Not much to report on today. Yesterday I worked on "House," which I quite enjoy. Today I worked on "CSI: New York," which I'd never done before. I can't think of anything noteworthy about either shoot, except that the A.D. on "House" remembered me and kept calling me Tom. As Tom is not my name, I wonder if he remembered someone named Tom, or actually remembered me, just not my name.
In military terms, the extras are the lowest rungs on the ladder; the grunt privates used for cannon fodder. There's a hierarchy on a film set, from director (or producer in television's case) down to grips, or even lower, craft service. And at the bottom of the list, way down below pets of the crew, you find me.
I'm the guy who can get it for you.
Whoops, wrong production.
Extras, traditionally, aren't treated very well, and are respected even less. It's understandable, really, since a quarter of all extras are ex-convicts, scumbags, and alien replicants. Plus, the potted plant or the chair your actor sits in doesn't wander off the set or have to be given lunch.
George Lucas is notorious for not liking actors, preferring to create digital/puppet/miniature creatures, armies, and background players. And I imagine most directors, assistant directors, and P.A.s feel that same way about extras. I've worked several big gigs ("cattle calls," they're sometimes called), where cardboard cut-outs and/or dummies are used among the extras, or in place of them. And you'd never know the difference, except the fake ones don't complain about the long hours or need a place to smoke cigarettes.
There are exceptions, to be fair. When there are hot extras with big boobs and visible thong underwear, I'd imagine the attitude changes a little.
To be fair.
Rish "Human Prop" Outfield
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Monday, November 14, 2005
Bounty Hunter show
As in many industries, the unions run the film business too. If you're in the union (the Screen Actors Guild) as an extra, you're in luck. They treat you better, feed you better, and you can almost make a living on what they pay you. If you're non-union, however, the kid gloves are off (it's possible that, technically, if you're a non-union extra, they don't even have to provide you with water).
Most extras want to be in SAG, especially those who hope to be real actors one day (oh, sorry, I meant "real" actors, P.C. fans). The three best ways to move up from non-union to union are:
1) Be a hot chick;
2) Make friends with the casting director or crew of a show; and
3) be a last minute replacement for someone who is in the union.
That's not exactly what happened to me today, but it's close. Still smarting from what they did to me over the weekend (which I won't go into for fear of looking even more pathetic than the stepkid of a homeless guy, or maybe his step-nephew), I was out of work today, about to read "Harry Potter" again, when I got a call to replace some guy on a TV show about bounty hunters. Would've been nice to work with Bossk and IG-88, but they didn't show.
Not even Dengar was around, just a guy who stunt doubled for Steven Segal, a soft-spoken tattooed long-haired dude, and the guy who played Vin Diesel in his death scene in FAST & THE FURIOUS: The DVD Edition. We were doing a reenactment (my first) about a team of bounty hunters who bust into a suburban house in the middle of the night to catch a fugitive, shoot the place up, tie up a couple of teenage girls, rape a cat*, and terrorize a little boy . . . only to find out they're at the wrong address.
I was playing a uniformed police officer (one of two) who comes on the scene afterward, questions them, checks their bounty hunting paperwork, and makes sure Zuckuss and 4-LOM keep their names straight. I guess they were going to do a firefight later, involving squibs and weapons with blanks in them, but alas, I didn't get to participate in that.
They cast another guy to play my partner, and he arrived really, really late. He explained that he had driven up from San Diego (about 170 miles) and had traffic problems. Sadly, they had already gotten someone to replace him and he had to go home. The guy they pegged to be my partner was about twenty-five, with long blond hair, and at least a week's beard growth. The man they'd gotten to advise on weapon use, special effects, and police procedure said, "If I was directing this, you'd be in the back of the squad car, not driving it." So they made him grease his hair back and shave (he had no shaving cream, but the man told him to use soap). Unfortunately, he cut himself pretty badly on the cheek, and spent half an hour dabbing at it with tissues. He still got off easy compared to the San Diego guy, though.
The production was small and there were few of us. They shot it all in and around a nice Burbank home in a casual and quick manner just like the best college film shoots. They had three hand-held digital video cameras that they used simultaneously, and I'll bet you could make a fine feature film just that way.
The real police came by at one point and said the neighbours had complained, so there could be no firearms (real or rubber) in the front yard. As soon as the cops left, the pistols and sawed-off shotgun came right back out. Also much like student film work.
The afore-mentioned technical advisor was a craggy ex-police officer who must've so doubted his own masculinity that he had to throw his weight around to prove he was the Alpha Male in the room. Even though I only had to stand there in my scenes, he took it upon himself to show me how to hold my baton ("Everybody in the movies gets it wrong"), where to place my badge ("You mean your target? A badge just makes a bright shiny target for perps to shoot at"), how to squeeze someone's fingers together when you're taking them in custody ("You can even squeeze their thumbs"), and how to hold your right wrist with your left arm while standing (That way, your right arm is covering your firearm, while your left arm is free to elbow the extra you're demonstrating this on in the stomach).
He then asked me, "You ever use handcuffs? Besides putting them on your girlfriend, I mean?" I guess I should thank Buddha he didn't say "boyfriend," but I wasn't feeling super grateful.
He showed me how to handcuff an arrestee, that you press the cuffs down into place, neither clasping nor slapping them on. Then, so the girls would REALLY be impressed, he pressed one of them on me. "I only did one of your wrists," he said, "So that you'll have the other one free to try and find the keys to those things." Well, he may have thought this was funny, but it might have really not been. Luckily, I was . . . "blessed" with having the wrists of a seven year old girl, and I simply squished my left hand and slipped it out from the cuffs. Otherwise, I think it's safe to say he would have been an asshole.
Oh, it wasn't all bad. It was a very short shoot, and there wasn't much traffic on the way home. This gig was unique because I got to do so darn much (on camera). The director said, "Talk to the family, let them know the situation and make sure everything's alright," and we got to improv our scene. We did two takes, and I got to basically be the Senior Partner, since I was better at ad-libbing than the other cop. And then we were free to go.
