary Swank noticed and had her hubby, Chad, run down and invite that woman over for petit fours and limoncello.

I was much more calm. As the lights came up, I just turned around, made eye contact with Hillary, and said, "Hey, I always thought you kind of had a horse face, but you really don't."

She smiled.

Chad wept. He wept.