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.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
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.
Saturday, December 18, 2004
The kid who works down at my local Korean liquor store has become more and more open with me. His family took over the store eight months ago, and they are experiencing severe difficulties. Among other things that they are losing the store for lack of receipts. Apparently no one is buying beer and cigarettes there - besides myself. Some afternoons when I drop in the store he is very despondent. He won't look up at me. He just says that things are going shit.
I found out yesterday his father is sick with Pneumonia. He's been hospitalized for a month. So the kid can't go to school. He has to stay at the store with his mom. And it's pretty obvious she can't watch the store alone. I've hung out and kicked it with him a few times; for twenty or so minutes. Standing out in the parking lot with the dogs. You get a feel for what it's like to run a store on that block. It's pretty random who will walk up on Fountain street, or turn into the parking lot. Fountain is not anybody's local street. It's carrying fast-moving, random L.A. fools. Going from one dicey deed to another.
Yesterday he went out to the family mini-van and got a bracelet he wanted to show me. It was white plastic, three inches wide and it had his photo, his name, and a bar-code on it. It was from the California Youth Authority. He wore it the whole time he was in a maximum security lock-up in Sylmar - for two years. 23 hours a day in lock-down.
He's telling me all this. Waiting for me to ask why; who; where; when. I just held his look and listened. Neither encouraging nor discouraging him from going on.
He was incarcerated at the facility in Sylmar for shooting three guys when he was 15. That's what got him two years in juvi-max. He's dying to tell someone what he did and what happened to him for it.
In my earlier visits to the liquor-mart, he'd shared with me that his ambition was to join the LAPD and become a K-9 handler. I was considering this while he related to me the shooting incident. I didn't have the heart to tell him that he will NEVER work in law enforcement. Not with such a conviction as a triple shooting (three mexicans, all shot in the balls, all survived).
Crazy yes? He recounted to me the whole story about the night that it happened. On the corner of 26th street and Western where his family was living at the time. He says that he had guns pulled on him numerous times in that hood, before he started carrying his friends 38 cal. revolver.
I'm thinking about suggesting that he join the army next year. He could talk to a recruiter about dog-handling, and the military's avenues for that. My point was that he could get a $15,000 sign-up bonus, which would help his folks QUICK. And if he gets sent to the gulf, he'd get danger-pay. Probably send home $4000/month. In peacetime I'm sure the military would never take a guy with that on his youth record. But the military is experiencing extenuating circumstances. And he's brave. He's that guy. He'd always told me how much fire he's got. And there I thought he was only trying to impress me. He says he's not afraid of anybody. Apparently, least of all himself. That's part of his problem. The army could help that. A crime against society, such as he committed, even as a minor, perhaps could only be offset socially by an honorable military service. He may even have a chance to work in law enforcement afterwards, if he can garner a few medals. I think even then it's unlikely. But the private sector has a lot of openings in the for veterans in the security field. He has to turn his life around. I can see that so clearly. The way he is now I feel that there is no place for him in this society.
I don't think he's a psychopath. More of a sociopath. In the story he told me, the guys cornered him and pulled a knife. I believe it. I don't think he's a liar. He doesn't take drugs. He's no "G". Some kind of moral purist? Will not back down. Like a samurai. Very bad tact here in the western world. But certainly appealing to the philosphers. There are many cultures in which it is perfectly okay to shoot someone who corners you in the street at night. Can you imagine Pakistan? Honor still exists and plays out in deadly contests all over the world. And right here in L.A. for some young men. Crazy. Maybe we're all crazy.
He didn't need to shoot anybody. That's what comes to my mind. Of course I wasn't there. I'm not there in his head. I don't live in West Adams. But once he pulled the gun, he probably could have *cooled* the situation just by pulling the hammer back. No, wait a minute... That would heat it up. Pulling back the hammer would cool those guys who had confronted him, but it would heat up the situation. There's a big difference there. A street confrontation is never cool.
But it's doubtful he needed to plug all three of his assailants. A shot fired into the sidewalk would set anybody to scrambling over fences, praying aloud to the very Madre de Dios.
But they'd be back. Guys like that always come back. Otherwise they can't show their faces on the street. They'd come back in a car. With a gun. And they would pop a cap into his Korean ass.
