Care Bear vs. Briar Rabbit

What is the newscaster doing below the desk? Endless speculation on this one -- the top coat and tie, coiffed hair -- must be an elegant diversion for the filth going on below our eye line. I'm on the pot in our house, and I'm looking straight into our newscaster bathroom mirror. It's got those overly ACTOR! round light bulbs around it, and I can only see myself from about half the torso up. I'm wearing a coat and nice shirt. In the mirror I look like a respectable person, but below the mirror's vision, I'm sending out little brown soldiers to their ultimate doom. Maybe there are toilets behind those news desks.

I've decided I have a technique to make life more exciting. Excitement is generally some sort of stress (danger, fear, gutters) and then release. Ahhhhhhhhhh, that's over. So, while the President has an exciting job, because he gets stressed out about terrorists (GOD DAMN IT THE TERRORISTS MIGHT KILL ALL OF US, GOD DAMN IT LET'S HANDLE THIS SHIT), I need to just induce the same amount of stress over things. It doesn't matter that they are trivial things, that nobody should ever ratchet up the DEF-CON RED-5 level of stress and worry to, what matters is that I induce the stress with believability. GOD DAMN IT WE'RE GOING ON A TRIP, HOW AM I GOING TO GOD DAMN FIT ALL THE SHIT IN THE CAR. FUCK THAT, HOW AM I GOING TO FIT ALL THE SHIT IN THE SUITCASE? DOES ANYONE GIVE A GOOD GOD DAMN ABOUT HOW THIS IS GOING TO HAPPEN? IT DOESN'T HAPPEN BY MAGIC FOLKS, SOMEBODIES GOTTA MAKE IT FIT, AND THAT SOMEONE IS MUCK-FUCK ME!

Then, I pack the car, it does all fit, and I buy a fountain soda w/lotsa ice on the way outta town and go "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh." You can't tell me that experience was much different than the decision to bomb Kabul.

"Sir, should we bomb Kabul?"

"You mean KABOOM! Hell yes boy!"

If ever there was a city with a name more seductive to bombers. In fact, he's such a laid-back folksy frat boy prez, he might even got a less a kick outta ka-booming Kabul, then I did in packing my car. Me packing my car is more exciting then the prez's stupid old war, just like the prez flying older planes in the national guard is more dangerous then John Kerry being on a boat going down the Meh Kong River in '68.

So, I'm sitting in this bunny suit. Head-to-toe bunny. It's a Saturday, I've just worked two daze of extra gigs in a row, straight off the plane from my vacation, but I decide to work this gig. A quasi-pal writes for Mad TV, and he's put out the call for people to be in his sketch. He loves people in bear suits, and has done several of these sketches. Today, he's decided that Bear Town will be challenged by Bunny Town, hence, I'm in a bunny suit. A lotta the bunnies are all top-flight improv peeps. Everyone is fairly funny on set. It's hard not to be funny, when you're smoking reefer, and holding your bunny head in your hands.

I don't think my pal secured permits, neighbors are not enjoying the hallicination of thousands of bunnies walking their streets, owning their town. Well, that's not entirely true, a nice couple across the street has their kids out watching the festivities. I shout to them "Four years at Julliard for this." I'm sure most of the peeps in the bunny suits have liberal arts degrees. And parents back home shaking their heads at the madness of it all. We are doing a face-off with the bears, a sort of Braveheart walk across the field and fight your foe thing. I decide to be a karate bunny, and I make everyone laff with my hippity-hop karate steps and karate bunny chops. What could be funnier then a karate bunny? People are loving it, congratulating me. I'm a fucking top bunny. I even tell my pal, "hey, I just did a karate bunny thing."

"Yeah, Yeah," he sez. Kinda distracted. Or so I think. I go back and hang out in Bunny backstage (the writer's back yard actually) and swap stories with the other rabbits. I tell folks, once the rabbit head goes back on, I'm all bunny, zipped up in my rabbit recreation. I also complain to the Craft Service person that some of the fucking Bears are eating our food. Suck-ass Bears. They're gonna go down! I even tell one punk ass bear what he's got coming. He's a punk ass Panda bear, the only Panda bear in the bear crew, and he's wearing a hooded sweat shirt. He will soon come to rue this. During later battle sequences I grab hold of his hood and spin him around 360 degrees, the old helicopter move I perfected in my youth.

Right now, however, I'm just taunting him. He's the brother of the writer and a tad to aggressive for my tastes, I saw him thrashing some bunnies that did not look like play-acting. Panda's gonna get his punk-ass popped. Finally, amped up from all this bunny testerone, I decide to peak around the front yard. They're filming a bunny dressed in the traditional karate costume of white smock and black waist tie. Fuck! They stole my karate bunny idea and didn't even let me play it. The bastards.

I start to think, gee, how could they have a karate costume so quickly in the wardrobe truck. Yup, we had a wardrobe truck for this, and when I showed the wardrobe lady me in my bunny suit, I told her I had brought two extra bunny suits in the car if she didn't like it. She got the joke. Anyway, I'm wondering all of this, when I notice a script lying close.

"Karate Bunny comes out and scares Bears with wild moves. Bears watch moves and then devour bunny."

Shit. Why didn't they give us the scripts? Now my friend prolly thinks I was a toad and read the script and then decided to steal the Karate Bunnies thunder. Or, he's just pissed that he has a Karate Bunny hopping in his fight scene, distracting from his upcoming karate bunny bit. I'm one bummed out bunny now. Someone once explained that bunnies are like nature's fast food to hawks. They look down and see us, and we kind of resemble McDonald's french fries to them from way up there. I wish a hawk would come down and swoop me away. I feel like I'm always failing this dude, being too weird, too needy, too desparate, and now too much of a bunny blunderer.

Chair Bear

Un. Fucking. Real. More space spats. This whole chair-saving thing, the claiming of your domain with flag unfurled, is every bit as dicey as when practiced by nations. After talking about the danger of the disgruntled extra, it would seem I conjured up the spook. Bitchy Backie Queen seems to think one of her explorers had claimed this chair we are wrangling over in the name of Spain. But, my mason jar full of kool-aid had clearly shown her to be wrong. The kool-aid was placed under the chair, so as not to get spilled, and thus was an easy spot -- this is a pre-owned chair. Yet, she waited until I left and tried to put her clothes on the back of my chair. I even went up to her why she was doing this, and told her "that's my chair." So, when she left for a second, I moved them back to her OTHER chair (that's right, she was taking up two chairs. oh, the humanity of it).

Eventually, she returns. She informs me, "I'm just going to put the clothes back on the chair, where you're sitting,"

and I was like: "Uh, no-the-heck-you're-not!" So angry I lose track of how many double-negatives I have working against myself in the response. We haggle a bit about the kool aid under the chair, me mentioning it was my chair ("I didn't hear you." Of course she didn't). Finally, we stop arguing and sit next to each other, hating each other in silence. Then, she informs me I ned to move the chair-in-question over, her feifdom is growing.

