BLOG ENTRIES FROM JULY 2005
July 30, 2005--
I had a Robot Suit fitting Thursday. It went well, but went long, which means I missed the chance to see the
free Robert Earl Keen show in Battery Park. So, I hated the Automatons movie for a day, but that's the sort of
thing that happens,and will happen again. What can you do? Once you sign on the dotted line, you're
committed. Unless you have an agent and play for the NFL.
Speaking of agents and entertainment and whatnot, I just found out that I will not be the face of the pilot for
"America's Ugliest Bathrooms." While it's always better to work in an industry that provides a folding table full
of snacks wherever you go, I can't say I'm overly disappointed. The show revolves around one guy redoing a
bathroom in 4 or 5 days at the behest of a designer.
Nightmare. Even under the best of conditions that would be a tall order for one carpenter, and bathrooms, with
all that plumbing in the walls, are notorious for hiding years of slow-leak water damage and rot behind decent
looking tile. The logistical requirements of shooting a tv show make it impossible to say "Oh, this will take an
extra week..." so I predict quite a few overnighters for the poor bastard who gets that job. The only good part
would be working with Marvin Blunte and Thom Hinkle, both of them "In a Fix" veterans. We'll see how quickly
they can get this show cancelled...
James Lunday, of "In a Fix" fame, was also up for the job and also didn't get it. But he's Australian, so who
cares?
The Robot Suit fitting took place at Janene's loft/studio. I told her I needed to interview her at some point for the
"Making of" video. She told me that was not going to happen, as she's a shy type that doesn't like pictures
taken. So of course, here is the Gallery Of Janene:
July 28th, 2005--
There was, indeed, a big Automatons meeting last night. "Big" only because it's only about a week from
shooting, so everything is getting bigger and more important. The deadlines are starting to get a little scary.
We did get a new intern, Mike, to help us out. He's a 19 year old kid from Annapolis who is up here for a month
to slave away in hopes of receiving something elusive called "experience." He'll most likely end up with
nothing more than a sore back and a few new swear words in his vocabulary, but I guess thats about 1/2 of
what qualifies as Experience.
He's going to live way out in Brooklyn, but spent his first night in a hostel on 96th Street, so after the meeting
last night he had about three hours of subway travel ahead of him in order to get his stuff from where he slept
the night before to his new digs. It's just the sort of fix you find yourself in when you're 19 in a new town. Why
Jeremiah didn't just set him up to crash on one of our couches, I don't know. I guess he truly is the heartless
bastard we've always expected.
There was, indeed, a big Automatons meeting last night. "Big" only because it's only about a week from
shooting, so everything is getting bigger and more important. The deadlines are starting to get a little scary.
We did get a new intern, Mike, to help us out. He's a 19 year old kid from Annapolis who is up here for a month
to slave away in hopes of receiving something elusive called "experience." He'll most likely end up with
nothing more than a sore back and a few new swear words in his vocabulary, but I guess thats about 1/2 of
what qualifies as Experience.
He's going to live way out in Brooklyn, but spent his first night in a hostel on 96th Street, so after the meeting
last night he had about three hours of subway travel ahead of him in order to get his stuff from where he slept
the night before to his new digs. It's just the sort of fix you find yourself in when you're 19 in a new town. Why
Jeremiah didn't just set him up to crash on one of our couches, I don't know. I guess he truly is the heartless
bastard we've always expected.
Production meeting: (Clockwise from the bald Irish
guy) Jim, David, Larry, Jeremiah, Mike the Intern.
guy) Jim, David, Larry, Jeremiah, Mike the Intern.
The new camera arrived. It is supposed to be one of the best ever. Small hitch: everything is in German.
The airlock is finally taking shape, i just need to skin the doors and the basic structure will be complete. We
still need to dress 'em up with the Sci-Fi Foam, but just having something standing there is a big load off my
mind. Of course, the regular (paying) work is starting to hit a real busy spot as well. When it rains it pours.
All I need are a few 8 day weeks to catch up. I'm sure that sounds pretty familiar to most people.
Dave's truck is in the shop as well, so transporting materials will be dicey for the next week. Ahh, the
wonders of No Budget Filmmaking.
Some good news last night; we will shoot this production with more lights than we have ever had before :11.
The airlock is finally taking shape, i just need to skin the doors and the basic structure will be complete. We
still need to dress 'em up with the Sci-Fi Foam, but just having something standing there is a big load off my
mind. Of course, the regular (paying) work is starting to hit a real busy spot as well. When it rains it pours.
All I need are a few 8 day weeks to catch up. I'm sure that sounds pretty familiar to most people.
Dave's truck is in the shop as well, so transporting materials will be dicey for the next week. Ahh, the
wonders of No Budget Filmmaking.
Some good news last night; we will shoot this production with more lights than we have ever had before :11.
Hanging the airlock doors.
In the future, 1/4" Lauan will be airtight!
July 27th 2005--
Big Automatons meeting tonight, so I need to get over to the space and finish more of the set to avoid
Jeremiah's wrath. I should have good stuff to report afterwards. In the meantime, thanks for the stuff (you
know who you are, even if I don't) and please enjoy another filler piece from my Houston days:
I LIVE WITH WHORES PART 2
(scroll down to July 13 for Part One)
When you live at the corner of Prostitute and John, you learn a few things. The thoughts I had the night I first
cracked the blinds and bore witness to the impressive panorama of sex-for-hire surrounding my apartment
are gone now, trampled beneath the hordes of shiny new prostitution memories I have made nearly every day
since. As well as I can recollect, I once maintained an image of male prostitution in my head that resembled
an amorphous dark blob of “Bad”, much like the others I maintain for topics like kiddie porn and crime scene
photos. Now, innocence lost, I look out my window and see, more or less, T.G.I.Friday’s without pants.
Called “the oldest profession”, it should probably be known as “the oldest service industry”. One person can
be a professional, and most of these men are professional in more than one sense of the word, but unlike
other trades, the prostitute can’t survive alone, he needs an industry…of sorts.
One prostitute on the corner just won’t work, as he’s often off the corner and down someone’s pants while
other potential customers drive by his “spot”, unaware those services are available there. Whores need johns
and johns need to know where to go to find whores. Legally restrained from marking their corner of business
with signs, skyward-pointing floodlights or a free buffet, these whores must maintain a whore presence on
their corner at all times. Thusly, there must always be more whores available (supply) than johns to pick
them up (demand) and suddenly-Holy Toledo!-you have questions of economics and an industry to manage
them.
This is not to say that these boys are involved in or controlled by the mob. Organized Crime is a misleading
term, creating an impression that all illegal activity not controlled by Tony Soprano, Tony Montana or sharply
dressed, overly tattooed Japanese guys takes place in a vacuum ruled by chaos, which is clearly not true.
With its individual participants powerfully motivated to cooperate for success by such basal human attributes
as fear, greed and addiction, nothing organizes itself quite so neatly as crime.
This is where T.G.I.Friday’s comes in. Though these hustlers all share the same “section” and each table is
a “one-top”, they do have a seating order. The first words of a whore showing up on the corner are often “Who
am I after?” (Question number two is “Where’s your {crack} pipe?”) Of course, this is an industry built on
customer satisfaction, and johns freely choose from among the flesh on display, but generally the whores will
try and stick to their loose organization, telling a john if a favorite whore is just out on a job and will “be right
back” and even recommending other whores who are ahead of them in line; pushing the specials of the day,
if you will: “Have you tried Larry? If you like them young you really shouldn’t pass him up.”
With a consistency that would make any T.G.IiFriday’s assistant manager beam with pride, each and every
vehicle passing through the intersection outside my window is greeted with a smile and a hope-filled “What’s
up?” True, the T.G.I.Friday’s “signature smile” is a bit more subtle in the Leer Department. All vehicles who
slow down significantly are approached immediately, not with a cursory “I’ll be right with you” and a couple
glasses of water, but with a friendly, professional lean through the open vehicle window and an immediate
discussion of what’s on the menu that day, customer favorites and, with any luck, the placing of an order. All
within one minute, and remember, this isn’t a pared-down-for-efficiency lunch menu, either.
This level of service is maintained 24 hours a day, even during the morning “On the Way to the Office”, the
evening “On the Way Home to the Wife” and the later “Closing Time” and “Out for a Pack of Smokes, Honey”
rush periods.
