One day during the filming of Leela, Horse and I got tired of pushing the grip taco cart all over U.S.C. campus, along with all of our grip hardware, sandbags and stands. We attached the 5' tall taco cart's pulling handle to the hitch of a big, beefy flatbed golf-cart that U.S.C. had lent to production for moving our package around the location.
With our trailer tied up, we rigged-out the sides of the big golf cart with cardellini clamps, so that we could hang all of our step-ladders, 12X frames and speedrail on the sides. Our itty-bitty grip truck was seriously squared away.
One day, as we set out on one of the mini-company moves we did around the campus, Horse jumped into the driver's seat of the little electric tractor-trailer and released the parking brake. He then hesitated for a moment, and reset the brake and jumped back out.
I watched curiously as Horse walked back to the taco-cart and pulled off a half-apple box. He placed the half-apple on the driver's seat of the cargo cart and sat down on top of it so that the steering wheel was almost in his lap. He released the brake, allowing the whole rig to creep forward.
"Now it drives like a truck." He said with a snarl. He leaned forward and began to crank the wheel around hard, like a trucker pulling a fully loaded Peterbilt out of a Flying J service stop.
I tried to hide my smile, as I realized that Horse had seized onto the cab-forward style of our cargo cart. The steering axle was under his butt, so it steered like a city bus. When turning hard, the front end would swing around wide, just like the big guys.
"Hang on a minute Horse." I said. "I need to get a picture of this."
I walked off towards set in search of a Polaroid camera to borrow.
In the one picture I took, Horse is peering out sideways, as if to check the progress of his trailer around a tight corner. His left hand is cranking the wheel around, and his right is raised up to the canopy roof of the golf-cart, as if he's tugging on the rope and tooting' the air horn. Keep on truckin'.
That was the one time I ever saw Horse drive anything.
On the morning when we got the call that Horse had died, we all raced to his apartment on N. Stanley and Beverly in Hollywood. All his set tools, his diamond plate toolbox, his converse all-stars and cut-off Dickies were all laid out to go to work. The picture of Horse in the big-rig golf cart was stuck to the fridge. It had faded a bit, but still caught something of the humor in that moment.

We ran aong Ocean Beach today. It was brillaintly sunny, but an unceasing wind blew straight in from the ocean, loud as a freeway. We ran from Sloat Beach to the cliff house; a distance i jusge to be around three miles. I ran along the glistening wet sand in the immeadiate path of the tide. She preferred to run above the water line, along a path of crushed sea shells and other oceanic detritus.
I felt like i could have sprinted a lot of it, but I hung back and waited for j. The dog went crazy and tried to run down every gull and sand piper. He seemed tireless as he harassed the birds, running up and down the beach, constantly in and out of the water.
When we got ot the cliff house, we walked off the three mile jog, and I felt like every footfall we made along the sand was somehow earned. I told J what little I knew about the cliffhouse, and then we began the long walk back. It seemed much father when we were walking it, and the light was getting flat. The sea was a silver color, swishing around and breaking in its irregular, choppy way. It was uncomfortably cold by the time we got to my truck, and I had trouble opening the vehicle's locks with my numbed fingers.

He leaned against the door of the bar until it gave way, and then spilled inside all the while glancing back over his shoulder.
"Well look what the damn cat drug in." Said a large, almost man-like female bartender. She was despairingly ugly, with clownlike dyed red hair. The other patrons at the bar also looked at him hostiley.
"Hi, you're open right?" He asked, sheepishly. A moment went by before she answered.
"Well what does it look like?" She asked ferociously, looking around at the other customers. "Are you gonna have a drink or not?"
"Uh, yes. I'm going to have, umh…" His mind went blank, as he tried to imagine what he would order. The last thing he wanted was a drink at that moment, especially a drink he couldn't pay for.
"Can I have a club soda?" He blurts out finally. Everyone in the place is watching the confrontation. The barmaid gives him a hard look and says nothing for a moment, and then suddenly turns away.
"Alright, that's it. Three strikes your out. Get out of my bar Mister." She says gruffly. Don stands open-mouthed and silent
"Come on, clear on out." she adds, louder.
Don stands there, frozen for a moment, not believing that he's being so poorly treated,
"Could I just use your telephone?" He asks, earnestly leaning forward, trying to appeal to the barmaid's sense of "human connection". She slams her hand down on the counter.
"Get the fuck out of my bar!" She suddenly yells, but Don has already turned and is halfway outside like a dog helped out the door with a kick in the ass.
u

Yesterday, January 19th was all about football.

