Beachy Balls

Got my union card in the mail. Went to Central Casting to re-register as Union and went through more hoops, more lines, more angry people administering these lines, to register union. There was one lady there with her child, both of them beautiful, and acting more like sisters, then mother/daughter, laffing & giggling with each other. She did not understand a portion on our application that asked if we had any costumes for extra work. It just said costume, and she said, "What does this mean."

"It means you have to wear a costume," I said.

"Oh, to the set?" she said, trying to comprehend.

"No, all the time. You have to walk around in costume all the time, just in case they call you to come in and be an extra."

She looked at me trying to discern & process this information. One part of her brain said I looked so earnest and normal (it's my gift, I can say the most twisted things with my ministerial countenance), and the other was flummoxed by such an outrageous condition -- to have to be in costume all the time.

Finally, I said "I'm kidding."

"Oh god, I thought I had asked for a plate full of stupid for a second," she said.

We had a good laff. Another lass in line asked me about signing up union, and if we'd get work, and I told her, "Yeah, it means I'm gonna have to start over at the beginning again, and sleep with a bunch of new casting directors." This was in a line to have our I.D.'s examined, one of the three lines we would be in that morning to sign up union.

I got this registration done, and walked across the street to Extra's Management. Handed my union card to the know-it-all Chris. Chris has his own section on background boards where people just go off on him:

http://www.backgroundbeat.com/index.php?showtopic=226

The first day I signed up with Extra's Management, he told me to my face I would never work again if I got into the union. So, when I handed him my union card, I expected some lecture, etc. He just hummed a little tune, like when there's a startling development in a crime show, "bum bum bummmm!"

Did more tours today for Hollywood Death Cab. The breakroom was dripping with the new guidelets, freshly minted folks, ready to tell the world of the bizzare deaths in Hollywood. I liked being the new class two years ago, but alas, those daze are over. I got busted on a trivia thing today (I thought it was Dennis Quaid in The Last Picture Show, not Timothy Bottoms), and I tried to play it off, but got caught. Getting busted on trivia by a new know-it-all guides sucks. I know this, because I'm a know-it-all guide myself.

Had an older woman come up to me after a tour and tell me in a very aggressive way "YOU ARE FUNNY," today. When she walked away, I said to some guests who were standing there, in sheepish tones, "that's my mom." Then, right after her, an asian fella came up to me and said "you were very very funny," and walked away. I said to the same group of people around me, "That's my brother." I got a nice two dollar tip, a dad handed each of his kid's a dollar to hand to me. "Thanks, I can buy 20 packages of Ramen noodles with this!"

Yup, I said that. I said it warm and fuzzy, not bitter. Really, I did. I hardly expect anyone to tip me after paying to take our $50 tour. I know a guide who got a $100 tip from a diplomat from Brunei, some stooge of the Saltan. Another guide told of a young Saudi prince demanding to have McDonald's french fries, to stop the Death Cab and get him some. When they tried to pass off some sub-par Carl Jr.'s potatoes as the Golden Arches, the prince took off and started running through a not-so-nice area of Venice. Burly security guards in the flowing bedsheets trying to track down lil' Ali Baba running around the last remaining mean streets of Venice. I also took two pictures with guests today, they wanted to get a picture with me. Sometimes I wish I could do henious crimes, just so the newspapers could run these chilling pictures of me, smiling, with my arms around guests of the Death Cab. Can you imagine, these people seeing mugshots of me in the paper, and then pulling out there photos from their trip to Hollywood?

"OH MY GOD, THAT'S THE GUY WHO CUT OF PEOPLE'S HEADS AND DIPPED THEM IN PARAFIN!!! HE WAS OUR FREAKING TOURGUIDE!!!!"

One of our tourguides tonight asked me today "not to be an asshole, but if you're gay lover is a big studio exec, why the fuck are you here." Apparently I'm supposed to be traveling on the upper levels of showbiz because my lover's a top suit. It also made me wince to be outed in the breakroom. I came out in college oh-so-long-ago, but I haven't been tarred with this particular feather in public very often.

Well, my lovah did get me into the premie of Miss Congealed-Banality Too-Much. I met him in front of the theater. It's very near our headquarters for Hollywood Death Cab, right on Hollywood Boulevard. As I walked up to the red-carpet, I saw a guy selling his rap CD, who would put earphones on your head for you to listen. There was another guy who was a dead-ringer for Johhny Depp, dressed in pirate gear. Then there was a guy in a threadbare superman costume. He looked fresh outta the halfway house. There was another generic pirate, and a lady dressed as catwoman. All of these peeps were right near the entrance to the premie, along with a guy who had an elaborate keyboard set-up, amps, speakers, etc., and was playing baleful music. There were thick sherrifs poised nearby, I think he was going to get shutdown.

The movie was the second in a series. This stink bomb took a while to uncoil it's stench, but when it did the air was perfumed with rancid writing. The script just unraveled into a bunch of cliches and plot points that didn't seem to flow organically. When the movie started, we were treated to a long speech by some suit about what a great person the star was, Miss Beachy Balls. Beachy Balls is actually a great lite comedian who continues to try to prop up crap material. Just once I would like to see her in something interesting and smart. Anyway, after a truly tedious stretch of this suit saying that there was no chink in Miss Beachy Balls armor, "she's the nicest, most accessible person in Hollywood," the movie started.
Later when we got to the party, the suit told my suit and all the other suits not to bother Miss Beachy Balls, she was not in talkative mood that night.

We did get to chat with one of the original Ghostbusters who was in the movie, and another great comedic actor, who's in our favorite indie comedy of all times. Actually got about 15 minutes each with these actors. Then, as we were leaving, someone from the party asked me to take their picture. I still had on my Hollywood Death Cab tags under my coat, I had forgotten to take them off. I was sending out my siren, that I was still a tourguide, ready to photo or be photoed.

Uptight and White

I went to Not Your Berry's Farm callback for their show: Uptight and White. I had wanted to audition for this show for over a year. It's based on their hit movie, "The Singing Dudes" about two guys who love black music and form a band. I was doing my Hollywood Death Cab tour one day last week, when I heard they were having the auditions that day. So I called the director, and he let me come to the callbacks. I told a lot of my friends I had a "call-back." Ugh, what a lammo I am.

The call-backs were held in an industrial part of Santa Ana, at one of Not Your Berry's Farm warehouses. Railroad tracks right in front of our building. Several other Hollywood Death Cab guides showed up at the call-backs, and one was kind enuff to try and teach me the dance step we would have to do while we waited in the parking lot. I am a funny dancer, but coreography is INSANELY hard for me to learn quickly. So, I was freaking about that. Also freaking about the talent level I would be facing. I was sure everyone was American Idol final quality. My head was pounding and I was in red-level-performance-anxiety-mode. Obviously, nervous energy can be converted positivley, I've done it many times, but this one felt like the bull was riding me. Later in the week, I asked my me-no-good-english doctor if I could get "beta blockers" for my situational anxiety. I don't think she had any idea what the word "situational" meant. She kept trying to prescribe me Xanax. I don't want to be medicated 24/7, I just want a pill I can drop when my heart juices up like this. I've got to find a doctor who deals with actors, I can't believe in this pill-plethora world there's not something for situational performance anxiety.