I fear for this kid. And I fear for his family. And I fear for his future adversaries. He's extremely frustrated. And he's so smart. He reads constantly. More than any 17 year old I've ever met. He's learned everything about dogs. Workdogs generally. Protection dogs - specifically. That was his dramatic realization about his life. He told me this. That he discovered what he loved in life, while he was in youth lock-up. He wants to train dogs and become a K-9 handler for the LAPD swat team.
Today I am going to ask him if I may give his mother some flowers from my garden. Honorably of course. I can't have this kid thinking that I'm pimping on his old lady. I empathize most with her. Her husband is very sick. Her son is a convicted violent youth offender. He's unable to attend school because he's stuck in store until midnight every day. And he has to deal with a steady stream of drunks, vatos and assholes. And he's still too hot. It's like the net is closing around them.
I found out yesterday his father is sick with Pneumonia. He's been hospitalized for a month. So the kid can't go to school. He has to stay at the store with his mom. And it's pretty obvious she can't watch the store alone. I've hung out and kicked it with him a few times; for twenty or so minutes. Standing out in the parking lot with the dogs. You get a feel for what it's like to run a store on that block. It's pretty random who will walk up on Fountain street, or turn into the parking lot. Fountain is not anybody's local street. It's carrying fast-moving, random L.A. fools. Going from one dicey deed to another.
Yesterday he went out to the family mini-van and got a bracelet he wanted to show me. It was white plastic, three inches wide and it had his photo, his name, and a bar-code on it. It was from the California Youth Authority. He wore it the whole time he was in a maximum security lock-up in Sylmar - for two years. 23 hours a day in lock-down.
He's telling me all this. Waiting for me to ask why; who; where; when. I just held his look and listened. Neither encouraging nor discouraging him from going on.
He was incarcerated at the facility in Sylmar for shooting three guys when he was 15. That's what got him two years in juvi-max. He's dying to tell someone what he did and what happened to him for it.
In my earlier visits to the liquor-mart, he'd shared with me that his ambition was to join the LAPD and become a K-9 handler. I was considering this while he related to me the shooting incident. I didn't have the heart to tell him that he will NEVER work in law enforcement. Not with such a conviction as a triple shooting (three mexicans, all shot in the balls, all survived).
Crazy yes? He recounted to me the whole story about the night that it happened. On the corner of 26th street and Western where his family was living at the time. He says that he had guns pulled on him numerous times in that hood, before he started carrying his friends 38 cal. revolver.
I'm thinking about suggesting that he join the army next year. He could talk to a recruiter about dog-handling, and the military's avenues for that. My point was that he could get a $15,000 sign-up bonus, which would help his folks QUICK. And if he gets sent to the gulf, he'd get danger-pay. Probably send home $4000/month. In peacetime I'm sure the military would never take a guy with that on his youth record. But the military is experiencing extenuating circumstances. And he's brave. He's that guy. He'd always told me how much fire he's got. And there I thought he was only trying to impress me. He says he's not afraid of anybody. Apparently, least of all himself. That's part of his problem. The army could help that. A crime against society, such as he committed, even as a minor, perhaps could only be offset socially by an honorable military service. He may even have a chance to work in law enforcement afterwards, if he can garner a few medals. I think even then it's unlikely. But the private sector has a lot of openings in the for veterans in the security field. He has to turn his life around. I can see that so clearly. The way he is now I feel that there is no place for him in this society.
I don't think he's a psychopath. More of a sociopath. In the story he told me, the guys cornered him and pulled a knife. I believe it. I don't think he's a liar. He doesn't take drugs. He's no "G". Some kind of moral purist? Will not back down. Like a samurai. Very bad tact here in the western world. But certainly appealing to the philosphers. There are many cultures in which it is perfectly okay to shoot someone who corners you in the street at night. Can you imagine Pakistan? Honor still exists and plays out in deadly contests all over the world. And right here in L.A. for some young men. Crazy. Maybe we're all crazy.