There are elements of the whore game that would irritate the brass at T.G.I.Fridays, among them the
haphazard attention many whores pay to their uniform. Most are conscientious about maintaining the industry
standard:
Some whores, however, stubbornly follow their own dress code. Most of these offenders appear to be part of
a minority of male prostitutes, those who are actually gay. Their dress harkens back to a “The Late Eighties
Will Never Die” aesthetic of skin-tight pre-faded or acid-washed jeans topped by a claustrophobic-sized,
pastel Izod or striped Rugby shirt, a look the homosexual community has spent years trying to educate out of
existence.
So there are rebels, and there are those who try and take advantage of the rules, and there are those who
may break into the occasional car if the door is unlocked and a few dollars are visible in the console, or who
might bust a bottle over a guy’s head, but for the most part, these guys are on the job, doing a job, for clients,
who are guys.
Which leads me to what I find the most shocking image on display beyond my window. It is, impossibly, a
transcendent image of the relationship all men share with each other, even under the strangest of conditions,
an image of just how deep the social mores that bind us run:
Once the hustler and the john have made arrangements through the window, immediately after the hustler
has entered the car and before they drive off together to a spot where the hustler will jerk or suck or fuck the
john until he gets off…they shake hands. Just like two guys at a Ford dealership.
“What’s up?”
Big Automatons meeting tonight, so I need to get over to the space and finish more of the set to avoid
Jeremiah's wrath. I should have good stuff to report afterwards. In the meantime, thanks for the stuff (you
know who you are, even if I don't) and please enjoy another filler piece from my Houston days:
I LIVE WITH WHORES PART 2
(scroll down to July 13 for Part One)
When you live at the corner of Prostitute and John, you learn a few things. The thoughts I had the night I first
cracked the blinds and bore witness to the impressive panorama of sex-for-hire surrounding my apartment
are gone now, trampled beneath the hordes of shiny new prostitution memories I have made nearly every day
since. As well as I can recollect, I once maintained an image of male prostitution in my head that resembled
an amorphous dark blob of “Bad”, much like the others I maintain for topics like kiddie porn and crime scene
photos. Now, innocence lost, I look out my window and see, more or less, T.G.I.Friday’s without pants.
Called “the oldest profession”, it should probably be known as “the oldest service industry”. One person can
be a professional, and most of these men are professional in more than one sense of the word, but unlike
other trades, the prostitute can’t survive alone, he needs an industry…of sorts.
One prostitute on the corner just won’t work, as he’s often off the corner and down someone’s pants while
other potential customers drive by his “spot”, unaware those services are available there. Whores need johns
and johns need to know where to go to find whores. Legally restrained from marking their corner of business
with signs, skyward-pointing floodlights or a free buffet, these whores must maintain a whore presence on
their corner at all times. Thusly, there must always be more whores available (supply) than johns to pick
them up (demand) and suddenly-Holy Toledo!-you have questions of economics and an industry to manage
them.
This is not to say that these boys are involved in or controlled by the mob. Organized Crime is a misleading
term, creating an impression that all illegal activity not controlled by Tony Soprano, Tony Montana or sharply
dressed, overly tattooed Japanese guys takes place in a vacuum ruled by chaos, which is clearly not true.
With its individual participants powerfully motivated to cooperate for success by such basal human attributes
as fear, greed and addiction, nothing organizes itself quite so neatly as crime.
This is where T.G.I.Friday’s comes in. Though these hustlers all share the same “section” and each table is
a “one-top”, they do have a seating order. The first words of a whore showing up on the corner are often “Who
am I after?” (Question number two is “Where’s your {crack} pipe?”) Of course, this is an industry built on
customer satisfaction, and johns freely choose from among the flesh on display, but generally the whores will
try and stick to their loose organization, telling a john if a favorite whore is just out on a job and will “be right
back” and even recommending other whores who are ahead of them in line; pushing the specials of the day,
if you will: “Have you tried Larry? If you like them young you really shouldn’t pass him up.”
With a consistency that would make any T.G.IiFriday’s assistant manager beam with pride, each and every
vehicle passing through the intersection outside my window is greeted with a smile and a hope-filled “What’s
up?” True, the T.G.I.Friday’s “signature smile” is a bit more subtle in the Leer Department. All vehicles who
slow down significantly are approached immediately, not with a cursory “I’ll be right with you” and a couple
glasses of water, but with a friendly, professional lean through the open vehicle window and an immediate
discussion of what’s on the menu that day, customer favorites and, with any luck, the placing of an order. All
within one minute, and remember, this isn’t a pared-down-for-efficiency lunch menu, either.
This level of service is maintained 24 hours a day, even during the morning “On the Way to the Office”, the
evening “On the Way Home to the Wife” and the later “Closing Time” and “Out for a Pack of Smokes, Honey”
rush periods.
There are elements of the whore game that would irritate the brass at T.G.I.Fridays, among them the
haphazard attention many whores pay to their uniform. Most are conscientious about maintaining the industry
standard:
- Athletic shoes (Preferably basketball, tennis or “cross training” type. Running-style shoes, dark in
color, may be worn if okayed by a manager. - Denim “jeans” (blue only). Should have slight sheen of grime. During summer months, “cut-offs”
style shorts may be worn with the prior authorization of a manager. DO NOT assume shorts are okay
because it is hot. Many factors besides the weather go into this decision. CALL AHEAD. If you arrive
with shorts on a pants day, you WILL be SENT HOME! - Shirt/tunic: There have been many questions lately concerning shirts. YOU MUST HAVE A SHIRT!
Either “T” or Button-up style shirts are fine. Those who are very young or very fit MUST wear their shirts
when they are on the corner, at ALL TIMES! NO EXCEPTIONS! Customers should be made to feel
good about their own physique. Seeing young/flat stomachs on display as they drive up to the corner
DOES NOT ACCOMPLISH THIS! If you are wearing a Button-up style shirt, “on” means BUTTONED
UP to at least the third button from the top! For “the rest of us” with extra around the middle, Button-up
style shirts should be worn open, draped over the pants, revealing the gut. “T” style shirts should be
removed and tucked between your left “back fat” and your pants, hanging down along the rear of the
left leg. Again, it cannot be emphasized enough, the worse you look, the SEXIER THE CUSTOMER
FEELS. - Headgear should be absent or of a “Headkerchief” or “Doo Rag” variety. Hats or caps with bills may
be worn but are discouraged for reasons of consistency and physical interference with job
performance. - Acne, Sweat, Tattoos and Oily Skin: There has been a lot of controversy, including complaints of unfair
management, concerning these elements. For what will be the last time: THESE ARE NOT
REQUIRED! They are strongly encouraged, but those who not naturally gifted in those departments
should not worry about it and ARE NOT discriminated against by management.
Some whores, however, stubbornly follow their own dress code. Most of these offenders appear to be part of
a minority of male prostitutes, those who are actually gay. Their dress harkens back to a “The Late Eighties
Will Never Die” aesthetic of skin-tight pre-faded or acid-washed jeans topped by a claustrophobic-sized,
pastel Izod or striped Rugby shirt, a look the homosexual community has spent years trying to educate out of
existence.
So there are rebels, and there are those who try and take advantage of the rules, and there are those who
may break into the occasional car if the door is unlocked and a few dollars are visible in the console, or who
might bust a bottle over a guy’s head, but for the most part, these guys are on the job, doing a job, for clients,
who are guys.
Which leads me to what I find the most shocking image on display beyond my window. It is, impossibly, a
transcendent image of the relationship all men share with each other, even under the strangest of conditions,
an image of just how deep the social mores that bind us run:
Once the hustler and the john have made arrangements through the window, immediately after the hustler
has entered the car and before they drive off together to a spot where the hustler will jerk or suck or fuck the
john until he gets off…they shake hands. Just like two guys at a Ford dealership.
“What’s up?”
July 25, 2005-
A quick one here, as I am deep in the throes of work and the "Automatons" set. On the other hand, busy as I am,
I was able to come home for lunch today, which is always a luxury. The Airlock is about half done, actually
probably less since I need to build the doors. Spent some time there yesterday with Jim and Larry. They were
hanging up the tarps that will be the walls of the "Enemy Bunker." It's really starting to look like a set now, a point
at which you can start to get excited but at which you start to see lots of little problems you didn't plan for. Getting
all the t's crossed and i's dotted is going to be a race to the finish line, but should be possible.