The guy who held the auditions was extremely cool. He took his time teaching us the dance steps, he was encouraging at every level. He was looking for "singers" who he could teach to move. The question is, would he think he could teach me to move, after seeing me lumber about on this step I was just learning? The question was never answered. I hid. I hid in the corner, and they called up us to dance, 3 at a time. He called peeps from their headshots he had collected from the first audition. Thus, he didn't have my headshot. Thus, he never called me, and I never volunteered. I told myself that when I realized I wasn't going to be called, I didn't want to go up and dance by myself. But most of it was -- I didn't want to draw attention to myself. I wanted to hide. My anxiety was surging.

Finally, we got to sing. Again, I sorta hid out in the corner. I honestly think if he hadn't called me, I would not have gone up. He did call me, and I thought I sang OK. I know I can sing much better, but at least I didn't tank. My tourguide pal thought I did a good job singing, and I was pushing him to be honest, so I hope he was. Almost all of the singers sang in stupid broadway showtune style. We're ruining our youth, teaching them all the same boring style. Mine had much more R&B, Blues and Rock in it, but I was so nervous, I don't think I controlled it as much as I could have. I thought I saw the director and his assistant laff and talk amongst themselves when I started singing, but god knows what that was for. It was frustrating. I think I could have booked that job, but I sold myself out, talked myself outta it. I was so sure I would be overwhelmed by the hollywood talent pool before it even started, and the truth was, I had a shot. Next time, I'll probably go in all confident, and there will be a room full of amazing people who will shame me back into humility.

Later the Hollywood Death Cab Tourguides all got together for a party, and I kept telling people I had just dropped Cialis (the LOVE drug), and I had to get home before it wore off. Oh boy. I really had, and I felt like a college kid dropping acid for the first time, and waiting for his mirror to melt his face ("whatever you do: don't look in the mirror!"). It was also my lover's birthday, so we got lotsa free drinks, which freed my tongue. Guides are blabby, just like me, so I have to pay attention at these things and not reveal state secrets.

I did Tours all weekend, and pushed the envelope by saying I was "inbred" on one tour. Our tour is so vanilla and 1950s, that we have to watch it. Even though we are supposedly this edgy tour about all the stars in Hollywood who have died, there's a fear of offending anyone. And then, I was a stupid braggert, told a couple of people my smart remark, who will most assuredly tell a couple more, and I'll be in front of our boss getting my ass chewed out very soon. I do think that given the entertainment standard for our times, given what passes for PG-13, what's on the TV in the middle of the afternoon, the very adult jokes you see dropped into kid's movies -- I'm in lockstep. Any of my jokes that do have spice, are nothing kids would understand. Buuuuuut, it's not my Cab, now is it???

I had the great experience of having a couple of peeps I respect, older guides, and one of them a Hollywood Death Cab dispatcher (that's a step up in the management chain) take my tour. I had them laffing the whole way. They loved it, and got what I was trying to do: be funny, but not at the expense of relaying the information I think is interesting. It made me feel good, these are people who've done a million tours, so I was high as a kite afterwards. And, when I get my stinky review, from my stinky nemisis boss Dirk, I will at least be able to point to these older guides as someone who took my tour and thought it was fantastic.

Finally, I heard a bunch of guides in the breakroom talking about how they were going to start a blog. I'll bet no one in that room believed that old-guy-Josh has a blog. I just sat silently listening and recording the times around me, with the slightest of smirks

St. Patrick's Gay Day

It's a day from St. Patrick's day, my Lover’s birfday, and I'm on a set. Dumb new Hospital drama, but not so dumb that it's not getting good ratings. It's called Out-House, and it's about an eccentric dude who runs a hospital, with the nickname Out-House. On today's show there is an outbreak of menengitis, and the hospital is full of peeps wearing masks. EVERYONE must wear a mask we are told, but the principle actors don't. Apparently, it's a mutant virus that only attacks extras.

One of the extras is a cutesy-cute gal dressed as a nurse. She looks like the perfect nurse, short-cropped hair, blonde, good, caring energy. Well, guess what -- she WAS a nurse! An RN at that. Sheez. I let her put the stethoscope down me, all the touchy-feely stuff that I normally would shun other extra from invading my personal space, because she felt so nursey. I teased her: "You're not really a nurse, you just say you are so you can paw all the men!" During our one long scene where I was on a guerney (he was the kind of attorney who followed the guerney), I lay with my eyes closed and actively awaited her arrival. She reminded me of the nurse that had attended Bob Hope when he was in the hospital. Hope had liked the nurse so much (BLOWJOB), and talked about her, that Bing Crosby got himself checked in for a day, just to be attended by the same nurse.

I had actually lived through a menengitis outbreak as a kid. One of my classmates died from it. So it was easy for me to conjur up the requiste fear to be in this environment. One of my fellow extra's said I had good "sick eyes" (remember half our faces are covered by masks), and I was self-conscius about this afterwards. It knocked me off my game, now I was thinking about making "sick eyes." No one on earth will pay attention to this, but there's Josh Ramsey, in the middle of a set full of extras, worried that he's not getting the "sick eyes" look right anymore.

I was dressed in hospital garb (robe, gown and boxers), and I walked down to the commisary, through the middle of Rabbit Studios for break. People laffed and staired, and if they stared, I did a crazy walk, like I was an escaped patient. Yes, the show Out-House had cheaped us out, no free lunch for us, and no decent craft services either: we got crap services. I got my union card in the mail, and I can't wait to work the union way, and be able to eat from wherever I want.

The Second-Second was a fuck-bitch, and used the disaproving kintergarten teacher voice on me, "Umm, that's how you break your mask." I had my mask on the top of my head during a break. She chastised needlessly all night, and wouldn't use a normal tone, EVER, when talking to an extra, about ANYTHING. But, of course, the minute she was talking to a peer on crew, she became nice and human. Well, fuck her twice. I told her early in the day I would work the next day, but as I set on that set stewing, thinking about spending my lover’s birthday with this bitch, I just decided, "No."

"I know I told you earlier I would be here tomorrow, but i changed my mind." I watched her face curl into anger and disaprovement. It's one of those neat moments, that you know by what you are going to say, you're going to see a face change right in front of your eyes. I tried to slow down time so I could enjoy it more. I had my signed voucher, it was end game for me.

"You certainly waited late enuff to tell me!" Huff, huff! Her shame-rays fell useless on me now. I was in fuck-you punishment mode.

"Bye Baby!" I said as I looked her straight in the eyes.

"My name is not Baby!" Ahh, now she's sliding down the hill, she realized I don't care, I don't care at-fucking-all, and therefore I'm immune to her bullshit.

I annunciate as clearly as possible: "Goodbye Babe!"

And, then I turn on my heels and walk. I'm vibrating with glee as I leave, knowing she will just pass on this anger to another one of my extra bretherans and not me. Happy Fucking Birthday Lover, I’ve come home to you.

