"you ARE working tomorrow"

"You ARE working tomorrow." That's how you get calls from your "call-in" service. They have a relationship with Central Casting, who casts all jobs. So, if you chose to pay for a "call-in" service (otherwise you won't work), then you sign an agreement that you MUST accept work, unless you've previously stated you aren't available. So, even if they haven't called you in two months -- "You ARE working tomorrow."

A community college in Pomona. It seems to have an agriculture culture about it. Barns. Livestok. Our call is 9:00 for some, 9:30 others. The Second-Second Director calls out our names, and a lady background performer is confused. It takes her awhile to grasp there were two call-times, two sets of people. She's got an earpiece in, so this also adds another layer of density to her countenance. She has much volume in her exchanges with folks because of her earpiece. I look at her and wonder "How did she end up here?" Of course, we all know who that question is really directed at.

I meet up with a wiry fellow I haven't seen since the HBO show "Boobs (new one about woman and her two singular talents). The wiry fellow remembers my name. Me, not so much. He then tells me to remember his name, because he will write something famous. The sadness of this is fairly overwhelming to me. Again -- who am I really sad for?

Wardrobe went smoothly -- too easy I realize, as the wardrobe witches move among us -- tugging on belts, casting glances that reek of askew. You want to apologize to every couch you ever looked up-and-down at. The disdain is sensory, like tasting asprin that lingers too long on your tongue. These gals hate that they are not designing at some other level, and you realize you are the bain of their existence. Like a rabid political extremist, who thinks the world would be better if we only eliminated "X" and now he's stuck face-to-face with said "X." Hate rays that really deserve a sound effect as they scan your body and its dressing. In the end, I'm asked to remove my coat. Shew.

Movie I am working on today is called "Sing for your Supper." We are playing bus passengers, as an aspiring singer goes to Hollywood. Dress-down. No one said "poor" on our recorded extra call-in number, but they didn't have to. We're also doing a Vegas scene, so I had to bring two changes of clothes. Needing to bring two pieces of wardrobe bothered me way more than it should have, and I ended up in an argument with a fellow Backie about this. My understanding is -- being in the Union precludes you from being a wardrobe mule. Only required to show up, dressed for your best idea of the part. Don't need options. But the Backie on set challenged me and I realized -- I don't konw. Just set wisdom I've garnered from some Union Background blowhard -- when means automatically suspect. Who knows what nonesense they will spout, where their authority comes from. Yet, I remain righteous in my denial of anyone asking me to bring "options." How did I turn into an embittered caricature of an entitled union member?

A woman blathers to my right -- mispronounces Jack Nicholson's last name. Can't remember the movie he was in called "Chinatown." Oy. Oy and Vey, Attorneys at Law. Throughout the day she regales fellow background artists with her travels of the world. She's seen more than me, but at least I know how to pronounce Jack's name I hurrumph to myself, while I faintly hear her say "I've never been to Lisbon" ...

As I arrived on set today I saw the grips erecting a huge lighting grid. The ants scurry, constructing their edifice. Those grips work just as hard on good movies as well as shit piles.

Our second-second, the keeper of the background inmates looks to be 24 and part of the ruling tribe. Somebodies daughter who daddy made the phone call for. Ah, envy, my constant companion these days. Wouldn't I make a phone call for my daughter if I had one? Why don't I have a daughter? My judges spare me nothing.

It's a gray day, the kind Loudon Wainwright calls the best of LA. Once you've been here a while. I'm enjoying the lack of sun, when a dude comes up and says "Burritos don't count! Pizza don't count! Gotta have a salad or it's a meal penalty!" and blusters off to the next group of huddled mass extras. Some extra play cards, others talk of the Lakers. It's now 5:00PM and we haven't been to set yet.

We're now on set. Punk rawk girl with flame short hair, beret-wearing beat-up jazz guy. Applachian lookin' white gal. We are the bus crew. Seems like Hollywood bound bus scenes always encourage the heightened cliches. If you took a 60s movie bus, compated to an 80s, a 2000 -- the characters survive the era. Maybe more rural hayseeds riding the bus back in the day ...

I can feel my Mickey D hashbrowns tumbling in my stomach. I ate 5 over the course of the day, catering left them out.

I'm texting back and forth with my buddy Blankie -- we're both on set, but I haven't been placed on the bus yet. Blankie is across town in a speaking role on the final episode of VET Hospital, a long-running pooch show. When this blog started out we both were navigating our way through show-biz. Now, she's got speaking roles. I hear a background person near me spewing self-help blah-blah. My vitrol cauldron starts bubbling ...

