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There’s something critically wrong with the consciousness of America as a whole and in this (unique) case I cannot blame the fact that six companies control 96% of the world’s media. They’re in it for commerce and their commerce has always been dependent upon people’s ravenous desire for the distraction of mindless stupidity; specifically epic fails of the rich and famous. It appeals to our base level subconscious desires that give us respite from our all too menial and pedestrian lives.

Indeed it does.

I’m speaking of course about Charlie Sheen. And I say “we” because my so-called higher consciousness self also fell prey to the ways of sheep when I posted a rant of his on my Facebook page. Granted it was right at the start of his madness when I thought it was a one-time bit; just another day of Celebrities Gone Wild in La-La land . Now, nearly ten days later, Sheengate has gotten so out of control that I’m hoping to become a terminal victim of a stray bullet rather than continuing to face this abhorrent daily onslaught. All my geeky-cool websites that I’ve culled so meticulously to give me my knowledge fix are posting non-stop Sheenisms. I sit in fear waiting for my beloved Scientific American to betray me by finding some ridiculously obscure way to cash in as well. That would be the last straw. Clearly I’d have to man-up, find a gun, and do it myself. Save tech-free isolation indefinitely, what else is a girl to do? Sit around with the rest of the world secretly waiting for him to overdose and die?

Because that’s exactly what we’re doing.

Why else are millions of people still feeding like bloodsuckers on this story? Because anything less and we’ll really have post gossip coital regret for investing so much of our intellectual time in Sheens drug-addled megalomaniac lunacy. C’mon… it’s the big finish! If he dies, we can all be right! Right about the perils of too much fame and money and never having to be accountable to any social or moral norm because of such. To hell with the life of a famous person whose Peter Pan existence affords none of us everyday hardworking people the same glorious escapist havens.

People love being right.

Even at the expense of the death of another human being, which despite all evidence to the contrary, Charlie Sheen still is. And just like when a director yells action, if he does indeed die, on cue America will be SO sad. “Such a shame…” “His poor kids…” “He was far too young…” B and C-list fame-mongers will inhabit the next wave of media onslaught with soulful quotes (with their best side shots for photographic purposes along with plugs about their upcoming new DVDs/reality shows/cookbooks for anorexics). His death will be cashed in upon as much as his sickness currently is. Then, like all things in media that fade (stop generating income), he will disappear altogether from public consciousness. Well, not altogether. You can count on the Academy Awards that follow his death to snub him during their “In Memoriam” segment. Mustn’t glorify or condone drug addiction after all, only capitalize on it.

Can you imagine an alternate (morally responsible) Universe? One where the media acts like responsible parents; allowing their kid (Sheen) to scream and cry and rant all he wants till he wears himself out and learns the lesson that doing so does not result in adoration and gains? Or doing the right thing by them when they’re sick (as he so clearly is) by giving them help, not reward, for continuing on an inevitably lethal path? But that wouldn’t make the Top Six any money and they most definitely won’t ever don the responsible parent roll. A celebrity’s life lost is a huge financial boon. There’s big money in crazy; HUGE money in death. They won’t change, but we can. We can stop gobbling up the public self-destruction of another human being. We can “Just Say No!” to the cycle of click, read, and repeat. We can choose instead to invest in man’s salvation rather than his downfall, because I’ll tell you something…if Charlie Sheen dies, make no mistake that the public, however minor their participation, will have been wholly complicit in its facilitation.

*Upon going to press, we learned that Scientific American did indeed do a story on Charlie Sheen.

Carissa Tedesco has thusly moved to Compton.

I’m more of an Independent Spirit Awards kind of girl; irreverent hosts, a casual setting and films that are truly that: films. There is a great divide between films and movies, so I’m quite clear on what to expect when watching the Oscars: Politics, fashion, preening and PR…with a side of awards. While there are great actors working today, there are no movie stars. No leading men who take my breath away like Bogart, Gable, Grant or Stewart; no sirens like Dietrich, Bacall, and Taylor and slim to none talent like Garbo, Hepburn, Davis, Crawford, or Stanwyck. There is no palpable heat or unconscious leg-crossing the likes of which Brando, Newman, Redford and Poitier gave us, and no dance wonders like Astaire, Kelly, or O’Conner to trip the light classy and fantastic. Nobody today does comedy like Lewis, Hope, Lemon, Sellers or Lombarde, and name me an equal to character actors Edward G. Robinson or James Cagney and I’ll give up cheese for a week. What we do have, ladies and germs, are James Franco and Anne Hathaway to carry the torch of all those on what is supposed to be the biggest night of the year honoring the film industry.