Zelig

First off, talked to a Hollywood Death Cab dude who got busted. Apparently he was blabbling about himself on the tour too much. Turning the entire tour into a history of his career in show biz. Oh boy, I can see that. He's the Zelig of Hollywood Death Cab, anytime someone tells a story in the break room, he has to top it with some tale of his derring-do. Someone was talking about Michael Jackson the other day, and Zelig claimed he had been to Neverland Ranch. Had a sleep-over. He was an adult, however, so Michael did not find him attractive. This Hollywood Death Cab Guide claims he was in Pippy Longstockings, but I can't find him on IMDB. I did find someone named "Trey Parker" (not the South Park one), and the real Bill Pullman and Ann Margaret. Hmmm. I'm sure there's an explanation for our Hollywood Death Cab Zelig not being there, changed his name, etc.

The guest complained that Zelig mentioned himself about "ten times." Zelig took issue with that number. He was putting stamps in a stamp collecting book, the whole time he calmly told me of his dressing-down. The boss had asked Zelig not to comment on his career anymore while in the Death Cab.

Now, for today's insanity. One day before I have a call-back to be in the musical revue at Not Your Berry Farm called "Uptight and White," I got to play Elvis. I was promised an Elvis suit. When I arrived on set, however, I found that I was booked to be a dogshit Elvis, the real Elvii had brought their own gorgeous suits. They gave a bunch of us these halloween costume, wrapped in a package, two dollar Elvis jumpsuits that looked like shit. Well, fuck it, I thought. I'll become dogshit Elvis, Poor Elvis, Fucked-up and Not-give-a-fuck Elvis.

I pulled on my stretchy Elvis pants over my shorts, decided not to strip down to my boxers, cuz there was no place to really stow my shorts and personal items. This turned out to be fortititious. I looked like an Elvis in diapers, and I started calling myself Diaper Elvis. I introduced myself to the three Elvii of the Apocolypse, the dudes with impeccable costumes, and actual credentials. One was a Legend's Elvis in Vegas. I told them "There must be a limited number of Elvii in the circle."

"Yes, there is," they Elvised in unison. Embarrased pause, as they looked at my sad get-up.

"Can I join your circle of Elvii?" I said.

"Oh son, would you want to?"

"The circle might break, boy!"

"well, hell ..."

"I consider myself Diaper Elvis," I said when they gave me a chance to talk.

One started calling me "DE." Apparently among Elvii, to distinguish, they use your most notable feature, and abbreviate. Thus "ME" is Mole Elvis, he has a big nasty mole on his chin. "CB-E" is Colostomy-Bag Elvis, he still does Elvis, depsite his innards failing. I was in good company as "DE."

"Who's gonna change you boy," said one of the Elvii.

"Things have gone kinda sour for me," I said. The boom mic was overhead for all of this, I hope it ends up in the show, but I have no faith in these producers. They seemed hack, and not really aware of what was funny or odd, but going for the most obvious laffs, easy set-ups. Having the flying Elvii land with their parachutes, etc., it was all hokum used in movies before. Although, one of the flying Elvii nearly died in front of our eyes. He was coming in really fast, and off-angle. He nearly clipped this tree on the lawn. It would have cut his head off. Fucking nuts, people all just clapped like ha-ha, wasn't that cute. I'm thinking that dying for a reality show dressed in an Elvis costume is a great comedy death, and one that should make St. Peter open the gate for you just on the hilarity of it.

Then I asked the star of the show, a washed-up music producer, if his accountant, Eking Slatter was coming. He gave me a blank look and told me my outfit sucked. Eking Slatter was an accountant I worked for who did tons of work with this producer, but, I FORGOT, he was on the other side! He was trying to GET money out of this record producer, not working for him.

The record producer lived in a fortress in Malibu. Even looked like he had gun turrets to shoot intruders. His records were of the lowest common denonimator, but they sure made him a lotsa different denonimations of currency. His kids seemed like dumb-dumb spoiled brats, think Bill and Ted. They should have his fortune squandered in no time. He had a sign on his gate, with a picture of a fierce dog that said "I can run to this gate in three seconds. Can you?" His front yard was easily a football field, and his house was built upon the hill, so that it overlooked the Pacific, even though the base was nestled in a canyon.

Apparently the record producer's kids were in the show, as was his sexy-mamma wife. She WAS a former lover of Elvis, thus our whole Elvis theme. They had set up a faux Elvis memorabilia show for her, and they invited real-life Elvis fans of Southern California to come see the show. They staged some fights between the record producer and his kids, and then they staged the Mom being surprised by the show her kids had thrown for her. Jesus, I know it's hard to manufacture reality TV, but you would have thought they could have tried a real surprise on her. I can't believe this won't play totally fakey. Even on reality TV, I've noticed if it's overly set-up, you can feel it. Those shows don't last. There's gotta be some germ of true human emotions in there.

The record producer guy needs to learn the first lesson of improv: "NO closes doors." When he was talking to me, and I was trying to get him going, he denied my reality. By this time I had picked up a football, and was saying I was "Football Elvis." FE. "Hey, I'm football Elvis," I said to him.

"Well, you don't look like Elvis," he said. Negative comment again.

"Well, I know, but that's why I'm football Elvis, I need a niche."

"Yeah, well Elvis never played football."

At this point, he's destoryed the improv. If he had expressed his incredulousness as "Did Elvis ever play football?," I could have riffed on about fake football deeds of Elvis. It would have been silly and funny. But, his NO has shut down the dialogue.

"Does it matter?" I ask. I really don't have much room here now. He walks away. But then, he sees me again tossing the football (it was just a random football an extra brought. I decided to make it my prop. I think the extra was jelly-ous too. He said that he always brings it to sets in hopes of differeniating himself. whoops). So now, record produer asks me,

"Hey F.E., hey Football Elvis," he says, to throw the ball to him. He drops it.

"Nice hands," I say, "back to the line for you." One more time the record producer walks by me and asks me to throw him the ball. I start singing in Elvis voice "I said Hut, Hut, Hut." Sing again "I'm gonna throw that ball."

"Please, don't sing," he sez. Ha ha. Not sure the placement of the boom mic on this, but I hope they got it. I like my football Elvis character. I make corny football poses in my Elvis costume. I always thought this Ram's quarterback looked a lot like Elvis: Roman Gabriel. I also thought that Lee Major's looked like the 70's Elvis.

I was camera hogging all day, it was easy, the assistant director's were too bizzy trying to talk up various cute malibu girls running around, so we were free to sneak on camera whenever we wanted. For some unknown reason, some marketing tie-in-synergy-shit reason, McDogshit's is here catering the event, with McDogshit's billboards and signs up. I walk up to the table and say "I'm Supersized Elvis." They laff. Obviously no one from too-far-up the corporate ladder is here, as that term is kryptonite to them now. Then I patted my gut and sang "Elvis needs fries, Elvis needs fries, Elvis-Elvis-Elvis-Elvis needs fries." Had some McDogshit's, like an idiot, and had tummy trouble immediately afterwards. I never learn.