Maybe I should cultivate a background legend for myself. The Bored rich guy with investments who does background. I could be like Billy, the cornpone backie telling everyone he mets within the first second about his reality show still in development after five years. Or, Grace Jones, the tall chick who told off Lollie Maam of the Golden Maams. Apparently Lollie caught Grace eating food that was upper echelon grub, and she said loudly "How'd the cockroach get in here?"

Grace: "I'm not a cockroach and nobody watches this shit show anyway."

Grace got escorted off the set that day, but she always claims she got paid anyway.

I look over and see 2 Hollywood Death cab pals. One a driver, one a tourguide. The tourguide has been a stand-in for about 2 months on this movie. He's raking it in. He always works. He's got someone at Central Casting who loves him. He's wearing a prince valient wig.

The main character is wearing the same wig, with fake buck teeth. He's coming to Hollywood, and carrying a pig. It's always nice to see such reasoned looks at the middle of the country come tumbling from the fertile mind of the ruling tribe.

Thankfully, a poor extra falls and has a seizure. You can see the look on the director's face -- my $$$$ movie is being held up by the lowest-of-the-low, but I can't look pissed, otherwise I'll show I have zero humanity. It's a great moment to see him caught in. The poor dude having the seizure is speaking in tongues.

We are brought back to base camp, never having gotten on the bus. They jam us into a makeshift Vegas scene, where suddenly, some of my favorite actors and actresses appear in supporting roles. We are fans, pappa-ratsy of the stars entering the darkness of a tent to be replaced with CGI. We have flash cameras that run out of flash, the wardrobe witches never materialized, and we are wearing the same clothes we had for the sad-sack bus to Hollywood. An extra tries to make a joke in a moment of silence -- does he think the director will hear him and give him a line? The prop people ask us about five times -- "please don't hit the flash until we're rolling" As soon as they walk away I count 3 flashes going off in the crowd. Oh yeah, now I remember why we are hated.

Journey's Journey

I got a call at Hollywood Death Cab. I had just finished a brutal shift, where I had been reviewed by one of my various nemisi. (Nemisi -- anyone who doesn't recognize my immediate brilliance and promote me ruler of the galaxy). The call was for what we call in the extra trade "a journey." (Journey -- meaning you've got to travel fast and IMMEDIATELY to some location where they are in need of extras).

In hushed tones: "Can you do a journey?" asked the booker. Her urgency made me say yes, despite the fact that I had just worked a long shift.

"It's for Journey," she said next. This confused me.

"I said yes, I'll do the Journey."

"No, it's for Journey. The Journey. The Journey is for Journey."

Now we had gone into that magical realm where words become sound and lose their meaning. It's cheap classic acid without doing the acid. We've all done it as kids -- say a word that is a linchpin of your existence over and over until it's a collection of hysterical sounds. Your reality shatters and you'll see yourself shift shapes should you be foolish enough to look in a mirror while saying "Journey" "Journey" "Journey." I was not about to let this woman at my booking agency trip me out.

"Wait a minute -- Journey is playing? The band."

Exasperated: "Yes. Sheezus. Why is that so hard for everyone to grasp."

I gathered that I was not the first to have this dilemma. Not so special after all, I thought (mom was right). The extra booker had to tell extras all day that they were getting a "Journey" to be the audience for the real band "Journey" and she was seeing how extras reacted to this potent blend of cheap-acid-magic and over-loading of poorly wired brain boards.

I knew this gal had to endure a bunch of feeble humor when the extras would exit their befuddlement to get the joke -- A journey to see Journey -- so I spared her any comment and got the info.

I arrived to find a couple of my Hollywood Death Cab driver's doing the dirty work of lugging extras to-and-from set. This scene was a crowd shot, so everyone was annoyed and amped up the sheer number of background in one place. Signs had been posted everywhere to keep the background out of food, prime parking, restrooms, etc. On a smaller call, the crew doesn't care of you pilfer some crafty, but on a large call like this -- background would attack like boll weevils if given the chance.

I saw a dude on set I recognized. He and I had just worked a period show where he had lectured me about sloth. He was right in his lecture, but also rude and without tact. A perfect candidate for Background Land. He had no memory of working the scene with me, even though it was a fairly specific, one-on-one scene where we were told by the second-second to argue about opera. A voice-over artist would fill in the words later, but we were allowed to see the script of those words. It stung, I was wishing I could do them, but instead was just an extra fake-mouthing an opera argument. For this dude, his brain just moved on to his next smoke-bump or meal penalty -- he had forgotten this moment completely.