Annnnnnnd, I just threw up in my mouth a little.

I’m a filmmaker and a writer, and I acted for years and years, but the eye I see with, when watching something as abominable as this past Oscar ceremony, is that of a sociologist. Sociology is the study of society.[1] It is a social science—which uses various methods of empirical investigation[2] and critical analysis[3] to develop and refine a body of knowledge about human social activity (sociological theory), often with the goal of applying such knowledge to the pursuit of social welfare (social theory). Now that I quoted Wikipedia to appear an erudite researcher, let me speak in layman’s terms.

What the fuck were they thinking???

James Franco, whose immense success I will never understand, showed up as his character from Pineapple Express. He had not an ounce of energy, charisma, or humor and was clearly stoned on some seriously fine medical marijuana. He squinted all night like a fifteen year old kid in Indiana on YouTube doing a very bad Robert DeNiro impression, and put as much effort into being there for his co-host as a high school quarterback with a full football scholarship would for his pregnant tenth grade girlfriend. But I don’t blame you James Franco. Get that check. (And ruin your blessings of mostly undeserved career success for taking a job at which you knew in your heart you’d suck, numbnuts.) Oh no, who I blame for those arduous three plus hours are the idiots who hired him: producers Bruce Cohen, Don Mischer, and Academy president Tom Sherak. They should’ve known, like all of America, that Franco is not an ENTERTAINER nor is he FUNNY. It is they who need to be on the Oscars’ stage next year, tied up naked while Mike Tyson plays with their balls for the entire broadcast for the torture they made us endure. Then maybe America and I will call it even.

Too harsh? Sorry. I momentarily lapsed into my ethically questionable fantasy world of penance for an Ex of mine.

What was the first inanely bad decision? The Academy chose to skew young for increased viewership. It didn’t work. The overall audience fell by 9%, and the age of the average viewer actually edged up to 50.6 years old continuing a decade-long rise from 44.5 years old in 2001. Save The Social Network and Black Swan, of the nominated films’ lead actors most are in their 30’s and 40’s. Logic dictates that, during the worst movie-going period in history, grown-ass people went to see these films. But let’s ignore logic, statistics and common sense because they have no place in Hollywood. So fine, go for it Academy. Get your not-so-revolutionary-idea groove on and try the whole target “young” thing. Then, why not ponder hosts like Ben Stiller or Zach Galifianakis, whose movies are wildly popular with the younger demographic and who are both COMICS? Or, pair either with Jonah Hill whose stoicism, unlike James Franco, is FUNNY? How about thinking about far away notions like chemistry between the two people that are going to be on stage for an inordinate amount of time? Or, at least notice when there isn’t any. Dozens of other smart salient choices were to be had Academy, but smart, salient, and Hollywood will never be a trifecta. It just ain’t the days of old where class, elegance and movie stars abide, and, it will never be as long as idiots responsible for decision making hold the ranks of Academy control.

P.S: I forgive you Anne Hathaway; for as annoying as you were and as much as I wanted to reach through my TV screen and slap sense into you, you were left with no choice but to overcompensate and morph into a Laugh-In extra just to stay afloat with that corpse beside you.

Like the ones who comfort those who lose (in this case, us) often say, “There’s always next year.” I, for one, will continue to cushion the inevitable blow with my fandom of the always satisfying Independent Spirit Awards who keep it simple: Honoring great films with all the above and below-the -line people who make them possible.

“Hi. Carissa Tedesco: Filmmaker.” True.
 
Nyet! Not good enough.
 
“Hi. Carissa Tedesco, Programmer for the Delray Beach Film Festival.” Also true, also not good enough.
 
“Hi. Carissa Tedesco: Indiewire Magazine.”
 
Not true, but good enough to get me past the gatekeeper with the laptop and air of superiority; an ill-choice however, as I was under-prepared to speak further on the bullshit I’d just randomly pulled out of my own ass. They immediately assigned me a PR person to set up interviews for the mag.
 
Cue phantom cell phone ring. “Will you excuse me for one moment? I MUST take this.”
 
