Maybe, he fantasizes, maybe I’ll run into Harvey and pitch him my idea (unwritten, of course) about this chick with piercings who hits rock  bottom until she meets this wise African-American counselor in the shelter who helps her rediscover her talent for singing blues, which in turn lets her find the strength to beat her addiction to both horse and abuse fantasies.

It doesn’t take long, however, before reality sets in.  All the reflected glory he was somehow able to bask in when he first arrived, spotting Mark Ruffalo at the airport, for instance, has rapidly lost its punch.  The stars have been whisked off to private parties our Loser can only dream about.  And so he wanders from venue to venue, hope fading, resentment building, wanting nothing more than to be beamed back home into his own bed.

And yet, miraculously, by the time Sundance 2005 rolls around, all the misery and disappointment has evaporated into thin air.  The Loser is ready to roll again.  This year, he thinks, I’ll get into the Hugo Boss party!!

Pal, we’ve got to talk.  This is your friend E-man, biggest loser of all.  The only difference between you and me is:  I KNOW I’M A LOSER.  I accept it. I fucking revel in it.  No longer for me the fawning admiration of stars, the feeling that someone else’s success is going to somehow rub off on me.

No, sirree, I openly hate anyone who’s done better than me, taking extraordinary pleasure in the failures of moguls, honchos, and movie stars.

Do I sound like your kind of guy?  Probably not, but if you’re just the tiniest bit curious, e-mail me your embittered complaints.  You’ll discover that if we pathetic losers band together, it’s not quite as bad as suffering alone. 

That’s E-man@secondbestthemovie.com.  Remember, the only thing worse than being a loser is pretending you’re not.