On a less positive note, we are under new public transportation rules here in NYC which entail personal
searches. I'm not sure I would even be so chagrined at the suspension of civil liberty if it wasn't so patently idiotic.
Among the search sites are Grand Central Station, Penn Station and Union Square. If you have a bomb in your
bag at any of those Manhattan locations, you have already crossed over a river on a bridge or under a river in a
tunnel, what were you waiting for?! Unless the police are working on the theory that suicide bombers are paying
Manhattan rents as a sort of slow, excruciating pre-suicide, I don't get it. These searches are also conducted at
large search areas set up with legions of police. Why would someone with a bomb, in a station teeming with
people, continue walking toward a phalanx of officers with tables set up when they could just as easily turn
around and walk two blocks to another station? Unless you want to blow up local police with IEDs...gee, why
does that sound familiar?
And if it is that important to set up these checkpoints looking for ten kilogram bombs, why haven't they reinstated
the random searches of trucks inbound over the bridges and tunnels?
Either the police here think that Al Qaeda is run by the same people who run movie studios and television
networks, pumping out one idea over and over, or they are running their own operation like those entertainment
executives; 'Run it out there with a huge marketing blitz and hope everyone buys it before they realize it's
worthless.'
The millions of eyes on the London Underground-suspicious at a level only the victims of an attack days before
could be-didn't foil the second attack, only an error by the bomb maker averted another disaster. Are a few
random searches at 8 or 10 stations among a hundred going to do better?
And all this ridiculousness on the heels of an article in The New Yorker detailing the NYPD's serious and
unparalleled anti-terrorism efforts, including overseas field offices and top management with career CIA and
State Department Anti-Terror backgrounds. There are other, very good places the NYPD could be spending the
2 million dollars this fascist dog and pony show is costing us every day.
Which reminds me, you there in Wyoming with your $30 per head in anti-terror money...we here wearing the
targets and getting $4.85 a head want our fucking money back. And that goes for the rest of you. If you don't
have a large port, a big airport AND a bustling metropolis with millions of people AND large economic,
governmental and cultural targets, get to the back of the freakin' line. If the last time you saw a bomb-sniffing
dog you were watching Animal Planet, keep walkin'...
This is not a judgement on your state, city, or lifestyle, it's simple common sense. You wanna start divvying up
agriculture subsidies by state? I didn't think so. You'll get yours, it'll just be a reasonable amount. There's still
plenty of pork in the budget for you, you can use your shiny new Hazmat Trucks to clean it up when it starts to rot.
A quick one here, as I am deep in the throes of work and the "Automatons" set. On the other hand, busy as I am,
I was able to come home for lunch today, which is always a luxury. The Airlock is about half done, actually
probably less since I need to build the doors. Spent some time there yesterday with Jim and Larry. They were
hanging up the tarps that will be the walls of the "Enemy Bunker." It's really starting to look like a set now, a point
at which you can start to get excited but at which you start to see lots of little problems you didn't plan for. Getting
all the t's crossed and i's dotted is going to be a race to the finish line, but should be possible.
On a less positive note, we are under new public transportation rules here in NYC which entail personal
searches. I'm not sure I would even be so chagrined at the suspension of civil liberty if it wasn't so patently idiotic.
Among the search sites are Grand Central Station, Penn Station and Union Square. If you have a bomb in your
bag at any of those Manhattan locations, you have already crossed over a river on a bridge or under a river in a
tunnel, what were you waiting for?! Unless the police are working on the theory that suicide bombers are paying
Manhattan rents as a sort of slow, excruciating pre-suicide, I don't get it. These searches are also conducted at
large search areas set up with legions of police. Why would someone with a bomb, in a station teeming with
people, continue walking toward a phalanx of officers with tables set up when they could just as easily turn
around and walk two blocks to another station? Unless you want to blow up local police with IEDs...gee, why
does that sound familiar?
And if it is that important to set up these checkpoints looking for ten kilogram bombs, why haven't they reinstated
the random searches of trucks inbound over the bridges and tunnels?
Either the police here think that Al Qaeda is run by the same people who run movie studios and television
networks, pumping out one idea over and over, or they are running their own operation like those entertainment
executives; 'Run it out there with a huge marketing blitz and hope everyone buys it before they realize it's
worthless.'
The millions of eyes on the London Underground-suspicious at a level only the victims of an attack days before
could be-didn't foil the second attack, only an error by the bomb maker averted another disaster. Are a few
random searches at 8 or 10 stations among a hundred going to do better?
And all this ridiculousness on the heels of an article in The New Yorker detailing the NYPD's serious and
unparalleled anti-terrorism efforts, including overseas field offices and top management with career CIA and
State Department Anti-Terror backgrounds. There are other, very good places the NYPD could be spending the
2 million dollars this fascist dog and pony show is costing us every day.
Which reminds me, you there in Wyoming with your $30 per head in anti-terror money...we here wearing the
targets and getting $4.85 a head want our fucking money back. And that goes for the rest of you. If you don't
have a large port, a big airport AND a bustling metropolis with millions of people AND large economic,
governmental and cultural targets, get to the back of the freakin' line. If the last time you saw a bomb-sniffing
dog you were watching Animal Planet, keep walkin'...
This is not a judgement on your state, city, or lifestyle, it's simple common sense. You wanna start divvying up
agriculture subsidies by state? I didn't think so. You'll get yours, it'll just be a reasonable amount. There's still
plenty of pork in the budget for you, you can use your shiny new Hazmat Trucks to clean it up when it starts to rot.
July 23rd, 2005--
REUNION WEEKEND PART TWO
Lunch with an Ex is always interesting, assuming of course you actually connected in a serious-though clearly
temporary-way, and that you didn't leave them for being skull scrapingly dull. You start to remember the person
you were when you went out, so its kind of like having lunch with a past version of yourself, in a cheesy,
Jean-Claude-Van-Dam-in-Timecop sort of way. So having lunch with C. and her baby was interesting, and a
blast. I haven't really kept in touch with anyone from my days in high school, so to see someone I dated in High
School, with their baby, and hear about the 20 intervening years of her life, was a trip.
Because so much time had passed, and she was exactly the same person, in every important way. And yes, let
me apologize now for stretching the definition a bit in the first sentence. C. is my Ex like Bonanza Steak House
on Alameda in Lakewood is "a previous employer." We settled in at the Rio Grande and I followed her expert
advice. The margaritas lived up to her lofty praise and the food was pretty damn good as well. You know what
you can get in the West that cannot apparently be duplicated here on the East Coast? Good restaurant tortilla
chips. A digression, I know, but a real pet peeve of mine.
Is this getting horribly dull? I'll skip ahead.
I had always suspected that C was a bit out of my league, and that suspicion was verified upon meeting her
husband, who is kind of like me except smarter, nicer, and cooler with a better job, an electric guitar and a
near-mint 61' Chevy pickup. And his Daily Driver? A 65 Mustang Fastback. He and C. were kind enough to
have me, another old acquaintance from High School, K. and my brother over for dinner. My brother and I drank
these poor people out of house and home and I got an email a couple days later thanking us for coming over.
Yeah, those kind of people.
It's enough to make you sick.
REUNION WEEKEND PART TWO
Lunch with an Ex is always interesting, assuming of course you actually connected in a serious-though clearly
temporary-way, and that you didn't leave them for being skull scrapingly dull. You start to remember the person
you were when you went out, so its kind of like having lunch with a past version of yourself, in a cheesy,
Jean-Claude-Van-Dam-in-Timecop sort of way. So having lunch with C. and her baby was interesting, and a
blast. I haven't really kept in touch with anyone from my days in high school, so to see someone I dated in High
School, with their baby, and hear about the 20 intervening years of her life, was a trip.
Because so much time had passed, and she was exactly the same person, in every important way. And yes, let
me apologize now for stretching the definition a bit in the first sentence. C. is my Ex like Bonanza Steak House
on Alameda in Lakewood is "a previous employer." We settled in at the Rio Grande and I followed her expert
advice. The margaritas lived up to her lofty praise and the food was pretty damn good as well. You know what
you can get in the West that cannot apparently be duplicated here on the East Coast? Good restaurant tortilla
chips. A digression, I know, but a real pet peeve of mine.