Note to self: polish singular lie.
 
“Hello. Carissa Tedesco: ABC-Good Morning America.”
 
“Oh hiiiiiiiiiiii! Will you be here with a camera crew?”
 
“No, just scouting. I’m a segment producer checking out possible locations to submit to our booker.”
 
Home run! A press pass for the lady, if you please.
 
I’m a great actress but a terrible liar. At least I was until Sundance. Lying is work. Investing energy to impress strangers is not part of my DNA. But if you’re not in, you’re out and I certainly wasn’t about to let some lemming with a list tell me I wasn’t important enough to be “in.” And so Carissa Tedesco – Producer for Good Morning America was born. Gaining access became this ridiculously fun, adrenaline-infused infiltration game; a challenge appealing to both my competitive spirit and “fuck-with-all-elitists-as-sport” sensibility. It’s inherently wrong that only the very rich, very famous, and very successful are bestowed upon glamorously with all-access, free everything, and an ass kissing just short of a rim job. Let it be known that every day girls like me love a good rim job too.
 
Oh, I started out humble. I was eternally grateful that I had a free place to stay (big ups to the lovely and exceedingly generous Dr. Michael Posner) and hoped against hope merely to get a filmmaker pass so that I could saturate my days with my compatriots and favorite people in all the land: the Filmmakers. That is, until I met…dummmm-da-dum-dum…“The Condo-mates”. Didn’t know each other prior-Doc Posner was the mutual connection. All were from low-A to high-B festivals, there hunting for films to program, sponsorship, etc. We arrived on the same day, made nice-nice, then headed out to tackle the beast at hand: ACCESS. Later that afternoon I stopped home and was feeling pretty triumphant that I had bullshitted my way into a Sundance press pass my first two hours out, and extra-thrilled that it came with a free bag, water and pen.
 
But not for long…
 
Re-enter the condo mates: Sundance veterans who (I later found out) bring empty duffle bags to carry home all their newly acquired riches. Not only did they return flush with several lanyards, but bragging rights to a TON, I repeat, TON of loot: ipods, Timberland mukluks, jewelry, VIP invitations, and more.
I was green-eyed jealous. More than that, I loathed having the moniker of a newbie-not-in-the-know. The silent air of superiority they maintained as well as the subtle conversational ways they kept information hush-hush for fear I’d try to glom on to them, drove me and my pride freaking bananas.
 
That lasted a New York minute.
 
I thought to myself, “I’m Carissa-fucking-Tedesco. I’ve been turning brick walls into red carpets my entire life. No way, no how is there a film, lounge, party, performance or gifting room that I cannot glide myself into with stealth-like proficiency; and without any help from anyone, thank you very much.
 
Game on!
 
Over the course of the next six days, with a Starbucks IV slung over my shoulder, I garnered eight passes (four of them press), nineteen wristbands, and all the sushi, Patron Silver, and Redbull I could swish around in my ever-burgeoning belly. And the “free everything and anything” didn’t stop there. On any given day I could be spotted carrying a bag full of Fred Segal ware, sex toys, Guitar Hero Three, and cosmetics promising to turn me back into a fetus. I saw John Legend, 50 Cent, and Acon perform live. I sat front row in the VIP section at Harry O’s and watched Quentin Tarantino receive the Kodak Award from Dennis Hopper. I ate at one of the most coveted tickets in town: Chef Dance (from the second course on anyway). I had a pass to The Yard, a restaurant daily serving breakfast, lunch, dinner, and midnight snacks, where I could order anything I desired with no check at the end. (God? Is that you?) On my way out, I’d make two pit stops at Drugstore.com where I’d pick up Advil and condoms (my current ones, as usual, had expired) and then  at Romance.com where I’d grab the largest vibrator they had (see above condom quote), perfume, candles and whatever else I could get my fat little fingers on. Later, after a full day of swag-snagging and creative storytelling, upon my sixtieth wind, I’d  sit down for an early dinner at The Lift (another Yard-like restaurant), check my email at Hype Lounge while sipping Grey Goose, and sure, I’ll take some Frye Boots and Oakley Sunglasses while there. On and on it went; the lovely pink flush of excitement in my cheeks telling the tale. Or maybe it was the skipping and singing that gave me away? No matter. Nobody missed the girl floating three feet above ground through the snowy streets of Park City.
 