For all the moments of vacuity I document in Extra-world, it would be fair to ask the question: Then, why? Why put yourself into a world where taking someone's chair could get you knifed? Where people behave without basic social niceties? This shoot provided a perfect example why.

I was placed in the concert scene as a "Bro-Daddy." I was a slightly older guy who loved Journey. Apparently, they had booked concert goers, and to the extra's casting agency -- this meant young. But the reality is -- the concert goers at a Journey concert would be wizened. So the "journey call to see Journey" was for peeps like me -- dudes who thought they could still rock it.
Of course, I immediately left my place in the crowd (a good backy knows when the second-seconds are overwhelmed and can't keep track) and ran towards the leads. I love the leads. Big stars of the big comedy movies out now. Funny and profane comedies which will one day be referred to in the same breath as the Lubitsch touch, or a Sturges film.

I couldn't get right next to the leads, a lot of peeps had jostled for that spot, but I was close. I got to watch them improv various ridiculous movement of male heavy metal concert experience. Thus, what they were calling on the set, a Bro-Daddy. Guys who hang out with guys in ultra-male environments. Like a Journey concert.

At one point, Jarred Abramowitz, the star of the current comedy "I love you Peter Marshall" told a story about this t-shirt he had gotten in Thailand. It was a bad knock-off Garfield shirt, with the witless cat saying in broken english "I wanna bad day ouchie!"

I did not have to audition for this job and beat out 250 other actors. I just showed up, and was able to jump around to the band Journey, enjoying the eighty-plus playings of "Wheel in the Sky" we endured. I almost learned all the words to this song, a resume skill to be certain. I got to act with some of my favorite comedy stars in close proximity. I got to watch the nerd-bomb director come up to them and over direct them. I got to watch the comedy actors nod their heads "yes, fuck off, we know what we're doing."

At one point, Judd Paulson, my comedy idol, started pulling his shirt over his head at the concert. Beavis and Butthead style. It was such a genius improv, and certainly not in the script. It could be an iconic moment, and it came from him, not the nerd-bomb director. Immediately after this take, where he created this physical bit, the director came up to him and said how cool that was, and then went on to elaborate a bunch of unnecessary directions and motivations that would have ruined what the actors were creating. Paulson and Abramovitz were so on top of their game, and giving so much, and yet needy nerd-bomb director would come up each time and over-complicate things with more stupidity.

Watching the real Journey on stage was good fun too. They would pretend to rock out to their song, and they had their own people doing guitar tech when there was no sound coming from the guitar. Playback. I saw the guitar tech handling the guitar in between takes and tuning it. Lord.

The drummer for Journey was the only one creating sound. That was cool. He was drumming that Wheel in the Sky like he was headed there. As this song looped and looped all night, it reminded me of a documentary I had watched once -- where a kid had taken bad acid and was in a mental hospital singing "Wheel in the Sky" over and over. For eternity. At least I knew it was only for a day. (Journey! Journey! Journey!)

It was also good fun on set to see the camera ops work this giant concert crane. The camera would come flying in, almost grazing the tops of people's heads. I was hoping it could hit me and I could fake a seizure.

Speaking of seizure's -- an extra had one. All the Journey lights and pyrotechnics, strobes -- had induced a mini-stroke of a seizure. They took the person out, clearing a way through extras who were about eat. People were grumbling bout losing their place in line to get a coveted burrito, just cuz "some dude can't handle his strobe shit."

Another great moment in BackyLand. Because we were in a real club (the Cosmo Gardens), their were all the nooks and crannies of an old theater. This extra had found a spot, in a closet, BEHIND an ice machine, so that he didn't have to go out. I even saw a second-second shining a light back in the closet, nazi-style, looking for extras. This Ann Frank-extra was so perfectly camoued, he never had to go to set and ate his burrito in peace. Behind a broken ice machine, in a closet.

Sad part was later when I was tired, and could no longer stand on my feet, I found a seat in the deep background. The guy next to me did not even move on takes, we were buried so deep. Meanwhile, next to us, two girls whirled and danced, their jugs flying out of their club-tops, and their fat stomachs exposed. They knew they were hot girls and the camera was directly on them. Only it wasn't, it was miles in the front. But they didn't care, they were making a movie all their own. In a post with plenty of definitions, that's the definition of being an extra.