I amazed myself by getting out of bed at 11:30, putting togteher a suitable outfit for winter football, and headed up to McCaren park with D.H. The game was fun, and of course i was glad I went, but i'm sure suffering today. Even the firendliest football games are physical, and this was no exception. I was the smallest guy on the field by at least 15 lbs. I can make up for some of it by hustling, but invariably you find yourself getting bumped by "the other fellows."

During one play in which I was on the defensive line, one of their receivers I was covering straight-armed me right off the snap, all the while making a spinning movement to get around me. This would have enabled him to get deep into the downfield, while leaving me two or three paces back. I know he didn't mean to, but the kid's arm came around wide as he spun, and he caught me on the cheek with an open palm as his body tourqued around. I was slightly stunned, and I think I muttered "fuck" to myself.
Then I sprinted after him down to the end zone. When I caught up, I don't remember if he was then carrying a pass he'd received. It wasn't the reason I was after him at that point anyway: He could have been running for the bench. I came running up along side him, checked him lightly and then tripped him. He was at a good run when I tackled him thus, and he went down hard and slid a few feet. When he got up he was smiling, but he said, "why did you trip me man?"
"You slapped me hard across the face when you came off the line dude." I said.
"Oh, I'm sorry." He said genuinely.
"Being a little guy in sports -" I said shaking my head slowly. "It's the only way to stay alive on the field."

At least it's the only way I know. It's always been a kind of gospel of masculinity: In a game if someone hits you dirty, then you have to straighten him out right away. In hockey it's accepted practice; in boxing even more so. Sporting conduct grows right out of the junior high locker room; and that's law of the jungle.

So why don't I feel totally clean about it? I've got all my justifications lined-up perfectly. It would seem to be an open-and-shut case within my inner-courtroom. Now I'm thinking of taking this case all the way to my own supreme court.

I have a problem with getting hit in the face: I never liked it. Who does like it? I don't think anyone particularly likes getting hit hard in the face: But I really lose myself. It was always the worst thing in boxing - just getting popped! It makes you want to cry, yell, rage, turn around and run...

But chasing a guy down and deliberately tripping him in a friendly pick-up football game.

That's a tough one.

MISSING CONTRAST

I can't believe it: I've just run out of subjects suitable for the blog. Since I returned to Montreal, I have ceased to See. How terrible, to have those marvelous travel eyes smote, stricken; torn from my skull to be eaten by small birds.
My trip to France did not end when the A-320's tires skidded onto the frozen runway ay Mirabel airport. I was still a traveller when Janie picked me up and we drove together to st. Sauveur to look in on the camps. Funny how the lines blur around these sorts of things. A teacher of mine used to say that the 20th century began with WWI, and ended with the fall of the Berlin wall. I have this sense that the 21st century began on September 11th, but a part of me feels that is terribly morbid and fatalistic. When I consider this opinion, I wonder if I'm being Americo-centric, but then I remember that the French and the Caanadians (the Canaanites - that's my bible study slipping in unconsciously) seemed to want to talk about 9/11 more than Americans did. Hmm.

I have to catch up on my bible reading. It's a perfect activity for days like this. Reading is a perfect activity for the Montreal winter: It's -18 today. I would go ice-skating, but it's probably too cold for that.

Straight Berlin

Into the light of morning,
the great cars take olive oil to Marseille.
They seem to cruise sideways,
through the narrow alleys.

The sun in the sky,
is round as a pizza crust
burning still like a molotov cocktail,
even in the clearness of evening.

The moon finally tires,
and punches out early,
descending over an indigo sea.
Lazy, overpaid sonofabitch.

Mariesol has arrived,
and I am suddenly a prisoner.
Ah Berlin, both psych ward and cabaret.
In your clear canal`s waters
the men have given up kicking their feet,
through closed windows; looking downwards;
careless and hopeful.

I`m blinded to the tulips of the mountain,
fallen from windows, and in their final massive
closure, they are soiled and black.
They chant incatations for the 30th of November,
and Autumn`s final departure.