"No-the-fuck-never, honey," I say with my tone, although the words that come outta my mouth are: "I'm at the edge of this rise already, sorry."

The extras are being held in a huge ballroom, but much of the space is off-limits due to being prepped for shooting. Around us, people have set up under a grand piano, like kids improvising forts in their parent's house. Any nook is utilized. I'm not giving up this prime position of both being under the light, on a riser above the ballroom, and close to the P.A. nerve-center for signing out, feeding, etc.

Then the churlish chair cheater makes a phone call. The caller finds out "you let me down when I needed you." She berates the caller for quite a spell.

"Top-water trolling," sez a sympathetic backie sitting next to me, watching, listening, missing none of this free soap opera. I ask him to explain, and he puts his finger to his lips "shhhhhhhhhhh."

Now the chair-bear is on another series of phone calls, pleading her case about reneging on an engagement to several more callers. "Don't you see, I had to cancel. You should be more understanding, you're not giving me any support." Then she informs me I need to move my chair again. Then she claims I'm taking her light.

"You're in my light!"

Finally, I'm compelled to face the harridan and lay out a careful recitation of the facts of chair eminient domain. Apparently, she thinks her possession of the chair dates back to yesterday, therefore she's indigenous to the chair. She has rights to the chair in perpetuity. I go through the bullet-points of my case. She goes silent in the face of my command of the chair facts. Now, I chew ice as loudly as possible at this point. I rumble the ice in my glass. I lean backwards and forward to keep her off balance about when the light will shine into her darkness.

"Can we work together?" she askes after realizing I'm actively trying to bother her. This after thoroughly antoginizing me? I giver her my "Uh, fuck-no-how, no-way" face.

Maybe we could take the case to the People's court and I can win "mental cruelty" money. It's easily my most serious confrontation in Background, made more volatile by the fact that we continue to sit next to each other after each fracas, haven't repaired to different corners of the room. I'm waiting for the next salvo. Stewing in my chair.

Devil's Disciples

Vibrating with rage at a velocity unmeasurable. So much for my post-vacation bliss. I come back to Backie-Land after a pleasant vacation in the sun. Normally, LA would qualify as a sunny spot, but during my abscence god almighty dropped an ark-load of rain. Houses went slip-sliding away. Our neighbor's stone fence went down the hill. I would call gay lover each night: "Is it still there?"

"I'm innit right now."

Today, as I'm driving to this gig, I'm noticing spouts of water shooting up outta the sewer grates on the freeway. I'm on my way to play a doctor for this movie about chewing tobacco called: "Savory Spittle." I'm already lathered up to face the dismissive wardrobe witch/warlock. I have come back to LA underprepared, with none of my nice clothes clean, things still at dry-cleaners, etc. Thus, to play a doctor, I don't have the requisite nice suit this scene requires (we are doctors in front of a U.S. Senate panel, investigating chewing tobacco). While I bought a great suit while thrifting in place away from LA, it was wadded up in my travel bag. Thrift Stores in Lost Anglos are picked over by wardrobe departments, Vintage Clothing Purchasers and General Hipsters. Down in retirement land where my folks live, there's an exdous from this earth, and folks leave lotsa clothes behind. The suit I got cost six dollars, and later I'll be at a pre-Oscar party in it talking to Val Ralph about my Hollywood Death Cab Tour.

Val Ralph, star of Kool Kats and more recently, Tether Ball. Val is a Big Fella, bigger than me, and I'm just this-short of huge.

"Hey Val, I'm a Hollywood Death Cab Tour Guide and I want to ask you a question."

"Sure, what's your name?" "Josh."

"Okay, Josh."

"Well, when we go by the famous Toy Factory, we always tell the story of Gem Scary dressing like a mad scientist and coming out and accosting our tour. He really did this."

Val chuckles.

"So, did you shoot around here?" sez me.

"Yeah, I shot exteriors at the Toy Factory for Terrible Toys III."

"Do you have any good stories?"

"No, not really."

"Can I make some up?"

"No, that would not be a good idea. Nice talking to you Josh."

Ah well. It was a great party, and we got to see Oscar winner Jamie Foxx get up and play some Ray Charles. It was at Spago's, and they had beets from Chino Farms. God bless my gay lover the suit, getting lower-caste-me into these celebrations.

Where was I: oh yes. I'm walking toward wardrobe on the set of Savory Spittle, the movie about chewing tobacco. They want us to provide doctor-worthy business suits -- in triplicate. Wear one, bring two. Fuck You. I've got my righteous rage surging at flood leves as I barrel towards the truck. Some poor lil' wardrobe missy has no idea what tsunami-force-vector-of-hate is cued up for her. The wardrobe lady looks at my clothes and realizes I am woefully underprepared.

"You don't even have a matching suit," she sez?

I take a deep breath to plead my case, but before I can spill a river of blah-blah on her, she puts up her "oh well" umbrella:

"Let's make you a Tobacco Industry Flack," sez she. Therefore, I'm in the classic khaki pants of the press, the red tie, and blue suit coat. Prep School or erstwhile member of the press, it's the standard uniform. Meanwhile, they are dressing the 22-year-old kid behind me to be a senator. Senator Slacker with his goatee. Shew. I make a mental note to myself to release the guage on my rage, I visualize a giant spigot opening, water flowing, shooting out from all the pent-up pressure, the anger swirls down the drain.

On vacation I had an in-appropriate meltdown with my dad that I'm still hand-wringing over. My pop tends to micro-manage us still, and I had one too many driving commands and corrections shouted at me. I erupted. Now, of course, I'm the bad guy and whatever point I had is lost under the bromide: "Josh has a rotten temper."

On one hand, I admit it: it's thrilling to be able to tap into such energy, there's a part-o-me that loves the rage rays radiating from my head. But, when I can't control them and get into a situation where the horse is riding me -- unacceptable. It's a little later on set now. We've just formed a line to get our parking validated. A blonde chick walks to the front, clearly ignoring the line. I butt-check her aside and form a shield to allow the people in line behind me to assume their rightful ascension. After this goes on for a while, she storms to the back of the line. Hrrumph!

I've decided I'm an older journalist, who's taken a postion with the Tobacco company to pay the bills (remember, I'm playing a Tobacco Flack here?). Flack = press liason, in case this term is bugging you. I like the premise of this film: Three lobyists call themselves the Devil's Disciples. One works for tobacco, another for Viagra, and the third for Porn. They are huge party pals, and it isn't until one starts to notice his amazing son, that he considers his ways. This is the tobacco guy.

The script was written by a son-of-a-famous person, and it's being directed by a son-of-a-famous person. Nepotism baby, nepotism. I have to admit, sometimes it's wrong to send people down the chute because of their cush entry into this tuff bizz. I was sure that Sofia Copolla was never going to endure, after her precious writing debut in New York Stories and her dreadful screen debut in GodFather III. Of course, people used her as their lightening rod of hate for every scion-of-a-famous person they ever saw get leapfrogged over the working wanks. And yet, she stayed the course, and made two amazing flicks: Virgin Suicides and Lost in Translation. So, I try to keep an open mind while the director does nothing to deter my from the thought he's such a sad and faded xerox of his father.