Is this getting horribly dull? I'll skip ahead.
I had always suspected that C was a bit out of my league, and that suspicion was verified upon meeting her
husband, who is kind of like me except smarter, nicer, and cooler with a better job, an electric guitar and a
near-mint 61' Chevy pickup. And his Daily Driver? A 65 Mustang Fastback. He and C. were kind enough to
have me, another old acquaintance from High School, K. and my brother over for dinner. My brother and I drank
these poor people out of house and home and I got an email a couple days later thanking us for coming over.
Yeah, those kind of people.
It's enough to make you sick.
The next day was Friday, the big day. The first of what would inexplicably be two days of reunion events. Tonight,
the "casual" event. My old friend M, (he will be so pleased to be "M"), arranged for a few of us to meet beforehand
for dinner. This turned out to be a stroke of genius. The difference between getting out of a car and walking up to
a crowd of 7 versus a crowd of 250 is huge. I was shocked at how some folks looked almost exactly the same.
This started to wear off after about the 30th person I saw who more-or-less matched their senior photo, but it is
still a testament to something, I'm not sure what.
This dinner was also my first experience with what I would later name the Inverse Law of Life Experience
Narration. This law explains the following phenomenon:
The more interesting a person's life has been over the past twenty years, the less likely they are to talk about it,
and vice versa. During the reunion weekend I met people who had been stationed on nuclear submarines, ran
divisions of companies devoted to Internet Warfare and one guy who filled in part of his life story with just this:
"...yeah, then I bopped around Central America during the early nineties for, uh, you know, the State Department..."
In each case they humbly deflected all my "Really? What's that all about?" queries until it would have been rude
for me to continue prying. Such tight-lipped humility was not such a problem for others I met that weekend,
including my table neighbor at that pre-reunion dinner, who teaches two music classes-and I just wouldn't
believe the politics there-as well as conducts the bell choir at the local church.
Really? How fascinating. No, twenty straight minutes of bell choir detail is not enough. More please. You know, I
myself tried conducting a bell choir once, but it didn't work out. They said the gun in my mouth was frightening the
children.
Once Bell Choir had a breadbasket in front of her, the evening improved and I got a chance to catch up with some
folks and meet their incredibly-patient-with-the-whole-thing spouses. A quick drive and we were there at the Fox
Something Country Club, which was nice enough for a country club, I suppose, though they do bring out the
Bolshevik in me. There is just something about the scrape-click of golf shoes on a sullen march toward the firing
squad that soothes one so...
We arrived fairly early, but the place filled up fast. I'm not sure how many people attended, but I would guess
around 140-180. We had a graduating class of 460-something kids, so it wasn't a bad turn out, really.
Now, I've said above that I didn't keep in touch with anyone from high school, and thats true. M looked me up, or
vice versa, while I was living in Texas-he still does-and we have shared sporadic emails, but other than that,
nothing. So to walk into a room and see people from high school, many of whom look the same, is a surreal
experience. Take that room, give it a seven-and-a-half foot, hard sheetrock ceiling and you've got an aural
experience just as overwhelming as the visual bedlam rioting over your corneas. I know I looked like a
slack-jawed, frightened Deer in the Headlights all evening.
It was like being on acid; every tiny task was a huge, terrifying adventure. To try and get to the bar, one had to
make their way through a packed room. Nothing too difficult for a nightlife veteran there, but imagine that every
single body packed into that bar is scanning you as you go by, reading your name tag (NAME TAG! Why does a
name tag change your personality? No idea. But it does.) and half-seeking/half-avoiding eye contact with you. To
look to the ground is rude, this is not an impersonal gathering, after all, these are Your Classmates! Don't you
feel the esprit de corps? By offering your $97 tribute you have admitted your fealty to the Ideal of the Scholastic
Collective. By entering this most hallowed of function rooms you have shown your loyalty to those bound to you
by Age, Geography, Fate, and the Jefferson County School District. Would you now forsake your Brothers and
Sisters the common decency of eye contact?!
If you want to get to the bathroom in under an hour, yes. Bell Choir brought back up.
That isn't to say I didn't have a fantastic time on "Casual Night." I laughed my ass off all night and was reminded
of So Many fun escapades, inside jokes and intense experiences. My memory has always been terrible with that
sort of thing, so the evening was a great service to me. I also learned some amazing things about people. Linda
A. had been to her son's graduation a few weeks earlier. Her son's graduation! If that doesn't put things in
perspective, nothing will. Even though some people looked like they had lived in a time warp for all that time,
nobody had.
There definitely were time warp moments, however. On two separate occasions a woman approached me to tell
me her "friend thought I was cute." What could I do but tell them this was terribly childish and rude?
Everyone knows the proper etiquette is to present a folded note with three "check boxes."
the "casual" event. My old friend M, (he will be so pleased to be "M"), arranged for a few of us to meet beforehand
for dinner. This turned out to be a stroke of genius. The difference between getting out of a car and walking up to
a crowd of 7 versus a crowd of 250 is huge. I was shocked at how some folks looked almost exactly the same.
This started to wear off after about the 30th person I saw who more-or-less matched their senior photo, but it is
still a testament to something, I'm not sure what.
This dinner was also my first experience with what I would later name the Inverse Law of Life Experience
Narration. This law explains the following phenomenon:
The more interesting a person's life has been over the past twenty years, the less likely they are to talk about it,
and vice versa. During the reunion weekend I met people who had been stationed on nuclear submarines, ran
divisions of companies devoted to Internet Warfare and one guy who filled in part of his life story with just this:
"...yeah, then I bopped around Central America during the early nineties for, uh, you know, the State Department..."
In each case they humbly deflected all my "Really? What's that all about?" queries until it would have been rude
for me to continue prying. Such tight-lipped humility was not such a problem for others I met that weekend,
including my table neighbor at that pre-reunion dinner, who teaches two music classes-and I just wouldn't
believe the politics there-as well as conducts the bell choir at the local church.
Really? How fascinating. No, twenty straight minutes of bell choir detail is not enough. More please. You know, I
myself tried conducting a bell choir once, but it didn't work out. They said the gun in my mouth was frightening the
children.
Once Bell Choir had a breadbasket in front of her, the evening improved and I got a chance to catch up with some
folks and meet their incredibly-patient-with-the-whole-thing spouses. A quick drive and we were there at the Fox
Something Country Club, which was nice enough for a country club, I suppose, though they do bring out the
Bolshevik in me. There is just something about the scrape-click of golf shoes on a sullen march toward the firing
squad that soothes one so...
We arrived fairly early, but the place filled up fast. I'm not sure how many people attended, but I would guess
around 140-180. We had a graduating class of 460-something kids, so it wasn't a bad turn out, really.
Now, I've said above that I didn't keep in touch with anyone from high school, and thats true. M looked me up, or
vice versa, while I was living in Texas-he still does-and we have shared sporadic emails, but other than that,
nothing. So to walk into a room and see people from high school, many of whom look the same, is a surreal
experience. Take that room, give it a seven-and-a-half foot, hard sheetrock ceiling and you've got an aural
experience just as overwhelming as the visual bedlam rioting over your corneas. I know I looked like a
slack-jawed, frightened Deer in the Headlights all evening.
It was like being on acid; every tiny task was a huge, terrifying adventure. To try and get to the bar, one had to
make their way through a packed room. Nothing too difficult for a nightlife veteran there, but imagine that every
single body packed into that bar is scanning you as you go by, reading your name tag (NAME TAG! Why does a
name tag change your personality? No idea. But it does.) and half-seeking/half-avoiding eye contact with you. To
look to the ground is rude, this is not an impersonal gathering, after all, these are Your Classmates! Don't you
feel the esprit de corps? By offering your $97 tribute you have admitted your fealty to the Ideal of the Scholastic
Collective. By entering this most hallowed of function rooms you have shown your loyalty to those bound to you
by Age, Geography, Fate, and the Jefferson County School District. Would you now forsake your Brothers and
Sisters the common decency of eye contact?!
If you want to get to the bathroom in under an hour, yes. Bell Choir brought back up.