He didn't need to shoot anybody. That's what comes to my mind. Of course I wasn't there. I'm not there in his head. I don't live in West Adams. But once he pulled the gun, he probably could have *cooled* the situation just by pulling the hammer back. No, wait a minute... That would heat it up. Pulling back the hammer would cool those guys who had confronted him, but it would heat up the situation. There's a big difference there. A street confrontation is never cool.
But it's doubtful he needed to plug all three of his assailants. A shot fired into the sidewalk would set anybody to scrambling over fences, praying aloud to the very Madre de Dios.
But they'd be back. Guys like that always come back. Otherwise they can't show their faces on the street. They'd come back in a car. With a gun. And they would pop a cap into his Korean ass.
I fear for this kid. And I fear for his family. And I fear for his future adversaries. He's extremely frustrated. And he's so smart. He reads constantly. More than any 17 year old I've ever met. He's learned everything about dogs. Workdogs generally. Protection dogs - specifically. That was his dramatic realization about his life. He told me this. That he discovered what he loved in life, while he was in youth lock-up. He wants to train dogs and become a K-9 handler for the LAPD swat team.
Today I am going to ask him if I may give his mother some flowers from my garden. Honorably of course. I can't have this kid thinking that I'm pimping on his old lady. I empathize most with her. Her husband is very sick. Her son is a convicted violent youth offender. He's unable to attend school because he's stuck in store until midnight every day. And he has to deal with a steady stream of drunks, vatos and assholes. And he's still too hot. It's like the net is closing around them.
Sunday, December 05, 2004
Cold here. Cold and damp.
Everything stopped, a week ago. It got really quiet
It's easy to forget that every day is a new day.
Another day. Another chance to make an entrance.
Cold. I don't say that very much. Don't encounter it much. I was trying to explain to someone, the cosmic pivot between what makes things hot or cold. Can everything be reduced to one or the other of the two. Hot. It's how you describe a firearm that has a live round in it. When working with electricity a hot conductor - is just what it sounds like. It's live. Like a body. When I want the plaster I mix to set up faster, I use accelerants. Mix them in. It's called hot mud. Things that are hot are things that are ready to give up their heat. Physics man.
Cold is an altogether different thing. An unconscionable deed. That's cold. A handgun. Is cold. They always are. I once had a Super Black Leatherman. When those multi-tools were first breaking out. No longer just confined to film technicians. I had this bad-ass black one. It came with a black cordura belt pouch. A camera assistant I was working with remarked as soon as I took it out on set. He was a black guy from D.C. Very cool. Damn that's cold, he said admiring the black ninja tool.
Salesmen know hot and cold. They know it real good. Everyone knows it. My hands are cold right now. Sex is hot. Death is cold.
Everything stopped, a week ago. It got really quiet
It's easy to forget that every day is a new day.
Another day. Another chance to make an entrance.
Cold. I don't say that very much. Don't encounter it much. I was trying to explain to someone, the cosmic pivot between what makes things hot or cold. Can everything be reduced to one or the other of the two. Hot. It's how you describe a firearm that has a live round in it. When working with electricity a hot conductor - is just what it sounds like. It's live. Like a body. When I want the plaster I mix to set up faster, I use accelerants. Mix them in. It's called hot mud. Things that are hot are things that are ready to give up their heat. Physics man.
Cold is an altogether different thing. An unconscionable deed. That's cold. A handgun. Is cold. They always are. I once had a Super Black Leatherman. When those multi-tools were first breaking out. No longer just confined to film technicians. I had this bad-ass black one. It came with a black cordura belt pouch. A camera assistant I was working with remarked as soon as I took it out on set. He was a black guy from D.C. Very cool. Damn that's cold, he said admiring the black ninja tool.
Salesmen know hot and cold. They know it real good. Everyone knows it. My hands are cold right now. Sex is hot. Death is cold.
Saturday, November 27, 2004
It occurs to me I'd rather have,
Somewhere else to go.
Somewhere sacred and windy,
Sanctified. Not this cafe.
Wanting to be free of my own life,
A freak in that sense.
Crazy eyes. Wild, drug-
crazed.
My life is a prison. My head,
Is four walls of a cell,
And saying so don't make it,
Any other way.
There's a clown in me, that wants
to bring laughter to faces,
and music and trust. Not,
The rifle and its ten cartridges.
What happened today?
It didn't seem so different.