It's for the History Channel, which I don't have (of course), but I wouldn't care if it was for the White Supremacy Channel, the Sodomy Channel, Lifetime, or the Let's Make Fun of Ugly People Network: money is a good thing to have.
Rish Greedo Outfield
*Okay, maybe I made that part up. But not the rest.
Most extras want to be in SAG, especially those who hope to be real actors one day (oh, sorry, I meant "real" actors, P.C. fans). The three best ways to move up from non-union to union are:
1) Be a hot chick;
2) Make friends with the casting director or crew of a show; and
3) be a last minute replacement for someone who is in the union.
That's not exactly what happened to me today, but it's close. Still smarting from what they did to me over the weekend (which I won't go into for fear of looking even more pathetic than the stepkid of a homeless guy, or maybe his step-nephew), I was out of work today, about to read "Harry Potter" again, when I got a call to replace some guy on a TV show about bounty hunters. Would've been nice to work with Bossk and IG-88, but they didn't show.
Not even Dengar was around, just a guy who stunt doubled for Steven Segal, a soft-spoken tattooed long-haired dude, and the guy who played Vin Diesel in his death scene in FAST & THE FURIOUS: The DVD Edition. We were doing a reenactment (my first) about a team of bounty hunters who bust into a suburban house in the middle of the night to catch a fugitive, shoot the place up, tie up a couple of teenage girls, rape a cat*, and terrorize a little boy . . . only to find out they're at the wrong address.
I was playing a uniformed police officer (one of two) who comes on the scene afterward, questions them, checks their bounty hunting paperwork, and makes sure Zuckuss and 4-LOM keep their names straight. I guess they were going to do a firefight later, involving squibs and weapons with blanks in them, but alas, I didn't get to participate in that.
They cast another guy to play my partner, and he arrived really, really late. He explained that he had driven up from San Diego (about 170 miles) and had traffic problems. Sadly, they had already gotten someone to replace him and he had to go home. The guy they pegged to be my partner was about twenty-five, with long blond hair, and at least a week's beard growth. The man they'd gotten to advise on weapon use, special effects, and police procedure said, "If I was directing this, you'd be in the back of the squad car, not driving it." So they made him grease his hair back and shave (he had no shaving cream, but the man told him to use soap). Unfortunately, he cut himself pretty badly on the cheek, and spent half an hour dabbing at it with tissues. He still got off easy compared to the San Diego guy, though.
The production was small and there were few of us. They shot it all in and around a nice Burbank home in a casual and quick manner just like the best college film shoots. They had three hand-held digital video cameras that they used simultaneously, and I'll bet you could make a fine feature film just that way.
The real police came by at one point and said the neighbours had complained, so there could be no firearms (real or rubber) in the front yard. As soon as the cops left, the pistols and sawed-off shotgun came right back out. Also much like student film work.
The afore-mentioned technical advisor was a craggy ex-police officer who must've so doubted his own masculinity that he had to throw his weight around to prove he was the Alpha Male in the room. Even though I only had to stand there in my scenes, he took it upon himself to show me how to hold my baton ("Everybody in the movies gets it wrong"), where to place my badge ("You mean your target? A badge just makes a bright shiny target for perps to shoot at"), how to squeeze someone's fingers together when you're taking them in custody ("You can even squeeze their thumbs"), and how to hold your right wrist with your left arm while standing (That way, your right arm is covering your firearm, while your left arm is free to elbow the extra you're demonstrating this on in the stomach).
He then asked me, "You ever use handcuffs? Besides putting them on your girlfriend, I mean?" I guess I should thank Buddha he didn't say "boyfriend," but I wasn't feeling super grateful.
He showed me how to handcuff an arrestee, that you press the cuffs down into place, neither clasping nor slapping them on. Then, so the girls would REALLY be impressed, he pressed one of them on me. "I only did one of your wrists," he said, "So that you'll have the other one free to try and find the keys to those things." Well, he may have thought this was funny, but it might have really not been. Luckily, I was . . . "blessed" with having the wrists of a seven year old girl, and I simply squished my left hand and slipped it out from the cuffs. Otherwise, I think it's safe to say he would have been an asshole.
Oh, it wasn't all bad. It was a very short shoot, and there wasn't much traffic on the way home. This gig was unique because I got to do so darn much (on camera). The director said, "Talk to the family, let them know the situation and make sure everything's alright," and we got to improv our scene. We did two takes, and I got to basically be the Senior Partner, since I was better at ad-libbing than the other cop. And then we were free to go.
It's for the History Channel, which I don't have (of course), but I wouldn't care if it was for the White Supremacy Channel, the Sodomy Channel, Lifetime, or the Let's Make Fun of Ugly People Network: money is a good thing to have.
Rish Greedo Outfield
*Okay, maybe I made that part up. But not the rest.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Scrubs
I worked on "Scrubs" today and yesterday, my first time on the show (and second, if you have to get technical, sir). They shoot it at a closed hospital not far from where the 101 Freeway meets the 405, and it's pretty unusual. The bottom floor is waterstained and fairly unmaintained*, the upper floors are where they shoot and have dressing rooms and such, and are quite impressive. I guess they're in their fifth (and last?) season, so it's been a good investment for the production, or studio, or network, or whoever.**
I have never been in a more familial atmosphere on a show than I have on "Scrubs." There is a big twisting room that is for extras, and they have couches, and magazines, a radio, tables, and a television/VCR with several donated tapes to entertain them. People know each others' names, many actually have I.D. badges with their own faces on them, and the regular extras have been known to get to deliver lines from time to time. Also amazing was that each day, there is a new face among the background, that of a common person who won an internet auction to come and be on the show, hang around the set, and meet the people who make it, all for charity. The man I talked to today was from Connecticut, had paid his own airfare and lodging to come do the show, and had donated over six thousand dollars to charity for his one day's work (he can expect his check for fifty-some dollars at the end of the month).
