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.