I awoke afraid, clutching,
Sheets to my body for warmth.
And i opened the letter.
The indictment.
The hand grenade, that you,
My enemy sent for my betrayal.
I made eye contact with,
A little black dog.
And I wanted to,
Start a family.
But it was intercepted,
By good people, who take
every damn thing,
To sustain their goodness.
(I wrote this in the winter of 2000. Don't remember anything else)
Somewhere else to go.
Somewhere sacred and windy,
Sanctified. Not this cafe.
Wanting to be free of my own life,
A freak in that sense.
Crazy eyes. Wild, drug-
crazed.
My life is a prison. My head,
Is four walls of a cell,
And saying so don't make it,
Any other way.
There's a clown in me, that wants
to bring laughter to faces,
and music and trust. Not,
The rifle and its ten cartridges.
What happened today?
It didn't seem so different.
I awoke afraid, clutching,
Sheets to my body for warmth.
And i opened the letter.
The indictment.
The hand grenade, that you,
My enemy sent for my betrayal.
I made eye contact with,
A little black dog.
And I wanted to,
Start a family.
But it was intercepted,
By good people, who take
every damn thing,
To sustain their goodness.
(I wrote this in the winter of 2000. Don't remember anything else)
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Rain. So much rain.
It started two days ago and I was not ready for it. I idled away the summer days. I fixed a gutter and tried out some drainage theories here and there. But when the rain came it was in sheets. There was hale too. The walls creaked all during this.
I have to explain. This house for the most part has no foundation. It was not meant to last this long. It was just a stick house on a big lot near the Disney and Max Sennet studios. Back when all the studios were on the east side. It was probably a house for some mechanic or other studio contractor.
Then the 1960s and 1970s happened. The little wooden bungalow got a coat of stucco and heavy steel bars on every window. Hardly a dime was put into the upkeep. Along the way they got the bright idea to back-fill the lot to achieve some level ground. carted in earth mixed with cement and broken pipes. Leveled it to the side of the house. Right up to the gunwales.
And when the rains come the earth gets much heavier. So much so that it has nudged the house a few inches down the hill. I figured it all out while i was jacking it up two years ago.
Rain. Los Angeles is a basin. A hillside's natural state is to be wash. An arroyo. Seco in the summer. Flash flood in the rains.
I put on my raingear and went out to survey the house's ability to withstand rain. That's really the measure of a house isn't it? That dryness. O so elusive.
It was bad. Pools of water against the side of the house. Various gutters were rusted and blocked. Cracked and leaking. The roof of this 1000 sq/ft house displaces an amazing amount of water in one of these flash rains. I worked through the rain and most of the afternoon unblocking gutters and trying to divert some of that natural fury.
Later on the sun came out, and while having a smoke I started stacking some rocks and broken pieces of cement tile in the front yard. I don't know why. I squatted down and started stacking upward. Finding the balance. I did several little pagan towers. It's a wonderful thing to do. I began to think about rock-stacking vacations. Go camping in places with a good supply of rocks and build cairns like that.
Rainwater and rocks. I don't know man.
It started two days ago and I was not ready for it. I idled away the summer days. I fixed a gutter and tried out some drainage theories here and there. But when the rain came it was in sheets. There was hale too. The walls creaked all during this.
I have to explain. This house for the most part has no foundation. It was not meant to last this long. It was just a stick house on a big lot near the Disney and Max Sennet studios. Back when all the studios were on the east side. It was probably a house for some mechanic or other studio contractor.
Then the 1960s and 1970s happened. The little wooden bungalow got a coat of stucco and heavy steel bars on every window. Hardly a dime was put into the upkeep. Along the way they got the bright idea to back-fill the lot to achieve some level ground. carted in earth mixed with cement and broken pipes. Leveled it to the side of the house. Right up to the gunwales.
And when the rains come the earth gets much heavier. So much so that it has nudged the house a few inches down the hill. I figured it all out while i was jacking it up two years ago.
Rain. Los Angeles is a basin. A hillside's natural state is to be wash. An arroyo. Seco in the summer. Flash flood in the rains.
I put on my raingear and went out to survey the house's ability to withstand rain. That's really the measure of a house isn't it? That dryness. O so elusive.
