Journey's Journey

I got a call at Hollywood Death Cab. I had just finished a brutal shift, where I had been reviewed by one of my various nemisi. (Nemisi -- anyone who doesn't recognize my immediate brilliance and promote me ruler of the galaxy). The call was for what we call in the extra trade "a journey." (Journey -- meaning you've got to travel fast and IMMEDIATELY to some location where they are in need of extras).

In hushed tones: "Can you do a journey?" asked the booker. Her urgency made me say yes, despite the fact that I had just worked a long shift.

"It's for Journey," she said next. This confused me.

"I said yes, I'll do the Journey."

"No, it's for Journey. The Journey. The Journey is for Journey."

Now we had gone into that magical realm where words become sound and lose their meaning. It's cheap classic acid without doing the acid. We've all done it as kids -- say a word that is a linchpin of your existence over and over until it's a collection of hysterical sounds. Your reality shatters and you'll see yourself shift shapes should you be foolish enough to look in a mirror while saying "Journey" "Journey" "Journey." I was not about to let this woman at my booking agency trip me out.

"Wait a minute -- Journey is playing? The band."

Exasperated: "Yes. Sheezus. Why is that so hard for everyone to grasp."

I gathered that I was not the first to have this dilemma. Not so special after all, I thought (mom was right). The extra booker had to tell extras all day that they were getting a "Journey" to be the audience for the real band "Journey" and she was seeing how extras reacted to this potent blend of cheap-acid-magic and over-loading of poorly wired brain boards.

I knew this gal had to endure a bunch of feeble humor when the extras would exit their befuddlement to get the joke -- A journey to see Journey -- so I spared her any comment and got the info.

I arrived to find a couple of my Hollywood Death Cab driver's doing the dirty work of lugging extras to-and-from set. This scene was a crowd shot, so everyone was annoyed and amped up the sheer number of background in one place. Signs had been posted everywhere to keep the background out of food, prime parking, restrooms, etc. On a smaller call, the crew doesn't care of you pilfer some crafty, but on a large call like this -- background would attack like boll weevils if given the chance.

I saw a dude on set I recognized. He and I had just worked a period show where he had lectured me about sloth. He was right in his lecture, but also rude and without tact. A perfect candidate for Background Land. He had no memory of working the scene with me, even though it was a fairly specific, one-on-one scene where we were told by the second-second to argue about opera. A voice-over artist would fill in the words later, but we were allowed to see the script of those words. It stung, I was wishing I could do them, but instead was just an extra fake-mouthing an opera argument. For this dude, his brain just moved on to his next smoke-bump or meal penalty -- he had forgotten this moment completely.

For all the moments of vacuity I document in Extra-world, it would be fair to ask the question: Then, why? Why put yourself into a world where taking someone's chair could get you knifed? Where people behave without basic social niceties? This shoot provided a perfect example why.

I was placed in the concert scene as a "Bro-Daddy." I was a slightly older guy who loved Journey. Apparently, they had booked concert goers, and to the extra's casting agency -- this meant young. But the reality is -- the concert goers at a Journey concert would be wizened. So the "journey call to see Journey" was for peeps like me -- dudes who thought they could still rock it.
Of course, I immediately left my place in the crowd (a good backy knows when the second-seconds are overwhelmed and can't keep track) and ran towards the leads. I love the leads. Big stars of the big comedy movies out now. Funny and profane comedies which will one day be referred to in the same breath as the Lubitsch touch, or a Sturges film.

I couldn't get right next to the leads, a lot of peeps had jostled for that spot, but I was close. I got to watch them improv various ridiculous movement of male heavy metal concert experience. Thus, what they were calling on the set, a Bro-Daddy. Guys who hang out with guys in ultra-male environments. Like a Journey concert.

At one point, Jarred Abramowitz, the star of the current comedy "I love you Peter Marshall" told a story about this t-shirt he had gotten in Thailand. It was a bad knock-off Garfield shirt, with the witless cat saying in broken english "I wanna bad day ouchie!"

I did not have to audition for this job and beat out 250 other actors. I just showed up, and was able to jump around to the band Journey, enjoying the eighty-plus playings of "Wheel in the Sky" we endured. I almost learned all the words to this song, a resume skill to be certain. I got to act with some of my favorite comedy stars in close proximity. I got to watch the nerd-bomb director come up to them and over direct them. I got to watch the comedy actors nod their heads "yes, fuck off, we know what we're doing."

At one point, Judd Paulson, my comedy idol, started pulling his shirt over his head at the concert. Beavis and Butthead style. It was such a genius improv, and certainly not in the script. It could be an iconic moment, and it came from him, not the nerd-bomb director. Immediately after this take, where he created this physical bit, the director came up to him and said how cool that was, and then went on to elaborate a bunch of unnecessary directions and motivations that would have ruined what the actors were creating. Paulson and Abramovitz were so on top of their game, and giving so much, and yet needy nerd-bomb director would come up each time and over-complicate things with more stupidity.

Watching the real Journey on stage was good fun too. They would pretend to rock out to their song, and they had their own people doing guitar tech when there was no sound coming from the guitar. Playback. I saw the guitar tech handling the guitar in between takes and tuning it. Lord.

The drummer for Journey was the only one creating sound. That was cool. He was drumming that Wheel in the Sky like he was headed there. As this song looped and looped all night, it reminded me of a documentary I had watched once -- where a kid had taken bad acid and was in a mental hospital singing "Wheel in the Sky" over and over. For eternity. At least I knew it was only for a day. (Journey! Journey! Journey!)

It was also good fun on set to see the camera ops work this giant concert crane. The camera would come flying in, almost grazing the tops of people's heads. I was hoping it could hit me and I could fake a seizure.

Speaking of seizure's -- an extra had one. All the Journey lights and pyrotechnics, strobes -- had induced a mini-stroke of a seizure. They took the person out, clearing a way through extras who were about eat. People were grumbling bout losing their place in line to get a coveted burrito, just cuz "some dude can't handle his strobe shit."

Another great moment in BackyLand. Because we were in a real club (the Cosmo Gardens), their were all the nooks and crannies of an old theater. This extra had found a spot, in a closet, BEHIND an ice machine, so that he didn't have to go out. I even saw a second-second shining a light back in the closet, nazi-style, looking for extras. This Ann Frank-extra was so perfectly camoued, he never had to go to set and ate his burrito in peace. Behind a broken ice machine, in a closet.

Sad part was later when I was tired, and could no longer stand on my feet, I found a seat in the deep background. The guy next to me did not even move on takes, we were buried so deep. Meanwhile, next to us, two girls whirled and danced, their jugs flying out of their club-tops, and their fat stomachs exposed. They knew they were hot girls and the camera was directly on them. Only it wasn't, it was miles in the front. But they didn't care, they were making a movie all their own. In a post with plenty of definitions, that's the definition of being an extra.

I left with exhilaration. I had gotten in line before they told us to get our vouchers signed. A second-second came out huffing "who told these people to get in line! no one told them to!" I had been staring daggers at the second-second all night. He was mean with mean-face. Looked like one of the Hanson Bros. goons from Slapshot. We were all about to be busted, put at the far back of the line, yelled at like bad children.


The wardrobe lady did not care about what had happened or why, or justice. She was ready to go home. She told the mean-faced second-second: "Too bad, too late. I'm ready to hand out their vouchers." Ah ha ah aha ah ha.

Then, I jumped into the shorter SAG line and was out.

Then, my car was parked in the most perfect place in the lot. Ahead of everyone. I had saved an hour, which at 3 in the morning, is like gold.