There were real-deal Elvis fans there, at one point the record producer's brats started quizzing a fans about Elvis. "Who was his karate instructor?," and this fan knew his name. In fact he said, "which one?," and listed off several instructors. The production company had set out dresses that the Elvis gal-pal wore, they had one of his cars. This shit is not in-expensive, so the producers were definately spending some money. For the dime-suit Elvii, they gave us real money on completion. A Grant in hand, and off the grounds of the mansion.

weird fucking? nah, just fucking weird

Well, I signed up for it, and knew the drill going in. I asked lover for the okay, and he gave it to me. Still, the experience reminds me of the time a naturally large-breasted friend of mine thought she wanted to be a stripper. I played the pimp and drove the bitch to the track. I.e., I took her to the strip joint at lunch, when they have the buffet. The bits on the buffet looked almost as fried and dried as the bits the lady on stage was showing. And she did show. I think she smelled fear in the air, she sensed my gal-pal was looking on intrepidly. So you think you wanna be a stripper honey? Well, these are the the goods. Open up the hood and let her see the carborater, piston rods, fuel pump, etc. She pried her legs so wide, it was an anatomy lesson, even for me. My friend ran outta there going "yipe, yipe, yipe," all the way home. Cured.

I think I'm cured too. After weeks of being background, silent, dogshit on a set, I took up one of my fellow extra's offer to be in his movie. I would get to be in the opening scene and get killed. I was especially pleased, as he knew I was gay, but had no problem casting me in a straight role. Sounds fun, how can you pass up anticipating your own demise? Oh, and it was not only a slasher film, it was a titty film as well. My background pal supplements his income by doing live sex parties where he does his girlfriend. There a big thing now on the hollywood undergound scene. I've been to some gay ones.

I like my extra pal, he's a good guy. If I was in the Desert Storm, he'd be the guy I want running our unit. No nonsense, funny dude. His lady, his PREGNANT lady, has decided she wants to do a movies. They ask me to film a scene where she fucks and kills me. Today, they are filming the fuck scene. Ahh, now I know why I got cast! Anyway, they've piddled around dressing set, making this shit hole of a room, look like a shit hole of a trick palace. It was a foul and pestilent place, this bedroom. Weird metal posters forever locked in 1993. Lots of dust, which was aggravating my cold, my nasal passages were totally blocked. A storage space off a beat-up house out in the San Fernando valley (yup, we did the cliche), they had set up to be a bedroom. There were a bunch of computer monitors fortuitiously stacked in the corner of the room that we were able to use, but not until they "art directed" the shit outta them and made them look all fakey and arrranged. When they were helter-skelter, they looked much more creepy and filthy. Spare parts, severed from their motherboard, left to rot. The camera and lights are finally set. And suddenly, I'm required to be in my boxers, her jacket comes off, and I have a bare-breasted women on top of me. I'm trying to be as professional as possible, but the minute she mounted me, I could feel the heat in her thighs, the blood running through this other human being pressed to me. Weird. The first live breasts I've seen since my moms. It's so overwhelming, it's not sexual. Well, it is and isn't. It's not sexual enough that you get a hard-on, but your hardwiring does commence. Even for gay dudes. Those are naked breasts dangling over me. This person is bouncing up and down on me simulating sex. It's just fucking weird. I don't know how anyone can maintain a relationship and do this for a living. At some point being that close would lead to some sort of intimacy. Or if it doesn't, it means you've got weird shut-off valves to your emotions, and some day those valves may be shut-off for good. On rehearsal, I go bound outta bed, and my large frame breaks it. This sets off a chain reaction that knocks over some computer monitors. Fortunetly, the bed and monitors can be reassembled. Clang, bang, thank you maam.

She's barely weeks into her pregnancy, so it's not like I'm in that twisted of a film. Of course, devilish me tries to take it there. During a quiet space in the scene, I adlibbed "huh, it looks like my daughter's room," and "I feel filthy," when she asks me to take a shower. These takes prolly got ruined, cuz the boom man couldn't hold his laff. I then got off a "Do you have any handsoap?" line as I exited, that I hope they keep in. Of course, these peeps are so straight-ahead, they'll prolly not do it. I changed my written line from a "Oh baby, I can do it all night long" (how fucking corny is that during fucking?), to "I'll fucking bring it all night, woman." Comon, that's totally better. The director, another extra buddy, tried to shush me by saying "follow the script," to me, but I was like, "well, the script is corny." "tell Smoochy Jones the script is corny." The script's writer Smoochy Jones being yet another background artist who's artistic stock has no purchase with me. "Well, i would, but he's not here. So I'll tell you." I mean, I'm buckass naked, and free. What's he gonna do, get someone else to play the fool?

Actually, I wasn't buckass naked. I had my boxer's on, cuz my hips were hidding under hers. But, when I was going to lay down, the hole in my boxer's splayed open, and everyone got a nice shot of my tackle. "We can tape that shut, get me some duct tape," one of the horrified crew said. "I've got a stapler," another said. I opted for the duct tape over my duct.

The gal had a kewl tatoo on her foot that said property of "XXXXX," the name of my extra buddy. I pointed that out I thought it was cool, and she said, "He's got one too, that sez property of me." I tried to joke around whilest she was on top of me, hoping to make it not so bad, but I think she really tried to disconnect and not have a smidge of back&forth with me. She also put her hands over her breasts whenever we weren't filming. I thought that odd, her being a veteran of so many of these. It wasn't like I was looking, I was trying to respect her and not be up in her business. Which made for a weird vibe when doing the scene. I felt we had to be intimate on screen, but yet she made me feel wrong to try and engage her whiles she's bucking up and down on me, or talking to me. So, I just tried to play it like a whore-john relationship, where the whore totally disconnects from the john, in a way that's more obvious than usual to the John, and he gets annoyed. She was rushing my orgasm's end along anyway, so I used that teed-off feeling to bark my line at her. All this thought over a dumb horror slasher movie, but then I'm the guy who figures out backstories for my extra characters. I had to make a fake orgasm, and they wanted me to do the typical over the top male reaction, and I really fought against it. Maybe on screen it will come out that way, but I hate the cheesy cum-shot acting you see most of the time. They asked for it bigger once, but I just kept playing as where I saw it, and let the chips fall where they may. I also had to admit, my Death Cab Tour came in handy: we had to get sound checks, so I just recited the tour while I was sitting in this bed. I also found that doing the tour over and over, the same jokes, etc., helped me re-do the takes. In my improv days, I use to have extreme trouble trying to get a take right once I got past the initial few.

Lunch was tater tots and sloppy joes, served up by the same woman who's tater tits I had just scene bouncing above me. Hard-working actress, doubling as craft services. She did slap my hand, when I tried to eat soup reserved for the crew. I was handcuffed for the scene, and she scratched my chest after I came. There was an argument/discussion about whether to have a close-up depicting me bleeding from the scratch. "Wouldn't I say ow, if someone scratched me deep enuff to draw blood?" Eventually, they decided to not have my chest dripping with blood. Thank god.