Also on this film is the omni-present character actor: Gimbol Grey. He's in every freakin' film, I believe there's a limo and police escort waiting for him at the end of every shoot, to shuttle him to his next location. He's great, he's playing a Senator, and doing a bang-up job with some wordy speeches. The lead seems nervous responding to Gimbol. Later I notice Gimbol on the steps of the Temple, watching with a wry smile, all the extra's smoking outside.

We're in a Masonic Temple in Rialto today, it's doubling as a hotel for a doctor's conference and a Senate panel. One of the great L.A. locations I love, hidden grandeur amongst the obvious. Or, as an extra next to me sez: "an intricate network of abstractions." I notice what must be a Mason walking around, surveying the Backie-Land terrain, and I approach him.

"Are you a Mason?"

"Yes."

"Are you a Free Mason, or an incarcerated one?"

Hard Stare from him.

"I'll bet you've heard that before."

"Yes, unfortunately."

Ahh, one of those moments where you forget you're not the first one to notice a person has a name like a popular song, which you blurt out like a goof, or that Free Masons is a funny title, and why are they free.

... I feel the sleepies approaching and go lie down behind a grand piano in the banquet room we are being held in. When I wake up, the room is cleared, and everyone has been placed on set but me. Whoops. I can't believe I slept that soundly. I hide and wait for them to come back.

Malted Chocolate Goodness Shake

Some odd gal on our extra's bus kept rambling. She had red hair and was overweight. She rambled about how Bob Fossee had no morals because he slept with bad and ugly dancers. She said that Richard Dreyfuss was the original dude on "All that Jazz," but left, cuz Fossee was bogarting the joint. She said that she loved the new Carl, Jr.'s "Malted Chocolate Goodness Shake." She was a graphic designer. She came next to me and told me she had a "Popular Theory." Her Popular Theory was that some day extras will get on a bus to go to set, and they'll take us to a remote location and kill us all. But, she felt that was amatuer, she felt she was really good at mass murder. It was at this point, that I separated from our red-headed fatty, and pretended to notice something of importance on the side of the Muslim worship area we were entering.

"Look, one of my relatives, left this plaque," I said. Although I'm not Muslim, nor Muslim-esque, nor Muslim-lite, it was a enuff of a distraction to get her to leave me. Praise Allah.

We were filming an episode of "Maximize Your Bile," a highly rated show on Cinemax. The ADs were certainly angry. One came into extra's holding and threatened to make us all go back into the sanctuary, until we told him who was sitting next to the star, David Lorry. Finally, David Lorry himself, desparate, and wanting to go home, came into Extra's Holding, jumped into the pit with the lepers, to find out: who was sitting next to him, so they could match the shot. It was strangely satisfying to see him beg to us, meanwhile we had been held in our seats in the sanctuary for five hours, with no bathroom breaks, and no soup.

Once again, there was soup on set, but if we wanted it: we had to steal it. How appropo, for this show was created by David Lorry, the man who made the term "Soup Nazi," famous. Lots of folks on set today were also on the Citizen Kane shoot of last week. I found out there had been a fight among extra's and the blade-runner-bouncers. What sport! What entertainment! I imagine them wrestling in the blood, the mud and the tears. And the Hay, which burns your skin. There was hay strewn everywhere to sop up the puddles. Also, apparently the "Car People" were of the highest echolon on Citizen Kane. They were extras who were booked with their cars, so they got to go directly to set. They had it better than the dog people, those booked with their dogs. While the dog people had a separate tent, the Car People got to SLEEP in their cars most of the night, and were never used the entire three daze. They had it even better then the peeps in a Red Cross tent, sheltered from the rain, and lying on cots. These Car People just listened to CDs the whole time, while we were fighting to be one of the human molecules bouncing around Cat Bruz's car. In fake or real rain. I hate those Car People.

Cell phones rang all day on set. Extras seem incapable of turning them on vibrate. 'Twas fun to watch David Lorry improv with the cast. The fat guy in the show kept talking the whole time. And, he wasn't funny. Louie Richard, the sad-sack comedian was on the show too, and I talked to him about being from Iowa. Poor Louie Richard just looks grey now, ashen-faced. Can you look that tired and still be healthy? Is he ill?

Sad little background dude was placed next to David Lorry, and David Lorry asked to have him removed. Apparently, this fella had fucked up his part on previous "Maximize Your Bile," and David said to the A.D., as the backie was being escorted out:

"I need someone who can act next to me."

Ouch. I had been talking to this Backie in line, and felt bad for him.

Fights almost broke out between extras over pushing: a 60-something extra took a swing at a buff 30-something extra, but he ducked and peeps jumped in between them. I thought they were goofing, and almost head-butted the older dude, as a playful thing. Another extra started yelling at the P.A.'s signing us out, that they had lost this extra's voucher. Later, on the way to the parking lot, the same extra asked me for a 35 mile ride. Sad sack dude.

One extra just blurted out things during our "quiet times" from time-to-time:

"When do we leave?"

"I want food!"

And, his best was to a sound guy standing on a chair:

"Sir, you should really use a ladder."

Just what every soundman wants, advice from an extra. On set, I got a call from gay lover, the suit, that he had extra tickies to the premiere to "Be Cool." So, I asked one backie who had said he was in the flick and wanted to go to the premie. He had asked the Gods for this, and I manifested his dream. In the end, he had an early call time, and was afraid to go to the party and booze, and then start smoking. Today was his first day off nicotine. Lame, to spit on God's gift, but the nicotine thing gave him a pass.

I also asked another gal, who's sis is friends with my lover, and she said yes. She had a grand time, and drank/danced and drank/danced, and tried to rub her bum-bum on my front-front. Uh, I'm certainly not going to let this happen on valentine's day (or any other day) with the nice lover who got us into the party watching us. No, I just did the matador dance, keeping her bull away from my red cock (cape), and lamenting where were these types of advances when I still thought I was straight?

Got to talk to Jan Fabulous, my favorite director, and a great actor outta Second City in Chicago. The chat was so long, I felt like he was on my talk show. Earlier in the day, I'm sitting in a Muslim sanctuary, as an anonymous face, and now I'm talking to Jan Fab. Fab is a favorite of backies everywhere, he's made great speeches and stories about his time in the background, and sticks up for us. He even brought a little battery-operated light, to shine on his face when he was doing extra work once.

The saddest thing at the premie, was me giving a leftover ticket to an autograph hound who sits outside the gates of the premie. I've seen him at these things before. He was so beaten down by life, that his wonka-welcome-to-the-chocolate-factory moment couldn't happen. The guard turned him back, even with his ticket. I found this out when I left the party. I wish I had tucked him in our group, so he could have gone. He ruined my benevolent fantasy and broke my heart.