I really like it when cast and crew eat together, and this show is no exception (and the food was excellent). Yesterday, I sat down for lunch at a table, with John C. McGinley at the far end, and no one else. Soon, however, three more members of the cast and today's episode's writer sat down there too, filling every seat. I felt like a fly on the wall to their banter, conversations, and shenanigans, but a little uncomfortable, since I clearly wasn't one of them and never will be. Still, they seem like a close-knit group, a family of sorts, and I'm SURE that fans of the show would kill to be where I was on that.
Later on, they picked me and another guy to be paramedics, and we acted in a scene with McGinley, one that I screwed up two takes on. The first was, in pulling a stretcher out an elevator and toward the camera, the stretcher ran over my foot. The second was more embarrassing, as I pulled the stretcher into the room, my butt hit the Steadicam. D'oh.
Even so, there was no yelling, and I was still asked back the next day, where people continued to hang out and be extraordinarily friendly to one another. And me, as a couple people shook my hand at the end of the day, and one of the actresses (she who was on the stretcher) actually gave me a hug.
Often, as an extra, you don't know what you're going to be from one day to another. For example, my last week's gigs have been as
1) a restaurant patron ("The West Wing")
2) a New York City pedestrian (SPIDER-MAN 3)
3) a courtroom observer ("Boston Legal")
4) an airport traveler ("Malcolm in the Middle")
and 5) on "Scrubs," a hospital visitor, a bathrobed patient, an orderly, an EMT paramedic, and a surgical intern.
It beats the order entry job I had in '02-'03, where every day was almost a Xerox copy of the day before (the only variances were my colour of tie, where I'd eat lunch, and what salesgirl I was infatuated with each day). Not in pay, of course. Or hours. But who's counting?
Today was also unique in that, to my knowledge, it was the first day I've ever had my name on the call sheet. Even when I was a stand-in, years ago, I think it was a last minute thing. But there it is, first and last name on the sheet, which maybe I'll take home to remember. Should be a bigger deal, I guess, but since I'm still making Taco Bell wages, name on the call sheet isn't quite so glamourous.
But it could be worse.
Rish Scrub Outfield
*Actually, after writing this, they shot some on the bottom floor too, so I was wrong.
**I also didn't find out until after I wrote this, but the show isn't even on the air anymore. They're a mid-season replacement coming on in January after my pal Jeff's favourite show, "My Name Is Earl."
I have never been in a more familial atmosphere on a show than I have on "Scrubs." There is a big twisting room that is for extras, and they have couches, and magazines, a radio, tables, and a television/VCR with several donated tapes to entertain them. People know each others' names, many actually have I.D. badges with their own faces on them, and the regular extras have been known to get to deliver lines from time to time. Also amazing was that each day, there is a new face among the background, that of a common person who won an internet auction to come and be on the show, hang around the set, and meet the people who make it, all for charity. The man I talked to today was from Connecticut, had paid his own airfare and lodging to come do the show, and had donated over six thousand dollars to charity for his one day's work (he can expect his check for fifty-some dollars at the end of the month).
I really like it when cast and crew eat together, and this show is no exception (and the food was excellent). Yesterday, I sat down for lunch at a table, with John C. McGinley at the far end, and no one else. Soon, however, three more members of the cast and today's episode's writer sat down there too, filling every seat. I felt like a fly on the wall to their banter, conversations, and shenanigans, but a little uncomfortable, since I clearly wasn't one of them and never will be. Still, they seem like a close-knit group, a family of sorts, and I'm SURE that fans of the show would kill to be where I was on that.
Later on, they picked me and another guy to be paramedics, and we acted in a scene with McGinley, one that I screwed up two takes on. The first was, in pulling a stretcher out an elevator and toward the camera, the stretcher ran over my foot. The second was more embarrassing, as I pulled the stretcher into the room, my butt hit the Steadicam. D'oh.
Even so, there was no yelling, and I was still asked back the next day, where people continued to hang out and be extraordinarily friendly to one another. And me, as a couple people shook my hand at the end of the day, and one of the actresses (she who was on the stretcher) actually gave me a hug.
Often, as an extra, you don't know what you're going to be from one day to another. For example, my last week's gigs have been as
1) a restaurant patron ("The West Wing")
2) a New York City pedestrian (SPIDER-MAN 3)
3) a courtroom observer ("Boston Legal")
4) an airport traveler ("Malcolm in the Middle")
and 5) on "Scrubs," a hospital visitor, a bathrobed patient, an orderly, an EMT paramedic, and a surgical intern.
It beats the order entry job I had in '02-'03, where every day was almost a Xerox copy of the day before (the only variances were my colour of tie, where I'd eat lunch, and what salesgirl I was infatuated with each day). Not in pay, of course. Or hours. But who's counting?
Today was also unique in that, to my knowledge, it was the first day I've ever had my name on the call sheet. Even when I was a stand-in, years ago, I think it was a last minute thing. But there it is, first and last name on the sheet, which maybe I'll take home to remember. Should be a bigger deal, I guess, but since I'm still making Taco Bell wages, name on the call sheet isn't quite so glamourous.
But it could be worse.
Rish Scrub Outfield
*Actually, after writing this, they shot some on the bottom floor too, so I was wrong.
**I also didn't find out until after I wrote this, but the show isn't even on the air anymore. They're a mid-season replacement coming on in January after my pal Jeff's favourite show, "My Name Is Earl."
Thursday, November 10, 2005
An Extra Effort
I got word from a future son of mine that he'd like to hear more about what his father was doing prior to killing himself, thus robbing him of his singular existence. Or was I murdered? I wasn't really paying attention. Heck, it might not have been a future son at all, but a kid selling subscriptions to Martha Stewart Living. And where's my wallet?
Regardless of the reason, I thought it might be a good idea to write up a semi-regular report on what I'm working on lately, since it's marginally more interesting than what I used to do (and that was only slightly more interesting than what, say, Hume Cronyn is doing right now). And since I, at one time, had an internet blog, I thought maybe that would be a good forum for it.
Oh, and it helps that my worst pal tyranist mentioned yesterday that he'd discovered my now-defunct web blog. The bastage.
I moved to Los Angeles, California some years ago, with the dreams many small town kids share of working in the greatest industry in the world, telling my stories, and being paid an honest wage to do something I love, as well as dating ridiculously young, drugged-out former child actresses.
