The new movie
Today we loaded into our hero location in a Beverly Hills canyon estate. We're living thereRight away you could see the electrics have gone way over on everything. Too many lights.
They have EIGHT road runner stands... Three six Ks, three 4Ks, two nine light maxis, two twelve light maxis, one head cart full of open face units: mighties and redheads.\The best boy is running the entire rig on a 1200 amp shock block, even when we're nowhere near the pool. He has a 4-riser Avenger stand, you know, the one that takes an 18K 24 feet high... Too insane. He's got it for the whole time we're here.
THE PROBLEM IS, it's not working. And it's not going to work. Just by the end of today, our last day of prep (we hit the button at 11am) Monday morning - shooting call. Fuck. he hadn't even finished his rig. Only the 4/0 was down. No subfeeders. He has no lights headed up. No power run anywhere near the set we're supposed to start on Monday. Ha! How do you like that?
For myself I had a really good day. There were just three of us grips, but we totally pre-rigged the first two sets. I got spreaders up, points, saftey cables dangling. Just waiting there. I rolled the carts over, set up the set crates, loaded the stapler... I'm lucky because I have two great young union grips, who I'm down with. They're glad to be working. The town is a little slow. I split my kit rental between them, so their rate wouldn't be so horrendous. The hammers are getting $150/hr.
(I just heard a gun go off, very close to here - and someone yelled)
I got deep into rigging the first set today. It was great. I had it to myself. I hung 12X 12 solids, a velvety, fire-proof black cloth very neatly and straight, covering the walls of the room. Just the parts of the room which we don't see actually see in the first master shot. I've gotten really into being a key grip (for now - you know) . I rocked out the last feature I completed as key grip. It was good work I did, and sealed with a kiss. I know my shit, and I know how to kiss. So now on this picture, I'm going to do this blackout. I came up with a system for all the locations. It's kind of a gag, but it rocks.
Fabric. I like it. It's become my favorite part of gripology. Rags and cloth. I love solid blacks. It's great for lighting. There are no unwanted reflections from the camera side on the set... No weird color tempertaure shifts off of wall paper. It makes perfect sense. I heard about grips doing it on big-budget TV shows. the D.P. would have every inch of the set that was not in the shot, covered in black cloth.
Because then you really light from darkness. Like etching. One pours black ink and gel onto a tablet, and draws on it with a needle. So today I got to do it for the first time. I planned to do it on this movie, and rented a bunch of extra rags, and a 5' wide bolt of duvatyn. We're going black. Black is beautiful.
And the cloth does more, it's actually better for sound. Of course. The room is not as bright. The cloth - man. I'm putting my mark on this job with it. I feel emotionally connected to it.
My theory - that I'm testing on this job is that the set will function differently, with that environment. Everyone will behave more professionaly - more somthing. I want to see. The D.P. is already thrilled. I didn't even explain to him my theory about the effect of draping the entire work environment in black cloth will actually have on people.
I think we're in trouble on this job. I had that room prepped and rigged, and the art department had production make us take it down so they could dress the set. I hadn't covered the part of the set that was in shot, but Anna the production designer wanted the weekend to sample different fabrics for curtains. And that makes sense. The only problem is that the set will not be ready until call time on Monday. She had five guys from the art department building another set on the same property today, but she hadn't dressed the first set that would be up on Monday.
I felt a little bit concerned about the lack of visible progress on preparing the set for the first shot up. The first shot of a film with a difficult loaction and an ambitious schedule. And nothing was done. Nothing was done, except I'd covered all the walls with black cloth, and staged my set crates and set tools. I had a couple of apple boxes, a screw gun. The shit that's always needed to inch the production along.
I felt concerned about what we little we had - going into the first day of photography. So I went to talk to the gaffer. I wanted to get an idea of what he planned to do. What lamps he was going to use. What I really wanted to know was why he wasn't getting it going on, but you can't ask that sort of thing. If that's already happening on the first day - o fuck - then you just quit. Take a dive, fake an injury. Skulk off. Over a five week feature it will turn into Rwanda. I've had it happen too many times. You have to make love not war.
So I asked Tommy what he was up to. And he said what the gaffer always says: That he can't just light the air, that he needs a set with furniture, and especially with practical lamps, which will be seen in the shot, and thus are the motivation for the placement of incandescent lights. And all that shit we do. And he's right, but we're still fucked. So he ain't lit! is what he means. And that means it has to be done on monday morning, when EVERYONE is there. There's going to be 50 people there, and 30 of them have never set foot on the property before. It's just not a good time to tie up the set with ladders, and technicians carrying shit through doorways. It should have fucking been done today. and I'm not happy.
The best boy electric came to me tonight, and said it would be at least an hour on Monday before power could even reach set. He said he needed to finish his rig of main 4/0 feeders around the estate. He wanted it to be perfect before he energized it... makes sense right. just like everyone else. He's not going to be ready.
So the fucking art department made me de-rig the room. Fucking stupid. I went to the designer, as polite as I could, asked when she could have the set dressed, just so we could go through steps 3, 4, 5, 6 t infity. just so I could re-do my shit. Monday's going to be a clusterfuck, and the electrics are already complaining that they're not ready because they didn't get enough rigging days. They've already got their excuse. What crap. They're kids. The gaffer is a few years out of AFI's cinematography program. He worked as a camera operator on a reality show for a year. H's always on his cell phone. Styling mothercucker. He doesn't even know the schedule. I had him come look at the first shot with me. Talk about lighting. He didn't even know if the first scene was day or night. He hasn't read the schedule. What a hack. The sad thing is he will make everybody wait. The actors, the director... A lot of togother together people who came to work on time with their fucking pants on.
And most fucking especially, he's going to make my day longer. My poor dog at home. All anybody wants is to make the day and go home. It's a five week feature.
So like I said. At the end of our load-in/prep day, the best boy juicer told me that he would needed at least an hour to cable to set on Monday morning. I don't know why he even told me. He should have told the first A.D., or maybe his boss, the gaffer. On my way to the pass-van that shuttles us back to the parking lot (EIGHT miles away - the other cluster-fuck of this show), I went to see the 1st a.d, my buddy Brian o'Sullivan from Boston, who is a great guy, and got me the job. And I told him what the juicers told me. And his face went white.
I'm going to hit it hard this weekend.
love
vincenzo
Friday, June 24, 2005
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Che Guevara seems to keep coming up in my life. Or his likeness keeps popping out at me. He's all over T-shirts. And his sticker is on cars. It's not his sticker. But you know what I mean. It's that picture, in which he's sporting the trademark beret, and looking slightly off to one side. And he's on fire. It's the one. It's the Rage Against The Machine album artwork picture. I've seen a reproduction of the contact sheet, from the film roll on which that image was originaly captured. There are a lot of good shots. Some are not as good. But it was a hell of a roll. And then there's that one - circle it in grease pencil - the photograph that will speak across time. In that picture, Che looks unstoppable. His eyeline is above the lens. He's ready to lead. I think, if such spirit can exist in one man, then there must be others of such mettle who will follow.
It's Motorcycle Diaries. The movie about Che's awakening of consciousness, and politics and revolution. That must be why I'm seeing him everywhere. Mostly on cars. Red cars. I don't know what the link is, unless it's the obvious one. Red car. Red devil. Red dress. Red scare. Noble redman.
Is Che the most recognizable Latino. Or is it Eva Peron. Or is it Pancho Villa. Gabriel Garcia Marquez once wrote that when Americans think of a South American, they picture a man on a horse, with a hat and a pistol. Or was it a guitar and a pistol. I keep thinking of this Andy Warhol painting, of Chairman Mao Zedong, in which the image is all pixles. it's rasterized. It says so much about pop. About the states. So smart.
At the cafe tropical, where I often go to get an egg sandwich, there are no less than 10 framed prints, photos, artworks of Che. It's a really hip place. In a nice way. But I was struck by the number of images of Che. There was obviously a consensus there. And it occurred to me that Che was the greatest man Latin America ever saw. At least in my generation. He's definitely the most recognizable. He'll be the greatest man anyone remembers. Cause he went out young; laid himself down. he got fucking killed in action. He was brave. And he wasn't a politician. he couldn't function in the court.
Un hombre de hechos. No habladas.
Just like Zapata. Just like Zapata.
For myself, I don't buy into the Che myth. I think he was a cool guy, and he found his life's calling in armed revolution. Lfe gave him a set of circumstances which perfectly suited his character. His timing was spectacular. It's the part about his lionization which I find unreal. Unfounded. Flakey. Emotional. Man as God. Demi-god. Che was better than the average person. What does better mean? If he fucked your girlfriend then he was just another damn dawg.
An interesting conflict arose on the set of a television show I worked on in Mexico. There were three distinct groups that made up the crew. All the camera and lighting keys were from L.A. And then there were the network executives (univision) from Miami. Of the Miami five, four were Cuban-American. The fifth was Dominican. But the largest contingent was from Mexico City. Art department, transpo, all the grips and juicers, wardrobe, makeup - all from Mexico.
One day the art director Gustavo came to work wearing a Che Guevara T-shirt. At the time the incident happened I was not aware of it, but one of the Univision executives told him that she was offended by the shirt. Something like that. She said that she didn't want it "on her set." So I only found out about this whole thing later. Later, when we were all getting drunk in Gustavo's hotel room. And those guys from mexico were PISSED. They thought this executive was the lowest form of life. And she was fucking out of line, stirring that shit up down in Mexico. And she was a Cuban-American to boot.