I left with exhilaration. I had gotten in line before they told us to get our vouchers signed. A second-second came out huffing "who told these people to get in line! no one told them to!" I had been staring daggers at the second-second all night. He was mean with mean-face. Looked like one of the Hanson Bros. goons from Slapshot. We were all about to be busted, put at the far back of the line, yelled at like bad children.


The wardrobe lady did not care about what had happened or why, or justice. She was ready to go home. She told the mean-faced second-second: "Too bad, too late. I'm ready to hand out their vouchers." Ah ha ah aha ah ha.

Then, I jumped into the shorter SAG line and was out.

Then, my car was parked in the most perfect place in the lot. Ahead of everyone. I had saved an hour, which at 3 in the morning, is like gold.

A Day in the Sun

Despite my raging performance anxiety;

Despite my rapidly advancing years;

Despite my ability to fuck-up the easiest gimme:

I managed to book a gig, and did said gig this A.M.

A well-paid, lucrative gig. The kinda gig that draws millions here, only to find out they are now members of the waitstaff. Wait for your turn that may never come.

The kinda gig that is like a sunny day at the Rosebowl, that causes midwesterns watching to make a mental note to leave their hidey-holes and venture west.

A well-placed friend, who for years has always given me short shrift, was talked into letting me do a little something-something.

7 national commercials. I did them today. Seven. A whole campaign. Walky&Talky. Living the high life. Eating the good food on set. Being pampered, called "talent." The only thing better would be on an english set where you're called "artist."

The place was tricked out. The waiting room had it's own free lunch catering staff. In-house. They had a piano with a humidor on top of it. Fully-stocked. Oh yes, two cigars went home with me.

Young assistants ran around making sure I had whatever I wanted to drink. I dropped an anti-anxiety pill earlier in the day, so I knew not to mix in scotch. This time ...

I had booked this gig because I spoke up. I have a friend who writes commercials, who often calls me up when he's stuck. I provide free inspiration, and in this case a lot of free lines. I told him since he wasn't paying me, that he should let me do the performance. Bold move, but he was like -- fine. You audition in front of Fox (yup, Network baby!), and let them pick you -- or -- the guy they always use for their commercials.

Well, Fox picked me.

And I showed up today, like a little fledgling Fox, doing my lines, walking my walks, and talking to the extras hired to fill out our commercial. Little did they know that just a few short days ago -- I was one of them.

It was playing a creepy weirdo, so I got to be creepy and weird all day. I blasted at my highest creepy frequency and the waves went through everyone in nauseous surges. I gave them all sorts of different takes, ideas, and variance.

My friend was on set, and I think he was blown away by how good I was. He may see me less as his annoying, shirt-tugging friend ("lemme in the biz, lemme in the biz!") and as a genuine talent. Other extars were imitating my lines and laughing. I'm funny -- I win!

I have booked precious few gigs in this town out of auditions. I usually do the math in an audition, and say "why am I better than the 35 guys in the room? The 500 who's headshots got mailed in?"

But this time I beat out the Fox Network's main go-to guy for commercials. He's had a long career as a commercial pitchman, and he's their dude.

Well, not today. I got the job. I won the audition. I got paid the stupid $$.

how to stay sane in Wacky Backy Land -- work once a year

Booked my first job in slightly over a year. The strike didn't help. Not being registered at Extra's Management certainly didn't help. I had re-upped with them in January. Not unlike re-upping to go back into Iraq. Psychic-land-mines. Booby traps. Suicide Career Bombers.

Lulled into complacency by them not getting me work, I forgot that without a prior reservation from you -- if they get you work you must go. So I found myself driving into a parking garage at 6:30AM in Culver City, CA. As I was getting out my wardrobe, an extra came in honking for me to move so they could park. In a parking garage full of empty spots, I had to immediately close my door so this extra could park. I felt the ANGER surging up in me like an elevator in a high rise. I start calling her a "fuck bitch" (after she had left, of course). Back in background battle mode, willing to gut someone for early AM horn honking?

Having not worked for a year, I'm surprised to see the dude who walks around singing showtunes to himself. He's much more mellow -- medication?

Three seconds into it, a background person say to me, "You know, Robert Broms, right?"

"Ah, no."

"Oh, he has many power plus seminars where you learn how to maximize ..."

Ah, yes. I'm back in Wacky Backy Land.

Our Second-Second comes over to introduce himself. He looks to be 18. Nothing like having to ask 18 year olds if you can go poo-poo-pee-pee. His power extends to your functions on all levels.

"If you guys could just hang out for a second that would be so AMA-ZING!" he says with this little lilt on amazing I've come to notice in 20-somethings.