Unfortunately for me, I was born with no ambition (and, incidentally, no left testicle, but let's keep that between us), and I went nowhere literally before I started, and found myself looking for work. Having been a Theater Arts major once (and also wanting the chance to work on "Star Trek"), I decided to try extra work and called up Central Casting.
For those of you far from the pretentious and over-caffeinated, an extra is a person hired for a film, television show, or commercial, who has no lines and fills the background of any given scene. Basically a human prop, they move to and fro, inconspicuous, to flesh out the universe of filmed sequences. They are called Non-lined Actors, Atmosphere, Environment, or even Background Artists, but you know them as Extras.
The first work I did as an extra was on "The X-Files" (actually, a couple years earlier it was "Touched By An Angel" first, but let's also keep that between us), and there's a pretty good story about that day (maybe I'll tell it sometime), and I actually did extra work full time for a few months (my last work was on Fox's "Boston Public," remember that one?) before going on to . . . well, less fanciful pastures.
Years passed. The world turned, and suddenly, it turned back to where it was before. And hey, so did I. I'm back doing extra work again, and I've had several fun and unique experiences (and gained fifteen or so pounds, I reckon), from the first show ("24") to today's ("Scrubs").
I don't know how long this will last, but if I write about it, maybe I can make the best of it.
With a little extra luck, that is.
Rish Hollywood Outfield
Regardless of the reason, I thought it might be a good idea to write up a semi-regular report on what I'm working on lately, since it's marginally more interesting than what I used to do (and that was only slightly more interesting than what, say, Hume Cronyn is doing right now). And since I, at one time, had an internet blog, I thought maybe that would be a good forum for it.
Oh, and it helps that my worst pal tyranist mentioned yesterday that he'd discovered my now-defunct web blog. The bastage.
I moved to Los Angeles, California some years ago, with the dreams many small town kids share of working in the greatest industry in the world, telling my stories, and being paid an honest wage to do something I love, as well as dating ridiculously young, drugged-out former child actresses.
Unfortunately for me, I was born with no ambition (and, incidentally, no left testicle, but let's keep that between us), and I went nowhere literally before I started, and found myself looking for work. Having been a Theater Arts major once (and also wanting the chance to work on "Star Trek"), I decided to try extra work and called up Central Casting.
For those of you far from the pretentious and over-caffeinated, an extra is a person hired for a film, television show, or commercial, who has no lines and fills the background of any given scene. Basically a human prop, they move to and fro, inconspicuous, to flesh out the universe of filmed sequences. They are called Non-lined Actors, Atmosphere, Environment, or even Background Artists, but you know them as Extras.
The first work I did as an extra was on "The X-Files" (actually, a couple years earlier it was "Touched By An Angel" first, but let's also keep that between us), and there's a pretty good story about that day (maybe I'll tell it sometime), and I actually did extra work full time for a few months (my last work was on Fox's "Boston Public," remember that one?) before going on to . . . well, less fanciful pastures.
Years passed. The world turned, and suddenly, it turned back to where it was before. And hey, so did I. I'm back doing extra work again, and I've had several fun and unique experiences (and gained fifteen or so pounds, I reckon), from the first show ("24") to today's ("Scrubs").
I don't know how long this will last, but if I write about it, maybe I can make the best of it.
With a little extra luck, that is.
Rish Hollywood Outfield
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
The Boob That Broke the Camel's Back
Over the weekend, my pal Jeff and I went to a Tom Petty concert. It was an outdoor venue in Irvine, and was really enjoyable, if you don't mind cigarette smoke and thousands of sweaty, stumbling strangers.
I think you and I will all agree: people are scum. Seeing my peers in a public setting only reinforced this belief, as I saw people pushing, cursing, shoving, groping, arguing, fumbling, and spilling beer on each other. And talking on their cellphones (but hey, that's a different rant).
About halfway through the intermission, the cluster of youths to my right started getting even more vocal, and I looked over to see what was causing the commotion.
Turns out there was a girl, around nineteen, standing up the way, that would turn and face them (and us) and flash her ample bosoms.
When she did this, the guys would cheer. Then she would turn around and go back to her business. She was cute-ish, blushing and whooping, and I thought it was kind of neat. Hey, boobs are cool.
The guys would shout at her to repeat the act--maybe one of them missed it, maybe they didn't have a good vantage point, maybe they didn't have enough short-term memory to remember, I don't know--and eventually, she would turn around and do it again.
I'm not exaggerating, I counted seven times during the next half hour that she pulled up her blouse to reveal her assets.
An odd phenomenon occurred: somewhere along the line, I went from titillated at the sight to satisfied, then from satisfied to mildly annoyed. Finally, I went from annoyed to feeling sorry for her.
The drunken and/or stoned dudes lounging around her called out for more, screaming it, whooping when she'd show them, then calling her a whore when she put them away.
Does it make sense that I felt sorry for her?
While fairly ignorant, I guess I understand some of her motivation: hey, boobs are cool, everybody likes to be center of attention, and every girl wants to feel attractive. But what might have been a funny, daring act, quickly descended into exploitation Girls Gone Wild style.
Didn't she know that she was no longer a person to these guys? Did that not bother her? That there was no respect, no consideration, not even admiration for her sizable feminine attributes?
Well, I wanted to go over there and bitch-slap each and every one of those guys, and bastard-slap the girls with them for being with them. But more than that, I wanted to go over to the girl and put either a blanket on her or my arm around her and say, "Hey, kid, call it a day. Let's proclaim you the winner by TKO. Gather up your pride and don't turn around again." Of course I did no such thing.
I guess I'll commend my pal Jeff, who neither commented nor stared as this went on. Granted, the guy is happily married and libidinously flaccid, but I respect him nonetheless. He's a good man, and there aren't a hell of a lot of them out there.
I'm reminded of a party I went to last year. A girl I didn't know was there, she was attractive, and she clearly had esteem issues from a (brief) conversation I had with her.