I even argued for my own nudity, I was so into it. I have no desire to be caught forever on film as a fat fuck, but I felt it looks stupid to have me putting on boxers after I have sex. You always want to parade around your still-impressive-impaler after sex, on that glorious walk to the bathroom. Thankfully, our director figured out a way for me to just pull up my boxers, like I had pulled them down, but not off my legs for a heat of the moment, or $$$ fuck. That made sense, and spared my sacs from soiling the cinema.

Finally, the day was done, I ate my tater tots & sloppy joes, and glanced for second at a porno mag belonging to the owner of the house. Yuck, it was gross to look at it, having just been stuck in unsettling nudity land. You've just done a scene that eliminates the fantasy element of looking at these random bodies pushed together for $$. By the way: if a film crew ever asks to use your living space, say no. We tore the shite outta that hole. The director calls his girlfriend "Mom," for obvious reasons. But, until I figured out the pregnancy thing (she said she wasn't smoking and drinking suddenly), it was a bit disturbing to hear. Him saying "mom this" and "mom that" to the woman who's mamms are dangling over me. Again, it was just plain fucking weird.

Green Room goodness

Good times in the green room at Hollywood Death Cab. Right off H-wood Boulevard, where we load our Death Cab up, there's our offices. Our offices have a beat-to-shit break room for us, that's part treehouse decor, part junkie's last crash pad. Some of the Barker's (they got the $$) have thrown down so we could have a DVD player and cable in our Green Room. (Green Room is the theater term for the room you wait in before you go on stage. The room is not actually green.)

Much of the fun of this job is having a bunch of fairly smart people, all sitting around back stage cutting on each other. Getting a laff in that room is not exactly Algonquin Round Table, but it's still a thrill. We were listing the 100 horror films of all time, and I volunteered "Giggly" for No. 1. Someone started talking about Robert Englund, who played Freddie Krueger. A guide said that the spawn of 10,000 maniacs raping a nun (Freddie Krueger), was once on the guide's Death Cab. Along with Freddy, was a kid from the Make-A-Wish Foundation. Meeting Freddy, was this Make-a-Wish foundation's kid's dying wish.

I said, "Why? He'll be meeting the devil soon enuff."

Another guide told a story of playing a policewoman, and having the neighbors call the cops on her. They could only see barely over the wall, and they saw her get knocked down, and her yelling to put down the gun. The cops showed up, and there were eight guns drawn on the poor dude playing the baddie, before they saw the film crew off to the side. The production crew had filed the permit with the police, but it had somehow not made it all the way through. Imagine meeting your maker, after you had been mistakenly killed by policemen on a movie set. God would get an earful.

We had our typical "DO NOT MENTION THIS STAR," Death Cab change to "YOU HAVE TO MENTION THIS STAR AND ANYONE WHO'S RELATED TO THEM," moment today. Each, equally hysterical. Cat Bruz has bought a piece of our Hollywood Death Cab tour, and the Big Wigs have gone from shrounds of secrecy, to cloaking us in carny cauterwauling for Cat Bruz. We are to announce his new project Citizen Kane at every forced moment we can find.

I had the greazy chicken for lunch. About twenty minutes into my next tour, the greazy chicken made it's presence known to me. We were about to go by the house of one of the Slutty Soccer Moms (the one who's character has been dead from episode one. I know she's not really dead, but our tour does cheat like this every now and then), and I felt like I was about to give birth to a beautiful brown soccer ball. I had to release these less-than-solids or risk bursting my abdomen. I got off mic and begged the driver to take me to a restroom. He couldn't find one right away, and I had to mind control my matter into a stasis. I waived him off, I could finish the tour. As soon as we pulled in, I ran for home base and gave it my all.

Meanwhile, one of my extra pals is a studly dude who does what's called "sex-simulation." Apparently, there's a ring of parties, where peeps pay to watch good-looking people fuck. He just shows up and bangs his girl-friend in front of strangers, and they both walk with hundreds of dollars. No videos or pictures (they even make pepole give up their cell phones) are allowed, so you'll never see their genetalia surface on the net. He asked me if I wanted to be in his horror/skin flick he's making. I said yes. SO I have a seven AM call tomorrow, to play a dude who has sex with a hot chick (my pal's actual girlfriend), and then she kills me. I kept telling him: "you realize, I'm comedy nude? you're sexy nude, but my nudity plays as big comedy?" He's OK with it, so if my gay lover signs off (I can't get him on the cell right now, he's at a velvet underound pool party), I'll do it. Oh, and might have to do some crew too, hold the boom. Oh, he just came home and said: "Explain to the straights that velvet underound does not refer to the band."

Alright, it's a term referring to the gay mafia of hollywood. They have pool parties with lots of nude dudes. Yes, I trust him. Oh, and yes, he's given me the OK to be in the titty film. Ohhhhhhhh, that man of mine!

Dead Again

Did Dead People today. The original one that spun off "Dead People: Des Moines," and "Dead People: Akron." They find a dead person in an R.V. This R.V. looks sorta like the Urban Assualt vehicle from that 25 year old movie called Stripes. Clowns abound on this shoot, extras are supposed to react to the reveal of the dead person, and people ratched up the bad thespian moments. Again, someone did the ghastly-ghostly sound: "oooooohhhh." Same weird warble I heard on the Boat movie, when extra's were supposed to pretend we were sinking and dying. It must be built in the DNA of bad actors.

It was a dead showgirl inside the R.V. Of course. Chub-a-lub dude next to me with HIDEOUS toenails (and he's wearing sandals!) tells me that his girlfriend is the same weight as these showgirls, but bigger on top. If this guy has a smoking hot girlfriend, I'll eat his toenails. No way. He also told me that one time on CSI, this extra was bragging about bagging prostitutes the night before, and now the same extra was playing a "John."

They've tricked out the LA Convention Center to look like a car show. They've hired hundreds of hotties, with jugs spilling outta their costumes to walk around and strut. A gaggle of the hotties gathers in a corner to discuss diets and butt washes. Yup, colonics seem to be the thing when you weight 110 pounds and are insanely cute. You must get rid of the toxins! Your mucus linings! Scales! Please put a hose up my butt and begin pumping! In fact, one of the gals had convinced her fool-of-a-boyfriend to take her on a five day, EIGHT GRAND "holiday," where they give you a colonic EVERY day. I'll bet the inside of that relationship is as rotten as her foul bowels.

Or, some other chick was on "THE MASTER PLAN." A diet's who's master plan was to starve you stupid. It seems to have worked with this chick. You only eat maple syrup, lemon, and cayane pepper. Somewhere, a quack is laffing that he managed to pick three nonsenical food items and convinced a nation of nitwits to eat them like they were jesus-wafers. She felt bad, she had been cheating today, "I ate one apple."

Russian Mob Boss was here today. He looks amazingly like Harpo Marx and he waddles around and talks in Russian all day on his cell. He never understands what the A.D.'s ask of him, and seems perplexed anytime something is required of him, yet he always ends up first in the food line, sign-out line, etc. Harpo, the Russian Mob Boss.

