Pound of flesh

Did the movie yesterday, "My Pal's Hoochie." Should be a good flick, the director did my flavor-fav movie about Los Angeles: "Defective and Mundane." The movie has a scene in it where the lead character makes his girlfriend tell him the truth about his dick and love-making ability. Not the nice things you say, but the absolute, real truth. He's in that rare mood to hear the truth.

Anyway, "My Pal Hoochie" was shooting down in my old stomping grounds of Hermosa Beach, at the Fabulous Atkins Diet Center. The good doctor got very rich, so he built a castle on the sea where he served people eggs and bacon, but no hash browns.

The ballroom we are in is exquisite, it's decked out to look like a charity auction. I'm a rich patron, sitting at a table with my young trophy wife. In a tux, nice tux I might add. Just yesterday I played a non-vocal local yokel from Ohio, today I'm a swell.

At the table next to me are the STARS. And they are some big ones. Shrimpy Dude from Mally McGuiver show, Fanny O'Shea ACADEMY-AWARD winner from the movie Ferretville, Jan Poolbag (great character actor and sister to Don Poolbag), Chelia Curious (genuis star of the aforementioned "Defective and Mundane") and the mega-watt woman, of the JUMBO-fied celebrity marriage: Genuine Whalepound.

Genuine Whalepound (parent's were actor/hippies, named her Genuine high on the dope), called "Genny Whale" by the Tabloids. She has carried on the celebrity marriage of the decade to Mean Spittle. Mean Spittle. Once in a movie, his close-up was so lush, I thought, "I'd fuck him twice for good measure."

Mean Spittle and Genuine Whalepound had carried on a public courtship, a public marriage, and it would appear now, a public breakup. Genny Whale was at the table, trying to act, to laff at the jokes, but she looked distracted. And of course, every extra was sneaking looks at her, the crew, all of us wondering how she was holding up. My gay lover told me that three publications had moved up their publishing date just to accomodate issues devoted solely to the breakup.

The pappa-ratsies were circling the building looking for Whale carrion. Even the Key Grip on this movie was a fucking star. He's prolly the most famous Key Grip on planet earth: Opal Bob's hubbie, Stan Nazgul. I have never heard a Key Grip called to by name on a set, and often. And deferred to.

"What should we do now Stan?" Almost as if saying his name invoked the magic of the Cute Girl herself, Opal Bob. I had to give it up to Stan, he's definately the hottest Key Grip ever, an occupation usually reseved for trolls and root-hogs.

I saw Opal Bob and Stan Nagzul arguing outside of a 7-11. There were two very young peeps in a very expensive car, and they both had on baseball caps and shades, meanwhile it was overcast and raining. Opal Bob flashed her crocadile teeth and I knew it was them. If you have a nice car in LA, you can have one young, nice-looking person in it, but if it's two, one's gotta be old and decripit. The ATM machine of the relationship. Two beautiful people in a nice car, can only be a celebrity hookup. Plus I knew they had property in the neighborhood.

The My Pal Hoochie scene was snappy and wicked: they were making fun of the dumb shit people have at charity auctions in LA. Dialgue:

"Rat Fallenfork will knit you a sweater-vest."

"Be an Extra on the show Governor!"

"Who would pay $1000 to be an extra?"

Only the uninitiated thought I. Chelia Curious was definately trying to keep spirits up here. She kept joking with all the other stars, but Genny Whale would give her only the polite laff, and then look off in the distance.

We had guards posted at the various entrances to the ballroom, it was tense. The film was also crawling with gal-pals, me thinks the director is a lesbian, and good for her. Was nice to have such a girly feeling on the set. Do chix colloborate more than dudes? My experience has shown it to be true, lest I get dragged in front of the Stereo Typers.

Most sets feel like warzones, the folks dressed in camoflague, the walkie's talking, and yet no one's dying. Here the A.D.'s were not of the overwhelmed variety, just doing their job on a movie set. Met a nice kid who's parents own a cute lil' playhouse in Arcadia. I talked to him a long time, and then he excused himself to go to the bathroom. I hope I didn't freak him out as the gabby extra eccentric. The kid is going to play Curt Flood (the man who broke Baseball's Reserve Clause) in a play at his parent's place. I had noticed this playhouse before, and in my other life in accounting had tried to book it for our accounting christmas party.

My pal from Nepal was back, and I saved a seat for him. I tell him the weird contrast of my jobs: at Hollywood Death Cab it's talk, talk, talk for four hours, and here's it' shut-the-fuck-up for 8 hours. odd.

Weird chick from Paris who looked like Pricilla Presely sat next to me. When I first sat down, I was amongst all girls (they had been to wardrobe first for some reason), so I was one of the first guys in this all girl-section. I remarked to Pricilla that I felt like I was back in the choir. Ya know, the choir being the domain of the gals, with a few gay dudes like me innit. She looked at me blank. Okay. Finally, she started to talk to me about her Learn Spanish! workbook she was filling out. She had found a story funny about a pilot who turned out to be a "hitchhiker."

I corrected her misread: "I think that's hijacker."

She started to tell me about being at a party in Paris and being hit-on by Mickey Rourke for about an hour. She thought he was perfectly charming. Then she went to another party where Mickey was also at that night, and she said hello.

"Who are you?" said Mickey. She was sure he was on drugs, and we talked about his speed habit, how it pockmarks you skin, makes your cheeks puff out, etc. Our conversations peetered out, and I was staring straight ahead again.

She starts laffing again, and I ask her whasso funny?

"Oh this story I'm reading, it's about a pilot who's really a hijacker," and she proceeds to tell me the whole story of the spanish-book airline for the SECOND time! What the???

There's a big mirror in front of me in this waiting area. I keep making faces in it, animated faces, proud faces, determined not to get that beaten-down extra face.

It's odd to see all these well-dressed extras pumping water like 18th century farmers. We've been given a strange water contraption for drinking out of, you have to pump it to get water. It's also eerie to be so close to the ocean, an angry ocean at that. It's blowing hard today, and the elements make you think of how tiny you are should the shit go down. The Tsunami claimed many folks, and there's a big scary ocean right next to us, with earthquake faults no doubt running under it. In fact, in our extra's tent, the tent threatened to billow up and swallow us at any moment, leaving the extra's swimming in canvas, trying not to get hit by the sharp nails used to fasten joints. I didn't bring a book today, no pad to write on, so I'm forced to fancy.

I'm constructing elaborate fantasies about suddenly speaking in a scene, improving a genuis moment that makes the director realize I'm the missing element of the film. Has this happened? Ever?

This shit is a lot harder to do once you've tasted the union $$$. I'm working non-union today, and for a bit, until I have cleared the forty-five day period for union joining. Has to be forty-five daze from when I did my union jobs on Visionquest.

What about being an extra is so desparate? It is it a legitmate thing to do? A trap for all the goys with stars in their eyes? The only jewish person I ever met in this had Tourette's. Wait, that's not true, the gal's who's sister wrote a best-selling book was doing my last boat movie. I even saw an extra on some HBO documentary today, and he looked off. Extras always seem beaten to me, and like smudged duplicates of the originals. Originals like Genny Whale, forced to divorce with cameras crammed up her ass.