We were all dancing to some godless Hip-Hop song or other when a bit of commotion drew my attention. It seems that the girl (I'll call her Belly Dancer, because that's how she was costumed) had lost her top in the midst of the dancing. Embarrassed, she was telling people to step back so she could retrieve it from the floor. And what did the big drunk bloke she was dancing with do to help her? He pulled out his cellphone and took pictures.
Now, clearly, this guy was a lowlife, but who did she end up screwing later that night in the bathroom? Same dude.
He came out afterward and all his moron friends hooted and gave him five. Belly Dancer drunkenly swayed on the dancefloor for a while, then, when the dude got it up again, he led her into the bathroom (a place of much pissing and puking that night) to nail her again.
Even though I gladly would've hit the horse at this guy's lynching, some of the blame has to fall on the girl. It has to. We are all individuals, with consciences and brains, and must be responsible for our actions. I think all that is part of the definition of adulthood.
Doesn't mean I don't feel sorry for her, though. Almost as much as I do for myself.
Wow, if I ever had a point, I think I lost it somewhere on the trail.
Rish "Angels In The" Outfield
I think you and I will all agree: people are scum. Seeing my peers in a public setting only reinforced this belief, as I saw people pushing, cursing, shoving, groping, arguing, fumbling, and spilling beer on each other. And talking on their cellphones (but hey, that's a different rant).
About halfway through the intermission, the cluster of youths to my right started getting even more vocal, and I looked over to see what was causing the commotion.
Turns out there was a girl, around nineteen, standing up the way, that would turn and face them (and us) and flash her ample bosoms.
When she did this, the guys would cheer. Then she would turn around and go back to her business. She was cute-ish, blushing and whooping, and I thought it was kind of neat. Hey, boobs are cool.
The guys would shout at her to repeat the act--maybe one of them missed it, maybe they didn't have a good vantage point, maybe they didn't have enough short-term memory to remember, I don't know--and eventually, she would turn around and do it again.
I'm not exaggerating, I counted seven times during the next half hour that she pulled up her blouse to reveal her assets.
An odd phenomenon occurred: somewhere along the line, I went from titillated at the sight to satisfied, then from satisfied to mildly annoyed. Finally, I went from annoyed to feeling sorry for her.
The drunken and/or stoned dudes lounging around her called out for more, screaming it, whooping when she'd show them, then calling her a whore when she put them away.
Does it make sense that I felt sorry for her?
While fairly ignorant, I guess I understand some of her motivation: hey, boobs are cool, everybody likes to be center of attention, and every girl wants to feel attractive. But what might have been a funny, daring act, quickly descended into exploitation Girls Gone Wild style.
Didn't she know that she was no longer a person to these guys? Did that not bother her? That there was no respect, no consideration, not even admiration for her sizable feminine attributes?
Well, I wanted to go over there and bitch-slap each and every one of those guys, and bastard-slap the girls with them for being with them. But more than that, I wanted to go over to the girl and put either a blanket on her or my arm around her and say, "Hey, kid, call it a day. Let's proclaim you the winner by TKO. Gather up your pride and don't turn around again." Of course I did no such thing.
I guess I'll commend my pal Jeff, who neither commented nor stared as this went on. Granted, the guy is happily married and libidinously flaccid, but I respect him nonetheless. He's a good man, and there aren't a hell of a lot of them out there.
I'm reminded of a party I went to last year. A girl I didn't know was there, she was attractive, and she clearly had esteem issues from a (brief) conversation I had with her.
We were all dancing to some godless Hip-Hop song or other when a bit of commotion drew my attention. It seems that the girl (I'll call her Belly Dancer, because that's how she was costumed) had lost her top in the midst of the dancing. Embarrassed, she was telling people to step back so she could retrieve it from the floor. And what did the big drunk bloke she was dancing with do to help her? He pulled out his cellphone and took pictures.
Now, clearly, this guy was a lowlife, but who did she end up screwing later that night in the bathroom? Same dude.
He came out afterward and all his moron friends hooted and gave him five. Belly Dancer drunkenly swayed on the dancefloor for a while, then, when the dude got it up again, he led her into the bathroom (a place of much pissing and puking that night) to nail her again.
Even though I gladly would've hit the horse at this guy's lynching, some of the blame has to fall on the girl. It has to. We are all individuals, with consciences and brains, and must be responsible for our actions. I think all that is part of the definition of adulthood.
Doesn't mean I don't feel sorry for her, though. Almost as much as I do for myself.
Wow, if I ever had a point, I think I lost it somewhere on the trail.
Rish "Angels In The" Outfield
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Hair today...
I haven't gotten a haircut in a while. While it hadn't gotten too long in the back, in the front it was getting unmanagable, and when I awoke or rode my bike, it was starting to look like Austin Powers's. So it was time.
I went to the same cheapie Mexican hair salon I always go to, riding my bike down the street. There were no customers getting their hair done or cut, just two large women sitting around. The more rotund of the two sat me in the chair, not even pretending to speak English to me this time. I always tell them the same thing: "Bien cortito atras, un poco menos en frente," and ask for it to be spikey on top. In fact, I'd memorized what setting I liked on the clippers. Hey, I'm easy.
So I said it as usual and she went to work, shaving the back of my neck and moving the shears up. Maybe she was in a hurry, I don't know (after all, the TV was on, and commercials don't last forever). She moved in front of me and pushed the razor over my forehead, blocking the mirror I was facing. Then she stopped, for some reason (it is in my estimation that this is when she realized she made a mistake, but of course, there was no admission of this). She moved out of the way and I was shocked to see a bare swatch of skin running through the front of my head, like the trail a lawnmower makes after waiting too long to mow.
I gasped. I said, "I said spikey," then said it again in Spanish. She said, "Si, si," as if everything was fine, and proceeded to shave the rest of my head. I thought maybe I was overreacting, that I had just waited so long that I wasn't used to short hair, but I did ask her if she had it on the right setting. When she unblocked the mirror again, I stared with horror at the bald, goblin-like creature reflected before me. A sense of surreality washed over me, the sensation I get when get in a car accident, see U2, find I have killed a homeless person, or recognize that my friendship with the cast of "Growing Pains" has all been a dream. Never, not even when losing a bet in 1993, had I had so little hair. I looked like a cancer patient with my discolored scalp. I looked like Doctor Evil with my misshapen nose. I looked like Gollum with my protruding ears. I looked unhappy.