So I went out on a limb, and said to everyone that I thought it wasn't a very good idea to wear a politcial statement on a filmset. Just like that. At the time i could not articultate why I believed this to be so. People were quick to point out the flaws in it. The whole censorship of employment and manners, and getting over. Getting paid. It turns everyone into an automaton, or so it goes. It ends up being impolite to talk about politics. But I held my ground. Because politics don't help make the day shorter. And that's all anybody really wants. Is to not go 15 hours. That transcends politics.
It's interesting that Maria, the cuban-american called Gus out like that. In L.A. you'd just be fired. And you'd never know what the offense was. They just don't call you back. And they're as polite as you could want. Time goes by, and you scratch your head and go - I wonder why I never heard back from those guys.
It's Motorcycle Diaries. The movie about Che's awakening of consciousness, and politics and revolution. That must be why I'm seeing him everywhere. Mostly on cars. Red cars. I don't know what the link is, unless it's the obvious one. Red car. Red devil. Red dress. Red scare. Noble redman.
Is Che the most recognizable Latino. Or is it Eva Peron. Or is it Pancho Villa. Gabriel Garcia Marquez once wrote that when Americans think of a South American, they picture a man on a horse, with a hat and a pistol. Or was it a guitar and a pistol. I keep thinking of this Andy Warhol painting, of Chairman Mao Zedong, in which the image is all pixles. it's rasterized. It says so much about pop. About the states. So smart.
At the cafe tropical, where I often go to get an egg sandwich, there are no less than 10 framed prints, photos, artworks of Che. It's a really hip place. In a nice way. But I was struck by the number of images of Che. There was obviously a consensus there. And it occurred to me that Che was the greatest man Latin America ever saw. At least in my generation. He's definitely the most recognizable. He'll be the greatest man anyone remembers. Cause he went out young; laid himself down. he got fucking killed in action. He was brave. And he wasn't a politician. he couldn't function in the court.
Un hombre de hechos. No habladas.
Just like Zapata. Just like Zapata.
For myself, I don't buy into the Che myth. I think he was a cool guy, and he found his life's calling in armed revolution. Lfe gave him a set of circumstances which perfectly suited his character. His timing was spectacular. It's the part about his lionization which I find unreal. Unfounded. Flakey. Emotional. Man as God. Demi-god. Che was better than the average person. What does better mean? If he fucked your girlfriend then he was just another damn dawg.
An interesting conflict arose on the set of a television show I worked on in Mexico. There were three distinct groups that made up the crew. All the camera and lighting keys were from L.A. And then there were the network executives (univision) from Miami. Of the Miami five, four were Cuban-American. The fifth was Dominican. But the largest contingent was from Mexico City. Art department, transpo, all the grips and juicers, wardrobe, makeup - all from Mexico.
One day the art director Gustavo came to work wearing a Che Guevara T-shirt. At the time the incident happened I was not aware of it, but one of the Univision executives told him that she was offended by the shirt. Something like that. She said that she didn't want it "on her set." So I only found out about this whole thing later. Later, when we were all getting drunk in Gustavo's hotel room. And those guys from mexico were PISSED. They thought this executive was the lowest form of life. And she was fucking out of line, stirring that shit up down in Mexico. And she was a Cuban-American to boot.
So I went out on a limb, and said to everyone that I thought it wasn't a very good idea to wear a politcial statement on a filmset. Just like that. At the time i could not articultate why I believed this to be so. People were quick to point out the flaws in it. The whole censorship of employment and manners, and getting over. Getting paid. It turns everyone into an automaton, or so it goes. It ends up being impolite to talk about politics. But I held my ground. Because politics don't help make the day shorter. And that's all anybody really wants. Is to not go 15 hours. That transcends politics.
It's interesting that Maria, the cuban-american called Gus out like that. In L.A. you'd just be fired. And you'd never know what the offense was. They just don't call you back. And they're as polite as you could want. Time goes by, and you scratch your head and go - I wonder why I never heard back from those guys.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
I got a need to go buy some new records. I think i'm going to get the mamas and the papa's one hit album. There's picture of the four of them in a bathtub, as the cover art. It's a faded color-looking image. Faded eastman color 1960s California. Just the way I like it. My folks had that phonograph, when I was just a wee little thing. Even back then I was struck by how everday-looking those four were, crunched together in an old tub, like you'd see in an apartment in Berkely. geeky looking guys with sideburns. Chubby, loveable gals. That'll be good. It'll go with the house.
That's the vibe I'm into, at least when I hang out in the front house. Or drive around in the Cutlass. There's a spot somewhere
on the map of time,
I try to divine
I'm hypnotized by this place. I can't stop toiling. I polish surfaces as would a monk. Nothing I do seems to put much of a dent in it. Trees are overgrowing every roof gable. The gutters are full of leaves and gack. It's not an issue now, but when the rains comeit sure will be. I've left this trench in the front driveway half-full of gravel. I see potted plants there some time, or maybe some exotic, wispy grasses. But now there's no time. Fuck.
Gotta just buck up. Life feels vulnerable sometimes. But then I'm still here. It turns out there was nothing to worry about after all. And if the basement floods, then there it is. It's all just phenomena. I wish I could run out in the street and share this with everyone.
I saw a guy driving the van I want. It's a mid 60s Ford Econoline, cab forward pickup truck. It was one of those small American delivery vans that tried to throw down with the Volkswagen Kombi. But anyway, a lot of guys have hot-rodded them. They lift the rear-end way up high, and paint the whole thing primer-black. Remove the tail-gate and get yourself some glass pack, flowmaster whatever inner-city pipes you want... And you've got a Cheech and Chong, *East Los* special.
That's the vibe I'm into, at least when I hang out in the front house. Or drive around in the Cutlass. There's a spot somewhere
on the map of time,
I try to divine
I'm hypnotized by this place. I can't stop toiling. I polish surfaces as would a monk. Nothing I do seems to put much of a dent in it. Trees are overgrowing every roof gable. The gutters are full of leaves and gack. It's not an issue now, but when the rains comeit sure will be. I've left this trench in the front driveway half-full of gravel. I see potted plants there some time, or maybe some exotic, wispy grasses. But now there's no time. Fuck.
Gotta just buck up. Life feels vulnerable sometimes. But then I'm still here. It turns out there was nothing to worry about after all. And if the basement floods, then there it is. It's all just phenomena. I wish I could run out in the street and share this with everyone.
I saw a guy driving the van I want. It's a mid 60s Ford Econoline, cab forward pickup truck. It was one of those small American delivery vans that tried to throw down with the Volkswagen Kombi. But anyway, a lot of guys have hot-rodded them. They lift the rear-end way up high, and paint the whole thing primer-black. Remove the tail-gate and get yourself some glass pack, flowmaster whatever inner-city pipes you want... And you've got a Cheech and Chong, *East Los* special.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
I'm limited now. I'm wearing the chains once again. It's back to will. Living inside head. Not participating in all that's out there.
Breathe. Well, I try. It's hard when I'm smoking every moment. How could breath be missing? Terrible cigarettes. Little fucking devils they are. If anything isn responsible for taking my breath, it's those white sticks. Cursed they be. Away vamoos.
Snorting like a panicked bull. That's how hard-chargers go about it. Short of breath. Clipped breathing.
Breathe. Well, I try. It's hard when I'm smoking every moment. How could breath be missing? Terrible cigarettes. Little fucking devils they are. If anything isn responsible for taking my breath, it's those white sticks. Cursed they be. Away vamoos.
Snorting like a panicked bull. That's how hard-chargers go about it. Short of breath. Clipped breathing.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
I saw an unforgettable thing today. Like everyday.
This time I was out at Santa Monica Pier. I'm talking about the site of the original muscle beach. This is where it all began. Now there are no weights to be seen. I can't imagine what happened to all of that style pumping iron gear that I've seen in films of the place. Maybe they moved it down to Venice. What's left is a loose, free-style workout area. It's just south of the chess tables set out along the strand. I find myself going there quite often this year. It's especially nice to hit the beach on a hot day like today. It seems like everyone has the same idea.
The core of the workout area is a raised lawn, with a foot tall retaining wall bordering it. And you can sit on the short wall, and watch all the immodest people working out. Some do yoga or sun salutations. There are many gymnasts. Some guys and gals were tumbling there this afternoon. They can draw a crowd. On another occasion at this spot, I watched three wiry Mexican guys wrestling at turns. They were rough. Their shirts were off and their hair was tousled. They'd pant between bouts, bent over; or striding around. You could see scratches and hot red welts on their shirtless upper bodies.
The boardwalk by the pier is a place in which everything is normal. It's one of the few non-commercial, auto-free public spaces in L.A. And there is a lot to see. You get the impression that people are hungry to be seen and see like that.
I went to the pier to work out on the rings and parallel bars this afternoon. I brought my jump-rope along as well, and a towel; should I feel like taking a dip in the ocean. This has become my favorite way to spend a day. Alone. I can take a book. Socializing is as natural as you could want. Or I can just hang out and think about something.