That isn't to say I didn't have a fantastic time on "Casual Night." I laughed my ass off all night and was reminded
of So Many fun escapades, inside jokes and intense experiences. My memory has always been terrible with that
sort of thing, so the evening was a great service to me. I also learned some amazing things about people. Linda
A. had been to her son's graduation a few weeks earlier. Her son's graduation! If that doesn't put things in
perspective, nothing will. Even though some people looked like they had lived in a time warp for all that time,
nobody had.
There definitely were time warp moments, however. On two separate occasions a woman approached me to tell
me her "friend thought I was cute." What could I do but tell them this was terribly childish and rude?
Everyone knows the proper etiquette is to present a folded note with three "check boxes."
I LIKE YOU. DO
YOU LIKE ME?
YOU LIKE ME?
- YES
- NO
- MAYBE
July 21st, 2005--
So yesterday I got a bit sidetracked while reporting the Reunion Weekend story. It happens. Usually, you get
what you pay for. Sometimes you get a lot more, which is what it looks like Jim is getting out of Janene, the
woman building the robot suits for "Death to the Automatons." I suppose that wouldn't be tough, seeing as
he's paying her right around zero dollars and zero zero cents, but she really has come up with some great stuff.
Noah and I had a fitting for our Robot Suits yesterday and it went very well. They will be murderously hot and
impossible to sit down in, but they will look like Robot Suits, and how cool is that?
Watching Noah put his on, I couldn't help but think how this movie might work, might not, but will definitely be
the only black and white, guys-in-robot-suits , gory dark political satire movie made this year. And that's half the
fun of working with Jim. It would be really hard to show up every day for no money trying to make a cheap
knockoff of a knockoff of a remake. At least with Jim's movies you can be sure people who watch it will say at
the end, "Wow, I've never seen anything quite exactly like that before." Whether they pass it on to a friend or
throw it in the trash, well, there's not a lot you can do about that in any creative endeavor.
So yesterday I got a bit sidetracked while reporting the Reunion Weekend story. It happens. Usually, you get
what you pay for. Sometimes you get a lot more, which is what it looks like Jim is getting out of Janene, the
woman building the robot suits for "Death to the Automatons." I suppose that wouldn't be tough, seeing as
he's paying her right around zero dollars and zero zero cents, but she really has come up with some great stuff.
Noah and I had a fitting for our Robot Suits yesterday and it went very well. They will be murderously hot and
impossible to sit down in, but they will look like Robot Suits, and how cool is that?
Watching Noah put his on, I couldn't help but think how this movie might work, might not, but will definitely be
the only black and white, guys-in-robot-suits , gory dark political satire movie made this year. And that's half the
fun of working with Jim. It would be really hard to show up every day for no money trying to make a cheap
knockoff of a knockoff of a remake. At least with Jim's movies you can be sure people who watch it will say at
the end, "Wow, I've never seen anything quite exactly like that before." Whether they pass it on to a friend or
throw it in the trash, well, there's not a lot you can do about that in any creative endeavor.
Janene looks over her handiwork in her
loft/workshop.
loft/workshop.
Later we had a production meeting that began productive...
Larry dons the
Helmet of Productivity
Helmet of Productivity
...but after Jeremiah shot us through the agenda we had a few hours to kill before we were supposed to see
Noah's band, and things began to spiral out of control. Eventually we made it to the grisly little basement loft
hosting the show. It took me back to the House of Borax days, but not in an "I wanna relive it" way.
Noah's band, and things began to spiral out of control. Eventually we made it to the grisly little basement loft
hosting the show. It took me back to the House of Borax days, but not in an "I wanna relive it" way.
July 20, 2005--(evening)
REUNION PART ONE
First impressions are important. That so much subsequent behavior is based upon such a context-free few
seconds is one of the great disservices we visit on each other. But it isn't gonna change, so there ya go.
Which makes pulling up to your 20th High School Reunion in a borrowed $500 car and slightly ripped shorts
covered in a really-quite-impressive array of paint stains something of an exercise in...something. Humility?
Stupidity? Self Confidence? Self Destruction? I could have worn something else. Maybe I should have. Almost
did. In fact the shorts were about halfway off when that part of me, the part that hides most of the time knowing if
I ever catch it in daylight I'll snap its scrawny little neck, said
"Fuck it. They said 'casual' right? They'll get casual."
Because of course there has to be some element of confrontation, some me-against-them bullshit head game
pre-loaded just in case something goes terribly wrong. Pathetic, but I probably wasn't alone. Which makes it
Pathetic and Trite...
And it had started out so well...
I was picked up at the airport. That doesn't mean much to most people, but in my last job I flew about 8 or 10
times a month and was never, ever picked up at the airport. Which would not be a big deal if the TSA would
exercise the common decency required to establish an area where those who are being met at the airport could
do their meeting in private while the rest of us file by in the quiet desperation of our repressed rush toward
"Ground Transportation." We are strong, we are independent, we are "On Business", we are achingly jealous of
those who abandon us as we get off the plane, peeling off to the side, slowing down to scan the crowd of
boyfriends, mothers, kids and buddies, who in turn scan back, on their tiptoes with their car keys held near their
mouths.
This time I was one of those folks, and it was glorious to wait on the curb for my old friend C came around to
pick me up. She had her cute Little Fella in the back and between shovels of graham cracker, we caught up on
our way into Downtown Denver for lunch.
Denver used to be a commuter only city, a fact the high school buddies I would soon be seeing and I used to
take advantage of, roaming the deserted downtown streets at night. It was Omega Man deserted in those days,
and we ran around as if we owned the place,possession being 9/10ths of the law, who's to say we didn't. We'd
climb the fire escapes to the tops of buildings, sit on roof ledges across the street from the railroad station, eye
level with the huge letters. "Union Station."
We'd jump on the freight trains as they came through the rail yard, riding one North a ways, jumping off as they
gained speed on their way out (not always in time for a graceful landing!), then jumping on a Southbound train
for a ride back. There's a book full of feelings coursing through you when you jump on a train. You can feel the
tonnage beneath you, you can feel the power coursing into the rails, keeping that tonnage in motion. When you
jump on a train it doesn't slow, doesn't dip slightly as even a huge city bus will do to acknowledge your
presence. The mass and power of a moving freight train is beyond human experience. It is the only thing made
by man that has ever given me that same feeling I get looking out at the stars or up from within the Rockies or
away over the tops of ocean swells. The tiny, insignificant size of a man, and therefore the insignificant size of
his problems, his worries and his petty neurotic bullshit.
In Denver, at night, it fell to trains to tell teenage boys they should just relax, as they weren't all that important
anyway.
Of course, the trains came this close to cutting Cort's feet off when his grip slipped one night, but that's another
story, I've gone too far afield already.
Those rail yards are an official amusement park now, the billboards we used to climb have been repositioned.
The fire escapes are in good repair these days, winding down buildings now full of office space, luxury condos
and lofts, anchored by brew pubs and cafés. They have brought Nightlife to Downtown Denver, and killed the
life it used to have at night.
Great place for lunch though...
REUNION PART ONE
First impressions are important. That so much subsequent behavior is based upon such a context-free few
seconds is one of the great disservices we visit on each other. But it isn't gonna change, so there ya go.
Which makes pulling up to your 20th High School Reunion in a borrowed $500 car and slightly ripped shorts
covered in a really-quite-impressive array of paint stains something of an exercise in...something. Humility?
Stupidity? Self Confidence? Self Destruction? I could have worn something else. Maybe I should have. Almost
did. In fact the shorts were about halfway off when that part of me, the part that hides most of the time knowing if
I ever catch it in daylight I'll snap its scrawny little neck, said
"Fuck it. They said 'casual' right? They'll get casual."
Because of course there has to be some element of confrontation, some me-against-them bullshit head game
pre-loaded just in case something goes terribly wrong. Pathetic, but I probably wasn't alone. Which makes it
Pathetic and Trite...
And it had started out so well...
I was picked up at the airport. That doesn't mean much to most people, but in my last job I flew about 8 or 10
times a month and was never, ever picked up at the airport. Which would not be a big deal if the TSA would
exercise the common decency required to establish an area where those who are being met at the airport could
do their meeting in private while the rest of us file by in the quiet desperation of our repressed rush toward
"Ground Transportation." We are strong, we are independent, we are "On Business", we are achingly jealous of
those who abandon us as we get off the plane, peeling off to the side, slowing down to scan the crowd of
boyfriends, mothers, kids and buddies, who in turn scan back, on their tiptoes with their car keys held near their
mouths.