As I sit pondering the spread of a catch-phrase among the generation that will stomp me into oblivion, I notice that there are quite a few backies here from my past. How did these people make it during the strike? How can they still be doing this life? One extra admits he did porn extra work during the strike.

"Yeah, it was a take-off on 300. They called it 300 ... COCKS!"

He's telling this funny story and a garden variety extra dumb-ass interrupts him -- "Did anyone move my chair?"

I point dramatically at the chair sitting right next to him with all this stupid garden-variety extra dumb-ass stuff on it.

Not a word of thanks, but mumbles to himself as he starts picking through his wretched refuse. Maybe he thinks I moved it. It's already moved to DefChair 3 -- Code Blue -- Emergency status because the 18-year-old Second-Second announces "There are only 20 chairs, so if you could just use one -- that would be so AMA-ZING!"

And then while I gear myself up for the inevitable chair riot -- a doggy! An extra has brought a doggie! The extra addresses her as "Maggy!"

Oh, Maggy is so freakin' cute. I've never seen this before on set. The Second-Second seems okay with it. Maybe because in his 18 years on this green orb he's never seen an extra bring a dog to set and there's no parameters for such behavior.

Meanwhile the owner just bolts off. And grabs a voucher and breakfast.


He then comes over to feed the little gal a sausage. If this dog hangs around sets, she will get huge. People will feed her constantly.


This one background bitch starts bitching about the bitch. "Dogs suck." Someone laughs looking at Maggie-the-doggy eating a sausage. "Laughing sucks," this girl sez. Later she will burst into an australian accent for the better part of the afternoon, saying such common aussie phrases as "I want to rape you with a steak knife." One moron backie compliments on her accent, which means we are treated to this for another hour.

After this anger-bitch has turned my stomach, I decide to go to the Porta-potty to relieve myself of her toxins and my own. As I settle in down for a long-winter's-crap, the house indeed starts rocking. They are sucking the sewage out of the porta-poddy, and I nearly tip over. Not to mention there is an unholy suction on my dangling goodies as the suction seems to extend up the pipes to my own throne.

When I come back this girl is now lecturing someone close by "Always say 'Copy That" to an AD when you mean Yes." Oh boy. She also dispenses "Did you hear Tom Crack got his SAG card? I can't believe that's his real name, I thought he just said it on sets to be a shit, but he showed me the SAG card." Somewhere Tom Crack is plotting to see his name on a marquee.

Other backies are talking about the preponderence of felons in background work. I first delved into this on The Business, a KCRW program. My segments starts at 18:25 into the program:

http://www.kcrw.com/etc/programs/tb/tb060501pellicano_wiretappin

Now the 18 year old Second-Second calls out my name to go be placed on set. He's memorized all 20 of our sorry sobriquets. I am placed next to Brandon Walsh from Beverly Hills 90210. Well, not the real one, but a franklin mint facsimile thereof. Really close. I wonder if this show is about an alternate reality, where Brenda and Brandon owned an antique shop (that's where we're located today). The show is actually about these Dinasours who can skateboard. My pal Blankie worked on this show, which is a spin-off of a show about Crocodiles who could skateboard. She was on Croc-Freestyles! for five years. Blankie bought a condo off of it. I immediately called her up and asked her if she knew they were doing a sequel. She did not, and called her agent. Maybe we'll get Blankie back in the animal skateboard world.

As I'm contemplating all this, I realize I don't know where I'm supposed to walk. Panicked, I run to the 18-year-0ld-second-second. "You didn't tell me where to land!" I truly shreik. Why do I want to do a good job? Why do I want this 18 year old to realize I'm committed to the craft of background arts?

It's at this point that the freak makes his first appearance to talk to me. He's a young kid, I saw him claiming to the other backies he's done jail time and he's a rapper. Oh boy.

"Can you do the windmill?" he asks me.

"Is that on hip-hop dance moves VI?" I answer.

"Are you clowning me?"

"Yes, I am a clown."

He glares.

"I am. I am a clown. I admit it!" This confuses him and he leaves.

Later he comes back into a circle of background people on break and announces:

"Let's say a prayer before we go in there, let the home team win and everybody else lose!"

Everyone tries to ignore him. Then he starts laughing and braying like a homeless person wishing to be visible. The IGNORE button is pushed even harder by all the backies. This ups his state of agitation. He walks over to the prettiest girl on set and touches her arm saying:

"Every teacher tells you -- what are you all about?"