Funny Series of Posts from Backgroundbeat.com re Citizen Kane

"uwishuwereSAG" posts:

On Citizen Kane there was a coffee / expresso cart with a sign that said "compliments from Cat Bruz". I've seen this company before, and their drinks are great, but the kid working the cart was an ass. He tried to pull the "crew only" thing, then when push came to shove said "well I guess we have to serve SAG but we don't want to". What kind of unprofessional shit is that? I picked up their card in case anyone else wants to let them know what they think: Mocha Kiss Coffee mochakisscoffee@aol.com 323-512-9800

>>>mistique then sez:

I am sure that Cat Bruz meant for the coffee to be for everyone! I heard that on one movie, he kicked over the craft service table when he heard their were separate crew and Extra craft services, and said "Not on my set!" Write to the producers.

>>>Jeremy Gursey: Hi Everyone- I am the owner of Mocha Kiss, and you have my sincerest appologies!!! We do believe that everyone is equal and in no way were we discriminating against any person or people. Everyone is important and everyone deserves great coffee! I think what happened in this case is, we try to take care of the working crew first, and when I say "working", I mean the crew that is hustling whether setting up lighting for a shot, pulling focus, or applying make-up for example. Our policy has been that we serve those crew members first and then we serve all others. What happens a lot, is that we get bombarded by sometimes hundreds of extras who are in holding and it makes it difficult to serve crew members who are working, especially on a job where we might serve for only 2 hrs. We absolutely do not have a problem serving background for you have a very important purpose in a film or television show. As for the comment made by the server on Citizen Kane, I sincerely appologize. He has been working very long hours, and he has probably having a bad day! It happens! Again my sincerest appologies!! Sincerely, Jeremy Gursey president Mocha Kiss Coffee

>>>Guest writes in to say: To Mr. Gursey -- I've been on sets where your company has served great hot and cold blended coffees. Ive appreciated the courtesy and quality each time. It's very gracious of you to apologize and I would like to apologize in kind. Most experienced professional background performers have pretty good manners, but some do not. Occasionally someone with less experience acts in an oafish manner---not realizing that they should always defer to crew members who need to get back and set up the next shot before background gets called in to work. A few also seem not to know that the decent thing to do when offered such a nice courtesy... is to be polite/not demanding and to offer thanks and at least consider leaving a gratuity. Ignorance is certainly no excuse, but I hope you know that most of us really do appreciate these great "perks". Respectfully, A Happy Latte with a shot of vanilla S.A.G. Extra who knows how to tip. Thanks to you and your employees.

>>> uh, oh, it's uwishuwereSAG:

uwishuwereSAG starts by quoting the previous post: "I hope you know that most of us really do appreciate these great 'perks'."

then u-wish-u-were-SAG sez:

I think you're a little confused. This isn't a perk and he's not giving anyone a gift. He's PAID to make coffee, just like someone at Starbucks, and he has no say as to who does and who doesn't get it so quit kissing his ass and making us all look like suck ups. I'm a SAG actor and I don't need to suck up to get what my contract says I'm entitled to anyway. He's doing a job just like the rest of us, and that's it.

last daze of Mr. Dubois

I go back to props, and ask if they have any signs. Oh sure, they'll give me one. I point out that I'd like to have the one with "Amanda DuBois" on it. The dude's annoyed, but he hands it to me. I guess I asked for too much. Ha, ha, whatever, I've got my sign again.

Props has asked the P.A.'s to tell us to quit ditching our props at various places in town. To take them back to props, or they'll keep us the extra HOURS it takes to gather them. An elderly black extra sez loud enough for the P.A. who just got off the megaphone admonishing this to us

"they'll never do this, that's total bullshit. they're gonna pay all these people the extra two hours? just drop your props and get outta this bullshit."

I can see the P.A. walk away steaming. Oh well, try not lying next time. I am finally on placed on the dreaded bridge. Till you've been to the bridge, you're not really battle-tested. It is here that we have read of the double-headed-hydra STEVE SIMON and his mud cannons of death. It is on this bridge that Backies dreams of the cush life have perished, that lungs swell with dirt. You can feel the tension everywhere before camera rolls, Backies craning their heads to find the Mud Thrower, and its master, STEVE SIMON. The bridge sits over a swollen river bed, an old railroad bridge, very scenic. But for us 300 nervous folks, it's a suspended target for STEVE SIMON to assail. We wonder if our tales will end up in song and story. Finally we hear "action!" And all we do is march, they don't even turn the sprinklers on us. I feel like I enlisted for combat in Iraq and ended up a cook in the mess. I'll come from this battle with no mud on my uniform. But also not in my lungs either.

The union extras are having it tough on this shoot. I've seen some shooed away from craft services (that's a no-no, union's supposed to be able to eat what the crew eats), and they can't bring their beloved chairs. The ubiquitous beach chair, that folds up in your satchel. I was so green my first day on set, I thought this black dude in dreads was carrying a musical instrument in his satchel. The chair has stirrups to put your feet in, some have built in toilets and T.V.s, massage fingers, a microwave, fridge, etc. Nope, no chairs today, just the curb and your suitcase as a pillow.

I love when non-union extras say "I'm in this for the money! I don't care whether I'm in the shot, as long as I get paid." If you're in this for the money, you can go work at Starbucks, get better money, and a uniform. You don't have to stare up at some Queen standing on the back of a wardrobe truck denouncing you for not bringing three extra business suits, sheilding your eyes from the blinding sun and the rage. You're in this cuz you think showbiz is glamorous, and you want to be close to it. Period. Maybe if you're in the union, you've gotten use to the life, the meals, the small amount of exertion. Maybe.

I was a good boy the night before, stayed with my group, and got reamed. Last in line for wardrobe, last in line for the buses back to the parking lot. We got out at 7:30AM. SO late, I decided to just sleep in my car for 2 and 1/2 hours before dealing with the Rush Hour traffic.

It was still raining on Friday morning. Friday rush hour traffic in the rain. On the Freeway Five. No thanks, my seats recline. I told one extra my plan before we got off set, and he said "the P.A.'s will make you leave the parking lot for liability." Bullshit. Extra's love to make grave pronoucements that sound based on fact, but I noticed several cars all who stayed and slept with me. If I could of, I would have slept till the calltime, that would have bought me almost 1.5 more hours of sleep, but I couldn't hack it in my car after a while.

The basecamp was a quagmire. The rain had reduced it to mudbath, our extra's tent had a hole in the roof. They had strewn hay everywhere to try and erdicate the puddles of water and mud. I was hanging with peeps I knew from early productions, one of them knew a fellow Hollywood Death Cab tour guide. Another pal was there, she's always ditching and avoiding work on set. She's quite good at it. I felt annoyed that she had spent so much of this shoot inside, whilest I got rained on, and had vicious reprisal dreams of being an A.D. and placing her under the sprinklers, or in the way of the mud cannon.

