4.13.14

You know, it is totally like Michael McDonald says

“i keep forgettin’ we’re not in love anymore”

And then some slap bass.

So true.  So true.

Impact

I lit the spit out of a white cyc the other day.  Top notch.  Great work.

Still, despite the beautiful promenades awaiting our love, I had to shove the talent back against the cyc and vomit camera movement all over them.

It still gives me the shivers.

I shot Billy Joel the other day.  Not since high school have I been less wanted.  His handler had her hands all over the breathing part of our throats.  I was watching the footage last night.  I suffocated.  Again.

We shot one take.  “You got it,” she told us.  Eh.

Then the B roll.  You can’t shoot B roll if there’s no A roll.

If I moved or breathed or smelled, the beasts grew ready to pounce.

A vignette of elephants ready to smash through the frame on their way away from me.

Watching that footage gave me the grimace.

Just trying to help, Bra.

4.02.14

It’s shocking when they get mad at you for trying to help them

Then they become blind to the patterns they set up that block your help.

I have found myself near begging for help on how I could help people.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about genuine do-gooder type of stuff.  As much as I love the image of me with a cape, I find myself afraid of even a kind word to people sitting still on the sidewalk.  I skitter from that kind of help like a mouse.  Anything in motion, a nod, carry on, that’s manageable.  Actual contact, engagement, the lights go on and Iike a flash the shadows.

I’m working on that; miserably.  I’m finding the modern day Samaratan thing to be difficult in the translation.

No.  I’m talking about let’s move the couch kinds of stuff.  Mutually beneficial tasks.  Projects that take a few and help a few.  Even other people’s projects that I’m paid to do things like…help.

I had a Sisyphus with this job recently in the prep.  The Help me Help you had the wincing effect of a personal colonoscopy.  My kid beat up their kids.  I threw up on their wedding dress.  I burned off their mustache.  I drove over their turtle.  I gave their Grandma herpes.  Cascade in the soup.  Poop toothpaste.

Simple questions like “what would you like?” and the sprinkler system went off.

So strange.

Help

It’s shocking when they get mad at you for trying to help them.

Then they become blind to the patterns they set up that block your help.

I have found myself near begging for help on how I could help people.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about genuine do-gooder type of stuff.  As much as I love the image of me with a cape, I find myself afraid of even a kind word to people sitting still on the sidewalk.  I skitter from that kind of help like a mouse.  Anything in motion, a nod, carry on, that’s manageable.  Actual contact, engagement, the lights go on and Iike a flash the shadows.

I’m working on that; miserably.  I’m finding the modern day Samaritan thing to be difficult in the translation.

No.  I’m talking about let’s move the couch kinds of stuff.  Mutually beneficial tasks.  Projects that take a few and help a few.  Even other people’s projects that I’m paid to do things like…help.

I had a Sisyphus with this job recently in the prep.  The Help me Help you had the wincing effect of a personal colonoscopy.  My kid beat up their kids.  I threw up on their wedding dress.  I burned off their mustache.  I drove over their turtle.  I gave their Grandma pneumonia.  Cascade in the soup.  Poop toothpaste.

Simple questions like “what would you like?” and the sprinkler system went off.

So strange.

gas hotels

So I’m staying in this hotel just like I stay in other hotels when I stay in hotels.  I get in, I set my bag on something hard like porcelain or tile, check for bed bugs, unpack my backpack, charge every battery I can, drink some water, leave my jacket on, take off my shoes, hide all the hotel pamphlets and paper junk, look at the free and expensive treats and sit down in front of my computer.  Oh, and turn off the HVAC.

Except that, in this hotel, turning off the air means that all I get to smell is the burnt natural gas not burning in the “fireplace.”  The kind of stink that would cause your head to ache if you didn’t run for your very life within thirty minutes.

So now I have to open the sliding glass door and crank the fan.  But soon I have to go to sleep.  The trouble is that when I sleep, I have a harder time keeping track of the things I own and someone could take advantage of that by walking in through the door and taking them.

So…safety or sleep or comfort or HVAC…difficult decisions here in LA.