This time I was one of those folks, and it was glorious to wait on the curb for my old friend C came around to
pick me up. She had her cute Little Fella in the back and between shovels of graham cracker, we caught up on
our way into Downtown Denver for lunch.
Denver used to be a commuter only city, a fact the high school buddies I would soon be seeing and I used to
take advantage of, roaming the deserted downtown streets at night. It was Omega Man deserted in those days,
and we ran around as if we owned the place,possession being 9/10ths of the law, who's to say we didn't. We'd
climb the fire escapes to the tops of buildings, sit on roof ledges across the street from the railroad station, eye
level with the huge letters. "Union Station."
We'd jump on the freight trains as they came through the rail yard, riding one North a ways, jumping off as they
gained speed on their way out (not always in time for a graceful landing!), then jumping on a Southbound train
for a ride back. There's a book full of feelings coursing through you when you jump on a train. You can feel the
tonnage beneath you, you can feel the power coursing into the rails, keeping that tonnage in motion. When you
jump on a train it doesn't slow, doesn't dip slightly as even a huge city bus will do to acknowledge your
presence. The mass and power of a moving freight train is beyond human experience. It is the only thing made
by man that has ever given me that same feeling I get looking out at the stars or up from within the Rockies or
away over the tops of ocean swells. The tiny, insignificant size of a man, and therefore the insignificant size of
his problems, his worries and his petty neurotic bullshit.
In Denver, at night, it fell to trains to tell teenage boys they should just relax, as they weren't all that important
anyway.
Of course, the trains came this close to cutting Cort's feet off when his grip slipped one night, but that's another
story, I've gone too far afield already.
Those rail yards are an official amusement park now, the billboards we used to climb have been repositioned.
The fire escapes are in good repair these days, winding down buildings now full of office space, luxury condos
and lofts, anchored by brew pubs and cafés. They have brought Nightlife to Downtown Denver, and killed the
life it used to have at night.
Great place for lunch though...
July 20th, 2005-- (morning)
Okay, so I am writing the reunion stuff now, in the mean time, you can see a little AV Club project I put
together here. (I did it on the Windows Movie Maker, so it is an .wmv file. You will probably need the
WIndows Media Player. Oh yeah, it is 27mb or so...)
Okay, so I am writing the reunion stuff now, in the mean time, you can see a little AV Club project I put
together here. (I did it on the Windows Movie Maker, so it is an .wmv file. You will probably need the
WIndows Media Player. Oh yeah, it is 27mb or so...)
July 18, 2005--
Jesus it's humid back here! I encountered people, places and memories I hadn't thought about in decades
this weekend, but I may never harbor greater nostalgia than that I feel toward Denver's crisp, dry climate right
now. I do, of course, have much to report, but as I missed my plane's 1/2 hour check-in cutoff by five minutes
yesterday, resulting in an extra 24 hours in Denver, I'll need to keep this short in order to begin catching up.
And bowing to chronological interests, I'll first tell you of the meeting I had on the Wednesday night before I
left, in the latest:
AUTOMATONS UPDATE
We're having meetings every Wed. night now, which seemed like it was going to be dull until I realized there
just are not that many Wednesdays left until everything has to be ready. The demands of the set have
become larger, as the landlord will definitely not be fixing the big freight elevator in time for shooting. Being
incredibly young, strong and motivated types, we can haul materials up the stairs, but we were planning on
the big 'ol steel doors and elevator car interior to nail the role of Bunker Airlock. Now, we'll need to build our
own.
We, meaning me.
Which is cool, believe me. I have, by far, the least aggravating job on the film. Let's review my job description:
-Build Stuff
-Walk Around in Giant Robot Outfit
-Die extremely gory, disturbing death. (Jim gave me the "ho-ly shit" details of my demise at this meeting, but I
don't want to spoil the Ewww Factor. Suffice it to say I never realized how much he hated me until Wed. night.)
Nice work if you can get it.
So, from 80% done back to 45% done. Everything is supposed to be finished by Aug 1st, so the odds are
finally starting to get interesting...
Speaking of interesting, Noah and Larry spent the whole first part of the meeting disemboweling fireworks
and repackaging them into larger, Model-Robot-Exploding test charges. I had to leave a little early to zip out of
town, but I didn't get any "Larry's in the Hospital" calls, so I guess the tests went okay. Jim also left early, on
his way home in time for the final moments of Ebay bidding on the camera with which we will shoot most of
this film. (Yeah, it's film...cool, eh?)
Jesus it's humid back here! I encountered people, places and memories I hadn't thought about in decades
this weekend, but I may never harbor greater nostalgia than that I feel toward Denver's crisp, dry climate right
now. I do, of course, have much to report, but as I missed my plane's 1/2 hour check-in cutoff by five minutes
yesterday, resulting in an extra 24 hours in Denver, I'll need to keep this short in order to begin catching up.
And bowing to chronological interests, I'll first tell you of the meeting I had on the Wednesday night before I
left, in the latest:
AUTOMATONS UPDATE
We're having meetings every Wed. night now, which seemed like it was going to be dull until I realized there
just are not that many Wednesdays left until everything has to be ready. The demands of the set have
become larger, as the landlord will definitely not be fixing the big freight elevator in time for shooting. Being
incredibly young, strong and motivated types, we can haul materials up the stairs, but we were planning on
the big 'ol steel doors and elevator car interior to nail the role of Bunker Airlock. Now, we'll need to build our
own.
We, meaning me.
Which is cool, believe me. I have, by far, the least aggravating job on the film. Let's review my job description:
-Build Stuff
-Walk Around in Giant Robot Outfit
-Die extremely gory, disturbing death. (Jim gave me the "ho-ly shit" details of my demise at this meeting, but I
don't want to spoil the Ewww Factor. Suffice it to say I never realized how much he hated me until Wed. night.)
Nice work if you can get it.
So, from 80% done back to 45% done. Everything is supposed to be finished by Aug 1st, so the odds are
finally starting to get interesting...
Speaking of interesting, Noah and Larry spent the whole first part of the meeting disemboweling fireworks
and repackaging them into larger, Model-Robot-Exploding test charges. I had to leave a little early to zip out of
town, but I didn't get any "Larry's in the Hospital" calls, so I guess the tests went okay. Jim also left early, on
his way home in time for the final moments of Ebay bidding on the camera with which we will shoot most of
this film. (Yeah, it's film...cool, eh?)
Lisa keeps us on track...not easy...
Larry loosens up, removes mask.
Ray Gun MK1 Beta
But you see, Officer...
Hey kids, can you spot 1,000 things wrong in this picture?
July 13th, 2005--
Has it really been four days? This week has flown by. I know I owe a long and detailed post, but I'm flying out
to Denver for my first high school reunion, so I've got to figure out a lot of stuff in the next 18 hours, including the
definitions of two oxymoronic reunion invite terms; "dressy casual" and "heavy hors d'vores'".
There is also an Automatons production meeting this evening, which will include Christina Campanella, a
really talented actress and a cool chick to boot. I've only seen her a couple times since the Off Season shoot,
so I'm looking forward to it. I will of course take pictures and report on the extensive progress we will make.
I will also do my best to capture my expected horror at all things reunion oriented. In the mean time, I leave you
with another piece of padding from my days writing for the now defunct men360.com. Re-reading it, I can see
a lot of problems, many of which fight on in my writing today. But its an interesting little story...
Here's the first part, with a photo of my place at the time. And no, Sam Raimi was not visiting that day, extra
dork points if you know why some might think so...
Has it really been four days? This week has flown by. I know I owe a long and detailed post, but I'm flying out
to Denver for my first high school reunion, so I've got to figure out a lot of stuff in the next 18 hours, including the
definitions of two oxymoronic reunion invite terms; "dressy casual" and "heavy hors d'vores'".
There is also an Automatons production meeting this evening, which will include Christina Campanella, a
really talented actress and a cool chick to boot. I've only seen her a couple times since the Off Season shoot,
so I'm looking forward to it. I will of course take pictures and report on the extensive progress we will make.