I was walking around rolling my shoulders and warming up, when a guy comes near, and starts his own regimen next to me. He's a really big strong black guy. I imeadiately took him to be an African. Some intangible quality of this guy had me convinced he was not from North America. He seemed to have a well-developed, oft-repeated style of breaking himself down in stretches. He would shadow box some, and then back on the ground, pulling his legs across his chest. I was into my rythymn by then, skipping rope. I'd look around to take in some of the sites, or smile at a passerby. But mostly I just zoned out on the horizon. This afternoon had the strangest sky. It was perfectly still, and on the beach and its ajacent alleys and shops, we were surrounded by fog. The sun shone where all of us milled around. But we couldn't see past the point at which the waves were breaking. The Santa Monica Pier was shrouded in afternoon fog, but I could still catch glimpses of its rollercoaster rattling around. And the accompanying screams of the enthralled passengers.
And then occurred this event.
The African-looking guy then bent over to his hands and feet, and began to slowky walk a four-legged circuit around muscle beach. He placed his palms flat, and his ass - which was ample - stuck straight in the air. The man was big. He was built like he could play professional soccer in Europe or such. From watching him workout, I'd figured he was an athlete, or maybe an ex-military type. But this walk he was doing was so weird. I couldn't take my eyes off of him. Others hanging around the edge of the sand backed away when they noticed him coming their way. He was doing something that did not exactly fit in where we were. It was noticed.
All the rest of us were standing up straight. And this guy suddenly starts doing what used to be the way.
The most obvious thing was how natural it was. This big, strapping black dude was slowly, like a lazy cat, walking around the boardwalk on all fours. His legs looked amazing. The guy was fucking strong. He had a big head and would let it loll relaxedly on his shoulders, from side to side, only occasionaly looking up. And he walked around and took in the ground, like an animal looking for food. I've never seen a person do anything like this before. It was great, expressly because it crossed a line. It was animal theatre.
It all happened like that. He did one course around the workout area. I was as if he was completing his solo workout. He was warming himself down. In that public space on the edge of the ocean. Remembering something. Hypnotizing himself. It gave me a shot of excitement and ideas.
This time I was out at Santa Monica Pier. I'm talking about the site of the original muscle beach. This is where it all began. Now there are no weights to be seen. I can't imagine what happened to all of that style pumping iron gear that I've seen in films of the place. Maybe they moved it down to Venice. What's left is a loose, free-style workout area. It's just south of the chess tables set out along the strand. I find myself going there quite often this year. It's especially nice to hit the beach on a hot day like today. It seems like everyone has the same idea.
The core of the workout area is a raised lawn, with a foot tall retaining wall bordering it. And you can sit on the short wall, and watch all the immodest people working out. Some do yoga or sun salutations. There are many gymnasts. Some guys and gals were tumbling there this afternoon. They can draw a crowd. On another occasion at this spot, I watched three wiry Mexican guys wrestling at turns. They were rough. Their shirts were off and their hair was tousled. They'd pant between bouts, bent over; or striding around. You could see scratches and hot red welts on their shirtless upper bodies.
The boardwalk by the pier is a place in which everything is normal. It's one of the few non-commercial, auto-free public spaces in L.A. And there is a lot to see. You get the impression that people are hungry to be seen and see like that.
I went to the pier to work out on the rings and parallel bars this afternoon. I brought my jump-rope along as well, and a towel; should I feel like taking a dip in the ocean. This has become my favorite way to spend a day. Alone. I can take a book. Socializing is as natural as you could want. Or I can just hang out and think about something.
I was walking around rolling my shoulders and warming up, when a guy comes near, and starts his own regimen next to me. He's a really big strong black guy. I imeadiately took him to be an African. Some intangible quality of this guy had me convinced he was not from North America. He seemed to have a well-developed, oft-repeated style of breaking himself down in stretches. He would shadow box some, and then back on the ground, pulling his legs across his chest. I was into my rythymn by then, skipping rope. I'd look around to take in some of the sites, or smile at a passerby. But mostly I just zoned out on the horizon. This afternoon had the strangest sky. It was perfectly still, and on the beach and its ajacent alleys and shops, we were surrounded by fog. The sun shone where all of us milled around. But we couldn't see past the point at which the waves were breaking. The Santa Monica Pier was shrouded in afternoon fog, but I could still catch glimpses of its rollercoaster rattling around. And the accompanying screams of the enthralled passengers.
And then occurred this event.
The African-looking guy then bent over to his hands and feet, and began to slowky walk a four-legged circuit around muscle beach. He placed his palms flat, and his ass - which was ample - stuck straight in the air. The man was big. He was built like he could play professional soccer in Europe or such. From watching him workout, I'd figured he was an athlete, or maybe an ex-military type. But this walk he was doing was so weird. I couldn't take my eyes off of him. Others hanging around the edge of the sand backed away when they noticed him coming their way. He was doing something that did not exactly fit in where we were. It was noticed.
All the rest of us were standing up straight. And this guy suddenly starts doing what used to be the way.
The most obvious thing was how natural it was. This big, strapping black dude was slowly, like a lazy cat, walking around the boardwalk on all fours. His legs looked amazing. The guy was fucking strong. He had a big head and would let it loll relaxedly on his shoulders, from side to side, only occasionaly looking up. And he walked around and took in the ground, like an animal looking for food. I've never seen a person do anything like this before. It was great, expressly because it crossed a line. It was animal theatre.
It all happened like that. He did one course around the workout area. I was as if he was completing his solo workout. He was warming himself down. In that public space on the edge of the ocean. Remembering something. Hypnotizing himself. It gave me a shot of excitement and ideas.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Man, I just can't get back to life without the movie. This real world is boring me already. I was looking forward to finishing. But mainly so I could breathe a sigh of relief that the job had gone more or less okay. You never know with these little movies.
We must have done 14 nights straight on this job. There were days off in there, but I never even notice them when we're on nights. I don't notice anything. I try to read the call sheet. Make sure everything is covered. Get all my ducks in a row. A twelve hour night outside, in a canyon in the desert north of L.A. - is a hell of a way to spend a night. It takes some solid patience. A good mood that travels like beef jerky. Cause I never know what's going to happen.
It rained on us one night. Good God. all our stuff was out in a field. we had a Condor up - umanned, with a 24 light dino. None of that stuff likes to get wet. We had seven carts, full of sandbags. We had a dolly and 60' of straight track + four 45 degree curves. Loads of frames and nets and rags. Grip stuff. If one hasn't done it, then it would be hard work to describe. Anyway, the whole thing got soaked in a field. Right out of Some mississippi rising fable. We yelled and cussed in the dark. Circling our wagons and trying to cover the gear under pop-ups. But the wind was taking the big tents away, and rain lashed our stuff. Grips were hammering bullpricks into the ground. Setting carabiners in the bull pricks and pulling trucker's hitch knots with all their strength. It seemed to hold. They released us with new revised call sheets. What a fucked up adventure this was turning into.
The drive back to L.A. was gnarly. We had ten miles on a dark, curving mountain road. The speed limit was posted 45mph, but I took it at 30. The rain had washed big rocks into the roadway. We finally turned onto the freeway, and come upon a jackknifed truck. The CHP was just putting flares out. You could barely see the officers on the side of the interstate. Scary.
The next morning our 10-ton grip truck had sunk into the field in which it was parked. This is a big truck. It's a rigid-body, three-axle freightliner. It weighs 57,000 lbs loaded, and they'd parked it on filled ground. The rain caused the truck to sink up to the gunwales, and list hard to the driver's side. Wow, what a sight. Like the U.S.S. West Virginia. Keith, my boss and the owner of the truck was losing his mind. No one had any idea how to get the thing out.
The transpo guys tried to pull iut out with a big 4X4 pickup. No chance. The big rig didn't move, but the Ford was bending at the point behind the cab. It looked heroic as hell what with the wheels breaking loose. But it didn't budge the freighliner. It was beyond transpo. They had to bring in a huge towtruck from Sylmar. It was a kenworth, and very colorful. The driver looked like Richard Petty. He pulled the truck out like it was nothing. Great show.
We must have done 14 nights straight on this job. There were days off in there, but I never even notice them when we're on nights. I don't notice anything. I try to read the call sheet. Make sure everything is covered. Get all my ducks in a row. A twelve hour night outside, in a canyon in the desert north of L.A. - is a hell of a way to spend a night. It takes some solid patience. A good mood that travels like beef jerky. Cause I never know what's going to happen.
It rained on us one night. Good God. all our stuff was out in a field. we had a Condor up - umanned, with a 24 light dino. None of that stuff likes to get wet. We had seven carts, full of sandbags. We had a dolly and 60' of straight track + four 45 degree curves. Loads of frames and nets and rags. Grip stuff. If one hasn't done it, then it would be hard work to describe. Anyway, the whole thing got soaked in a field. Right out of Some mississippi rising fable. We yelled and cussed in the dark. Circling our wagons and trying to cover the gear under pop-ups. But the wind was taking the big tents away, and rain lashed our stuff. Grips were hammering bullpricks into the ground. Setting carabiners in the bull pricks and pulling trucker's hitch knots with all their strength. It seemed to hold. They released us with new revised call sheets. What a fucked up adventure this was turning into.
The drive back to L.A. was gnarly. We had ten miles on a dark, curving mountain road. The speed limit was posted 45mph, but I took it at 30. The rain had washed big rocks into the roadway. We finally turned onto the freeway, and come upon a jackknifed truck. The CHP was just putting flares out. You could barely see the officers on the side of the interstate. Scary.