"Ay, está tan triste," the woman chuckled to her friend, still sitting and watching the proceedings. To her credit, the other woman did not laugh.
I am not a vain person--quite the contrary--but my hair is my only physical attribute I take pride in (mostly because my maternal grandfather is bald as as a Telly Savalas character and everyone said I'd start losing my hair in the mid-Nineties). And it was gone. Not just short, not just shaved, but gone. Unlike Bruce Willis (who looks cool bald), or Eminem (who looks tough bald) or Kevin Spacey (who looks menacing bald), I looked like one of the aliens in "Galaxy Quest."
The woman said, "At least you won't be hot now," in Spanish, and I tried to come up with some retort. The best I could do was a weak "Or get a haircut until January." She told me I'd surely come in again before that, and, perhaps anticipating that I would never return, said, "Oh, but the girls will be all over you now." Staring horrified at the badly-processed clone in the mirror, I tried to say, "Or the army recruiters," but didn't know the word for recruiter.
As I rose from the seat, I was tempted to just walk out, or at least berate the fat woman. What would Uncle John do? What would Batman do? What would Sigourney Weaver in "Alien 3" do? But instead, I just pouted, stewing in my hairless juices. I gave her a twenty, and she went into the backroom to get my change, leaving the twenty on the counter. Again, the impulse came over me to just leave--to take my twenty and get the hell out of there--just to prove a point.
But if you know me, you know I couldn't do that. I took my change and walked out the door.
I showed my head to nobody. I now wear a hat in public. I was given one at work yesterday and I might sleep in it till my hair grows back. Otherwise, I might scare the children.
Oh, and the Jews.
Rish "Cueball" Outfield
I went to the same cheapie Mexican hair salon I always go to, riding my bike down the street. There were no customers getting their hair done or cut, just two large women sitting around. The more rotund of the two sat me in the chair, not even pretending to speak English to me this time. I always tell them the same thing: "Bien cortito atras, un poco menos en frente," and ask for it to be spikey on top. In fact, I'd memorized what setting I liked on the clippers. Hey, I'm easy.
So I said it as usual and she went to work, shaving the back of my neck and moving the shears up. Maybe she was in a hurry, I don't know (after all, the TV was on, and commercials don't last forever). She moved in front of me and pushed the razor over my forehead, blocking the mirror I was facing. Then she stopped, for some reason (it is in my estimation that this is when she realized she made a mistake, but of course, there was no admission of this). She moved out of the way and I was shocked to see a bare swatch of skin running through the front of my head, like the trail a lawnmower makes after waiting too long to mow.
I gasped. I said, "I said spikey," then said it again in Spanish. She said, "Si, si," as if everything was fine, and proceeded to shave the rest of my head. I thought maybe I was overreacting, that I had just waited so long that I wasn't used to short hair, but I did ask her if she had it on the right setting. When she unblocked the mirror again, I stared with horror at the bald, goblin-like creature reflected before me. A sense of surreality washed over me, the sensation I get when get in a car accident, see U2, find I have killed a homeless person, or recognize that my friendship with the cast of "Growing Pains" has all been a dream. Never, not even when losing a bet in 1993, had I had so little hair. I looked like a cancer patient with my discolored scalp. I looked like Doctor Evil with my misshapen nose. I looked like Gollum with my protruding ears. I looked unhappy.
"Ay, está tan triste," the woman chuckled to her friend, still sitting and watching the proceedings. To her credit, the other woman did not laugh.
I am not a vain person--quite the contrary--but my hair is my only physical attribute I take pride in (mostly because my maternal grandfather is bald as as a Telly Savalas character and everyone said I'd start losing my hair in the mid-Nineties). And it was gone. Not just short, not just shaved, but gone. Unlike Bruce Willis (who looks cool bald), or Eminem (who looks tough bald) or Kevin Spacey (who looks menacing bald), I looked like one of the aliens in "Galaxy Quest."
The woman said, "At least you won't be hot now," in Spanish, and I tried to come up with some retort. The best I could do was a weak "Or get a haircut until January." She told me I'd surely come in again before that, and, perhaps anticipating that I would never return, said, "Oh, but the girls will be all over you now." Staring horrified at the badly-processed clone in the mirror, I tried to say, "Or the army recruiters," but didn't know the word for recruiter.
As I rose from the seat, I was tempted to just walk out, or at least berate the fat woman. What would Uncle John do? What would Batman do? What would Sigourney Weaver in "Alien 3" do? But instead, I just pouted, stewing in my hairless juices. I gave her a twenty, and she went into the backroom to get my change, leaving the twenty on the counter. Again, the impulse came over me to just leave--to take my twenty and get the hell out of there--just to prove a point.
But if you know me, you know I couldn't do that. I took my change and walked out the door.
I showed my head to nobody. I now wear a hat in public. I was given one at work yesterday and I might sleep in it till my hair grows back. Otherwise, I might scare the children.
Oh, and the Jews.
Rish "Cueball" Outfield
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Monday, May 02, 2005
Enter: Old Age
"Everybody knows it sucks to grow up, but everybody does."
Ben Folds
Getting old is a real drag, kids.
You probably already knew that, having grandparents or neighbors or lovers who have gotten brittle and gray, sent off to a nursing home, a bad-smelling bedroom, or the grave.
But it doesn't really suck until it starts to happen to you.
Last week, I went on a big, irresponsible trip to Indianapolis, Indiana, to attend the Star Wars Celebration III, a place where gr'ups pretend that they're still like Miri (how about that for crossing my Sci-Fi references?). It was an expensive, uncomfortable trip, and I found myself really cynical of the next and suspicious of the upcoming last "Star Wars" movie. And is it the last, when there's a hundred episode television series in the works?