One of the background dudes, "Mark," keeps up a fun website devoted to toilet graffiti:

http://www.latrinalia.org/

as long as they don't piss on the paper, they can write whatever they want.

I'm a fucking idiot

I did the Hollywood Death Cab Tours yesterday. Had a great time. Spoke to folks, enertained and received compliments. Genuine compliments, as opposed to the assistant director's telling the extras they've done a great job at the end of a day, in hopes of pre-empting them from beating him senseless in the dark parking lot.

I got home that night and got a disciniplary notice from Hollywood Death Cab. Total surprise. I woke up the next morning and got a $45 ticket on my gay lover's car. Street cleaning. He owns a house, but not his driveway. Therefore, if we don't remember to move our car to the correct side of the street ... Then I remembered: I had left my jacket, the one I borrowed from Death Cab wardrobe in our Green room. I called, and it was gone. Someone had stolen it. Fuck-fuck-fuck morning. Urrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Went to do a Satellite-TV commercial under a foul cloud. Even though one of my sport hereos was there doing the commercial: Montana Buff, I took no joy in this. I took no joy in walking around the airport luggage carosal with my bag over and over. I took no joy in the luvely breakfast and lunch they fed us for playing passengers. I sat and wrote in my Lizzie McGuire notebook (ran in the drugstore and made quick grab of only writing paper they had) many hateful things about myself. It's like the most fabulous five minutes of film ever, where Phillip C. Hoffman in Boogie Nights sez:

"I'm a fucking idiot" "I'm a fucking idiot." "I'm a fucking idiot." "I'm a fucking idiot." over and over and over, until it turns into a delicious mantra of self-loathing.

Kurdt's famous line "I hate myself and I want to die."

"You are the null set."

Near me, a weird dude works on his screenplay, while he bears his extra's cross. I sneak-a-peak. It looks dreadful: "But Honey, I don't love you and I never will. What we had in Pomona was just a breath mint for a bastard." And that's some of the better dialogue.

I've decided Ashton Kuchie needs to do a "Punk'd" where he has someone on a very dramatic shoot, maybe a first-time actor, music star trying to cross-over, and I play the fuck-up extra. I walk into his shot. Spill things. Sing to myself. Just fuck up take after take until the dude goes Punk Crazy!

"You got Punk'd!" I say!

I also find out from a friend editing Ashton's latest film that Ashton wouldn't take off his Kabalah bracelet, so the editor has to digitally erase it in all the scenes. Someone who played my wife on a former set is here today. I come up to her and say "I've missed you since the divorce. Are the kids okay?" She's a southern belle who still calls it "the war of northern aggression," and see the mass exodous of blacks from the south to have decent jobs in the north as explotative of them by the mean northerners. Nice lady, but someone fed the company line to her long ago in her rural southern up-bringing.

I took a Lizzie McGuire sticker and stuck it on an LAX pillar whilest leaving. I'm sure airport vandalism is felony now, with the fears of terrorism juicing sentencing on these crimes. My palor continues until I can talk to my lover on the car-ride home. He talks me outta the tree once again. I worry some day he will tire of the anxiety tree and chop it down. I wish I could chop it down. Fortunately, all goes well at Hollywood Death Cab, I hand-write a professional and thorough apology letter, my boss responds by rescinding ALL of my disciniplary points.

And, yet, I want more: to be installed as the King of the Underworld at Hollywood Death Cab for their unfair slights and accusations. I have an appetite I can't sate, and desires that are not desireous.

Mirth with Dan and Jill

Grid-fucking-rotten-crotch-lock. With our increasingly profane and bombastic society, I'm ratcheting up the vulgarity to describe the vulgar traffic jam I sat in this A.M. Of all things one cannot hear in LA, one tunes out to immediately, it's the sentence that starts out with "The traffic ..." It's like when a parent tells you about a friend of there's that you don't know with some terrible affliction. It's enuff to stomach the ills of your own, without carrying others pain around. And yet, what will we do? When I first came to LA, you knew that as long as you stayed away from the Free Way during rush hour, you'd be OK. No more. There's about 2 hour window you can be on any LA freeway without sitting in the day, and you're time at night is from about 9:30PM to 4:30AM now. That's it. So, if you are traveling at any other time, prepare to stew in your vehicle. Surface Street Routes don't help either, many of them are gridlocked all day too.

One of the extra's on set today told me she just started yelling in her car. Yelling and thrashing, after sitting in stop-and-go traffic for 20 miles. I resort to fake Italian swear words at such moments: "Fambah Foo!" "Frickasee Chicken!" "Wombat Wooie," "Nig-Nag Nooper!" "Mah-donja!" As my faux swear words vocabulary increases, I realize some of it does sound more chinese, like "Wombat Wooie." I even conjugate latin verbs "Hic Hic Hoc!" as they can release steam when pronounced correctly.

I was so late to set today, I came in with the black folks! Whoops! Did I just say that? Am I allowed to notice this cultural phenomena? We're shooting "Mirth with Dan and Jill," the last day of their 110 day exodus. This movie stars Clubby Lug and Smartie Yamaha. Apparently they started shooting on Labor Day of 2004. They need us to be "biz caj" (business casual) for a party at the bosses place. The only fun part of a party at a bosses place is leaving your business floating in his toilet and not purging. This house we are at, looks like an airstream trailer that got square. In-human house, god only knows what kind of fuckstick lives in this maseouleum. I've been in houses like this in the Hollywood parties, where the whole house is scrubbed clean of hominess to conform to some strict aesthetic. Once, at an annual party, we brought garrish refridgerator magnets in our pocket to sully the dudes fridge, just to overwhelm him. We read in the trades he needed a week at Idlewild to recoup from the vandalism.

I was changed outta my french-riveria-expensive-dress-shirt into a nasty polo shirt. Squat troll of a wardrobe witch capriciously changing folks -- one is dressed down verbally for not being "biz" enuff. I worked for accounting firms for 20 years -- I know exactly how to dress for a bosses party, and can attest that both me and the satorically unsavory gal were perfectly attired. No matter, the know-it-all troll had her own vision. Later, on another set, I hear a passionate defense of this lady. "She won an Oscar!" For what, I don't know, typical extra exclamation of zero facts. In fact, some claim she won the Oscar for a modern story, not even a costume drama, which usually wins. That or folks in aluminum foil (Sci Fi).

"She has a vision, she sees everyone of us a character,"

OK, that's cool, I do that. "She's nice to you later, if she's mean to you at first. She bought me a beautiful outfit for a week-shoot, and then let me take it home."

Later that day I saw the troll admonishing a dude for missing a belt loop. ON A HELICOPTER SHOT!!! That's all we're doing today: Helicopter shots, and he's getting chastised for his belt not going through every loop. I made sure the minute the troll disapeared into the garage (that's where the crew was hiding during the expansive shots), that I pulled out my shirt just as a fuck-you to her. She had me tuck it in, as is the practice of all wardrobe witches&warlocks. In their scrubbed-up world, no one has ever not tucked in their shirt, unless they're a rapper. Dumb and not at all real. Smarty chubby dudes like me realize your gut is not nearly as prominient when your shirt's out, instead of tucking it in and making an extreme outline of your watermelon belly.

