We're The Millers

So against my better judgement, I went to the NY premiere of We're the Millers, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jennifer Aniston on her way into the Ziegfield theatre.  I'm not a fan, and am squarely team Angelina (the motorcycle riding, lesbian cutter who gets high and drinks blood like a vampire Angelina, not the UN ambassador, changing the world humanitarian with half a dozen kids Angelina) but curiousity got the best of me and I said fuck it, let's take a chance.

Movie premieres can be a giant clusterfuck, and this was no exception, with fans lined up at the barricades like a better dressed Occupy Wall Street outpost when I arrived.  I found a spot between some Italian tourists and a group of flaming black queens straight out of Paris is Burning and waited.  And waited.  And waited, while the Italians yammered in one ear and the queens went on and on about Justin and Miley and Selena in the other ear until I thought my head would explode from gay overdose, because yes, there is such a thing and it was all over West 54th street that night.  I managed to get a shot of Ed Helms, who went down the line posing and signing for everyone...

but the crowd went nuts when Jason Sudeikis arrived with Olivia Wilde, and I couldn't get a clean shot, so it's a good thing he pimped the movie at Good Morning America the following week and was super nice, posing and signing autographs for all the fans.

 Nothing compared to the frenzy when Jennifer Aniston finally arrived at close to 7PM so she could sign a few autographs and then beg off to the press line because she was 'running late,' like who's fault is that?  The fans went NUTS, pushing and shoving like rabid dogs circling raw meat.  Autographers lunged like ninjas from every direction, blocking photos with their photoboards and knocking people out of the way to get the autograph they'd put on ebay as soon as they got back to their studio apartment in Staten Island that smells of cat piss and week old laundry, which is why this picture is a little blurry and you can't tell if she's pregnant or just bloated and gassy.  I'll just have to get her at the premiere of her next forgettable romantic comedy.