I will also do my best to capture my expected horror at all things reunion oriented. In the mean time, I leave you
with another piece of padding from my days writing for the now defunct men360.com. Re-reading it, I can see
a lot of problems, many of which fight on in my writing today. But its an interesting little story...
Here's the first part, with a photo of my place at the time. And no, Sam Raimi was not visiting that day, extra
dork points if you know why some might think so...
ILWH PART ONE
I live with whores. Not in a “Best Little Whorehouse in Texas” way, with well-groomed showgirl types
draped over Victorian furniture and Charles Durning dancing in my living room without his pants.
These whores are men.
My apartment sits on a street corner, first floor. During the afternoon, the time of day I first looked over
the building with the realtor, this street corner is a pleasant, quiet crossing, far enough away from
anything important to receive little traffic. It is an older neighborhood with huge trees and what we old-
timers refer to as “sidewalks”. I made the deal. After a married life of cohabitation followed by a
divorced life of couch-hopping, it was a titanic relief to live with just me.
Well, me and the whores. Moving in, I placed the bed right between the bedroom’s two big windows,
experiencing a rare moment of Martha Stewart pride as I imagined a new daily routine which would
begin the next morning as the early sun washed the sleep from my eyes and gently pulled me up and
out of bed to start a fresh and productive day. That evening, heavy with the tired exhilaration moving day
brings, I turned off the radio, pushed the dog out of the way and plunged under the covers. My eyes had
just closed when someone spoke in my ear.
“What’s up?”
Discounting the possibility my dog Henry had been to some sort of Disney-backed experimental animal
speech program without my permission, I doubted, for a second, my on sanity. For most people this is
a soul shattering, terror-filled experience. For myself, it occurs frequently enough to offer up the comfort
of the routine.
“What’s up?”
Fully awake now, I realized the voice was not speaking to me; it was speaking to someone
considerably farther away. From my head to the window there were about 8 inches, from the window to
this speaker of the eternal question, probably the same. Tuned in, I could suddenly hear footsteps, and
the segmented breathing of one smoking cigarettes, and the shifting of weight. I cranked the blinds a
hair and looked out and there was the city center of male prostitution.
A Service Industry
“What’s up?”
Many months and one bed repositioning later, I’ve learned a few things living this close to the oldest
service industry in existence. First and foremost, that it is just that, an industry. Organized and efficient.
Not that it appears to be controlled by the mafia or any other such entity. Terms like “organized crime”
and “cartel” and “drug ring” leave the false impression that illegal activity not controlled by those groups
is unorganized, which is rarely true. Motivated by such basic principles as greed, fear and addiction,
nothing organizes itself like crime.
True, this is an ad hoc affair, but the application of a few rules and procedures seems to have worked
to everyone’s advantage. This begins, as with all service businesses, with location, location, location.
About three blocks away, a small nightclub district begins, most of them gay clubs. This is, no doubt,
driving force behind the prostitution outside my window. This is not because there are a ton of gay men
going into these clubs.
The men on their way to and from these clubs are not looking for a $20 hand job. No, these men are
looking to spend far more money on far longer odds in an overwhelmingly fruitless search for
meaningful companionship in a nightclub and bar environment that renders the initially unlikely
profoundly impossible. Just like their straight brothers across town. The men who fund this
prostitution micro-empire seem to be the men who don’t go in these clubs or rather, almost go in these
clubs, driving around and around the neighborhood.
Eventually: “What’s up?”
The logic must be that in a crowded gay bar or nightclub, they may be seen by one of the gay people
they have made a point of not knowing, or a straight friend who happens to be there on some legitimate
government business, undercover of course, whereas on the public streets, in their car, with a
prostitute hanging through their window, they are somehow invisible. No, it doesn’t make any sense,
but it is far too late in the psychological game to start trying to make “sense” out of men and sex.
The point is, when people ask me why I don’t try and have the police run them off, I tell them it won’t
matter. My corner is The Location, and unless a police cruiser parks there 24/7, running prostitutes off
that corner will be as successful as running bars out of college towns. It’s a business decision.
The organizing of service comes next. There is a hierarchy here, but it is fairly loose. Most of the
organization is done on a first-come, first-serve basis. A line is formed and newcomers go to the back
of the line. Clients can choose whom they wish, of course, but when you look out at the selection it
becomes clear the act and not the participant is the product. A surprisingly wide cross section of
humanity sucks cock from my corner. Most are fairly young and white, tattooed, baseball-capped and
pulled right out of an episode of COPS, but there are older men present and representatives from every
race and weight class. They all do have one thing in common: crack.
Why They Are Here
The employees of this business ended up in the service industry for many of the same reasons anyone
ends up in any service industry, and face many of the same hurdles. When I wake up in the morning
and look out my window at the morning crew climbing into the cabs of pickup trucks, it is a scene right
out of a Chevy Truck television ad; one guy in jeans and Carharts driving by in his truck to pick up a
buddy in boots and jeans for a hard day of work. It is always sort of a shock to see the second guy
climbing into another truck the next time I pass the window. They are dressed for day labor, and many
occasionally do day labor, but like most without skills, the service industry offers a better labor-to-cash
ratio than other industries. This is important if you need time to study for your night school classes, it is
imperative if you are addicted to crack.
I used to think that crack addicts were 90 pound emaciated black folks in New York. Though those
people exist, they are not the face of crack addiction I see every night. Fat people smoke crack. Strange
but true. Forty-five year-old men smoke crack. I know this because they can’t be caught with their pipes
on them, yet they must have a pipe to smoke crack. This quandary and its possible solution fuel a near
constant dialogue on the corner, revolving around the second most popular question on my block:
“Where’s your pipe?”
The drudgery of most service jobs is the same, and this one’s no different. Every car that drives by gets
eye contact, a short nod, a smile and a “What’s up?”, the same attention the driver would receive from
the teenage girl at the Olive Garden host stand.
(to be continued)
I live with whores. Not in a “Best Little Whorehouse in Texas” way, with well-groomed showgirl types
draped over Victorian furniture and Charles Durning dancing in my living room without his pants.
These whores are men.
My apartment sits on a street corner, first floor. During the afternoon, the time of day I first looked over
the building with the realtor, this street corner is a pleasant, quiet crossing, far enough away from
anything important to receive little traffic. It is an older neighborhood with huge trees and what we old-
timers refer to as “sidewalks”. I made the deal. After a married life of cohabitation followed by a
divorced life of couch-hopping, it was a titanic relief to live with just me.
Well, me and the whores. Moving in, I placed the bed right between the bedroom’s two big windows,
experiencing a rare moment of Martha Stewart pride as I imagined a new daily routine which would
begin the next morning as the early sun washed the sleep from my eyes and gently pulled me up and
out of bed to start a fresh and productive day. That evening, heavy with the tired exhilaration moving day
brings, I turned off the radio, pushed the dog out of the way and plunged under the covers. My eyes had
just closed when someone spoke in my ear.
“What’s up?”
Discounting the possibility my dog Henry had been to some sort of Disney-backed experimental animal
speech program without my permission, I doubted, for a second, my on sanity. For most people this is
a soul shattering, terror-filled experience. For myself, it occurs frequently enough to offer up the comfort
of the routine.
“What’s up?”
Fully awake now, I realized the voice was not speaking to me; it was speaking to someone
considerably farther away. From my head to the window there were about 8 inches, from the window to
this speaker of the eternal question, probably the same. Tuned in, I could suddenly hear footsteps, and
the segmented breathing of one smoking cigarettes, and the shifting of weight. I cranked the blinds a
hair and looked out and there was the city center of male prostitution.
A Service Industry
“What’s up?”
Many months and one bed repositioning later, I’ve learned a few things living this close to the oldest
service industry in existence. First and foremost, that it is just that, an industry. Organized and efficient.
Not that it appears to be controlled by the mafia or any other such entity. Terms like “organized crime”
and “cartel” and “drug ring” leave the false impression that illegal activity not controlled by those groups
is unorganized, which is rarely true. Motivated by such basic principles as greed, fear and addiction,
nothing organizes itself like crime.
True, this is an ad hoc affair, but the application of a few rules and procedures seems to have worked
to everyone’s advantage. This begins, as with all service businesses, with location, location, location.
About three blocks away, a small nightclub district begins, most of them gay clubs. This is, no doubt,
driving force behind the prostitution outside my window. This is not because there are a ton of gay men
going into these clubs.
The men on their way to and from these clubs are not looking for a $20 hand job. No, these men are
looking to spend far more money on far longer odds in an overwhelmingly fruitless search for
meaningful companionship in a nightclub and bar environment that renders the initially unlikely
profoundly impossible. Just like their straight brothers across town. The men who fund this
prostitution micro-empire seem to be the men who don’t go in these clubs or rather, almost go in these
clubs, driving around and around the neighborhood.
Eventually: “What’s up?”
The logic must be that in a crowded gay bar or nightclub, they may be seen by one of the gay people
they have made a point of not knowing, or a straight friend who happens to be there on some legitimate
government business, undercover of course, whereas on the public streets, in their car, with a
prostitute hanging through their window, they are somehow invisible. No, it doesn’t make any sense,
but it is far too late in the psychological game to start trying to make “sense” out of men and sex.
The point is, when people ask me why I don’t try and have the police run them off, I tell them it won’t
matter. My corner is The Location, and unless a police cruiser parks there 24/7, running prostitutes off
that corner will be as successful as running bars out of college towns. It’s a business decision.
The organizing of service comes next. There is a hierarchy here, but it is fairly loose. Most of the
organization is done on a first-come, first-serve basis. A line is formed and newcomers go to the back
of the line. Clients can choose whom they wish, of course, but when you look out at the selection it
becomes clear the act and not the participant is the product. A surprisingly wide cross section of
humanity sucks cock from my corner. Most are fairly young and white, tattooed, baseball-capped and
pulled right out of an episode of COPS, but there are older men present and representatives from every
race and weight class. They all do have one thing in common: crack.
Why They Are Here
The employees of this business ended up in the service industry for many of the same reasons anyone
ends up in any service industry, and face many of the same hurdles. When I wake up in the morning
and look out my window at the morning crew climbing into the cabs of pickup trucks, it is a scene right
out of a Chevy Truck television ad; one guy in jeans and Carharts driving by in his truck to pick up a
buddy in boots and jeans for a hard day of work. It is always sort of a shock to see the second guy
climbing into another truck the next time I pass the window. They are dressed for day labor, and many
occasionally do day labor, but like most without skills, the service industry offers a better labor-to-cash
ratio than other industries. This is important if you need time to study for your night school classes, it is
imperative if you are addicted to crack.
I used to think that crack addicts were 90 pound emaciated black folks in New York. Though those
people exist, they are not the face of crack addiction I see every night. Fat people smoke crack. Strange
but true. Forty-five year-old men smoke crack. I know this because they can’t be caught with their pipes
on them, yet they must have a pipe to smoke crack. This quandary and its possible solution fuel a near
constant dialogue on the corner, revolving around the second most popular question on my block:
“Where’s your pipe?”
The drudgery of most service jobs is the same, and this one’s no different. Every car that drives by gets
eye contact, a short nod, a smile and a “What’s up?”, the same attention the driver would receive from
the teenage girl at the Olive Garden host stand.
(to be continued)
July 9th, 2005--
So, I received an email reprimand the other day from Noreen (who is that woman?), citing the tiny text and
infrequent spacing of this blog. Apparently this has been hard to read the whole time and nobody told me.
Thanks.
I always thought it seemed small, but nobody complained. Anyway, somebody has, so say hello to the world of
the 12 point font. I will also try and add some spaces in between paragraphs, stuff like that... It's just like
doing term papers in high school.
Among all the tragic news of the past days in London, there were scattered about a few real gems of humanity.
One of these I heard on the radio as they interviewed a 94 year-old woman who had driven an ambulance
during The Blitz. Hearing news of the blasts, she walked to her local hospital and volunteered, going from bed
to bed giving words of encouragement and serving tea. "I'm in the Red Cross, you know," she said, explaining
part of her motivation, "It's required." That must have really boiled the blood of the guys listening to the BBC in
a basement somewhere, waiting for the chance to flee England.
Other amazing moments of human endeavor: I've been following some of the Tour de France coverage. They
were cruising along today at an impressive clip when I suddenly realized they were going uphill. Steep uphill.
Having just come back from a four minutes faster but still laughably slow hill jog of my own, it was jaw
dropping.
An interview with James Felix McKenney, auteur, is in what I believe is the latest issue of Fangoria magazine.
It's the one with "The Devil's Rejects" cover, page 28. It's not exactly a coup, but it is a nice thing for them to do,
as Jim's stuff doesn't slot in exactly with their readership. That could take me into the whole "Off Season" DVD
Box Art Fiasco, but I'm still not sure if its cool to write about that...
AUTOMATONS UPDATE: Had a meeting on Wednesday with Jim's better half Lisa filling in for Jeremiah. We
also had a special guest, the lovely Brenda Cooney, Flower of the Emerald Isle, seen in a very Un-lovely
manner in The Off Season. She'll be playing the Enemy Leader. I'll have a brief, horribly-bloody-death cameo
as one of her followers, so I'm looking forward to getting orders yelled at me in that accent. We basically just
went over scheduling and listened to Brenda's story of parachuting out of a plane.
"You think it's going to feel like flying, but it feels like falling."
Jim has added a Production Updates page to his site, where you can see more pictures, shockingly
uncredited...
So, I received an email reprimand the other day from Noreen (who is that woman?), citing the tiny text and
infrequent spacing of this blog. Apparently this has been hard to read the whole time and nobody told me.
Thanks.
I always thought it seemed small, but nobody complained. Anyway, somebody has, so say hello to the world of
the 12 point font. I will also try and add some spaces in between paragraphs, stuff like that... It's just like
doing term papers in high school.
Among all the tragic news of the past days in London, there were scattered about a few real gems of humanity.
One of these I heard on the radio as they interviewed a 94 year-old woman who had driven an ambulance
during The Blitz. Hearing news of the blasts, she walked to her local hospital and volunteered, going from bed
to bed giving words of encouragement and serving tea. "I'm in the Red Cross, you know," she said, explaining
part of her motivation, "It's required." That must have really boiled the blood of the guys listening to the BBC in
a basement somewhere, waiting for the chance to flee England.
Other amazing moments of human endeavor: I've been following some of the Tour de France coverage. They
were cruising along today at an impressive clip when I suddenly realized they were going uphill. Steep uphill.
Having just come back from a four minutes faster but still laughably slow hill jog of my own, it was jaw
dropping.
An interview with James Felix McKenney, auteur, is in what I believe is the latest issue of Fangoria magazine.
It's the one with "The Devil's Rejects" cover, page 28. It's not exactly a coup, but it is a nice thing for them to do,
as Jim's stuff doesn't slot in exactly with their readership. That could take me into the whole "Off Season" DVD
Box Art Fiasco, but I'm still not sure if its cool to write about that...
AUTOMATONS UPDATE: Had a meeting on Wednesday with Jim's better half Lisa filling in for Jeremiah. We
also had a special guest, the lovely Brenda Cooney, Flower of the Emerald Isle, seen in a very Un-lovely
manner in The Off Season. She'll be playing the Enemy Leader. I'll have a brief, horribly-bloody-death cameo
as one of her followers, so I'm looking forward to getting orders yelled at me in that accent. We basically just
went over scheduling and listened to Brenda's story of parachuting out of a plane.
"You think it's going to feel like flying, but it feels like falling."
Jim has added a Production Updates page to his site, where you can see more pictures, shockingly
uncredited...
Guess who's not paying attention.
"this is what went wrong...."
July 7, 2005--
Sitting down to write another entry here, I'm usually concerned with finding some sort of clever way to start
out, presently I just don't know where to start. I've turned my television toward my desk, making it possible to
type and keep up with the latest news from London on the BBC. It's often best to begin with a cliché, so I'll go
ahead and say my prayers are with those folks over there. I'm not a religious man, but I met a woman years
ago who taught me prayer and faith are two separate things, so on occasions like this I bust it out, just in case
it might help. It probably does nothing but mildly alleviate the hideous feeling of powerless concern, but there
you go...
I've been in contact with the Londoners I know, and they're fine but shaken, still trying to track down coworkers
who haven't shown up yet and wondering how they themselves are going to get home with public
transportation shut down.
Every morning I take Henry down the block to the corner store, pick up a newspaper and a small black coffee
and head across the street into the park. