Last night’s Annette Bening tribute at the Santa Barbara Film Festival (i.e., a bestowing of the American Riviera Award at the Arlington theatre) was a pleasure — good conversation between Bening and SBIFF festival chief Roger Durling, a toney film-clip reel that Durling had personally supervised in editing, a gracious award-presenting speech from Kevin Costner and a pace that moved right along.

An elegant after-party was held at the sprawling Montecito estate of SBIFF board of director honcho Jeff Barbakow and his wife Sharon. Anne Thompson, Dana Harris and I corralled the attention of Warren Beatty, Bening’s legendary husband, for 25 or 30 minutes, covering several bases including 21st Century film distribution and the ridiculous cost of high-end, ultra-high-def home theatre systems.

A Focus Features Oscar strategist is contending (naturally) that Bening, a Best Actress contender for The Kids Are All Right, is surging from her Golden Globe win and an entirely possible if not expected (she says) SAG win, and that Deadline‘s Pete Hammond is now predicting a Bening win and that “she’s due” and all that. Hey, if it happens, fine. I’ll be stunned if Natalie Portman doesn’t take it but whatever.

A friend with a migraine is sleeping it off in my Santa Barbara hotel room, so I went down to a Starbucks at the corner of State and Cota to do some filing. I saw an empty table with a cup of latte-or-whatever sitting on top of it, but no one in either chair. I figured the person who’d ordered was in the bathroom. The general rule, of course, is that single customers can save a chair but not a whole table, which are frequently shared. So I sat down in one of the chairs and plugged in the computer, etc.

Knock-knock. Some tall guy outside who was talking on his cell phone was tapping on the window next to the table and gesturing at the coffee cup. I grinned and gestured as if to say, “Yes, that’s your coffee and your chair, but you don’t own the table, pal….sorry.” He rapped on the window again, more sharply this time, emphasizing that the coffee cup meant that he has hunkies and does in fact own the table, including both chairs. My inner response was one of ridicule and disdain, but I shrugged and half-smiled as if to say, “Gee, I don’t think so, but you’re definitely assured of a seat when you’ve finished arguing with your girlfriend or whatever and you come back inside.”

The guy (heavyish, bison-like, mid 40s, big feet, shorts) frowned and pivoted and rounded the corner and came over to the table. I went to myself, “Okay, here we go…confrontation time.” But he just grabbed the coffee and gave me a dirty look and went back outside. Compare this asshole to a typical Cairo demonstrator, desperate to effect change and running down tear-gassed streets and dodging bullets, etc.

Why stop with Egypt? Let the revolutionary wildfire spread across borders and continents and into conference rooms. Get rid of every greedy, corrupted and insensitive top dog in every country, city, corporation and poorly-managed Walmart. Cleanse the world of all snakes and dogs in one great tidal backwash. Obviously I’m joking, but why can’t the fever just spread up and down the Nile and out into the Mediterranean and across the oceans? The idea is thrilling.

Yesterday morning the conventional wisdom was that either that (a) Mubarak, his family and associates leave Cairo in a helicopter in the wee hours, or (b) Cairo will become another Tiananmen Square. Now the word is that Cairo cops and the military are holding back, and that Mubarak and his family leaving is only a matter of time.

I love this paragraph from a recent Huffington Post summary: “A 43-year-old teacher, Rafaat Mubarak, said the appointment of the president’s intelligence chief and longtime confidant, Omar Suleiman, as vice president did not satisfy the protesters. ‘This is all nonsense,’ he said. ‘They will not fool us anymore. We want the head of the snake. If he is appointed by Mubarak, then he is just one more member of the gang. We are not speaking about a branch in a tree, we are talking about the roots.”

This is nearly a week old and covered with dust, but the universe isn’t big enough for two icky-sticky downer movies about poor Linda Lovelace. I wasn’t overjoyed about Matthew Wilder‘s Inferno (the former Lindsay Lohan project, now starring Malin Akerman) but I was willing to deal with it on some level. But a second competing version starring Kate Hudson as Linda and James Franco as Chuck Traynor is just impossible. There’s just not enough psychic space for both. One of them has to go. In fact, kill them both. Wait a minute…

Brainstorm: Combine both casts for a single film about Linda Lovelace (Hudson) dealing with (a) the fiendish Traynor and porn-industry exploitation and (b) at the same time coping with a Twilight Zone-ish realization that there’s another Linda Lovelace living in a parallel universe — a regular housewife and Walmart employee — who’s plotting to take over her life and career as a famous porn star. The weird thing is that the “other” Linda Lovelace (Akerman) doesn’t even look like the original. At first they fight each other in a kind of Uma Thurman in Kill Bill style, barefoot kickboxing with samurai swords, and then they team up as a two-for-one porn pair. They eventually become lesbian lovers, and then they adopt two kids — a girl and a boy. Plus they rewrite history by starting their own production company, kicking Traynor out of their lives, and eventually becoming leading voices in the feminist movement. And then in the late ’80s one of them becomes HIV-positive, gets cancer and dies.