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.