I am proud to be poor, and so full of distaste,
with my wool liederhosen,
and wrinkled, ill-fitting cuffs.
Marvelous how these ebony zippers
despoil my shoulderblades;

I am proud to be old,
and have but a sliver of life ahead of me.
Each stationary bit of nothingness I watch,
will but improve my complexion.
And clear up some of the wrinkles,
on the over-used map that is my ass.

Each stationary bit of nothingness,
covers the tracks to its end.
But it can still be found,
on the tip of my cock.
which I twirl playfully,
at everything I`ve seen before.

That deadness in my eye you see,
is due to the stale bread I ate,
this morning, at THE SWISS STOVE.
And my tired old mug
is but an overwrought lithograph.

Will I ever get out of Dusseldorf?
What time does the zoobahn open?

I was walking up 6th ave a couple of months ago, and I noticed a faded, peeling advertisement on the side of an old loft building. This was one o those large ads they would paint right on the bricks of a buildings sidewalls (very old New York). The ad was for some seriously outdated service, along the lines of LOUIE`S FURCOAT STORAGE, but the interesting thing was the phone number displayed at the bottom:

ALOGONQUIN 347

When did they get rid of that old phone routing system? And is there any way it could be revived? All over North America they prefixed phone numbers with names of things: Who thought those up? It seems like such a cool system.

I`m going to try and hunt down as many of the old prefixes as I can. The trick is to ask old-timers what their neigborhood routing was. Their eyes will tend to sparkle through the cataracts when they talk about the old days when a phone number...

In Bay Ridge was EVERGREEN
In North Beach was CHESTNUT (I think that`s what Anna told me)
(Springfield was KLONDIKE)

So go out in the streets of your own town or city! Talk to the lonely old guy who feeds pigeons in the park (ask him not to feed the pigeons) but also ask him what the old prefixes were where he lived and worked. There are tens of thousands of them and they`re all cool. With some coaxing I think Bob McMillan could be persuaded to mount a database on Filbert... Maybe there`s a contest here.

Last night was really interesting. It was only yesterday that I felt like I was filling in the time before my return to North America. As I saw it there was only two and a half days to go, and nothing interesting could possibly happen in two days. On top of that I felt heavy when I left Provençe, and I couldn`t understand why. When I left Paris for the south, I`d finally managed to reconnect with my old friend Thomas Brutschi here in Paris, whom I`d worked and been friendly with in New York. Thomas and I left it that we`d connect and have dinner once we were both back in Paris. This would be my last social call in France.
Thomas lives in a Paris suburb called Montreuil, which seems to be the Williamsburgh of said city. Actually, Montreuil is much cooler. You get the sense in Paris that they didn`t buy the hype throughout the 90s quite as much as us. Paris never went dot.com and it never fell into the whole political correctness thing. They probably didn`t need it. But I digress...

Thomas and I had a quiet dinner together in his really charming house, and then we sat and he told me of his family life. Never have I met someone who is so in love with being a father: It`s like a drug for him. I couldn`t help but feel that something went right in his life. Thomas made the right moves at the right times. Sitting by his fireplace, nodding my head slowly, I was struck with the sense that I had lived my whole life as a misfit - and contrary to what I`ve always tried to project, that is not something to be envied.

But there`s no crying in baseball.

In our rambling talks, we sort of touched on politics for a moment. Thomas expressed a feeling of unease at what he saw as dangerous changes occurring in the world. He mentioned the large presence of police and soldiers in Paris, and the new powers that the state was giving itself over the populace. I looked him right in the eyes as he told me of his concerns, and I shared his unease - for himself and for his family. Thomas lives in a place where everyone grows marijuana in their backyards, and when he gets a parking ticket that he feels is unfair, he`s right away down at the police station yelling at them about it. And he can get it reversed.

This may be the impression of a wide-eyed traveller, but I think human beings live much better lives in France than they do in the United States - or anywhere else for that matter.

It`s time to make moves,

I can`t stand still.

I`m taking the fast train south today,

and I`ll kiss these big city blues goodbye.

(or for those of you who don`t speak jive)
I`m getting bored of the tourist thing, and I don`t want to spend new year`s eve in Paris. So I`m taking the TGV to Marseille and then a cow train to Aix-en-Provençe.

Filbert-blog has become like the abandoned dacha in Doctor Zhivago, when Yuri returns from his press gang service in the white army. The sentimental poet searches for his wife and child, and the memories of peaceful summer days. But in the house are only icicles and sad traces of those happy times.

And carrying a chisel is being monitored by the French secret service.

Is blogging dead?

It is so quiet on filbert.net... Thank heavens for new blood (by this I mean the "it girl"). Otherwise Filbert would be a dusty abandoned street with a boarded-up movie theater and a few tumbleweed bouncing by. The one traffic signal flashing Christmas cheer from red to green; the amber light shot out by some kids with a .22.

I went to see SWEET 16 last night at the MK2 Quai de Seine. Everywhere you turn in Paris there is romance and history. We got off the metro at Jaures-Stalingrad, and immeadiatley fell into a wonderful fairground, with carousels and an ice-rink. Les concessionaires offered crèpes and gaufres belges with Nutella. Or you could try your luck in a midway shooting gallery game: 3 Euros buys you five shots: The target is three balloons enclosed by wire, bopping around wildly on a jet of compressed air
"You look like you know what you`re doing." My friend Anna said, as I loaded the pellet gun and tried to adjust the sight. Her heavily accented Swedish voice seemed both amused and perturbed by this.
"Just tell me which prize you want baby." I replied.

And like Bo Mason, 1898 champion shot of Montana, I took out three balloons in three shots. If only I had a pair of figure skates with me.

Ah me!
It`s up and down in kind of a bittersweet way here.
How am I supposed to walk these streets, in the light parisian, winter drizzle?
Every bar beckons like an old friend, to have a glass of wine and a smoke.
And me, I speak just enough cheesy French that folks seem to find me cute.
But what good is any of it, if I`ll be less than a ghost here in a couple of weeks?

Bravely I took a bus home tonight: It was the number 69 from Invalides to La Bastille,
via rue St. Dominique - Quai du Louvre - Faubourg St Antoine. I had to change to the number
76, and I asked the driver where in the massive Bastille roundabout I should debark to get "mon bus correspondant". He was very nice, and replied that it would be the "premier arret".
I went back to my seat on the near empty vehicle, and settled in to enjoy the movie
of Paris night going by my window. When my stop was up, I stepped down from the coach and walked towards the bus shelter; I noticed the driver was peering into his rearview mirror as if searching for something, then saw me, smiled, gave a thumbs-up and drove off.

He was making sure I`d gotten off at the right stop. I was touched.

This morning I awoke at 4:40am, suddenly and for no reason. Usually that is something that would cause me a certain irritation, but on this day I was excited by the randomness of it. It was as if there had to be some cosmic reason that my body would suddenly be done sleeping.

Talk about a good attitude.

So I spent an hour or so writing, and then I read and tried to get back to sleep. It was a strange day/ The weather was unseasonably warm but the light of Paris has what I find to be a sad quality. Randy and I took a bus down to the Louvre, bought some books, and then walked back the the 20th.

Parisians are very nice until hey make you for an American. Then all bets are off, which is too bad. It`s exhausting to go around a city and have to be conscious that you are of the most unpopular group of people in the world. I imagine Serbs would have been better liked, even at the height of war in old Yugoslavia.

I have a feeling all of this is good for me nonetheless. It will be hard to return to Canada and the USA. There`s nothing there quite like Paris.

No matter how long I've lived in big cities, Paris manages to make me feel like a hayseed. Not that it's such a bad thing.

This place is great: Paris is really an eye-opener

Everywhere I move through this city I smell perfume: And on top of that perfume is the smell of whisky and tobacco, and diesel and 2 -stroke scooters that buzz the tiny streets

I love it. All the girls are really cute, and everyone's a communist.

I should just stay here: Fuck it all

I find myself wanting to move back to New York. That's not a good thing to find myself wanting, for it ain't gonna happen anytime soon. I realized that what i did wrong when i returned to the city at the beginning of November was failure to RENEW my relationship to it. I figured we'd just pick up where we left off, and it didn't work; the chemistry was all wrong. Upon reflection, I got to thinking it was like seeing an on/off lover after a long hiatus, and trying to bypass the whole seduction phase... (and just grabbing her tit). Everyone and everything has to be seduced - OVER AND OVER. If you can't get with this aspect of existence, you may as well just die.