You get crazy on a set. The makeup lady and I had bonded. She kept painting my face with this streaky tears, like my face was muddy, but I had cried on it for days, because: "have you seen her? have you seen Amanda DuBois." Yup, I'm Mr. Dubois. I love sitting in the makeup chair and having someone attend to me. I'll even miss a meal for it, if you went to makeup at the start of the day, you risked having them shuffle you off to set without a first meal, they were hustling folks pretty good. I actually got my food and hid behind these giant crates, eating standing up in the rain, so that I could enjoy my food. I had showed up on time, waited in lines for makeup and wardrobe, I was going to have my food!

Extras kill me when they try to say that us getting fed is "nice." That we should be "grateful." Us getting fed is a convenience FOR THE PRODUCTION. It keeps us close at hand. It's the middle of the night in a small town, we can't wander and eat. Then, while we eat, they can yell at us. That's the worst. Remind me if I'm ever a director to let extras eat in peace. They've been getting directed around all day by bullhorns, let them have their half-hour meal in peace. Even in a horrid office environment, when you step out to lunch, you are free from your boss lecturing you. Unless you lunch with your boss, and then you're a toady or just stupid.

I talk for a long time with the gal who dated my Hollywood Death Cab pal. She was a former beauty pagent winner. I keep asking her pageant questions. She tries to defend the swimsuit competition as "showing off your athleticsm." I say it's girls in their underwear walking around. I convince her to get up front and crash the party on Cat Bruz's car. We've been set in the back of the scene, but we just sneak up front. This time his car is going very fast around a corner. We chase it, and she laffs the whole way. Then we hear the P.A.'s yelling at us again for smiling. I was grimacing cuz I was sprinting, but I wasn't smiling.

Oh, and Stanley Spongymeyere gets from out behind the camera. He was filming the scene, riding on an arm, sticking out precariusly from the camera car, in front of the picture car that Cat Bruz was in. As it gets closer to the end of the night, I notice one of the other groups is heading towards props. I leave my group and de-prop with this group, and follow this ride all the way through wardrobe and getting on the bus. I've ditched my beauty pagaent friend (when you're going stealth, you need to travel light), and I'm going home, a good hour before all my pals in the other groups. I was afraid right until I got in my car, they'd out me for ditching my group to go home early. But, I escape, it's all done and I drive home as the sun comes out for the first time in days. It's beautiful, the mountains are beautiful, I notice little hamlets tucked amongst the mountains and hills which are so green in the California winter. I promise to take my gay lover through here and back to set, and we do on Sunday. I show him all the places: Look, here's where the guy drank a forty ouncer every night. Here's the lady with the geese. Here's where they tied the eastern-looking-leaves on the trees. This is the place the turned into an antique store. This is the house of the family who complained it was 3AM and their kids couldn't sleep, so 100 extras on their front lawn tried to be quiet. Here's where all the heat lamps were, and the Mocca truck, and the In-and-Out burger truck, and this is where make-up put up little pup tents to shelter themselves from the rain. All gone now, like walking the battlefield at Antetim, the old soldier tries to explain the battleground to someone who wasn't there.

Mr. DuBois, what's your life path number?

I've chosen a placard for myself today on Citizen Kane. "Have you seen my daughter, Amanda DuBois?" So, I'm Mr. DuBois. Once again, the most deluded background artist in all of Hollywood, I'm building backstory and character for myself. Apparently, during our mass exdous, many of us are missing loved ones. On the railroad bridge there is a bulletin board of missing family members, and other background carrying signs saying who they are looking for. I never fail to ask any P.A., or passerby who looks at my sign (and most do), "have you seen her?" I do it with this overly pathetic face that makes people laff. Some of the response I get are:

"No."

"She's face down in the river."

"Yes, I see her, she's on your sign."

"She's tricking on main street."

To which I replied, "Awww, Daddy taught her well!" In fact, the video guy doing the "making of" dealie shoots me saying my "have you seen her" bit. Could this be my first spoken word in a Hollywood movie? Even if it ends up on the special's section of the DVD, I'll be happy. The sign I have has a picture of this pig-tailed cutie, Amanda DuBois. Real little girl, she's been joked about all day, and she doesn't even know it. Prolly a prop master's niece or nephew.

I brought my valuables today, and put them in a plastic baggie. I'm ready for rain now. It's really raining today, fairly hard. Our group leader today is awesome. Adam. Nicest P.A. or Second A.D. I have encountered. He gets us to lunch quick, gets us outta the rain, when the other P.A.s are letting their guys sit in the soup when the camera's not rolling. I'd climb a cliff for this guy. The first day, my group had a nasty chick who I've encountered on other movies. Harpy harridan shrew. Has that unhappy kintergarten teacher tone of voice that indicates her displeasure at having to talk to you. I ditched my group pretty quick that day, I couldn't deal with her.

Loads of doggies on set. Extras were picked to bring their dogs, and they get a special tent. Yes, the Dogs are treated better then the people. I try to go in their tent to steal food, but it's all kibbles and bits. My dogs are too ill-behaved to do this kinda work. They'd freak out with the stimulation of all these people&animals&mayhem.

Director Stanley Spongymeyer is unhappy. He's unhappy, because we're too happy. Extras are again laffing and smiling when they chase the car with star Cat Bruz, and it's showing up on the shot. They've got camera inside the car. The dalies have shown us to be grinning. Why not just CGI frowns on our faces? And for the first time, I see the man himself, Spongymeyer on set, come waltzing through smoking a big stogie. He's barking orders, but not too tweaked out. I remember seeing him once in Toys-R-Us, years ago, after he had finished a film shot on location in the orient for a year. He was filling up TWO shopping carts with toys for his kids. Daddies sorry he missed a year of your lives, but here's some toys!

I ask a couple of extras: what if this was real? this hurried exodus. Could Americans handle it? Iraquis, Europeans, Africans have all had to grab their shit and book in the last 50 years, but not us in the U.S. Most people gave the dirt-dumb answer:

"Fuck it maaaaaaaaaaan! I'd just stay put in my crib."

Yes, of course you would, you inconoclast. I want to see a scene in a movie where someone sez and does that exact thing, and then you see a giant boulder smash them while they are on the toilet.

Or, this one, "I'd grab a lady and make love." Yes, of course you would playah-player. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. These fools would be running for their lives.

Funny how New Yorker's love to make fun of Angeleno's for their illiteracy, yet everywhere on set I see cast&crew reading books, many of them staples of academia. The sky is so pretty tonight, looks like a backdrop, the clouds a violent pink. A matte painting almost. In this sky, we see Cat Bruz's helicopter land.

Meanwhile, I hear an extra holding court with two silly girls. I've enjoyed watching these ladies, oblivious to the rain, the cold, the standing, just laffing and laffing at their own jokes, making strange sounds, weird voices, their own orbit. They're having a grand time, punchy as drunks. Like Laverne & Shirley. Then this dude walks up to them and starts broadcasting:

"I really resonate with citrine. I love metaphysics. Many people are not ready for that kind of information. They need to let go and follow. I've been drinking water that I soak gems in. Emerald water."