The next morning our 10-ton grip truck had sunk into the field in which it was parked. This is a big truck. It's a rigid-body, three-axle freightliner. It weighs 57,000 lbs loaded, and they'd parked it on filled ground. The rain caused the truck to sink up to the gunwales, and list hard to the driver's side. Wow, what a sight. Like the U.S.S. West Virginia. Keith, my boss and the owner of the truck was losing his mind. No one had any idea how to get the thing out.
The transpo guys tried to pull iut out with a big 4X4 pickup. No chance. The big rig didn't move, but the Ford was bending at the point behind the cab. It looked heroic as hell what with the wheels breaking loose. But it didn't budge the freighliner. It was beyond transpo. They had to bring in a huge towtruck from Sylmar. It was a kenworth, and very colorful. The driver looked like Richard Petty. He pulled the truck out like it was nothing. Great show.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
O man, I've been off the hook. I can hardly believe that I'm back online. Man trhis town just lets me drift and drift. As long as i show up to work on time.
I just finished a low budegt horror film, working in the capacity of key grip. How weird. had a great fucking time and made some do re mi. Not bad.
I've been having to drive so fucking much. I'm always an hour early for work. That's on-time as far as I'm concerned. Lots of stuff always comes up. Pulled this one off without any cataclysyms. Fooled 'em again josie.
Mike Gonzalez came out and pulled focus. I brought him out of retirement once again. And he stayed with jme in L.A. That crazy Mexican. We drank like wild Indians. Every goddamn night. Such times. I dig it. The morning we wrapped, the whole company went to The Drawing Room cocktail lounge on hillhurst. I got there first and backed my cutlass into the spot in front of the door. So we hung outside the bar smoking cigarettes and reefer. At 8am in a mini-mall. It's great what you can get away with in L.A.
Yeah yeh, I gotta get serious. Pay some of these damn bills. There'll be time to catch up.
I just finished a low budegt horror film, working in the capacity of key grip. How weird. had a great fucking time and made some do re mi. Not bad.
I've been having to drive so fucking much. I'm always an hour early for work. That's on-time as far as I'm concerned. Lots of stuff always comes up. Pulled this one off without any cataclysyms. Fooled 'em again josie.
Mike Gonzalez came out and pulled focus. I brought him out of retirement once again. And he stayed with jme in L.A. That crazy Mexican. We drank like wild Indians. Every goddamn night. Such times. I dig it. The morning we wrapped, the whole company went to The Drawing Room cocktail lounge on hillhurst. I got there first and backed my cutlass into the spot in front of the door. So we hung outside the bar smoking cigarettes and reefer. At 8am in a mini-mall. It's great what you can get away with in L.A.
Yeah yeh, I gotta get serious. Pay some of these damn bills. There'll be time to catch up.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
I learned some very deep meaning about baseball pitching today. It was down at USC campus, near the Vermont Street entrance. On a ball field there we taped an instructional video for young pitchers. The guy conducting the DV workshop was an ex major-leaguer, though one I'd never heard of. He had to be about 48 years old. He was kind of a John Denver-looking type. He even had the little glasses. But he was diesel. Built like Pete-fucking-Rose. Complete with popeye-forearms.
I've done so many awful industrials. I've had to sit on set and hear promotions of pharmaceutical companies. And I would have tuned today's talent out as well, except that he had the total, undivided adulation of eight national all star little leaugue pitchers who were there to demonstrate his techniques. And they were volunteering. In effect that was how I calibrated this dude. This was not turning out to be such a cheesy industrial after all.
I realized at one point in the afternoon that the kids I was watching will all play in the major leagues. At least they're all capable of it. It's in their reach. They were hot players, aged from nine to 17. And they all pitched. One kid even threw sidearm. They all had names like Casey. Kyle. And Travis. There was one black kid named Anthony. He was tall, skinny and alert. And of course none of them ever smiled once, the whole time we were there. None of the older kids did. I guess there's no smiling in baseball. It's like crying that way. There's a whole manner to being a ball player. I've picked that up from the one or two professional players I've met. They're soft-spoken country boy types, but with terrifying stares. And they look really strong. At the pro level these guys totally manipulate their bodies to perform the function.
Before this afternoon's baseball demonstration taping, I had no idea what specific conditioning and training went into becoming a pitcher. One of the privileges of my job is being privy to such arcane shit. I sat in the sun all day on a basebal field at University of Southern California. I was glazed out and happened to be catching the best pitching tutorial in existence. I'm now totally impressed by it. I saw today that pitching is really about balance and form. And this retired player had all sorts of wild drills set up in which the throwers had to line themselves against walls and lean into the hip and shoulder positions at the moment of their release. I got off on the towel drill, in which a player stands atop the mound, and with a towel has to hit a spot on another player's glove seven feet away, so as to find the ideal release point. They train their minds THROUGH their bodies. Their bodies are shaped by the game.
I think about a double-play. That's the best thing to watch in baseball. It takes the most timing. Every damn double play is the same, and yet... It's like a play in theatre. You can watch it over and over again. The ball is a wild animal, trying to escape through the grass. A grounder to third or the shortstop can travel so fast, and yet the shortsop makes a sliding play, and underhands, ever so gently, to the second baseman. He's in mid-air, nce he gets the ball in his glove, to avoid the cleats of the runner sliding in. And then it's a dead heat for first. It's the same story every time. Except who wins and who loses.
I've done so many awful industrials. I've had to sit on set and hear promotions of pharmaceutical companies. And I would have tuned today's talent out as well, except that he had the total, undivided adulation of eight national all star little leaugue pitchers who were there to demonstrate his techniques. And they were volunteering. In effect that was how I calibrated this dude. This was not turning out to be such a cheesy industrial after all.
I realized at one point in the afternoon that the kids I was watching will all play in the major leagues. At least they're all capable of it. It's in their reach. They were hot players, aged from nine to 17. And they all pitched. One kid even threw sidearm. They all had names like Casey. Kyle. And Travis. There was one black kid named Anthony. He was tall, skinny and alert. And of course none of them ever smiled once, the whole time we were there. None of the older kids did. I guess there's no smiling in baseball. It's like crying that way. There's a whole manner to being a ball player. I've picked that up from the one or two professional players I've met. They're soft-spoken country boy types, but with terrifying stares. And they look really strong. At the pro level these guys totally manipulate their bodies to perform the function.
Before this afternoon's baseball demonstration taping, I had no idea what specific conditioning and training went into becoming a pitcher. One of the privileges of my job is being privy to such arcane shit. I sat in the sun all day on a basebal field at University of Southern California. I was glazed out and happened to be catching the best pitching tutorial in existence. I'm now totally impressed by it. I saw today that pitching is really about balance and form. And this retired player had all sorts of wild drills set up in which the throwers had to line themselves against walls and lean into the hip and shoulder positions at the moment of their release. I got off on the towel drill, in which a player stands atop the mound, and with a towel has to hit a spot on another player's glove seven feet away, so as to find the ideal release point. They train their minds THROUGH their bodies. Their bodies are shaped by the game.
I think about a double-play. That's the best thing to watch in baseball. It takes the most timing. Every damn double play is the same, and yet... It's like a play in theatre. You can watch it over and over again. The ball is a wild animal, trying to escape through the grass. A grounder to third or the shortstop can travel so fast, and yet the shortsop makes a sliding play, and underhands, ever so gently, to the second baseman. He's in mid-air, nce he gets the ball in his glove, to avoid the cleats of the runner sliding in. And then it's a dead heat for first. It's the same story every time. Except who wins and who loses.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Did anyone notice the plane this guy was flying when he smashed the record for solo flights of phenomenal distances. Whatever. The plane that was painted like virgin airlines. It was on the cover of the L.A. Times. Man breaks solo trans-world record. Rich man. Adventurer, Englishman. It seemed so anachrnoistic in way. Charles Lindbergh. It' so last century. But no,I thought it was fucking awesome.
That plane he was flying was a single engine turbo-fan. And that was a twin-fueselage aircraft. It was a catamaran. There are not that many twin fueselage planes. I love them. My faviorite is the Lockheed P-38 Lightning. They were super-fucking cool. Polished aluminum. The P-38 had to be one of the oldest American fighter planes in the second world war. It hailed from the mid '30s. At least the first prototypes would have. By the end of the war when the technology was really refining itself, the single engine fighter ended up being the better overall design. As borne out by the P-51 Mustang. The British were onto that design with the Supermarine Spitfire.
And that's all the more reason to love the P-38. It was a racer. Big thing it was. Not particularly manueverable. But fast, for having two sixteen cylinder engines. And it was armed like mad. The pilot in his center airframe had four 50 cal. machine guns, and a 20mm belt-fed cannon. Exploding rounds. That would be for when the fighting was in close. Very cool the p-38. Extremely bad-ass. In an old school way.
So why am I going on about the P-38? I work in Burbank a lot these days. And that's where it came from. Lockheed was the heart of Burbank. For what that's worth. But the name always meant something to me as a kid. Growing up in California. It sounded cool. Cause it was from L.A. AND of course now I know that Burbank is also Disney and Warner Studios. And Bob Hope. And back in the Fedora days of WW II, Burbank was Lockheed aircraft. Our family friend Leela who lived up in Lake Tahoe told me that her father had worked at Lockheed back in the 30s. He was an aircraft engineer and he worked on the P-38. She said he was really ahead of his time as a person. He was a surfer back then. Him and all the aircraft designers were into hiking and fitness. Outdoor stuff.