Many children ran around, swinging lightsabers, and even more adults did the same. I found myself frowning, watching it all and feeling out of place, feeling grouchy about the lines, about the latest attempts of Lucasfilm Ltd. to get my hard-earned money. I was much more interested in the gorgeous model-type dressed as Leia than the guy with the working General Grievous costume or the dude with the anamatronic tauntaun. I was more amped to find a place that sold allergy medication than for seeing George Lucas in person. On the flight home, I was much more occupied in hoping someone hadn't broken into my apartment (again), than if Episode III would be a fitting end to the saga.
To make matters worse, I was more looking forward to being back at work than another day waiting in line for something.
When I got back to work on Monday and a coworker asked me about my vacation, I told her how nice it was to get a full night's sleep, away from allergies, snoring roommates, and a lumpy alien mattress. She told me, "You know what that means? You're getting old."
As Unca Vader suggested, I searched my feelings and I knew it to be true. It had finally happened to me.
A good friend of mine considers himself a sixty year old man in a twenty-one year old's body (with the libido of a 70 year old), but me, I've always been the opposite of that. Immature as hell, to the point where I was asked to play a middle school student at twenty-seven years old, I have prided myself in being much younger than my calendar age.
When my friends stopped playing with toys and began playing with themselves, I still tried to collect all the Predacons to make Predaking (was that really his name? Talk about lame). When my pals started dating on Friday nights, I used that time to get to know the inner workings of Charles Xavier's mansion for mutants. When my buddies were standing at altars, gazing at their soon-to-be-wives, I was discovering the joys of late-night computer gaming. When my amigos were popping out children, I was creating the world's worst DVD collection.
But now it has happened to me: I am old.
It's about time, really. When I first moved away from home, my father gave me the briefest of talks, something he only did when I was in the worst of trouble. During this two minute exchange, he told me it was time that I grew up "and put away childish dreams."
I dwelled (dwelt?) on that admonition for a good long time, half resenting him for saying it and half resenting myself for deserving it. I had played the Peter Pan game for longer than anyone I knew, daring to extend childhood not just a year or two, but well into my twenties. I played a good game for a long ole time, but here I am, ready now to settle down, to get married, ready to begin to really live.
It took the final Star Wars Celebration to show me that.* A clue should've been given me when I awoke the second day at six in the morning, and instead of leaving to get in line with my roommates, I stayed in bed until nine or so, preferring a chance to let my body recuperate rather than be the first to buy lightsaber replicas, Sandtrooper statuettes, and Naboo Royalty tampons. Another hint that I had grown old was when I wanted to ask the pretty babe at the Cincinnati airport for her number way more than I wanted the autograph of the chick who plays blue Twi'lek Jedi Aayla Secura. I guess I could go on and on (and it looks like I am).
My coworker was right. I got old.
How does it happen? I ask the calendar.
Though I don't expect an answer, it responds:
When you start to choose comfort over excitement. When you watch a show about children or teenagers and relate to the parents instead of them. When you think of the good times and the best days of your life as being behind you. When the things you used to do for fun, maybe for years, now seems like a waste of time.
"Thanks," I say to the calendar. Then grab a book of matches.
Rish Outfield
May 2nd, 2005
*There's talk of a fourth Celebration to commemorate the thirtieth anniversary of Star Wars in a couple of years. I just don't know if I have it in me, though. It's like Admiral Kirk said, "Galloping around the cosmos is a game for the young."
Ben Folds
Getting old is a real drag, kids.
You probably already knew that, having grandparents or neighbors or lovers who have gotten brittle and gray, sent off to a nursing home, a bad-smelling bedroom, or the grave.
But it doesn't really suck until it starts to happen to you.
Last week, I went on a big, irresponsible trip to Indianapolis, Indiana, to attend the Star Wars Celebration III, a place where gr'ups pretend that they're still like Miri (how about that for crossing my Sci-Fi references?). It was an expensive, uncomfortable trip, and I found myself really cynical of the next and suspicious of the upcoming last "Star Wars" movie. And is it the last, when there's a hundred episode television series in the works?
Many children ran around, swinging lightsabers, and even more adults did the same. I found myself frowning, watching it all and feeling out of place, feeling grouchy about the lines, about the latest attempts of Lucasfilm Ltd. to get my hard-earned money. I was much more interested in the gorgeous model-type dressed as Leia than the guy with the working General Grievous costume or the dude with the anamatronic tauntaun. I was more amped to find a place that sold allergy medication than for seeing George Lucas in person. On the flight home, I was much more occupied in hoping someone hadn't broken into my apartment (again), than if Episode III would be a fitting end to the saga.
To make matters worse, I was more looking forward to being back at work than another day waiting in line for something.
When I got back to work on Monday and a coworker asked me about my vacation, I told her how nice it was to get a full night's sleep, away from allergies, snoring roommates, and a lumpy alien mattress. She told me, "You know what that means? You're getting old."
As Unca Vader suggested, I searched my feelings and I knew it to be true. It had finally happened to me.
A good friend of mine considers himself a sixty year old man in a twenty-one year old's body (with the libido of a 70 year old), but me, I've always been the opposite of that. Immature as hell, to the point where I was asked to play a middle school student at twenty-seven years old, I have prided myself in being much younger than my calendar age.
When my friends stopped playing with toys and began playing with themselves, I still tried to collect all the Predacons to make Predaking (was that really his name? Talk about lame). When my pals started dating on Friday nights, I used that time to get to know the inner workings of Charles Xavier's mansion for mutants. When my buddies were standing at altars, gazing at their soon-to-be-wives, I was discovering the joys of late-night computer gaming. When my amigos were popping out children, I was creating the world's worst DVD collection.
But now it has happened to me: I am old.
It's about time, really. When I first moved away from home, my father gave me the briefest of talks, something he only did when I was in the worst of trouble. During this two minute exchange, he told me it was time that I grew up "and put away childish dreams."
I dwelled (dwelt?) on that admonition for a good long time, half resenting him for saying it and half resenting myself for deserving it. I had played the Peter Pan game for longer than anyone I knew, daring to extend childhood not just a year or two, but well into my twenties. I played a good game for a long ole time, but here I am, ready now to settle down, to get married, ready to begin to really live.
It took the final Star Wars Celebration to show me that.* A clue should've been given me when I awoke the second day at six in the morning, and instead of leaving to get in line with my roommates, I stayed in bed until nine or so, preferring a chance to let my body recuperate rather than be the first to buy lightsaber replicas, Sandtrooper statuettes, and Naboo Royalty tampons. Another hint that I had grown old was when I wanted to ask the pretty babe at the Cincinnati airport for her number way more than I wanted the autograph of the chick who plays blue Twi'lek Jedi Aayla Secura. I guess I could go on and on (and it looks like I am).
My coworker was right. I got old.
How does it happen? I ask the calendar.
Though I don't expect an answer, it responds:
When you start to choose comfort over excitement. When you watch a show about children or teenagers and relate to the parents instead of them. When you think of the good times and the best days of your life as being behind you. When the things you used to do for fun, maybe for years, now seems like a waste of time.
"Thanks," I say to the calendar. Then grab a book of matches.
Rish Outfield
May 2nd, 2005
*There's talk of a fourth Celebration to commemorate the thirtieth anniversary of Star Wars in a couple of years. I just don't know if I have it in me, though. It's like Admiral Kirk said, "Galloping around the cosmos is a game for the young."
Monday, April 11, 2005
Epiphany
I just realised something I could do here. I keep a dream journal for some reason (maybe it's to show the review board at my weekly psyche evaluation . . . they seem to get a laugh out of it), chronicling the latest sick tangent my subconscious took me down. But instead of writing about werewolves surrounding my childhood home while the power was out there, I could write it here.
Hmmm. Maybe that isn't such a great idea.
Hmmm. Maybe that isn't such a great idea.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Jon Lovitz: The Adventure Continues
I ran into Jon Lovitz on Saturday night. We went to the Westwood video arcade (which, like noble buffalo, once roamed this land in numbers too great to count, and now dwindles to scattered, dying populations foraging for food and trying to avoid white man who slaughter them for their horns and tongues), and there he was. He looked great, and was in much better shape than the last time I saw him. He was with a young guy who I thought might be his kid. Well, he looked to be in his late teens, but also looked about as non-Lovitz-like as possible, so I don't imagine it was his son. Might have been, though. He was playing that great mini basketball game Denise Ching Curtis and I used to play until two in the morning, and he was really good.
I was going to approach him, and then I froze. I don't know why, exactly. I've met more than my share of celebrities since moving to L.A., so it can't be that I was starstruck. But that's sort of what it felt like. I thought, "I'd like to say something really funny and/or poignant to him, since he may not have the fanbase he used to nowadays." My mind stayed blank, though. But I remind you: this was no Harrison Ford or Halle Berry or William Shatner or Tom Bosley . . . dude, this was Jon Lovitz. I once had a conversation with Arnold Schwarzenegger, for heaven's sake.
In the end, right before he left the arcade, I just went up to him and said, "Jon, I gotta tell you, before I met you I was nothing, nowhere, nobody." He sort of chuckled, but I don't know if it was because he was genuinely amused, or if he was just being polite. And then he was gone.
I've thought a lot about my turning into a silly stammering schoolgirl, and the best I can come up with is my experience back in 1998 when I first ran into him. He was one of the first celebrities I ever met, he was in trouble, and I did nothing. Well, technically, I guess I didn't do NOTHING; I did write my best friend's wife (who is very religious) and asked if she would pray for Jon Lovitz. I mean, he was one of my favourite "Saturday Night Live" stars when I was growing up, appeared in Big and Mr. Destiny, and seemed like the kind of underdog I could really root for. I don't know, I'm rambling.
My encounter with Lovitz really stuck with me, much longer than it should have, and I thought about it a lot, wondering what I should have done, wondering what a friend would've done in that situation. I even wrote a story based on that experience, and with time, I put it behind me.
It's no big deal, I guess. In fact, I'm wondering if I should even post this. But since I'm still of the mind that nobody reads these things, I'll just let it lie.
Rish Outfield
I was going to approach him, and then I froze. I don't know why, exactly. I've met more than my share of celebrities since moving to L.A., so it can't be that I was starstruck. But that's sort of what it felt like. I thought, "I'd like to say something really funny and/or poignant to him, since he may not have the fanbase he used to nowadays." My mind stayed blank, though. But I remind you: this was no Harrison Ford or Halle Berry or William Shatner or Tom Bosley . . . dude, this was Jon Lovitz. I once had a conversation with Arnold Schwarzenegger, for heaven's sake.
In the end, right before he left the arcade, I just went up to him and said, "Jon, I gotta tell you, before I met you I was nothing, nowhere, nobody." He sort of chuckled, but I don't know if it was because he was genuinely amused, or if he was just being polite. And then he was gone.
I've thought a lot about my turning into a silly stammering schoolgirl, and the best I can come up with is my experience back in 1998 when I first ran into him. He was one of the first celebrities I ever met, he was in trouble, and I did nothing. Well, technically, I guess I didn't do NOTHING; I did write my best friend's wife (who is very religious) and asked if she would pray for Jon Lovitz. I mean, he was one of my favourite "Saturday Night Live" stars when I was growing up, appeared in Big and Mr. Destiny, and seemed like the kind of underdog I could really root for. I don't know, I'm rambling.
My encounter with Lovitz really stuck with me, much longer than it should have, and I thought about it a lot, wondering what I should have done, wondering what a friend would've done in that situation. I even wrote a story based on that experience, and with time, I put it behind me.
It's no big deal, I guess. In fact, I'm wondering if I should even post this. But since I'm still of the mind that nobody reads these things, I'll just let it lie.
Rish Outfield
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Is that Bowling For Soup song really that good?
Okay, it was mildly amusing the first time I heard it. But they play it every hour on 98.7, with more regularity than the most devout Islam. I submit to the jury that the song is not all that good. And the more I think about it, the more I think the band is actually making fun of my generation, and that its lyrics are being misinterpreted.
Besides, the name of the band does a disservice to intelligent people everywhere.
Besides, the name of the band does a disservice to intelligent people everywhere.
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