People who were actual press (not the majors but the C-listers and such) told me they’d tried for years to get just one press pass and here I was, on day two, with four. The condo-mates were impressed (read: baffled and jealous), simply shaking their heads after awhile, tired of asking, “How the hell did you manage that?!” Ah, what a sweet na-na-na-na-poo-poo victory it was. In the end it was I who won the unspoken swag-grab contest, with Guitar Hero Three putting me over the top for the win.
 
But then a funny thing started to happen…
 
After a few days I began to feel hollow and depressed. The oppressive thought that I’d been wasting all my time and utilizing the best of my abilities: charm, humor, wit and intellect, all for naught, started to creep in.
 
“Shut up Carissa. Weren’t you just elbow to elbow with Cash Warren and Jessica Alba in Fred Segal getting free $450.00 Love From Australia boots? And you’re freakin’ depressed?”
 
No. Screw that. Everybody was doing it, after all. Have you forgotten wandering into the Entertainment Tonight Lounge (more sushi and a free cashmere scarf) when Sarah Jessica Parker, Dennis Quaid, and Thomas Haden Church (who has an unusually large head by the way) were being interviewed? A mere hour after that there they were in Chez Fred getting their rim jobs so to hell with feeling shame and guilt about my marginally ok one!
 
Alas, the denial dam broke. Truth, for me, has always been inescapable.
 
Two weeks prior to Sundance I’d donated 30% of my possessions to charity and here I was squandering a goldmine of opportunity only to hoard more useless shit I didn’t need. Had I really utilized all that finesse for a jar of cream and a game? Who had I become?  I don’t even own an Xbox 360. What the hell am I going to do with Guitar Hero Three and why did I want it so badly? Why didn’t I choose instead to take all that God-given opportunity and ability to actually do something? Create something?
 
Well, I’ll tell you why. Who gives a shit if they don’t let me in to a gifting lounge or party? What do I lose? Nothing. Nada. Stugotz. But a director I worship, a producer I ache to work with, or a theatrical agency I long to be a part of telling me “No”? Oh, no. Too much risk. The rejection, far too paralyzing. That danger, when it means something…when it means everything to me, feels like another small death upon a lifetime of them. Dramatic, I know. Trust me; it rings equally pathetic to my own ears. The best way I can elucidate the feeling is with this Bible verse: Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but desire fulfilled is a tree of life. Twenty years of deferred hope, with a bank account reflecting as much, will break the backbone of even the strongest-willed. For once, I just wanted to play a game on an even playing field; a game where I knew I’d win and to the victor goes the spoils. It was nice to feel rich and important for six days: to succeed, to win. Yea, that’s it. It was really nice to win.
 
After a couple of weeks being back home in LA, I smacked myself in the back of my own head. I mean really… Boo-freaking-hoo. Like I didn’t have THE most amazing time at my first Sundance. Reflecting upon my trip, I realized that coming home with a couple of thousand dollars worth of merchandise I could never afford to buy on my own was nothing to feel guilty about. My first Sundance really was the experience of a lifetime. After all, I met fabulously interesting and creative filmmakers who could soon be my colleagues, listened in on conversations with people in the biz whom I most respect, and witnessed some amazing talent in the most intimate of settings. Beyond the swag, it was a truly inspiring trip. But more importantly? It woke my ass up.
 
Ironically, less than one year later, I am officially invited as press to cover the Delray Beach Film Festival. My assignment is to produce and host an Entertainment Tonight-style video show in which I’ll be interviewing the filmmakers and celebrities, covering parties, workshops, and all other events. I reflect upon my Sundance experience as I’m about to board the plane to Florida and I am grateful to have the opportunity to utilize my talents in a way that makes me proud. It may take me a minute (or 15) to get a grip, but I actually do live, learn, and change accordingly.
 
I’ll be at Sundance again next year and yes, I’ll still swag-whore-it a bit. Who am I kidding?  Free shit rocks! This time however, I really will be press. So if you see a crazy brunette Italian girl running around with a microphone and a divide and conquer look in her eyes, say hello and yell out,“Hey Tedesco! It’s about time you got your shit together!”
 
By the way…
 
I’m selling Guitar Hero Three dirt cheap if you know anybody.

************

To learn more about Carissa Tedesco, check out her Bio on the About Us page!