Fuckstop Hotel

I got paid $100 bux yesterday. I wanted to fall to my knees and kiss the Assistant Director's work boots. Actually he was the Second Assistant Director. That's who you are usually in the custody of: the 2nd A.D, or the 2nd-2nd A.D. Pretty sad that I was so grateful for $100 bux: it used to take about 3 hours of work for me to achieve. I can't imagine living on what I've been making recently, even if I lived five to a room, bought dollar t-shirts and took the bus, I would still be accruing debt. But, I could be a chick in a burka somewhere in Muslim land, about to be stoned death because my cousin raped me, and I brought sin upon our house. SO, I got that going for me, which is nice.

Speaking of bills, I saw the owner of our location (a funkified motel and diner out near giant power transformers: YES, it is a tumor!) going through his wad of cash. Large black fella, also had a new Vette, and some vintage caddies and such. Also had girlies poppin' their heads outta some of the motel rooms. We were right near the Five Freeway, so I have to believe this a trucker fuckstop. Maybe get your speed here too. Was it white of me to see a large black guy, old cadillac, roll of money, scantily clad women and immediately think "Pimp."??? Am I a realist or a racist?

I'm about to transcribe what I wrote on the set of this Diner/Motel/Fuckstop. I relied on a second grade skill--cram your work in the spaces--I only had one sheet of paper. Back in second grade a special conference was called with my parents to address this gross aberation from Midwest norms. The 2nd-2nd saw me writing and asked what it was.

"Scribbling," I said.

Well, here's the scribble: Big fat extra today named Blake. Blake told me people in the Midwest dress like slobs, although his demeanor suggested he is no stranger to the slovenly life. We were asked to come dressed (extras generally must come dressed in costume, with two complete changes) to the set as midwest truckstop patrons. Blake looked exactly like the pony-tailed know-it-all owner of the comic shop on The Simpsons. Right down go the balding and the greazy ponytail.

Blake broadcasts. Seems to be a commonality of the background bunch I've met so far: zero listening skills. No understanding of a conversations gift exchange. Just broadcasting. Now, he may listen to you, but just as a breath to reload his world views. Blake rode out from Culver city to our SUN-LAND location on a Vespa, which he polished, and rode around the parking lot on breaks. That's one very long haul from Culver City for a Vespa Scooter, but he assured me his scooter goes 60 miles an hour, and he was about to trade this in for one that hits 90. Blake repeated that "the midwest is a frozen tundra" (three times). Folks like Blake make me understand why our politicians repeat phrases over and over as soothing spells for our righteousness craved. Blake also clarifies for me the source of much background broadcasting impetus: despite our job's requirement that we are slightly animated chairs, our humanity is compelled to spill out whenever given the chance. Familiar equation: Repression leads to over-expression. Thus, you have the fatty chatty named Blake. Blake overeats on the set to compensate for his low status and perceived slights from the A.D.s, and he up his communication to radio transmitter wattage fighting against the job's demand for silence.

Blake's bretheran in the Fatty Chatty club worked with me two days ago on the hit sitcom: "Some People Like Soda." This guy's radio station W-MEE! was in danger of creating a lynch mob of his fellow Backies. Not to mention the vain tick of constantly combing his hair in-between takes, like a foppish fonzie. Other Backies on "Some People Like Soda" hid behind the sets. Hiding seems to be another theme: to truly disapear into the background. Some of it I get: you don't want to be placed standing on your feet for 5 hours, while the director admonishes the cast of 9 years to read the lines exactly how he hears them in his head. Then the director goes over (mind you, this is a rehearsal) and laffs SO LOUD at the jokes he wrote now being delivered by the cast in exactly his stylings.

"Look Mommy, I made a poopy, LOOK AT ME!" CLAP, CLAP, CLAP for Jerry the Director!

Anyway, we were supposed to be on a loop of leaving and coming into this long scene, to effect movement, and a lot of the Backies were ducking behind set pieces to avoid being shuttled back in. How lazy do you have to be to avoid doing the very few something, in a job that asks you to do nothing most of the time?

We had a super kind Second-Second on Some People Like Soda, unlike the certified C-U-N-T I had on my shoot with Fondue George, and who then popped up again when I shot U.S. Cake/Drill Team. She wore Peanuts shirts to each shoot, usually a good sign, although the slogan's she picked signaled her sunny demeanor: one had the great quote "I got a Rock" from the Halloween special, where all the kids examine their halloween haul's and Charlie Brown realizes he got a rock. The other one had something about "Not Liking People." Meanwhile she's dealing with 200 of them on set. She would start commands like "Well, my parent's taught me manners, so ..." implying we obviously were reared by goats, and selfish ones at that. While I've given some examples of loathseome backies today, remember, I'm describing the most henious, the one's that pop out. They broadcast in stereo, unfortunately, so they often become the stereotype. Extra's really do fufill the recipe for entertainment: equal parts revulsion mixed with equal parts empathy.

Whoops, now back at our Fuckstop Hotel shoot, Blake is broadcasting in my area again, oblivious to the fact that I'm trying to convey solitude by concentrating on what I'm writing. Blake sez he's got his teeth redone. $32,000 he sez. How? He was on a realtiy show called Mr. Nobody where hot chix date schmedly-looking dudes. Just an average joe with $32,000 teeth paid for by Mr. Nobody. Now Blake is telling us about $50 tips he gets from the prince of Botswanna, a frequenter of the night club Blake bounces for.

As I told you earlier, the set I worked on with Blake was a defunct diner used only for filming now. This should clue you in to the schlock factor of using a "diner." The genre and setting has been maximized. If you want real midwesterner's feeding, you need to create a fake chain, a "Dandy Lions!" The Lurleen-type diner waitress is an icon now, like a keystone cop, and she was paired with a trucker looking a trucker from the 80s. Our director and director of photography were german, so I forgave them.

I could not forgive myself. In a foolish attempt to see if anyone was being bothered by Blake as much as I was, I struck up a converation with very done lady in a folding chair (the super pro extras bring their own folding chairs). Her rack looked silicon-packed, and she was too old to be wearing a Jay-Lo hat, but I just had to confirm that Blake was annoying. She confirmed. She even told me she asked quite loudly to the A.D. if they had any duck tape to shut down Blake's blather. Then she went on for a long time about how you have to make sure you get tangible financial things from men, because they are all out for one thing. She was thinking about suing the doctor she was dating because he wouldn't take her to Spain. She was just about as bad as Blake, with a litany of woes and wrongs, and no real desire to converse.

Sleep sets in, but I'll try and describe some more of the Some People Like Soda escapades tomorrow. More fake boobs and fake modesty figure in this story.