It’s hard to describe the state of you in Cannes by the middle of the week. By Wednesday night, it’s likely you haven’t slept in four days. The drinking starts around noon, and you’re constantly being blindsided by huge vacuums of people who want to chat about their creative ideas, which seesaw between brilliant and horrific, depending on what fluid you just swallowed.
One guy spent a night regaling Ask Wappling and me about his “sublime” comic strip idea, in which men and women have short, terse exchanges — sort of like XKCD but stupid. (Man: “Hi!” Woman: “I shaved my legs for this?”) The men are always smiling penises, and the women are squiggles in the shape of their pubic hair. Squiggles can vary by size and type.
Be careful when you’ve been chosen for a creative revelation like this. The less convinced you look, the more insistent the person gets about his genius.
But the trauma I felt, watching those banal prattling penises and vaginas appear in front of me, is only a distant memory. It was Monday around 5 AM.
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