December 14, 2005
I'm downtown, it's seven in the morning. I'm working on a Mastercard commercial. "Keeping your anal virginity throughout your stretch at Ryker's Island . . . priceless. There are some things home-rolled cigarettes can't buy, for everything else, there's Mastercard." The sun is rising right in front of me, casting a bit of warmth on this cold L.A. morning.
I had tickets to see KING KONG on Monday night, but I didn't get out of "House" in time. I was disappointed about that. But you know who was really torn up about it? Jeffrey Dahmer. The message he left on my answering machine was just heart-wrenching.
I did end up getting recalled on "House," and worked a fourteen hour day yesterday (I had free passes to see THE PRODUCERS that went to waste; seems like that happened a lot lately). But I had a good time--I played Spades for a while with other extras (all of them were regulars on the show, meaning they work every episode, getting called in by the production rather than having to call in themselves, scrabbling over the few available spots like starving dingos over the last morsel of Meryl Streep's baby), and had fun. My team not only won thrice, but an unrealistically beautiful young lady told me I was really funny. I'm bad with compliments, but she made me feel all toasty inside, comparing me to Steve Carrell (hopefully not just because my bed is empty).
Joel the A.D. made it a point to remember my name this time around, and that made me pretty pleased. "House" is a show where they really make use of the extras. I played a hospital visitor, an administrative employee, and an orderly yesterday, changing my outfit for each new scene. There's also not a lot of glamour on the programme, with young hot aspiring model/actresses on set, grabbing up the union vouchers and raising my already-strained heartrate. In fact, besides Lisa, the gorgeous Spades player, the only real beauty on the set was Jennifer Morrison, who plays Cameron on the show. To be honest, I don't watch the programme, but she's done a couple of horror movies, and if you know me, you know the only thing I like more than feeling sorry for myself is horror movies (it's a close race). I would've liked to have talked to her about the utterly mediocre URBAN LEGENDS 2, but alas, I didn't get to. Hung around with star Hugh Laurie for a minute or two, and either the guy is a consummate professional, or he isn't really British.
Two days in a row, the Fox studio store gave me their employee discount because I claimed to work there (I was in scrubs both times, which helped), so I bought a total of six DVD boxed sets and a MR. & MRS. SMITH. I might not have bought the newest "Simpsons" set, but the "Lisa The Vegetarian" episode was playing inside, and it was just too great to walk away from.
This morning, I am sitting outside (the sun has already gone behind a building since I've been writing this), with my jacket on, enjoying the fre--whoa, I almost said "fresh air" in Los Angeles--time outdoors. This is a huge booking, what's referred to as a cattle call, and I've recognized many, many faces (and at least one groin . . . hmmm). Cattle calls are bad, since you have to battle a hundred or more fellow background artists (tee hee) to get your voucher, or check in with wardrobe, or find a place to sit, or get a donut. Tempers tend to flare in these kinds of jobs, since there are always A-holes who butt in line in front of you, ex-cons get on the set, and much complaining all around. Oddly, though, this morning at six a woman beside the line grew incensed at a guy and threw her coffee at him (she claimed he'd pushed her). Most of it hit the guy, but some spattered on the poor extras in line to check in. I was next to one of them who swore in every possible colour and announced that his hundred dollar shirt was ruined. Not for nothing, but if you can afford a hundred dollar shirt, you should be off swimming in gold bullion with Uncle Scrooge and Daddy Warbucks, not making minimum wage plus lunch* with the starving artists. Of course, that's just me, constant nonexistent reader, you may have several shirts like his in your closet. If so, here's a twenty to light your cigar with.
Among the multitudes, I found my best friend among extras, Mark, who I call Hagopian (for reasons too stupid to go into). He's damned funny and good at bad impressions. (or maybe he's just bad at good ones), and we riff off each other like seasoned Vaudevillians. I really like this guy, though I don't know if we could hang out. We talk about "Saturday Night Live" and bag on the STAR WARS Prequels, but I wonder what we really have in common. I don't know, maybe I'm wrong and he'll be Best Man at my marriage to Lisa the Spades Girl.
For this commercial, we're spectators at a marathon, and it looks to be an easy day--in fact, we could be done before noon. Even if we aren't**, I'm in a pretty good mood, and though they didn't provide breakfast, I ought to skip a meal or two. Or ten wouldn't hurt.
Blog to you later.
Rish "Obi-Two" Outfield
*Whoops, no lunch was provided today.
**We weren't. In fact, the stupid thing went until after five (over eleven hours), when traffic was unbearable Downtown.
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