I had meant to write about the P-38 in my blog a while ago. The old guy next door, Ruben Ponce, was a technician on P-38s and other allied planes during the second world war. He says he liked the P-38 best of all. He thought it was a good machine. Ponce even has a picture of one in his jampacked, oily-smelly machine shop next door. It was Rube who told me how heavily armed the plane was. He said that if the pilot stayed on the nose-mounted cannon long enough it could stall out the plane's engines. Damn
It's like this whole puzzle I'm putting together. The puzzle is why I'm here. I'm so aware of this city. Griffith park and the Los Angeles River. El Camino real. Toluca lake. Movies. Freeways. Reality TV. Unions. Maybe moving to Mexico...
That plane he was flying was a single engine turbo-fan. And that was a twin-fueselage aircraft. It was a catamaran. There are not that many twin fueselage planes. I love them. My faviorite is the Lockheed P-38 Lightning. They were super-fucking cool. Polished aluminum. The P-38 had to be one of the oldest American fighter planes in the second world war. It hailed from the mid '30s. At least the first prototypes would have. By the end of the war when the technology was really refining itself, the single engine fighter ended up being the better overall design. As borne out by the P-51 Mustang. The British were onto that design with the Supermarine Spitfire.
And that's all the more reason to love the P-38. It was a racer. Big thing it was. Not particularly manueverable. But fast, for having two sixteen cylinder engines. And it was armed like mad. The pilot in his center airframe had four 50 cal. machine guns, and a 20mm belt-fed cannon. Exploding rounds. That would be for when the fighting was in close. Very cool the p-38. Extremely bad-ass. In an old school way.
So why am I going on about the P-38? I work in Burbank a lot these days. And that's where it came from. Lockheed was the heart of Burbank. For what that's worth. But the name always meant something to me as a kid. Growing up in California. It sounded cool. Cause it was from L.A. AND of course now I know that Burbank is also Disney and Warner Studios. And Bob Hope. And back in the Fedora days of WW II, Burbank was Lockheed aircraft. Our family friend Leela who lived up in Lake Tahoe told me that her father had worked at Lockheed back in the 30s. He was an aircraft engineer and he worked on the P-38. She said he was really ahead of his time as a person. He was a surfer back then. Him and all the aircraft designers were into hiking and fitness. Outdoor stuff.
I had meant to write about the P-38 in my blog a while ago. The old guy next door, Ruben Ponce, was a technician on P-38s and other allied planes during the second world war. He says he liked the P-38 best of all. He thought it was a good machine. Ponce even has a picture of one in his jampacked, oily-smelly machine shop next door. It was Rube who told me how heavily armed the plane was. He said that if the pilot stayed on the nose-mounted cannon long enough it could stall out the plane's engines. Damn
It's like this whole puzzle I'm putting together. The puzzle is why I'm here. I'm so aware of this city. Griffith park and the Los Angeles River. El Camino real. Toluca lake. Movies. Freeways. Reality TV. Unions. Maybe moving to Mexico...
Monday, February 21, 2005
I spent the night fighting the rain again. I never thought it could rain so much in L.A. They said on the radio this morning there were three deaths in the city due to this storm. Just in the last two days. They also said L.A. has received twice as much rain as Seattle this year. So much for living in the desert.
I had a fairly large and important gutter project I wanted to bust out yesterday. I went and got all the materials from HoDe two days ago. I wanted to be all set so I could finish, AND have it cleaned up in one day. There is a roof gable along the back of my house that's 36' long. As it was, when we got rain, the water would drip right off the edge and make a huge mess of puddles along the house foundation. I was not able to sit on my back steps under the eave and watch the rain, as so much was bouncing up on me. And all that water cascading into the backyard just tore the ground up. There were big splashes of mud against the side of the house. And the ground was starting to crack and erode. Like an arroyo. It was time.
In the past I've undertaken a project such as this and had it NOT work as planned. Somehow despite the effort, the pitch will be incorrect, or the joints in the gutter fail. So I thought this water diversion project through quite a bit before I started. I determined that the center of the 36' run would be the high point. And then it would pitch down towards both ends. That's where I intended to tie-in the downspouts. My gutter would begin with a high center, and then drop about 2" for each 10' of the run. The downspout on the east side of the house would dump water harmlessly into rafiel's driveway. Where it had previously been flowing into my crawlspace. The downspout on the uphill side was somewhat more of a problem. Situated on an 8% grade, all the water my gutter gathered and sent down the pipe to ground would still be coming irrestibility across the yard, seeking a low point. I was not entirely sure where that would be.
I worked for several hours nailing the new gutters to the eave. It felt good to be out with my belt and my tape-measure. The forecast was rain for the aftrenoon, so I moved quickly. Efficiency is important on a job like this. Ponce came over from next door and helped for awhile. The old man's a retired sprinkler fitter and he can't help but get involved in a construction project. As I nailed up one end of a 10' gutter, he would support the other side with a 2" X 4". There was still to put the level on and assure that thye channel pitched correctly. When they looked right and the pitch was correct, I nailed them down. And just as I had arrived at the trickier downspout intended for the uphill side of my yard, the first raindrops began to fall. Ponce and I exchanged a look. It was time to see our first downspout work.
We knelt down in the driveway and stared at the tube's exit. Raindrops ticked off my rubber slicker. Nothing. Goddamn. I asked Ponce what he thought. More rain was the answer. A few drops came out the downspout's mouth. And then someone turned up the rain. It rained loud. A deluge. Ponce and I smiled at one another nervously, wiping water off our brows. This was definitely the big stuff. Goddamn. The noise on the roof was deafening. The downspout began gushing, gurgling and shooting outwards. I whooped. Yes. I was so happy. The flowing water delighted me. And it terrified me. My lips moved unconsciously, repeating calculations as I took in the new hydro-diversion project on my lot. There was one gallon per second coming out that tube. It flowed like the bathub spigot in a five star hotel. All that water had previously been flowing under my house. No wonder it smelled so funky sometimes, I thought.
I had a fairly large and important gutter project I wanted to bust out yesterday. I went and got all the materials from HoDe two days ago. I wanted to be all set so I could finish, AND have it cleaned up in one day. There is a roof gable along the back of my house that's 36' long. As it was, when we got rain, the water would drip right off the edge and make a huge mess of puddles along the house foundation. I was not able to sit on my back steps under the eave and watch the rain, as so much was bouncing up on me. And all that water cascading into the backyard just tore the ground up. There were big splashes of mud against the side of the house. And the ground was starting to crack and erode. Like an arroyo. It was time.
In the past I've undertaken a project such as this and had it NOT work as planned. Somehow despite the effort, the pitch will be incorrect, or the joints in the gutter fail. So I thought this water diversion project through quite a bit before I started. I determined that the center of the 36' run would be the high point. And then it would pitch down towards both ends. That's where I intended to tie-in the downspouts. My gutter would begin with a high center, and then drop about 2" for each 10' of the run. The downspout on the east side of the house would dump water harmlessly into rafiel's driveway. Where it had previously been flowing into my crawlspace. The downspout on the uphill side was somewhat more of a problem. Situated on an 8% grade, all the water my gutter gathered and sent down the pipe to ground would still be coming irrestibility across the yard, seeking a low point. I was not entirely sure where that would be.
I worked for several hours nailing the new gutters to the eave. It felt good to be out with my belt and my tape-measure. The forecast was rain for the aftrenoon, so I moved quickly. Efficiency is important on a job like this. Ponce came over from next door and helped for awhile. The old man's a retired sprinkler fitter and he can't help but get involved in a construction project. As I nailed up one end of a 10' gutter, he would support the other side with a 2" X 4". There was still to put the level on and assure that thye channel pitched correctly. When they looked right and the pitch was correct, I nailed them down. And just as I had arrived at the trickier downspout intended for the uphill side of my yard, the first raindrops began to fall. Ponce and I exchanged a look. It was time to see our first downspout work.
We knelt down in the driveway and stared at the tube's exit. Raindrops ticked off my rubber slicker. Nothing. Goddamn. I asked Ponce what he thought. More rain was the answer. A few drops came out the downspout's mouth. And then someone turned up the rain. It rained loud. A deluge. Ponce and I smiled at one another nervously, wiping water off our brows. This was definitely the big stuff. Goddamn. The noise on the roof was deafening. The downspout began gushing, gurgling and shooting outwards. I whooped. Yes. I was so happy. The flowing water delighted me. And it terrified me. My lips moved unconsciously, repeating calculations as I took in the new hydro-diversion project on my lot. There was one gallon per second coming out that tube. It flowed like the bathub spigot in a five star hotel. All that water had previously been flowing under my house. No wonder it smelled so funky sometimes, I thought.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Got to know when to say Fuck You
Me was taken to school the last couple day or two. But I'm afraid I didn't learn anything. Problem was I. Could not see the lessons for having - well, the biggest blindspot you can imagine. I didn't see what is now obvious about the people I was dealing with. And so I was drained by them. It was like some big executioner/priest pinned my skull against a stone tablet. His dark hairy arm kept me in that postion. And with his tiny prison shiv, really a linoleum cutter, sharpened on the bench grinder. The sonofabitch opened up my jugular like, like a lamb in the temple of blood. Glug, glug, glug.