It was bad. Pools of water against the side of the house. Various gutters were rusted and blocked. Cracked and leaking. The roof of this 1000 sq/ft house displaces an amazing amount of water in one of these flash rains. I worked through the rain and most of the afternoon unblocking gutters and trying to divert some of that natural fury.
Later on the sun came out, and while having a smoke I started stacking some rocks and broken pieces of cement tile in the front yard. I don't know why. I squatted down and started stacking upward. Finding the balance. I did several little pagan towers. It's a wonderful thing to do. I began to think about rock-stacking vacations. Go camping in places with a good supply of rocks and build cairns like that.
Rainwater and rocks. I don't know man.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
I'm awake kind of early this morning. It's a big day. I'm stepping up from Gaffer to Director of Photograhy for the last two days of this film. My boss had to go away and do a union commercial, and so he is leaving me to complete the photography.
The cool thing is that we are shooting film rather than video or HD. It's 35mm with sprocket holes. So I get to look through a glass eye-piece rather than a grainy little video picture. I realized yesterday when Keith had me operating shots on the Arri BL-IV, that the ground glass viewing system of a film camera is its real advantage over HD video. You see the real thing.
It was ten years ago that I finished school and set out to become a cinematographer. I went to work as an electric to learn the basics of lighting, and then ten years was gone. That's how long it took before I was asked to shoot. Had I known that starting out, I probably would have pursued another career. But no matter. This is where I am. This is all I know how to do.
The first question of the morning will be: WHERE DO YOU WANT THE CAMERA?
Then: WHAT LENS DO YOU WANT UP?
And then get the grips and electrics moving. Come up with an idea for the lighting. Maybe go handheld, or on the dolly.
So I'm awake early. This is kind of important. There are so few shots in this business.
The cool thing is that we are shooting film rather than video or HD. It's 35mm with sprocket holes. So I get to look through a glass eye-piece rather than a grainy little video picture. I realized yesterday when Keith had me operating shots on the Arri BL-IV, that the ground glass viewing system of a film camera is its real advantage over HD video. You see the real thing.
It was ten years ago that I finished school and set out to become a cinematographer. I went to work as an electric to learn the basics of lighting, and then ten years was gone. That's how long it took before I was asked to shoot. Had I known that starting out, I probably would have pursued another career. But no matter. This is where I am. This is all I know how to do.
The first question of the morning will be: WHERE DO YOU WANT THE CAMERA?
Then: WHAT LENS DO YOU WANT UP?
And then get the grips and electrics moving. Come up with an idea for the lighting. Maybe go handheld, or on the dolly.
So I'm awake early. This is kind of important. There are so few shots in this business.
Saturday, October 16, 2004
I can't believe I never told the story about going to play paintball in Long Island. For a bachelor party it was. So damn funny. I only knew one or two of the guys. Well maybe more. They were mostly all New York construction guys. They're all Haley's crew. Make their living doing big budget remodels in manhattan. I'd worked on a couple of jobs with some of them. Then there were three quiet guys from San francisco, touring with a band. They were friends of Noah. The guy for whom the bachelor party was being held.
We met up at the rallye point at 9am. A polish diner on Bedford Avenue in Williamsburgh. All the guys turned up in tuxedos. Except me of course. That was the gag for the day. To dress up for a party and then play paintball. It was kind of amazing I'd never played before. I know a lot of guys here in LA who play it. They even own their own guns and pouches. Tactical webbing you could say. I really had no idea what to expect. I was aware of an ongoing question I'd considered. If i would do well at this simulated combat. Or just get rolled. Untested.
A limousine picked us up fore the long drive out to long island. It was. So stupid. A super-stretch Ford excursion. Seating for twenty people. Probably weighed 15,000 lbs. We brought along war movies to play on the limousine's DVD. And we brought beer. Budweiser cans. The floor of the limo was covered with cases. Glug glug glug. Smoking reefer. It was very overcast and sultry. Mid august. The limousine was careening about, getting onto the Long island expressway.
I really notcied that once you're out of NYC, Long island seems extremely conservative. A lot of American flags. We suppprt our troops. That stuff. Little wooden houses. We got hit.