While wardrobe troll was lecturing me about me non-biz-caj shirt, I practiced my new technique. It's this hum filter that reduces nonsense. When someone of authority on set, a noxious A.D., wardrobe troll, starts broadcasting to me in regal/hostile tones, I just hum this low-level signal. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Not loud enuff for them to comment on, but they definately know their transmission is being jammed. It's the hum to blot out the hum drum. The braying jackass is flummoxed, and eventually gives up their transmission. This warning is brought to you by the Emergency Extra System, you are getting dangerously close to releasing a nuclear Travis Bickle with your blah-blah. In the event of an actual melt-down, you will not hear this hum, but feel my hands around your neck.

Chatty-fatty red head chick is here today. I try to talk to her, but she monopolizes the conversation and doesn't listen. Three times, I caught her yawning when someone dared to take the floor from her. She's a bright gal, but needs a stint at the extra school of socialization. We'll turn her around in no time, with our bzzz-bzzz electric socialization collars. Bzzzz! try listening! Bzzzz! don't start your stand-up routine on me because I gave you eye contact. Bzzzzz! There's a line at this table and you can clearly see your not in it.

The scene was done pretty quickly, we hoisted up a dude who looked like Smarty Yamaha on our shoulders. I was standing there before the shooting started, I thought "Gee, that looks like Smarty Yahama." Sure enuff, he's in the movie, and with the faraway helicopter shots today, they got look-a-likes. The look-a-like for Clubby Lug does not look that close. As the Helicopters swirl about, I bend myself over like Steve Martin in the Jerk. I was about to tell this to an extra standing next to me, but I realized he was in his 20s, and I would elicit the comment: "Steve Martin's not funny." Ugh, somewhere the funny bug left Martin as sure as it deserted Joey Bishop. But, back in the day, when Mr. Martin was the Beatles of Humor, he did this walk where he would bend way back, almost like a drum major does. I was hoping to get my face on camera, instead of the top of my head in this way. Total cheeseball hammy move on my part. But fitting a cheeseball ending a movie where everyone cheers and someone gets raised on the crowd's shoulders. ha ha.

As the helicopters swirl away, I'm reminded of how they make all the assistant director's on set nervous. At least the ones old enuff to know better, John Landis of Animal House nearly went to jail when set helicopters crashed and killed people. Probably the most famous production accident ever, so a helicopter's presence on set always ups the anxiety ante. But, for today, I made it outta the 'Nam alive. They feed us prime rib, AFTER we're done shooting for the day. That's a first, usually productions will try and scrimp if you are done shooting close to lunch/dinner. Style points for that. As I drive along the roads out in the canyons, having to turn around twice because roads have been rendered unpassable because of rock slides, I remember how often on the recorded message for this shoot, the lady had told us it was a beautiful drive. It was a beautiful drive, but I had no desire to do it again at rush hour. I went over to a pal's and played poker, and waited for the traffic to subside. I've asked my gay lover: can we buy a condo on the westside for such occassions? We've got the equity with our eastside digs, I'll bet it becomes the fashionable thing to do.

Emergency Cabaret Meeting

If I was ever in a band, I would call it that. I'm watching this documentary called "Stage Door," where all these THEATER kids go to summer camp and act all THEATERISH. Whoa. It's sooo gay, it makes me feel straight. Of course, these kids have been confined to their normal high schools, waiting all year, so when summer comes they can SING and DANCE and ACT! When gayness manifests on this level, I truly get a mental image of a gusher jetting out of an oil well. Gay geyser. More jazz hands then I've seen in a bit. More hoary old war-horse musicals then I can stomach. Even me, a self-confessed theater gay when I was a kid, is repelled. I think if I was here I would just play football all day.

The big moment in the film is when they call an "Emergency Cabaret Meeting." No one should ever call an Emergency Cabaret Meeting. Or, maybe they should. If I ran a business, I might just send out the text message to all my employees:

EMERGENCY CABARET MEETING

I've decided I want to do a follow-up film where I show up at this Thespian Land. Kids ask me if I'm a counselor, but I tell them I'm a camper. I have a glandular disorder. Crone's disease. I also wanted to do this on the set of Visionquest: just show up on a kid's wrestling team, throwing nine year olds to the floor. If anyone challenges my age, I say, "Hey, are you making fun of my handicap? I've gotten a fucking disease! I've got two weeks, tops!"

Science-cosmo-tologists ...

This from a person calling themselves "mynskinosh" on

http://www.backgroundbeat.com

This is a bulletin board for backies, where they can perfect the art of the bitch. Your job to figure out what's valid. This particular post is re War of the Worlds.

"wow I thought it was pretty funny but also kinda crude to see the tent set up extolling the virtues of the church of Scientology on the WOW set downtown on Monday. Tom Cruise is insane. So is Travolta and all these other Hollywoodiniares who subscribe to the cult of the billionaires. I guess it gives them hope! Personally I think the whole lot of 'em would be better off giving their money to psychiatrists, their nefarious nemesis that they chose as the devils incarnate. Which could be worse? Psych meds or "donations" of unknown amounts of your income to science fiction writers who now judge from up there on high in outer space? I mean the people were very nice, sun shiny people- just the kind you would expect in a cult. They had nice sunshiny literature that seemed to be written for people on a 4th grade education level. I laid down on the massage table, cuz after all that standing and walking down the trash laden street, I could of used some soothing hands - on. Instead of a massage, the guy just lightly tingled around my "energy field." and kept having me flip over. He asked if I felt any better, as if the treatment would instantly reinvigorate me, the way Scientology would for my life as a whole. I had to be honest and say "no" I didn't feel a thing. I didn't want to be rude, so I told him that I was the king of pain and there was little that could be done for me outside of a shot of morphine, but this just made him more determined. Back for another flip, he went over my energy field for another 5 minutes. Everyone else had bolted back to set and I was left alone in the Scientology tent with my waning energy field. I then lied and told him I felt "much better" Then I quickly dressed, thanked him for the literature and ran to set. If you don't feel better, they will keep you there till you do. On the set I was sharing the funny comic book style literature w other BG. I held out the magazine and looked curiously at the cartoon depictions of improved lives, when out of nowhere a man on set with a big black camera stooped down in front of me and took my picture. I must have made a good portrait of the curious man interested in the babblings of L RON HUBBARD. But I'm kind of concerned~ I don't want to end up in any of their pamphlets of happy people considering the scientological option. I don't want my picture adorning their hall of suckers in the high temple out on L RON HUBBARD way. The larger question: Do you have any rights to your image when on a set? Or does 54 for 8 permit them to take pictures of you to use as they wish? I would never whore for Scientology. I believe it is a big silly scam. I don't believe in its underhanded methods of proselytizing. I certainly don't want to appear as a participant in any way shape or form just cuz I worked BG on a Tom Cruise film. I'm not lying awake at night worrying about it, but its the principle of the thing, Goddamnit. The Church of Scientology is well known for it's lack of principles. What are my rights on set as a BG regarding the use of my image? I showed up for War of the Worlds, not to be in Wacky Cult literature"

Here's the link: http://www.backgroundbeat.com/index.php?showtopic=595

names and name-calling

Filled out forms. Waiting for card. Soon I will be SAG, the same Screen Actors Guild that others endlessly babble about on sets. I will be able to call others "ass-kissers" and say "I want my god damn craft services." "Suck up!" I'll shout to anyone who crosses my path.