On a more spritual level it's about living in the moment and about spontaneity. Every object is the Buddha and every situation is the guru.

Quitting smoking is much easier than its survivors will lead you to believe. It's really underrated at that.

Only in Willimasburgh do I see,
a face in the crowd - on a sidewalk.
I'm struck dumb by the brilliant luminosity of her.
I hesitate, and I'm reaching out a hand
to her shoulder
to stop her for a moment.
I can't possibly feel so much for someone,
and it not be something that we share.
Her every gesture is that of my eternal lover.
Every flicker of her eyelash and angle of her chin.

As if bit by a tropical spider
I find myself paralyzed,
and the moment passes.
She moves by me into the crowd,
never to be seen again.
Inside me there is only emptiness and loss.

But then I see another girl..!

Montreal is so quiet. It takes the strangest changing of gears to deal with this place.
I worked in Janie's basement today, putting insulation on all the water pipes. It felt good to do something other than vegetate, but i found myself wondering what happened to the fire I used to have for home improvement. Did I just remodel one too many? It's so crusty and nasty in janie's basement that I wore my orange flight suit. it may as well say L.A. COUNTY JAIL on the back. Where else do you see an orange jumpsuit? I walked over to outremont to visit terry and Yo; everyone was staring at my orange suit. I wished I'd worn something else.

This week is really about quitting smoking. It must be day VI or VII now. I'm not sure; it doesn't really matter. I work out at the Y every other day, and I'm reading SOMETIMES A GREAT NOTION. I think about New York, and Sara, and the film and all that shit, but it seems like another world now. Right now life is Montreal and a fresh dusting of snow every morning: Montreal is about weather that makes you stand up and take notice.

The part of life that I live for is somewhere in the future. This is like filler. I keep saying i'm going to go off to portugal or France, but I have trouble imagining anything so bold. Still, the thought of staying here is worse.

Tonight Vale and I went out for supper. It was very special and sweet. I think I finally saw all the work I've put into our post-realtionship: The trust and the vulnerability are tangible. We seem to be free of all the competitiveness and pretense that followed our breakup. I visited her new home, and came ustairs to say hi to Yann. It was all really nice.

When Vali and I said goodbye, I know we could have kissed, there on her front porch. I'll be thinking about that one for awhile. Underneath all the politeness, and the dutiful visits, I'd basically lay down my life for that girl. I guess she knows that.

I had a sudden impulse to particpate in the larger blogging community. As usual, I find myself on the outside-looking in. And so I began to consider jumping in on the apology week theme.

Was this an N.A. (Nick Adams) concept?

It's interesting to note here, that when I first began to read the apologies I had a vague feeling of discomfort. But that's not unusual for me. In that moment I attributed said uneasiness to my historic "outsider" mindset. I had a spike of irritation with myself for being so predictable. Later, on reflection, I considered that the very essence of apologies skeeves me out. In the 12 step world, there comes a time TO MAKE AMENDS TO SUCH PEOPLE WHEREVER POSSIBLE...

(fuck that shit man!!!)

During the filming of NOTHING REALLY HAPPENS, I had more than the usual apologies to make. My most chronic offense is treating people like idiots: Seth, Justine, Casey and Beca were my victims. It's a terrible burden to be right all the time. Then again, they made their displeasure known - in spades.

As I skim the Filbert blogs I see that everyone, as usual, is "grooving together" and digging the same things. I on the other hand cultivate my differences and try obsessively try to play to my strengths.

For that I apologize to everyone. I should really try harder to be one of the guys.

I figure I can afford to apologize to Nick, for talking non-stop about my own life. Consider this my appy-polly-loggies.

To Melissa and Mike, I would like to apologize for being at all times ham-fisted in my conservatism. I actually take very little pleasure from political arguments. My actions are a better indicator of who I am.

To Anna, I apologize for rolling my eyes when you talk about the inter-relationships of your friends. Do you know what I'm talking about?

And Bob; I apologize for never being sufficiently grounded and present when we intercourse socially.

I think that's everyone in the foreground Filbert pages.

Peace to you all

NOTES ON A CRUSH
(this is from last week)

DAILY you allow yourself to think, to consider, to hope that (the object of your desire) will come to you.

The crush flows against life's inherent spontaneity. Despite the belief we cling to that "there is always hope", the situation will not improve. If it was going to happen it would have already.

The sight of another lightheartedly flirting with (the object of your desire) is more fearsome than death. And you have about as much power over it.

As you near the lowest levels of misery, there eventually comes the step of deliberately revealing the obsession to (the object of your desire). Here begines the full-on reversal of fortune. This is when things really begin to turn downwards.

Ther anger, frustration, and impotence you feel in her presence begin to form on your face a gruesome mask that you can't take off. When you catch the eye of (the oject of your desire), you attempt to be friendly, sweet and non-oppressive, but this only causes the mask to contort even more hideously.. This mask is chained to your head for the duration of the crush.

Finally you reach the decision to remove yourself entirely from the presence of (the object of your desire). Like a broken-hearted young man who enlists in a faraway bush-war in order to escape the maddening obsession over a woman. In the instant you say your heroe's goodbye; this is the moment of dignity which you will pay for with your life. you will the most certainly see something in her eyes that makes you hesitate and wonder if she wouyld rather you stay.

But it's too late. It was too late before it even started.

I'd like to think i'm hitting some kind of stride with this job - and this trip (this whole experience) in new York: But i'm not. I'm seeing with eyes I never expected to be wearing.

The boggest (the bloggest - I meant BIGGEST) problem here is the crush i have on sarah. I may as well have a toothache, or hemmorhoids (sp?). or maybe that's just the symptom. And the problem is something deeper! An inner hole! (no wait - SHE has that) I never get crushes anymore, and for fucking good reason. They're not fun. Having a crsuh makes the object of your desire HATE you. So dumb.

I almost went to stay with terry i was beginiing to feel so lousy here. It doesn't matter becasue all i do is sleep and watch DVDS anyway. Fortunately the work is going not bad - though tonight Phil remarked that the single shot we did of Carmella looked like a Mexican soap opera. I thought it looked like dogshit. i winced when the camera rolled. It's going to happen on hinky little movies. Ouch, it hurts though.

I miss the dog. i fear my dad may have taken his love away from me. BooBoo and I make a great team. If he was here i'd own this town.

I'm doing one-arm push-ups now. By the end of the film i want to do 25 per side.

When we shoot night exteriors in big cities, it's customary to have a cop dedicated to the set. The officer's role is to make sure nothing negative occurs between the film unit and the neigborhood. They also do some traffic control. When you shoot in dicey neigborhoods, it's reassuring to have those guys around, becasue a film shoot draws people like moths to a light, and I've seen it happen where street types begin harrassing crew members.

Last night we were shooting on Sutton St. in the greenpoint section of brooklyn. All day we'd heard forecasts of rain. sleet and hail. This made me very anxious, as I know night exteriors to be risky enough, without the water/electricity relationship, or the high winds/grip problematic (shit blows around). I'd just added a last light to a shot of an old car parked at the curb, when this cop with a thick rockaway accent says to me: "Get that light out of the street! You gotta keep a twelve foot fire lane open here."
I was rushing back to the monitor to see how our shot looked, and i stopped in my tracks, sighed, and winced.
"Sir," I said, looking at the cop finally. "You are quite seriously hampering my creative process."
I'd meant it as a joke. He didn't take it too well.
"Get your damn light outta the street." He said menacingly, "or I'll really give you something to worry about."

The funnist set-cop I've ever encountered was in L.A. We had this crusty old guy from the motorcycle division. The scene we were shooting was too sisters having the big hash out of their lives, the night before one was to get married. We were shooting on melbourne St. in Los Feliz, but it was supposed to play for Providence, Rhode Island.
As the camera rolled, these two lousy, primadonna actresses did their sisterly argument - screaming stuff like: "MOM AND DAD ALWAYS LOVED YOU MORE THAN ME! THAT'S WHY I STUDIED SO HARD AND BECAME A BIG CORPORATE LAWYER."

When the A.D. called cut, I could see other crew memebers laughing and holding their noses. The burly grey-hairedcop leaned to me and said: "Hmm. I think I'm smelling an academy on that one."