Friday was a big day. I'd gotten a call to be gaffer on a nice, big MTV promo. I would be working with a D.P. I knew years ago in New York. The job was quite a nice opportuniy. And if it went well there would surely be more of them. Their rate for lighting crew is $550/day - double time after 12 hours. This one counted.
And I tried me best. I stayed up late, grinding and burning. Tuning and tweaking. Looking the notes over. And over.
Three hours into the day, one of the guys I brought on my crew took a huge dive. He started walking around agiutatedly, saying he'd been electrocuted while pulling a 100 amp cable. He was fluttering his eyes, saying he took the charge through his chest. Are you alright, we kept asking him. I don't know, was his answer. I don't know he kept saying.
He had to go to the hospital. He was talking loudly about the shock he'd received. His eyes went back and forth from the Distribution box to the rest of us lighting crew. Someone had come along, he said, and plugged in the 100amp cable he was running. Said individual even flicked on the breaker.
I tried hard not to make a face to say something like: You stupid fucking asshole, would you stop drawing attention to yourself and get back to work!!!! Meanwhile other crew members were gathering around to hear what was going on. I watched this whole new thing unfold. And in my calm I tried to seize on some meaning.
Joe, the Director of Photography and the guy that i was most trying to impress came up and enquired what was going on. Mack gave him an earful. Talking loud. Specifying that someone came along and made his cable hot. Tried to kill him ws what he implied. My face was poker-plain, but inwardly I winced. This kind of shit is bad. Mack finally went off to hospital with a P.A. There was nothing more to do for that business. There was still a big day ahead and we were short-handed.
Mack survived the ordeal. He even came back to the studio at wrap to fill in his time card. The three of us who remained to do the shoot were faced with an enormous wrap. I was peeled. Destroyed. My ass semed to hurt the worst. I could barely walk. Zshoche, one of the other juicers held up a hand to show me a blood-blister from a lightstand mishap. Vince, can I go home too, he asked me. Mack made $500 for the three hours he worked, and now he's putting in a workman's comp claim. At least he had a good day.
Blindspot.
During our cursed, sweaty wrap I got a call to work the following day. It was supposed to be simple. $350 to run a bit of cable and babysit a generator. Photoshoot. I've done hinky little shit like this before. I don't mind it. I bring a book. Maybe a little reefer. There was some other business, about a section of fence needing to be removed. And I was supposed to figure out some privacy screens for the models on the shoot, so that papparazi from neigborhing houese could not scoop whomever it was we were setting up to shoot. It seemed weird, a little. All that shit is P.A. stuff. or locations department is supposed to handle it. But I'm not turning anything down these days.
I gotta keep my Chevy running. And anyway, I'm a go-to guy. I like to think of myself as an operator that way. Someone who sees what needs doing, and does it without making abig show of it. Very stupid. Mr. Smith Goes To Fucking Hollywood.
This was so fucked up. The shoot was massive. It was a Vanity Faer (sp.) cover shot. It would be one of those spreads with 15 actors on the cover. The house they were using for several locations at one time belonged to Bing Crosby. Amazing place this was. Two clay tennis courts. A vineyard! Right in L.A.'s Toluca Lake section. The production had occupied THREE of these huge properties in a row. There were staging areas for the five motorhomes. Valet parking for God-knows-who. So much security.
I spent two hours trying to figure out what the hell is going on. It's a photoshoot, so no one has any idea. There are no 2nd assistant directors like you'd find on a filmset. Instead everyone is a producer (great!). All chicks from new york, typing away into G-4s with no idea how to deal with practical issues. There are no call-sheets. One producer chick is the go-to for everything. I can never tell if she's talking to me or someone else on her hands-free cell. I would walk off on my own and sigh at times. The whole business seemed like a stupid mess.
Nevertheless I felt inspired to make something of the strange job. I felt energetic, despite having been outside in the rain for three hours already. I made notes and then revised them when I got conflicting opinions as to what needed doing. I would find myself going back and forth between the producer and the head of security. He's an ex-army sniper who walks too fast around the estate with his umbrella shouldered like a rifle, aiming at all the possible spots a papparazzi could use to get a shot. I need covergae here, he would say. I need coverage here, pointing somewhere else. Five minutes later producer chick says, no, that's background for a shot tomorrow. No problem, I'd say. Smiling like a corporate cleaner. Let me try something, I would say.
I finally get a handle on the whole detail, and it's insane. They need so much done, and it all has to be THAT night. I gently try to convey to her that it may not be doable. or at least not by me. I'm no key-grip. The produce starts raising her voice. She tells me that she was told it would get done in time. If I was the calvalry, it was time to charge. At 7am the cast of Desperaat Hauswives would be arriving. There has to be all these visual barriers constructed. That's what you were sent here to do, they tell me. I'm standing there going, umm... I thought I was just running a generator and cutting out ten feet of fence. I should have left right then. This was turning out to be a classic case of someone else's failure to plan, turning into my emergency.
If one has never worked as a grip, then it would be hard to convey the logistics of this operation. I would guess we had 1,000 lbs. of pipe, in 20' sections. We were having to build numerous 20' X 20" frames up; big sails which need securing to Ford axles hammered three feet into the ground. 100 #2 spring clips. I didn't get the order in for the gear until 3pm. And this was a Friday. That's when shop-guys usually start opening their lagers. And I managed to raise a crew of three dudes. Ready to BURN all night, in the cast of 1k open-face worklights, in the drizzling, eye-burning rain.
The stakebed truckdidn't arrive until 8pm. It was full of grip stands, speedrail, a 100 amp putt putt generator for all the worklights. It rained steadily on us all night. We worked for ten hours straight. All night in the rain. Squishy boots and pine nettles stuck to us. As stupid as it sounds, I even found time to build built a walkway for all the talent to cross between the staging area lot, and the hero house. And I got it all done. I was the last one there. I'd been there 22 hours, except for one hour I went and had dinner.
I felt sad and torn up and I just wanted to go home. I still had 10 miles drive on freeway, in the rain, in my old car. What do you mean you're leaving, the producer asked me. Who is going to babysit the rig we'd done. This was supposed to be taken care of, she kept insisting. I said it was all good. I didn't really know who was going to babysit it the rig. I'd been there twenty two hours already, I reminded her. It was out of my hands. I was a fallen soldier.
Apparently not. Some people feel very let down by me. I'm not kidding. Phone calls will be made about this. I guess a real team player never tires. Never weakens. And when you drop, they find some other non-union Joe, some nobody to tantalize with carrots of more big, glamorous New York jobs. And they'll cut you open and use your guts to grease the treads on their tanks. Sell your fucking tusks on ebay and leave the rest to rot under a freeway.
Some dark thoughts crossed my mind. Along the lines of flipping the chess board over. I should have bailed. It was the charge of the light brigade. Remember this story when you read Vanity Faer. Whatever that means.
Me was taken to school the last couple day or two. But I'm afraid I didn't learn anything. Problem was I. Could not see the lessons for having - well, the biggest blindspot you can imagine. I didn't see what is now obvious about the people I was dealing with. And so I was drained by them. It was like some big executioner/priest pinned my skull against a stone tablet. His dark hairy arm kept me in that postion. And with his tiny prison shiv, really a linoleum cutter, sharpened on the bench grinder. The sonofabitch opened up my jugular like, like a lamb in the temple of blood. Glug, glug, glug.
Friday was a big day. I'd gotten a call to be gaffer on a nice, big MTV promo. I would be working with a D.P. I knew years ago in New York. The job was quite a nice opportuniy. And if it went well there would surely be more of them. Their rate for lighting crew is $550/day - double time after 12 hours. This one counted.
And I tried me best. I stayed up late, grinding and burning. Tuning and tweaking. Looking the notes over. And over.
Three hours into the day, one of the guys I brought on my crew took a huge dive. He started walking around agiutatedly, saying he'd been electrocuted while pulling a 100 amp cable. He was fluttering his eyes, saying he took the charge through his chest. Are you alright, we kept asking him. I don't know, was his answer. I don't know he kept saying.
He had to go to the hospital. He was talking loudly about the shock he'd received. His eyes went back and forth from the Distribution box to the rest of us lighting crew. Someone had come along, he said, and plugged in the 100amp cable he was running. Said individual even flicked on the breaker.
I tried hard not to make a face to say something like: You stupid fucking asshole, would you stop drawing attention to yourself and get back to work!!!! Meanwhile other crew members were gathering around to hear what was going on. I watched this whole new thing unfold. And in my calm I tried to seize on some meaning.
Joe, the Director of Photography and the guy that i was most trying to impress came up and enquired what was going on. Mack gave him an earful. Talking loud. Specifying that someone came along and made his cable hot. Tried to kill him ws what he implied. My face was poker-plain, but inwardly I winced. This kind of shit is bad. Mack finally went off to hospital with a P.A. There was nothing more to do for that business. There was still a big day ahead and we were short-handed.
Mack survived the ordeal. He even came back to the studio at wrap to fill in his time card. The three of us who remained to do the shoot were faced with an enormous wrap. I was peeled. Destroyed. My ass semed to hurt the worst. I could barely walk. Zshoche, one of the other juicers held up a hand to show me a blood-blister from a lightstand mishap. Vince, can I go home too, he asked me. Mack made $500 for the three hours he worked, and now he's putting in a workman's comp claim. At least he had a good day.
Blindspot.