I had to pick three names for SAG, in case I didn't get Josh Ramsey. As it turns out, I did NOT get Josh Ramsey. I got "Josh Rubrick Ramsey," as there was already a Josh Ramsey. This was fine with me, my dad's name first name is Rubrick, so this is a paen to him. My gay lover rolled his eyes when he saw my third entry: Joshella Hyperbole Ramsey. That might have been a funny joke turned nightmare reality.

Today I worked a Gecko commercial. Heaps of humanity, shitty box lunch, shitty treatment, etc. But, it was a commercial, paid better, and went faster. People smoked dope on breaks. We were in a cavernous old auditorium. We were wrestling fans. I got in the aisles and silent-shouted racial epitaphs. They had a white vs. a black wrestler, and felt wrestling would be the perfect place to trot out the racist character I have been working on. It was a great success, as there were a great many black folks on the commercial, and if I was really speaking (we had to be stone silent, yet appear like we were cheering), I would get a well-deserved ass whupping. Plus, I don't want to hurt peeps with that word, I just find it intoxicating to say, cuz you're not supposed to say it. In fact, a buddy of mine was telling me that his pal was in Prague, and when he realized he hadn't seen black people in 12 daze, he started yelling the "N" word as he went down the street. Fortunately, nobody in Prague reads Nabokov. Are you bad if you run up and down the streets of Prague using the "N" word. If the "N" word falls in the forrest and nobody hears it ... ???

Drink, Drank, Drunk

I am sitting in a bar pre-noon. I used to think it was funny to show up to parties at night, put on a fake stagger&weave, and slur to the host: "I've been drinking since noon." But today, I'm drinking BEFORE noon. I could end up on a flight to Tunisa tonight, it's that kind of bender. I had a friend who's dad was old-school-hollywood, and once went to a bar with Peter O'Toole. He called his wife a week later shouting "I just rode a camel!"

I'm drinking with the members of my former pottery group -- a crew so toxic around each other -- we could only throw pottery when toxic. We had laid clay the night before. For that night I bought a case of Corona and a bottle of Patrone tequilla. By the time I left, our No. 1 patron had purchased us another 12 pack of Corona, and there was scant remaining of the Patrone. There was dope in the air, and coke up the nose (not mine. I am fat and old.) We had sucessfully knocked out the forms for an old design we had never completed, and all that remains is for me to paint the outside. It took four months of scheduling and rescheduling to get this done. One session got cancelled when our erstwhile kiln operator cancelled saying he had a flight home. Later he called me on the day after his flight. He was in-town cuz he had gotten so drunk, he had missed his flight.

This same kiln operator is in tow with us now. He started off the morning at his house, putting shots of Bailey's Irish cream in his coffee when his wife wasn't looking. He was also mouthing to me to at every opportunity: "let's drink, let's get out of here." We pick "tennis" as our codeword. We will play "tennis." I call our pottery wheel wrangler and tell him "We're playing 'tennis'. But we need lights to play tennis. Gas Lights to play tennis."

Thus, our wheel wrangler knows we are to go to the Gaslight. Instead, we go to Gilberts, our favorite Mexican haunt and have margies all around. They really are breakfast drinks, not alcohol, I've decided, in the same way the wheel wrangler once decided "a hummer should be okay for my bachelor party." Theeen, we go to the Gaslight, and offer the bartender $20 to turn on the karaokee machine. He wisely declines. We watch the day-time bar patrons come in. I both envy and pity them. Cell phones ring, except for mine: I boiled mine. Waiting for a new one ever since it accompanied me into the hot tub. Finally, the kiln operator picks up the phone and it's his wife. He inexplicably hands it to me, and I say "listen to the sound of bottle tennis," and I clink coronas together, saying "40-love." [clink] "40-15." [clink] "your serve bartender." Then hand the phone back to the kiln operator, who is still not ready to speak to his wife.

He hands her to the wheel wrangler, saying "talk to Frosty!." His wife calls the wheel wrangler Frosty on account of his white ways.


"Hello," says Frosty, and then hands back to the drummer. The conversation lasts long enuff for her to say "So, you're not playing tennis. You're drinking." [click]

At the Gaslight we discuss our kiln operator's latest poo paux. He was about to let out a ripey in bed, and turned to the side to shot it away from his wife.

"This will be good," he sez. It was. He popped out two turds onto the floor. Thank god his cannon had enuff torque to arc his shot out of the bed and onto the floor. "This will be good," becomes a catch phrase for the afternoon. That along with our kiln operator's trademark, overwhelmed big ***sighs**** and "let's face it." He was prefacing almost all sentences with "Let's face it ..." as in

"Let's face it, let's get some Merv." Merv being short for Mervin, their coke dealer. Mervin had been dealing for 20 years. I don't know how you deal for 20 years and not get caught! We know other drug dealers who have houses on the Venice canals, and have never been caught. In fact, when the three thousand calls to Merv didn't pan out, we went down the alley where he lives. Legend has it you can simply pull up to his apartment window, and slide in the money, and slide out the stuff. In the alley, there are literally, about 3 dudes on cell phones milling about. Planes lined up for the runway. How can the cops not notice this?????

Meanwhile, at bar #3, I decide to call my man. I can't let the absence of a cell phone keep me off the hook all day. I tell him where I'm at, and he gives a curt reply back: "I'm at work."

I'm like, uh-oh, but I'm prepared: I've already called two places for work, and after the intial chill, I leave the phone okay. I try to push these as a lesson to my kiln operator pal who uses deceit. He nods his head and hears not a word. He was veering towards what we called the "managed care" part of the evening. No longer jolly, but jolly-hostile. A strange brew of singing Doors songs at the top of your lungs in the bar, and giving people life-squeezing hugs, telling them "I love you buddy," but with a sneer. Grabbing and shaking you while you are driving. Doing movement like you're an airplane on the dance floor, but a menacing airplane, like a hijacked one heading for the towers. He used to have a "nurse" for these occassions, a solid drinking buddy who would drink free, but be required to handle "the patient." This was all getting un-fun.

Finally, we hit Trader Joes and buy food for the preparing. We cook, we eat. I come down from a two day bender. I still have to paint my part on the pieces, so I can stress about this and freak myself out about each and every brush stroke. Not to mention stylistically, as the pottery collective were all down on my beaux arts trip I was trying. No crew breaks up easy, and this group broke my heart in a lotta ways. The wheel wrangler is trying to convince me to do some coke.

"Hey, if it goes wrong, at least it will be an easy death." I have to admit, there's a strong argument for my death boosting the sales of our pottery.