The painball range, if that's what you call it, is run by a burly, mustached Vietnam vet. When you turn into the gravel parking lot, the first sight is a POW/MIA flag. You are not forgotten. It was totally Soldier of Fortune. They issued us paintball guns and Scott moto-cross goggles. the kind with a plastic mouthguard. The kids who worked at the place sized us up. All drunk like that and wearing tuxedos. The site has half a dozen football fiewld-sized combat ranges. each one has partcular battlefield conditions. We decided to start with the WWII scenario. It was littered with upside-down jeeps, and half-tracks. In the middle of the field was a tower. It obviously had an unobstrutced line of fire on the rest of the field. I tried to take everything in. I was kind of serious about the whole thing. I think every man was.
"Test your guns!" the referee yelled out.
We all began to plink away at the side of a decrepit, olive-painted semi-trailer. TACK TACK TACK TACK. The guns went. Wow I thought. they're really accurate.
The driver of the limousine which took us out there and would wait to take us back to the city was a middle-aged Egyptian guy named Ali. We beckoned him to play with us. He refused. Graciously and smiling. Obviously he was a professional. His job was to drive the limo, make money for some other Egyptian guy, and then get the thing back. A bunch of drunks playing simulated combat probably looked like way to get into a lot of shit and screw up his job. I sure know that feeling. But nevertheless we would not leave him alone. He finally capitulated. Graciously, smiling and self-deferential. They gave him a pair of dark blue mechanics coveralls to protect his shirt and tie.
And of course he was totally badass. He was one of the last guys left. He'd been in the army in Egypt. He sought the best cover. And then hunkered down. picking guys off. When the yellow, .51 cal. ball hits you, it breaks and leaves a gooey, water based yellow ink. And then you're out.
My best performance was street fighting. In a little simulated western town, with false building fronts on both sides of a street. I charged. Took ground. Pinned those motheruckers down. Rolled 'em. Like Audie murphy.
There was a woodland battlefield as well. That was fun. We did it twice. Had two battles. It turned out that the team which began with the high ground was pretty much invincible. There were trenches dug which we could hunker down behind. But if you stuck your head above the earthen edge of the ground-cut it gets hit by three paintballs. TACK TACK TACK.
Withering fire.
We were going to finish up the afternoon in the WWI battleground. A labyrinth of 7' deep trenches. Complete with mucky puddles at the bottom. Heavily overcast day. Tired. It was disorienting. I got plugged in the head pretty early on. That time I kept fighting. I cheated.
We were going to turn it in. Hand over the paintball rifles to the quarter-master. We walked past an undeveloped paintball pitch, behind chain link and tennic court netting. Something about the falt, dead grass plaineness caught our attention. We asked what it was for. They said it was to be a destroyed airfield. They were waiting to get the fuselage of a C-47 and a few other aircraft hulks.
At that moment i had a great isspireation. I suggested we do a revolutionary war style-fight. 18th century style. Each team walks up to the other in a line. Each man takes aim. Fire. The other poor chaps do the same. Some fall. We lined up at opposite ends of the field. I began to bawl the orders like a cockney Hussar. The kind of guy with a 2' tall furry hat, chinstrapped and mustached. Stationed in Lahorre for 15 years. Salty.
RI-FLES FORWARD!!!!!!
TAKE AIM!!!!!!
(come on you guys let's look valiant here)
FIRE!!!!!!
Plink plink plink. And some fell. We made a big show of dying valiantly. I fell over like a tree. just let myself crash. I was totally drunk and covered with mud anyways. A crowd gathered to watch us. Lampooning war. They were all super gung-ho paintabllers. They owned their own rifles and extra magazines and air pouches. We all made a big show of dying and drying out on the lonely battlefield. Theatre. Fuckin-A.
We met up at the rallye point at 9am. A polish diner on Bedford Avenue in Williamsburgh. All the guys turned up in tuxedos. Except me of course. That was the gag for the day. To dress up for a party and then play paintball. It was kind of amazing I'd never played before. I know a lot of guys here in LA who play it. They even own their own guns and pouches. Tactical webbing you could say. I really had no idea what to expect. I was aware of an ongoing question I'd considered. If i would do well at this simulated combat. Or just get rolled. Untested.