During our cursed, sweaty wrap I got a call to work the following day. It was supposed to be simple. $350 to run a bit of cable and babysit a generator. Photoshoot. I've done hinky little shit like this before. I don't mind it. I bring a book. Maybe a little reefer. There was some other business, about a section of fence needing to be removed. And I was supposed to figure out some privacy screens for the models on the shoot, so that papparazi from neigborhing houese could not scoop whomever it was we were setting up to shoot. It seemed weird, a little. All that shit is P.A. stuff. or locations department is supposed to handle it. But I'm not turning anything down these days.
I gotta keep my Chevy running. And anyway, I'm a go-to guy. I like to think of myself as an operator that way. Someone who sees what needs doing, and does it without making abig show of it. Very stupid. Mr. Smith Goes To Fucking Hollywood.
This was so fucked up. The shoot was massive. It was a Vanity Faer (sp.) cover shot. It would be one of those spreads with 15 actors on the cover. The house they were using for several locations at one time belonged to Bing Crosby. Amazing place this was. Two clay tennis courts. A vineyard! Right in L.A.'s Toluca Lake section. The production had occupied THREE of these huge properties in a row. There were staging areas for the five motorhomes. Valet parking for God-knows-who. So much security.
I spent two hours trying to figure out what the hell is going on. It's a photoshoot, so no one has any idea. There are no 2nd assistant directors like you'd find on a filmset. Instead everyone is a producer (great!). All chicks from new york, typing away into G-4s with no idea how to deal with practical issues. There are no call-sheets. One producer chick is the go-to for everything. I can never tell if she's talking to me or someone else on her hands-free cell. I would walk off on my own and sigh at times. The whole business seemed like a stupid mess.
Nevertheless I felt inspired to make something of the strange job. I felt energetic, despite having been outside in the rain for three hours already. I made notes and then revised them when I got conflicting opinions as to what needed doing. I would find myself going back and forth between the producer and the head of security. He's an ex-army sniper who walks too fast around the estate with his umbrella shouldered like a rifle, aiming at all the possible spots a papparazzi could use to get a shot. I need covergae here, he would say. I need coverage here, pointing somewhere else. Five minutes later producer chick says, no, that's background for a shot tomorrow. No problem, I'd say. Smiling like a corporate cleaner. Let me try something, I would say.
I finally get a handle on the whole detail, and it's insane. They need so much done, and it all has to be THAT night. I gently try to convey to her that it may not be doable. or at least not by me. I'm no key-grip. The produce starts raising her voice. She tells me that she was told it would get done in time. If I was the calvalry, it was time to charge. At 7am the cast of Desperaat Hauswives would be arriving. There has to be all these visual barriers constructed. That's what you were sent here to do, they tell me. I'm standing there going, umm... I thought I was just running a generator and cutting out ten feet of fence. I should have left right then. This was turning out to be a classic case of someone else's failure to plan, turning into my emergency.
If one has never worked as a grip, then it would be hard to convey the logistics of this operation. I would guess we had 1,000 lbs. of pipe, in 20' sections. We were having to build numerous 20' X 20" frames up; big sails which need securing to Ford axles hammered three feet into the ground. 100 #2 spring clips. I didn't get the order in for the gear until 3pm. And this was a Friday. That's when shop-guys usually start opening their lagers. And I managed to raise a crew of three dudes. Ready to BURN all night, in the cast of 1k open-face worklights, in the drizzling, eye-burning rain.
The stakebed truckdidn't arrive until 8pm. It was full of grip stands, speedrail, a 100 amp putt putt generator for all the worklights. It rained steadily on us all night. We worked for ten hours straight. All night in the rain. Squishy boots and pine nettles stuck to us. As stupid as it sounds, I even found time to build built a walkway for all the talent to cross between the staging area lot, and the hero house. And I got it all done. I was the last one there. I'd been there 22 hours, except for one hour I went and had dinner.
I felt sad and torn up and I just wanted to go home. I still had 10 miles drive on freeway, in the rain, in my old car. What do you mean you're leaving, the producer asked me. Who is going to babysit the rig we'd done. This was supposed to be taken care of, she kept insisting. I said it was all good. I didn't really know who was going to babysit it the rig. I'd been there twenty two hours already, I reminded her. It was out of my hands. I was a fallen soldier.
Apparently not. Some people feel very let down by me. I'm not kidding. Phone calls will be made about this. I guess a real team player never tires. Never weakens. And when you drop, they find some other non-union Joe, some nobody to tantalize with carrots of more big, glamorous New York jobs. And they'll cut you open and use your guts to grease the treads on their tanks. Sell your fucking tusks on ebay and leave the rest to rot under a freeway.
Some dark thoughts crossed my mind. Along the lines of flipping the chess board over. I should have bailed. It was the charge of the light brigade. Remember this story when you read Vanity Faer. Whatever that means.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Who won the Superbowl?
Not that I really care. But it is something that people ask. What was I doing instead? I was kicking it with the neigbhors. I don't do bullshit sport holidays. O, maybe I once or twice did. I thought it would be nice to fit in. But it's not something I take very seriously.
I managed to wake up at 4:45 am and meet Ponce in his driveway for the trip to the Swap-Meet. I'd been saying I was going to accompany Ponce up there for years. Yesterday I actually woke up, got dressed and hit the road. It was raining lightly.
Ponce is crazy about the Azusa Swap-Meet. I guess he's been going every Sunday for the last 40 years. It's goddamned far too. It was an hour ride in the dark cab of Ponce's truck. And I was fucking tired. And yet it was nice. The occasional thwap of the wiper blades acroos the windhsield. And the daylight still not awake. We were on the 210 freeway, along the Foothills. And there was hardly another car. Just big rigs. Rolling and Shifting. Ponce as always wears his flannel jacket and Sprinkler Fitter's baseball cap. We said little. I slept for twenty minutes there in the cab.
The swapmeet itself is kind of a letdown. It's just a big old flea market really. Biggest one I'd ever seen. The most curious thing was the class of vehicles all the traders rode in with their stuff. I'd never seen so many old trucks. Fords and Chevys. All from the 70s. Funky-ass camper shells. Trailers. Dodge camper vans with louvered windows. And they all CHUMPF CHUMPF CHUMPF at idle. If you stand behind one you feel like you're going to faint from the exhaust fumes.
Mostly Mexicans. So many guys wear cowboy hats, and boots. While they set up their stalls and tarpaulins. Their kids sleep on the front seats of cluttered vans. Very social.
I spent most of the day sleeping. I slept in my clothes. Lovely and warm. Dark and overcast outside.
That night I found myself wondering what the hell to do. Everyone was off at Superbowl parties. That is a big fucking deal for people here. My neigbhors next door (on the other side from ponce) were drinking and barbecuing. I could smell their backyard fire for hours. I loved the woodsmoke in the afternoon. It brings me back to little towns in Chile and Mexico. I felt shy, but I went over anyhow. It was cool. They made me some slabs of meat, and brought out a bottle of Pueblo Viejo tequila. And we drank.
We all expressed the same sentiment. That in this country you just work and work and work and it never leads anywhere. I'd be more succesful if I was watching the superbowl. But instead I'm drinking tequila and listening to mariachi with the neigbhors.
Not that I really care. But it is something that people ask. What was I doing instead? I was kicking it with the neigbhors. I don't do bullshit sport holidays. O, maybe I once or twice did. I thought it would be nice to fit in. But it's not something I take very seriously.
I managed to wake up at 4:45 am and meet Ponce in his driveway for the trip to the Swap-Meet. I'd been saying I was going to accompany Ponce up there for years. Yesterday I actually woke up, got dressed and hit the road. It was raining lightly.
Ponce is crazy about the Azusa Swap-Meet. I guess he's been going every Sunday for the last 40 years. It's goddamned far too. It was an hour ride in the dark cab of Ponce's truck. And I was fucking tired. And yet it was nice. The occasional thwap of the wiper blades acroos the windhsield. And the daylight still not awake. We were on the 210 freeway, along the Foothills. And there was hardly another car. Just big rigs. Rolling and Shifting. Ponce as always wears his flannel jacket and Sprinkler Fitter's baseball cap. We said little. I slept for twenty minutes there in the cab.
The swapmeet itself is kind of a letdown. It's just a big old flea market really. Biggest one I'd ever seen. The most curious thing was the class of vehicles all the traders rode in with their stuff. I'd never seen so many old trucks. Fords and Chevys. All from the 70s. Funky-ass camper shells. Trailers. Dodge camper vans with louvered windows. And they all CHUMPF CHUMPF CHUMPF at idle. If you stand behind one you feel like you're going to faint from the exhaust fumes.
Mostly Mexicans. So many guys wear cowboy hats, and boots. While they set up their stalls and tarpaulins. Their kids sleep on the front seats of cluttered vans. Very social.
I spent most of the day sleeping. I slept in my clothes. Lovely and warm. Dark and overcast outside.
That night I found myself wondering what the hell to do. Everyone was off at Superbowl parties. That is a big fucking deal for people here. My neigbhors next door (on the other side from ponce) were drinking and barbecuing. I could smell their backyard fire for hours. I loved the woodsmoke in the afternoon. It brings me back to little towns in Chile and Mexico. I felt shy, but I went over anyhow. It was cool. They made me some slabs of meat, and brought out a bottle of Pueblo Viejo tequila. And we drank.