She loses it. For all of us. Afraid of risking a beat-down, an infection from this fool.

"I'm not your friend! Just shut up! Quit talking to me!"

He starts to argue with her.

"Why are you still talking to me? There's nothing to say, stop it, leave me alone."

The 18 year old second-second wonders over. He thought he was in show biz with his cute headset and "AMA-ZING!" but he's actually breaking up fights in the locked ward. This scene handled, the second-second walks back to the street, where they are trying to keep passerbys from walking into the scene.

"Just 30 seconds, just wait 30 seconds and you can walk." Angry Angelenos, fed up with films, production companies in their neighborhood ignore him, and walk thru. Background and real people mingle. I'm walking 20 feet, and then I'm going to wait 20 seconds and walk back those same 20 feet. But the man I'm walking with, has his son by his side, and they are going somewhere. He starts talking to me:

"My kid is fat. He starts asking about breakfast at dinner. But he's a good kid." When he gets to the other side where I stop, the other AD shushes him like he's a dumb-dumb extra who doesn't know he's suppose to pantomime, not actually talk. He flicks his hand at the AD, and the AD has to jerk back so as not to get popped in the face. And then he and his son go to wherever they are going. The AD pats me on the butt to walk back the same 20 feet I just came from.

Scientology Swindle #456.3

I haven't worked background since January, so I did what every good Backie does when bored -- read the backgroundbeat.com hoping for flame-outs, name-calling, righteous indignation and anonymous potshots at stars.

Previously on this blog, I've linked to some funny doings on set by Scientology (http://no-biz.blogspot.com/2005/03/science-cosmo-tologists.html), but I hadn't seen this one. Even though it's an old post, it certainly caught my eye:

http://www.backgroundbeat.com/index.php?showtopic=1802

Whoops.

Given what I've read they're up to at Virginia Tech these daze, it doesn't surprise me:

http://www.hollywoodinterrupted.com/archives/update_the_scientology_vultures_have_landed_at_virginia_tech.phtml

Madrid McDonald film!

Lord, I was excited. I was to be in a Madrid McDonald film. You know, the heiress to the humburger fortune. The one who let her lesbian lover take digital film of her while they double-dildoed their way to glory. Madrid was outraged when her lover sold the film to a porn distributer, but not so outraged as to share in the profits. Remember the scene in the porn film where they actually tidy up their down-there hair. And then start arguing about leaving bras on the floor (Madrid: "you can trip on them! that's how mummy broke her cock-sack!").



The film shot down in Long Beach at the Goodyear Blimp Hangar. I drove down at 4AM to beat the traffic, and then napped at base camp for 3 hours. We were doing scenes of her trying to thumb a ride on the blimp (cuz she's dumb -- get it?). Madrid had her loveable suger glider with her. I mean, an actual creature, that she keeps as a pet. I'm not sure if it's legal, but on every break, the sugar glider keeper had to bring the fur ball to Madrid to stroke.



You say sugar glider, I say a Rat's uncle. Anyway, this creature would often shreik during takes, so they had to move it back to the trailer. This caused Madrid to have a fit. She then got on the cell phone and proceeded to talk in the most shrill harridan/harpy voice I've ever witnessed, with a thousand FUCKS sprinkled in like too much sugar on a glazed doughnut. "I don't want my FUCKING voice on it!" "I want my FUCKING glider with me! I paid too much FUCKING money for that fucking Sugar Maple Fucking Glider!"

A party-gal pal of mine said she saw Madrid lift her skirt, squat and piss on a dance floor in Vegas. I skeptically told my gay lover, and he said he's already heard it from two other sources. She's almost like a grotesque creation of Roald Dahl, you want to see Willy Wonka open the floor beneath her to plop Madrid down with rest of the bad eggs ...

Willy Wonka: The Egg-dicator can tell the difference between a good egg and a bad egg. If it's a good egg, then it's fresh and ready for packaging. But if it's a bad egg, then down the chute.
Grandpa Joe: It's an educated Egg-dicator.





Another girl was walking around, who was the fatest girl I had ever seen on a film set. Men do the hiring for these things, and they usually stock the pond with sex-bombs for all the production positions. Every now and then, the stray Sweet Sue will sneak in ... which was why I so suprised at the obese person wondering around, and talking with authority and confidence. Then I got up close and realized -- great, great fat suit. Great, great make-up job. It was an actress. Duh, I knew the film was called the The Brat and the Fat, but now it made sense. Usually someone this obese nows their place, and I was ashamed that I was having thoughts like "okay fattie, no one wants to hear your opinion." I knew the cameraman, and he told me she's actually a very beautiful girl.