The kid is kinda smart, but N-U-T-S. Now he's got the formerly giggly girls all sober and talking self-help, astrology, numerology, any logy that's dodgy.

"Vibrations, resistance, manifestations."

He won't drink black tea cuz it contains the wrong leaves, and he won't ingest sugar. He's from Columbus, Ohio. He tells them,

"I wanted a stereo, but I knew I wouldn't buy a new one. Then my stereo broke and I had to buy a new one. I manifested this."

"I wanted a surfboard to make a table, and I found one."

He went on some more about numerology:

"Fives are big things for manifestation. What's your life path number?"

What draws us humans to so patently foolish things? What causes us to crave the order of things unorderable? He keeps on spouting

"I'm giving power,"

"I'm into angels, Rapheal is my personal angel, but I actually communicate with Michael."

At this point our group has been un-used for a while, I lie down on a filthy street and put my head against my suitcase. I don't care, the sleep feels glorious, and we all look like street people at this point, beaten down by the rain and our lot in life. We haven't had access to sodas on this set, and I can only stay up drinking Mountain Dew. I hate coffee.

You really start to run down on a set at 3AM, after you've had lunch. I remember I used to say some night I would stay out drinking till the bars opened up at 6AM, but I always folded around 3AM. It's a black hour, 3AM, to try and stay awake and perform commands in the rain. Finally, we get to chase Cat Bruz's car again, and this time I manage to get up against the window, and I hear an A.D. yell to me "press your sign against the window!"

I do so, and I mouth to Cat Bruz "have you seen her?" and he's acting right back at me, shaking his head, disoreinted by the chaos around his car. It's cool, I didn't have to audition, to go to Julliard, to suffer the rounds of casting for this film: I just signed up to be an extra, and here I am looking Cat Bruz in the eye, and he's looking back at me, and we're acting up a storm.

Mr. DuBois I am, looking for Amanda. "Have you seen her?"

WHO ARE YOU?

The regal tone in which she said it, she may as well have said: "WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?" It's 5:30AM and I am leaving the set of Citizen Kane for the first time. I got to the parking lot at Knott's Berry Farm at 3:30PM. I hear peeps on the bus talking about how to get to the Five, which back roads to take. I'm thinking, and soon find myself saying "We're parked right next to the Five."

All the hard stares and silence on the bus confirm for me: I'm on the wrong bus.

"WHO ARE YOU?" sniffs the Queen of England next to me.

I want to say "I'm a mass murderer, I've got leprosy and I voted for Bush, you bitch!" But all I say is: "I think I'm on the wrong bus." It was so late, and some A.D. yelled at me to get on the bus in the middle of our base camp, so I hopped in. It was a crew bus, taking them back to crew parking, a vastly different location then ours at Knott's Berry Farm. Once I said "We're parked right next to the Five," this lady and the others fingered me for what I was: an extra on the bus, just trying to make his way home. I guess it was a karmic payback for ditching my props two shots before the martini, for sneaking to the very back of the set, the closest part to base camp, and ignoring the P.A. who told us to stop when we started running over this railroad bridge to get to base camp first, and get outta wardrobe. Still, even getting on the wrong bus, I was so ahead of the other 950 extras, I still ended up getting home an HOUR earlier then other peeps who waited paitently to be let off set, put away their props in a long line, etc., wait in the forever-line for wardrobe.

This fourteen hour day, in the middle of the night, getting rained on, smoked, it's all on non-union wages for me. Once you've tasted the nectar of union money, to work for McMoney again is a bitter pill that lodges in your throat. No luck mining a friend's connections, the First A.D. never helped me out. I'll try another short, chirpy e-mail today.

We are so large in extra numbers, we've been divided into groups, with giant signs saying "A," "B," "C," being carried around by P.A.'s like they are marching up to Golgotha to meet their maker. Or, like at a political convention! At one point, the P.A. asks me to carry the sign (like christ collapsing and Simon carrying the cross for him). I do so, but we have small numbers, and another P.A. holding a sign, mistaking me for a P.A., chides me in a competitive way "where are all your people?"

"We are from the Proud State of Rhode Island!," I say, "The smallest state in the union, but the toughest, and we cast our votes for Goldwater!" and then pump my sign like they used to do at the political conventions.

The P.A. just looks at me totally flummoxed. Ha ha to him. Our groups emerge from base camp, from wardrobe lines, and make-up lines (and getting lines put on my face in make-up) and march up the street to the small town director Stanley Spongymeyer has rented out. We are all herded through props, where they give us suitcases, bicycles, wagons, etc. All things to take our belongings on a mass exdous from town. Some backies try to avoid getting "propped" but they catch these people on set and give them a suitcase. Or a lantern. My suitcase is not too heavy, and when I put it on it's side, I can sit on it.

Our scene is walk from the town, and when Cat Bruz's car comes by, to mob him for help. At first peeps not only mob him, they act like they will drag him from the car, and kill him. The A.D.'s admonish we need to be desparate not homicidal. Also, some folks are literally pushing their face against the car and saying "Hi Cat!" and this ends up on camera. NO smiling! No laffing! There's a lot of megaphones out there, and they're all shouting at fever-pitched hysteria! I think this is why defying P.A.s is so delicious, after your every action is directed, running across a railroad bridge against their will feels like escape from Stalag 13. You've heard you're in a movie with Cat Bruz, but you really can't believe he's gonna show, till he leaps outta the car after a take, and goes bounding down the street, shaking extra's hands, smiling the grin that wants to take a bite outta the world, a webster's entry for "exuberance." He literally starts sprinting down the street once, admonishing his personal assistant to "come on!" and race him.

They brought him in by helicopter, and when it landed, it knocked over my kool-aid and stained my clothes. But it was Cat Bruz's helicopter, so you felt stained by a STAR! All the stories we had heard of him being mean and bad: just totally wrong. Extra's rumors seem to get stories 180 degress polar opposite wrong at times, when talking of the star's behavior. It makes me think the stars are all bi-polar, and depending upon when you catch them, you could hear tales of love, or tales of hate.

It's a cute lil' town we're in. As we arrived to set, the town's folk were streaming outta church, ashes on their head for this Ash Wednesday. I talk to some of the local tuff kids ("P.T. Loser" they say when a P.T. Cruiser passes by), I tell them we are all fleeing, and they need to run pack their shit. "Get out while you can!" I admonish them. Apparently Cat Bruz has the only car during this mass exdous. We bang on his car as he goes by, and one dude (stuntman) throws himself on the hood. I start to recognize the stuntmen when they place themselves amongst us to do stunts. "I detect the presence of a professional" I say to their backs, and they turn around and grin at me. Stuntmen prolly stunt their lives, but what lives, eh? Doing all that cool stuff while others rot in offices.