We all expressed the same sentiment. That in this country you just work and work and work and it never leads anywhere. I'd be more succesful if I was watching the superbowl. But instead I'm drinking tequila and listening to mariachi with the neigbhors.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Monday, January 31, 2005
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Monday, January 10, 2005
Goddamn tragedy struck last night.
My housemate was away. With friends in lancaster. And our two dogs were alone at the house. I was at a dinner party. I got home with the usual post dinner party blah. Parked. Came in the house. No dogs. What is going on? I started calling their names, going from room to room. Making a thorough scan of the spaces. Mind registering the absence of - dogs.
It was raining out like crazy. How many days of rain have we had? No one can get it straight. Some say five. Others six. We got 20" of rain just this weekend. And it is tearing shit up. The city can't handle it. All the drains are overflowing. every street corner is immersed. All you hear is fire engines. It's a mess.
Last night I went to trader Joes in the cutlass to get a bottle of wine for this dinner. And I almost crashed the cutlass on Hyperion Blvd. With those bald-ass tires on wet, greasy roads there is just no braking to be had. You have to drive like there are no brakes. I locked it up. A Ford Ranger with Oregon plates had stopped dead in the middle of Hyperion, alongside another car that was double-parked. Fuck, I muttered. Cunt. Shit! The wheeels had broken loose, I was skidding sideways. The car's brakes had two settings. On and off. O My God I'm going to hit that guy. I seemed to be going so fast. I was getting near sideways, and I realized it may only be a tap when I hit him. O shit. And then my car stopped. I hadn't hit him. Stopped short. Wow. That was close. Too fast. Or something. Anyway, driving on with this terrible story.
At 3:30 am I got home and my housemates dog was gone. Dusya. She'd slipped out the back gate. It blew open. No. That's not even true. That's the official dstory. I left that fucker open. I spaced man. The rain. I felt cold. I was talking to my dog sternly. Asking him where she was. And how he could have let her leave. He'd been hiding when I first walked in the house.
All I can hear at this point is rain on the roof. It's coming down, and cold. She's out there. It's not good at all. The streets are busy as hell in this area. Of course I went out and looked for her. Whatever that means. Talk about a needle in a a haystack. I don't even know how long she's been gone. An hour. Five hours. She could be as near as three houses away. Cowering under sporch and trying to stay dry. Or she could be... You name it. She was lost. I felt overwhelmed by despair for the situation.
I set out on foot. Chin down for that damn rain. I plodded around. i called her name. every building I wlaked past had mad gushing downspouts. Cars whished by through the wet on Fountain. The sain was steady like a retarded giant in the process of its one lifelong chore. I was cussing and looking skyward to let the rain just dribble down my face. It seemed so symbolic and pointless. I decided to go back and get the car. I hadn't even considered calling Viola at her friend's place in Lancaster. That would not be good.
You have to underdstand something about Dusya here. She's a hyper little boxer. Her main moods are timid and flirtatious. Somehwhat daft and irritating. I'm often pissed off at her. She's really hard to teach, though I've gotten her to walk pretty well off-leash. Problem is that she was raised in a condo and spoiled on little cocktail wieners. She just doesn't know the streets. And she was getting baptized tonight. Hee hee. I wish I could laugh. People's dogs are serious business. You lose someone's dog, you've lost someone. I felt bad for her. Poor fucking little thing. But I had to sleep. and there was NOTHING to be done at that hour of (5:45am). I was supposed to go look at a location at 11am the next day. The same day. It was all so beautiful.
I spent pretty much the whole day walking and biking in the rain. I wore goretex pants and an amazing waterproof army jacket that I bought in Coney Island for ten bucks. But in that kind of rain it's impossible to stay dry. I had the waters running down my shoulders. Viola was back in L.A. by then. And of course she was completely beside herself. It was unsettling to see how crushed she was by the news about Dusya. And it was still raining. You can't even walk outside for the mud and crap washing down the culverts and spillways. Palm fronds go by at 30 mph, carried by the current.
But then we got the call. A neigbour found Dusya on his stoop. trying to stay dry. O Christ. She's still alive? Unbelievable. I drove Viola over thtere. So that's what it was. The event. The dog had managed to cross Sunset and get over behind the McDonalds. But she wasn't alright. She'd been hit by a car. She looked all dark on her back. I hoped it was water, but wiping my hand over it revealed auto grease. That thick stuff that builds up on underbodies of cars. And then I could see the swelling in her leg. O boy. She got clipped pretty good. We're going to have to see about this. Viola washed her back at thye house. And cleaned her wounds (gross, great big lacerations). And now that the dog is seen to, Viola is simply freaking out. I suppose I would too. But my dog didn't wander off in the rain.
What's worse than a dog getting hit by a car? There's something there about innocenece and vulnerability. How they fare in our environment. It's a shitty place where people just run over dogs in the street. She's sleeping on the couch now. I'm falling alseep on my feet. The rain took it out of me.
My housemate was away. With friends in lancaster. And our two dogs were alone at the house. I was at a dinner party. I got home with the usual post dinner party blah. Parked. Came in the house. No dogs. What is going on? I started calling their names, going from room to room. Making a thorough scan of the spaces. Mind registering the absence of - dogs.
It was raining out like crazy. How many days of rain have we had? No one can get it straight. Some say five. Others six. We got 20" of rain just this weekend. And it is tearing shit up. The city can't handle it. All the drains are overflowing. every street corner is immersed. All you hear is fire engines. It's a mess.
Last night I went to trader Joes in the cutlass to get a bottle of wine for this dinner. And I almost crashed the cutlass on Hyperion Blvd. With those bald-ass tires on wet, greasy roads there is just no braking to be had. You have to drive like there are no brakes. I locked it up. A Ford Ranger with Oregon plates had stopped dead in the middle of Hyperion, alongside another car that was double-parked. Fuck, I muttered. Cunt. Shit! The wheeels had broken loose, I was skidding sideways. The car's brakes had two settings. On and off. O My God I'm going to hit that guy. I seemed to be going so fast. I was getting near sideways, and I realized it may only be a tap when I hit him. O shit. And then my car stopped. I hadn't hit him. Stopped short. Wow. That was close. Too fast. Or something. Anyway, driving on with this terrible story.
At 3:30 am I got home and my housemates dog was gone. Dusya. She'd slipped out the back gate. It blew open. No. That's not even true. That's the official dstory. I left that fucker open. I spaced man. The rain. I felt cold. I was talking to my dog sternly. Asking him where she was. And how he could have let her leave. He'd been hiding when I first walked in the house.
All I can hear at this point is rain on the roof. It's coming down, and cold. She's out there. It's not good at all. The streets are busy as hell in this area. Of course I went out and looked for her. Whatever that means. Talk about a needle in a a haystack. I don't even know how long she's been gone. An hour. Five hours. She could be as near as three houses away. Cowering under sporch and trying to stay dry. Or she could be... You name it. She was lost. I felt overwhelmed by despair for the situation.
I set out on foot. Chin down for that damn rain. I plodded around. i called her name. every building I wlaked past had mad gushing downspouts. Cars whished by through the wet on Fountain. The sain was steady like a retarded giant in the process of its one lifelong chore. I was cussing and looking skyward to let the rain just dribble down my face. It seemed so symbolic and pointless. I decided to go back and get the car. I hadn't even considered calling Viola at her friend's place in Lancaster. That would not be good.
You have to underdstand something about Dusya here. She's a hyper little boxer. Her main moods are timid and flirtatious. Somehwhat daft and irritating. I'm often pissed off at her. She's really hard to teach, though I've gotten her to walk pretty well off-leash. Problem is that she was raised in a condo and spoiled on little cocktail wieners. She just doesn't know the streets. And she was getting baptized tonight. Hee hee. I wish I could laugh. People's dogs are serious business. You lose someone's dog, you've lost someone. I felt bad for her. Poor fucking little thing. But I had to sleep. and there was NOTHING to be done at that hour of (5:45am). I was supposed to go look at a location at 11am the next day. The same day. It was all so beautiful.
I spent pretty much the whole day walking and biking in the rain. I wore goretex pants and an amazing waterproof army jacket that I bought in Coney Island for ten bucks. But in that kind of rain it's impossible to stay dry. I had the waters running down my shoulders. Viola was back in L.A. by then. And of course she was completely beside herself. It was unsettling to see how crushed she was by the news about Dusya. And it was still raining. You can't even walk outside for the mud and crap washing down the culverts and spillways. Palm fronds go by at 30 mph, carried by the current.
But then we got the call. A neigbour found Dusya on his stoop. trying to stay dry. O Christ. She's still alive? Unbelievable. I drove Viola over thtere. So that's what it was. The event. The dog had managed to cross Sunset and get over behind the McDonalds. But she wasn't alright. She'd been hit by a car. She looked all dark on her back. I hoped it was water, but wiping my hand over it revealed auto grease. That thick stuff that builds up on underbodies of cars. And then I could see the swelling in her leg. O boy. She got clipped pretty good. We're going to have to see about this. Viola washed her back at thye house. And cleaned her wounds (gross, great big lacerations). And now that the dog is seen to, Viola is simply freaking out. I suppose I would too. But my dog didn't wander off in the rain.
What's worse than a dog getting hit by a car? There's something there about innocenece and vulnerability. How they fare in our environment. It's a shitty place where people just run over dogs in the street. She's sleeping on the couch now. I'm falling alseep on my feet. The rain took it out of me.
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