It was nice to see the wardrobe witches get their come uppance for a change. A SAG rep was on set, and he admonished them for bullying extras who had shown up, following the instructions they had gotten over the phone for wardrobe. The wardrobe witches were threatening to send people home without pay because they didn't like their costumes. To pay us back, the wardrobe wicca made us wait in the rain to sign out for a quite a while, before acknowleding we were outside.

My pal the cameraman, talked to me a couple of times during the day. It was funny to see the naked envy in the eyes of the other extras. How did I know him? Who was I? I love extras for their primal responses to situations: rage, hatred, joy. They are emotional electrons flying around in a particle accelerator called a set.

The cameraman had told me to go "talk to my people." I didn't understand, until I realized we had a SAG rep on set. That's what he meant. I thought he meant extras, and I was sort of annoyed, like I wasn't supposed to talk to him, the crew. I guess I'm getting that extra ability to flash to rage too. I fear I'm headed for a Day of the Locusts ending.


The fim was obviously small budge, maybe even a vanity project. The script was tepid, and I felt bad for the actors trying to up the funny in it. The two male leads walked around giddy. One of them had stared in the movie "Jarts" about a rag-tag team of losers who go to the National Jarts Championship. At one point the screenwriter showed up and spoke to the actors. She sounded none too bright, but maybe she saves her word wonders for the page. She's got more produced feature screenplays then me, that's for sure.

The weird part of the day was this extra they sat me with. Immediately he sat down and started telling me what I was supposed to do. "You are an old man who wants to buy my company."

"Don't EVER direct me," I said. I did it as comedy, but also trying to back him off.

Then he kept trying to GAY the scene up, touching me, saying we were lovers. In five seconds he downloaded his sad life tale -- his father was an alcholic who beat him. He hates authority. In fact, when my pal the cameraman came over and talked to us, I could see his neck muscles tighten.

"Are you okay?" I said.

He sighed big and said: "Authority"

He kept doing HILARIOUS straight-guy parodies of gay people, and I kept gritting my teeth, giving the ha-ha look. Finally, on one take, I GAYED him right back. Ultra-gayed him, from the gayest part of my gay soul. A look that sez I AM GAY, I HAVE DONE ALL THE THINGS YOU THINK ARE DISGUSTING -- AND MORE!!!!! Laser-Gayed his ass. Put my hand on his and shot gay rays through his entire body.

His hair stood on end. I'm not kidding.

He moved his chair back like it was on wheels. It screeched louder than the Sugar Glider.

We got yelled at by an A.D. for too much movement in the background.

The next two times we did the scene, he just mimed saying "A, B, C, A, B, C"

Like a good lil' extra. Didn't say another word to me. Just for kicks I tried to sit next to him on the cramped extra bus taking us back to base camp, and he lept up saying

"Not funny, dude."

MEAT TAKES ITS TOLL

My stint as a horror-able actor is over. That's what they called us at Hollywood Death Cab --- "Horror-able Actors." Tortured. Last night was the last night.

Fuck yeah.

Remind me to never do this again. Many of my pals in the ESP program (http://no-biz.blogspot.com/2005/04/surge-and-purge.html) would come through the maze, and I would think -- dumb ass me. I would stare at the stupid door in front of my face, and think "time to go boo." Again. How many times did I push that door open and boo. Scare. Wait. Boo. A fucked song on a shitty juke-box. In that moment of repetition -- you can contemplate the utter lameness of your situation, humanity, etc. Now I know why those Ford workers would go shoot up people at McDonalds. Scare. Wait. Boo.

God knows I tried to vary it. I came up with a million different bits. All of these bits, however, will be lost like tears in rain. I really don't think I can do a Night of Meat Maze Scare Bits at the Coronet Theater. But they did make people laff, and scream. That was the best actually -- the scream to laff. Get them scared, then make them laff. Very satisfying. Something the serial killer doesn't get to enjoy. He makes them scream, but there's never the payoff of their laff. Only his maniacal one. I've often wondered does a serial killer laff that laff and then go -- "Geez, that was cliche."

My bits worked so well, I gave them to some of my extremely unfunny Maze workers and they got laffs with them. You know you have a good bit when the folks who think uttering an 80s SNL catchphrase is the height of humor, can get gravy from your bits. "I'm on the Toilet," became a catchphrase in the maze. All of us who hid behind doors, would have the jokers who would knock on them. You pop the door open and scream annoyed "I'm on the Toilet!" If they knocked again, I would say "I'm on Myspace, go away!" And if they did one more time -- "I'm on your Mama!" and then gyrate like I was putting my part inside their mamma's receptacle.