A limousine picked us up fore the long drive out to long island. It was. So stupid. A super-stretch Ford excursion. Seating for twenty people. Probably weighed 15,000 lbs. We brought along war movies to play on the limousine's DVD. And we brought beer. Budweiser cans. The floor of the limo was covered with cases. Glug glug glug. Smoking reefer. It was very overcast and sultry. Mid august. The limousine was careening about, getting onto the Long island expressway.
I really notcied that once you're out of NYC, Long island seems extremely conservative. A lot of American flags. We suppprt our troops. That stuff. Little wooden houses. We got hit.
The painball range, if that's what you call it, is run by a burly, mustached Vietnam vet. When you turn into the gravel parking lot, the first sight is a POW/MIA flag. You are not forgotten. It was totally Soldier of Fortune. They issued us paintball guns and Scott moto-cross goggles. the kind with a plastic mouthguard. The kids who worked at the place sized us up. All drunk like that and wearing tuxedos. The site has half a dozen football fiewld-sized combat ranges. each one has partcular battlefield conditions. We decided to start with the WWII scenario. It was littered with upside-down jeeps, and half-tracks. In the middle of the field was a tower. It obviously had an unobstrutced line of fire on the rest of the field. I tried to take everything in. I was kind of serious about the whole thing. I think every man was.
"Test your guns!" the referee yelled out.
We all began to plink away at the side of a decrepit, olive-painted semi-trailer. TACK TACK TACK TACK. The guns went. Wow I thought. they're really accurate.
The driver of the limousine which took us out there and would wait to take us back to the city was a middle-aged Egyptian guy named Ali. We beckoned him to play with us. He refused. Graciously and smiling. Obviously he was a professional. His job was to drive the limo, make money for some other Egyptian guy, and then get the thing back. A bunch of drunks playing simulated combat probably looked like way to get into a lot of shit and screw up his job. I sure know that feeling. But nevertheless we would not leave him alone. He finally capitulated. Graciously, smiling and self-deferential. They gave him a pair of dark blue mechanics coveralls to protect his shirt and tie.
And of course he was totally badass. He was one of the last guys left. He'd been in the army in Egypt. He sought the best cover. And then hunkered down. picking guys off. When the yellow, .51 cal. ball hits you, it breaks and leaves a gooey, water based yellow ink. And then you're out.
My best performance was street fighting. In a little simulated western town, with false building fronts on both sides of a street. I charged. Took ground. Pinned those motheruckers down. Rolled 'em. Like Audie murphy.
There was a woodland battlefield as well. That was fun. We did it twice. Had two battles. It turned out that the team which began with the high ground was pretty much invincible. There were trenches dug which we could hunker down behind. But if you stuck your head above the earthen edge of the ground-cut it gets hit by three paintballs. TACK TACK TACK.
Withering fire.
We were going to finish up the afternoon in the WWI battleground. A labyrinth of 7' deep trenches. Complete with mucky puddles at the bottom. Heavily overcast day. Tired. It was disorienting. I got plugged in the head pretty early on. That time I kept fighting. I cheated.
We were going to turn it in. Hand over the paintball rifles to the quarter-master. We walked past an undeveloped paintball pitch, behind chain link and tennic court netting. Something about the falt, dead grass plaineness caught our attention. We asked what it was for. They said it was to be a destroyed airfield. They were waiting to get the fuselage of a C-47 and a few other aircraft hulks.
At that moment i had a great isspireation. I suggested we do a revolutionary war style-fight. 18th century style. Each team walks up to the other in a line. Each man takes aim. Fire. The other poor chaps do the same. Some fall. We lined up at opposite ends of the field. I began to bawl the orders like a cockney Hussar. The kind of guy with a 2' tall furry hat, chinstrapped and mustached. Stationed in Lahorre for 15 years. Salty.
RI-FLES FORWARD!!!!!!
TAKE AIM!!!!!!
(come on you guys let's look valiant here)
FIRE!!!!!!
Plink plink plink. And some fell. We made a big show of dying valiantly. I fell over like a tree. just let myself crash. I was totally drunk and covered with mud anyways. A crowd gathered to watch us. Lampooning war. They were all super gung-ho paintabllers. They owned their own rifles and extra magazines and air pouches. We all made a big show of dying and drying out on the lonely battlefield. Theatre. Fuckin-A.