I'm playing the camera hog game. I keep inching towards where I think I'll get the best shot at getting at Cat Bruz's car. It's getting fast and furious around his car, I think other peeps in this 1000-strong call are thinking the same thing. I'm a big dude, and I'm literally lifted off my feet by the teeming mass boiling around the car. Once again, they caution us to PLEAD with the car, not ASSAULT it. They've closed off the streets of the town, but people still look from their windows. One guy stands on his porch, drinks a 40 ouncer, and then goes to bed. He'll do this every night.

The lil' town is off one of my favorite get-away roads in California. Several houses have geese, chicken, goats. An extra sez to me "A movie set is like a mini-country, and Stanley Spongymeyer is like the dictator." Really, he's a God, cuz he can make it rain. They have these huge rain things, water spouts, hung up by giant cranes. They make rain, and then the car with Cat Bruz innit has a spigot shooting water from it too. People avoid the rain, and the P.A.'s are literally shoving them into the water. "Follow the herd," I think, like the cattle going around the curved laybrintyth before they are slaughtered. I pass the railroad bridge, the same one I heard about extras being shot with mud on. I shudder. Hopefully no retakes on that scene. Clumps of extras are using this bridge to go back to basecamp, and a P.A. yells at them to not use the bridge, it's unsafe! Later, they'll pack almost all 1000 of us on this very same bridge. Liars. Liar, burn in fire.

A parking lot at Knott's Berry Farm fills with dread. The list if life.

What a fucking cattle call. People actually start going "Moo" as they are moving us from location to location. This is the mother of all cattle calls. 1000 is the number I've heard. With the briskness of the guards, excuse me, I mean the PAs, it's hard not to think: Auschwitz. There's been stories on the net of extra's mistreatment on this movie Citizen Kane. Every AD thinks: they'll be the zealot who will catch director Stanley Spongymeyer's eye.

You're told at point of entry, the parking lot: "LEAVE YOUR ALL YOUR EARTHLY POSSESSIONS BEHIND. YOU WON'T NEED THEM WHERE YOU ARE GOING." At a table they are pulling teeth and extracting gold fillings. Ahhh, show biz!! They have these guys who don't look A.D.s, but more like bouncers at a club from Blade Runner, shorn heads and sci-fi looking overcoats. They check your I.D. and voucher at the door of the bus (second time it's checked), and then pack the cattle on the bus with sharp sticks. The bus door closes, and the Blade-Runner-Bouncers come on and say again:

YOU WILL NOT NEED YOUR VALUABLES. DO NOT BRING YOUR CHAIRS."

"What, no chairs?," sez an extra who's clearly in a love affair with his portable folding chair.

The Blade-Runner-Bouncer sez something about "People making money ... mumble, mumble, mumble"

Uses his quiet voice indicating he's not sure why there's no space on set for the extra's chair, his womb. I have been reading the extra's reports from set on the net, jetting around to different sites, and it appears that someone called "STEVE SIMON" was satan. You see his name a lot, and usually in large caps: STEVE SIMON. I'm scairt to see STEVE SIMON and his flaming head of evil. Extras were being shot with mud cannons in this one scene when they are fleeing. Apparently STEVE SIMON personally picked peeps for the mud cannons and then fired them himself until they fell. Then he'd demand more extras from the holding tent and fire until they begged for medics. I feel like I'm on the front part of the rollar coaster ride, where you hear the wheels clacking and groaning with each inch they take you higher.

Where is this bus taking us? Rollar Coasters loom behind us as we leave the parking lot of Knott's Berry Farm. The laffable phone message for this shoot, left by the harpy-harridan-hag of pushiness, lied to us: "You'll only be getting sprinkled on!" The P.A.'s have made it very clear on the bus: "YOU WILL GET WET! VERY WET!!" This woman also promised that peeps would get bumps for all manners of things, none of which came true, and then she denied ever saying that. She grows tiresome and will be dealt with in the revolution.

I'm sure with a call of this magnitude, ex-convicts, thieves, junkies, mormons, god-knows-what is amongst us today. Maybe it's a good thing I ditched all my valuables. The trillion-watt star of our film is Cat Bruz, he who-we-can-not-look-in-the-eyes! It's a persistant myth in Backie lore that you'll be terminated for this offense. Apparently he can shoot laser rays if you lock eyes, and you'll just be a pile of dust on a beach chair. I've also heard from my pal the journalist that they built a tunnel from the parking lot at Paramount to the lot, so Cat Bruz can walk from his car without having human interaction.

The bus lurches around and again: What the fuck are we in for? The drive to set uses lotsa back roads, sudden turns: as if they are purposely disorienting you to make your more malleable to their commands. I have a pal's pal who is First A.D. on this. I told him about the Last Rider of the Apocolypse, STEVE SIMON, and this shoot is so big, the First A.D. doesn't even know who this guy is! I must find this First A.D. and ask him to be spared the mud guns of dirty-death. Put me on the list to be a patient in the Red Cross tent. I hear this is easy duty. You just lie down on a cot, under a blanket, under a tent's cover. The list is life.

This Fresh Hell

Young Babs keeps yapping. Extra with an Extra Loud voice that carries. She's letting everyone know about her "promotinal modeling." I think she's one of those gals who shows up at a bar with their jugs hanging out in a t-shirt that sez "Drink Corona." With all the young hopeful cuties in this town, not sure how this harsh harridan gets modeling gigs.

We're doing "Eighth Hell." It's the No. 1 favorite show of the family values crowd. Former star of the show tried to get off by doing a racy spread in Barely Legal, but God punished her by invoking contract clauses only a diety could see. She worked for another few years on the show, before she could be seen bouncing her wet betties in horror flicks. I'd love to creep her out, but apparently I have company in this category. There's an extra running around asking about this gal, repeatedly, and finally someone tells him she's off the show. This show has run for 10 years, people go through puberty on this show and come out the other side.

On set, some stagehad was agahst -- he had noticed TWO extras chewing gum!

"It plays terrible," he sez. He point them out. Our table of extras (we're sitting at a pizza parlor table, on the show's fake promenade set) tries to figure things out. What tipped their chaw? The motion of the jaw? The divot in the cheek? We settle on the divot. We bemoan the existence of gum chewing cells -- you break up one, and the hyrdra springs more heads. Meanwhile, other gum chewers go underground, and appear when most calculated to ruin the shot. Can gum chewing amongst the deep background really show up on camera? Don't people chew gum in real life?

Meanwhile, I got closer to my inner-Travis Bickle with each tick of my extra's clock. Accumulated slights and stings come out over a chair being purloined from me. I brazenly sit down in a chair with someone's stuff on the table in front of it, because I PUT MY GARMENT BAG OVER THE BACK OF THE CHAIR. ALL COURTS OF LAW WILL RECOGNIZE THIS CHAIR IS MARKED. PERSONAL PROPERTY IS ATTACHED TO IT. IMMINIENT DOMAIN. POSSESSION IS 90% OF THE LAW. Will the person who tried to put his stuff down on the table, in front of this chair argue: "eternal vigilence" is required to maintain property rights? Snooze-you-lose? Does my chair claim trump his table claim? The extra returns and I say in my most innocent voice: "Is this your stuff?"