It was cool that my "I'm on the Toilet" spread around the maze. If I jumped out to scare people and they were non-plussed, I would then drop character and act as bored as them -- "We've got chips and salsa back here," I would say, motioning to my hiding place. "We're watching BET Countdown."

Ah yes, so many laffs, but do they transfer? Doubtful. You have to trust me -- I gave out mirth, I had applause breaks, I was sensational. Do my employers know this? Nah, I was just another miscreant in a bad fright-wig.

There was much merriment last night. Three times our maze was shut down. They have a button they can push -- they call it The Panic Button. We got lectures during training what to do when The Panic Button is pushed. "GET OUT OF THE MAZE IMMEDIATELY if the Panic Button is pushed." They gravity of their tones in this admonishment made sure that's what I did. I asked long-time Hollywood Death Cab employees about this and they confirmed. A Panic Button means a dude is most likely beating a Horror-able actor who scared him too much. A Panic Button means some gang members are beating each other. In our case, the Panic Button meant people were setting off our sprinkler system.

The Meat Maze had an elaborate set of sprinkers set up. The maze is built out of cheap plywood, and has tons of hastily wired electrical effects. Tinder for the flames. The sprinkler system is a necessary precaution to our meat maze. Three times last night, I would hear the Panic Button announcement (a syrupy-fakey announcr voice saying "Please exit the maze, we apologize for any inconvenience, and don't forget to have some of our world famous chili fries at Trader Ted's.") Three times when all my fellow Meat Maze miscreants gathered outside after the alarm -- I would see the results. Soaked Horror-able actors. The sprinkler had gone off in their area. Finally, because this was backing up the line so -- Management just told us to keep working if the sprinkler went off, and they disabled The Panic Button. "Come outside the maze and get us if anything significant happens," they said. Oh Jesus, the idea of not being able to push the Panic Button when 3 Paul Bunyon gang members came at me did my nerves no good.

Speaking of the gargantuian Paul Bunyons, I have noticed the fat do not scare. You can't scare a fat man. Nor, a fat woman. There were a lot of squat fat hogs walking through the maze. I don't know why a meat maze attracted the morbidly obese, but it did. The later it got -- the fatter it got. After 10PM it was exclusively big fat hogs, who took pride in not being scairt, and walked through with angry sullen faces, dreaming of Trader Ted's chili fries. My gay lover said the Fat are used to being mocked, so someone jumping in their face brings up childhood memories of torment. They are not afraid of being killed, because killers go for skinny blondes. I dunno, if I was a serial killer, wouldn't you want to go for the fatty? All that meat to carve? I sure did, after exhorting myself, putting energy forth, and having some 400 pound hog say "Hi!" back to me, in that aggressively fat non-plussed way. Fuck the fatties, I wished for my plastic cleaver to become sharpened steel, so I could see if a slaughter would awaken their fear.

There was also a contigent of hoplessly homosexual fellows working in the maze. Per usual, when faced with lisping, mincing, flouncing, sasheying fruits, I run as far as my fleet faggy feet can carry me. That old grade school instinct -- this other fellow's queerness will cast asperions on me. Meanwhile, these two on-fire kids gravitated toward each other, and would spend break time comparing their favorite musicals.



I pretended to care about the World Series, and watched from afar. One of the gay boys had to play a character in the maze called Meat Shit. He was a guy who ate too much of the meat products, and they had rigged up a machine to make him look like he was shitting out meat all night. Horrible, really, but the little girls love it. His partner in gayness was this other dude playing BuzzSaw, a character with a Buzz-Saw inbedded in his brain, which actually buzzed. They both spent a lot of time in make-up and tech, getting their various parts working, and no doubts there parts were working overtime once they got off. The one even rolled his eyes at me when I was watching the World Series, having no idea that my lover and I would soon be out-fouling him in the sexual pervision race. My lover kept saying to me all during the Maze -- "I love the Monster funk on you." Apparently, being in the maze, make-up, wig, madness -- my extremeties got extremely fragrent.

When it was done, we were told there would be a raffle for anyone who stayed the course. Many quit over the No Good Nights, because they hours sucked, and the breaks sucked, and it was shitty job. However, if you stayed all seven night -- there would be a raffle! You might win something!

I did not win anything, but my freedom.