Monday, October 04, 2004
Noticed something new recently. They're reconfiguring all these banks in L.A. Two of the Washington Mutual branches I've visited this week had high-tech new security systems installed. Whereas before you would barge right in and nod to the security guard before getting into the long line: Now you wait in a long line outside, to pass through a smoked glass vestibule with a metal detector in it. Each person in turn at the head of the line waits for a little green light to flash before they can be scanned. Only one person can pass through at a time. I don't know. It gave me pause. I'm a talkative bastard. So I was asking the others in line around me what they thought about it. Didn't get far with those impatient people.
So what's this about? Just a cheaper way to ensure the banks security from stick-up men? Or are they expecting some kind of new threat? I'm always looking for the ways in which the new security order plays out here in the states. I remember that banks in Paris always had heavily armed guards. In Chile they were practically sand-bagged. I wonder if thing are becoming more desperate here.
The other interesting thing I chanced upon was a fleet of stealth locomotives. Well, not exactly. I should begin at the beginning. Myself and a friend were biking yesterday along the LA river around where it goes by Elysian Park. The unofficial bike path we found took us through the greasy-smelling wonder of a Union Pacific locomotive shop. Imagine a field of yellow and grey monster locomotives, rumbling and rolling backwards, or idling with heat shimmers off their steel rooves. Against a background of wilting palm trees. It was cool.
My attention was seized by 12 or 16 newly-painted loc's. Not in the yellow/grey UP livery, but in solid naval grey. They had no markings on the side. There was only a stars and stripes crest on the nose of each one. They looked like (dare I say it) Victory locomotives. I'm no expert on these things, but I recognized that they were older equipment. Probably originating from the early 70s. They were general electrics, but the class with four wheels per bogie. Like I said. I'm no expert in this.
But what could they be for, these strange unmarked engines? I'm thinking maybe for hauling radio-active waste out to the Yucca Mountain dumpsite in Nevada. That's UP territory, so who else is going to get a bid in to haul it? It's not going to be Martinez Trucking out of San Bernardino.
Or it could be that the locomotives have been painted for some up-coming studio mega-production. Perhaps it's a Kevin Costner epic, in which he runs a post-apocalyptic railroad. Bringing a message of hope and renewal along the old iron road. In LA you never know. I really have to get a digital camera.
So what's this about? Just a cheaper way to ensure the banks security from stick-up men? Or are they expecting some kind of new threat? I'm always looking for the ways in which the new security order plays out here in the states. I remember that banks in Paris always had heavily armed guards. In Chile they were practically sand-bagged. I wonder if thing are becoming more desperate here.
The other interesting thing I chanced upon was a fleet of stealth locomotives. Well, not exactly. I should begin at the beginning. Myself and a friend were biking yesterday along the LA river around where it goes by Elysian Park. The unofficial bike path we found took us through the greasy-smelling wonder of a Union Pacific locomotive shop. Imagine a field of yellow and grey monster locomotives, rumbling and rolling backwards, or idling with heat shimmers off their steel rooves. Against a background of wilting palm trees. It was cool.
My attention was seized by 12 or 16 newly-painted loc's. Not in the yellow/grey UP livery, but in solid naval grey. They had no markings on the side. There was only a stars and stripes crest on the nose of each one. They looked like (dare I say it) Victory locomotives. I'm no expert on these things, but I recognized that they were older equipment. Probably originating from the early 70s. They were general electrics, but the class with four wheels per bogie. Like I said. I'm no expert in this.
But what could they be for, these strange unmarked engines? I'm thinking maybe for hauling radio-active waste out to the Yucca Mountain dumpsite in Nevada. That's UP territory, so who else is going to get a bid in to haul it? It's not going to be Martinez Trucking out of San Bernardino.
Or it could be that the locomotives have been painted for some up-coming studio mega-production. Perhaps it's a Kevin Costner epic, in which he runs a post-apocalyptic railroad. Bringing a message of hope and renewal along the old iron road. In LA you never know. I really have to get a digital camera.
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