"Yeah, and it's my chair, too!"

Huff, huff, Huffy! I try to put forth my defense: "Actually, my --" But he's turned his back to me. As soon as he turns around, I go to my garment bag, getting stuff out, putting it up and over the chair, making lots of noise, moving the chair 180 degrees around, she he has to see me working with this garment bag that is clearly attached to my chair, a dramatic display saying: "LOOK MOTHERFUCKER, YOU SAT DOWN IN A CHAIR THAT CLEARLY HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY THIS VERY VISIBLE GARMENT BAG!"

Yup, I'm sucking the marrow outta Travis Bickle. I imagine greeting my cell mates at County: "I got in a fight over a chair," before they visit me with prison butt luv. Weird Ray Liotta twin is here today. I don't know if he's rightie or leftie Liotta. The twins have polar opposite politics, you have be careful of what you say. This particular Ray is bugging me about eating my pizza. During the pizza parlor scene, I ate a few bites off my pizza. Not eating your prop food is some badge of experience thing. I could give a shit, they hadn't fed us breakfast that day when we got to the set, and one of the prop guys told me the pizza was fresh. "Just don't chow down," said the prop master. Indeed, the pizza was warm. I nibbled and I convinced our very cute and funny waitress to bring me some ice for my coke. It started as an ad-lib while were filming, and then she really did it. So, when Ray Liotta Twin came up to admonish me for eating pizza, with a Daddy Background tone, saying

"Are you sick yet?"

I snapped back: "the pizza was fine, props said to to, don't worry, it's not your pizza, breakfast wasn't, I didn't have any ..." I was frothing and still smarting from the whole chair debacle. One trip to the Arm's Supplier and my timebomb is ready to tick.

There's a dude here with a cool-shaped head. It's shaped like an arrow head, blunt in front, and the back tapers to a point. I would make him the background of the year. He'd get the award at the Oscars for the most outstanding background head. I want to win a "Best Cross" award and come up and mime my background speech.

There's an ICE MACHINE on set!!! Angelic "haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah." How luvely to have your own ice machine, I put this down on my ever-growing "when I get rich" list.

The studio we are at is in Santa Monica, and one of my pals did sound here for a sitcom. The production facility was new at the time, and he couldn't get rid of all the crickets chirping in the sound stage. Maybe they should have done all scenes as outside then. An outdoor sitcom.

The creator of "Eighth Hell" is the single greatest living TV Producer in Hollywood. Vernon Speaking. His most famous quote is "I'm sorry, I love beautiful people," and his shows always have some breakout beauty. The background for this particular episode does skew cute. Lots of young hotties and good-looking dudes. Speaking is famous for his parties with "pros." Stocking the pond with prostitutes. Open the wrong door at one of his parties and see copulation. Hell, open any door. Apparently, he's also security-obcessed, we were warned sternly by the A.D. not to wonder to freely on set or risk termination.

I'm now speaking to a background lady who had 20 years of marriage. 10 good, 10 bad, she sez. Five years into my own relationship with my gay lover, you think five good years guarantees crossing the finish line. Not so. Puts a reality chill through your system.

The stand-in and star have the same jeans. They have a criss-cross on the ass pocket, and I'm noticing several extras with these jeans too. The current star now has a baby on the show, yet she's only 23 in real life. I'm wondering if this is a christian-have-babies-and-procreate thing for the show's fervent following.

I'm listenting to some good background stories off set: One dude tells about being in a Korean movie and how they just abuse every labor law on the books. Me thinks this is rampant in their culture, at my accounting firm, we had to help out a Korean Grocery Store that got in trouble this way with the California Labor Commission. I'm also hearing about these girls going to a party where they serve "jungle-juice," and that the host set up a confessional in his shower, rigged with a hidden cameras. Girls got drunk and went in and confessed for him. Sadly, I heard no mention of this being on a site on the internet. One of the girls sad she took an throw-away camera to the party, drunkely dropped it off at the photobooth that night, and went with extreme trepidation to pick it up the next morning. There was an actual picture of her giving a dude a blow-job, which she couldn't believe the processor had left in. Of course, she has no idea if the photo processor kept a negative.

The costume dude on this show is in costume. He's wearing a kilt, a hairshirt, his hair is in a Braveheart style mullet, and he's heavily tatted and pierced. Oh, and he's about 50 years old. Every day's a costume party in this world.

On the show's final shot, the extra who was looking for the former star of the show, runs up and gives the young teenage star some flowers. She's about 16, he's about 35. She looks horrified, and immediately hands to an assistant. He took the flowers from a flower cart set up for the scene in the promenade.

Visionquest Curtain Call

Back at Visionquest today. Sur-prized. Didn't think I'd see anymore daze, let alone a union voucher. I dropped off my union vouchers the other day at SAG (actually pay stubs now), so I'll be getting a letter to join them. Some backies have told me that SAG will allow a payment plan, but it's not advertised.

Apparently, this is where the hustle really begins, once you're union. Someone other than Bonnie from Central called me for Visionquest. I told this person that I was to work union on this show, that I had been requested by the director, she got off the line for a few ticks, prolly confirmed with the Bonnie-bitch, and then came back and said yes. "Ya gotta ask," is really the motto of showbiz.

It's much warmer today on the set of Visionquest. I haven't had an A.M. call-time in a bit, so it's hard to drag outta bed today. Fighting the sleepies on set. It is nice to come in and eat breakfast, no drama about that on this set, we're all fed, anything we want. I'm remembering all the peeps now as I see them: Tennesee (just moved here, dresses very small-town), NBA (hates Kobe Bryant), Hood Clown (dude who almost got shot clowning birthday parties in the hood), Clapton (dead-ringer for Eric Clapton and has english accent), my wife (lady who played my wife last time). Right now Clapton is trying to console my wife rather inappropriately. Her dog just died, and she's burying the dog in a pet cemetary today, and Clapton is saying

"He didn't want to be here anyway, all the rain and mudslides we've been having." Shitty bedside manner. Word around set that this is the last day at this location. It turns out to be the last day for us. They bring in the parents from the other wrestling team the next day, and my friend Blankie goes back to work. Never saw Blankie on set, because I was a parent to the visiting team, not the home team.

I'm sitting here looking at a truly ugly mom. She's got her kid doing extra work today on set, so she's hanging out. I'm thinking: someone decided to have sex with her eight years ago. Was she better looking then? We're they drunk? Low standards? Is this woman married, and someone has to sleep with her regularly? Terrible, but true.

It's funny, we have real estate moguls here today. Three of us are talking about our So. Cal real estate, meanwhile a 25-year-old a-hole with a walkie can boss us around on set and treat us like dirt. One of the real estate dudes got his start in a movie about wrestlers, he was brought in to play a wrestler, he's a former NCAA champ. He offers to take me to a gym where older guys still wrestle. Yum. Sounds intriguing. I imagine cracking my sternum with this tomfoolery.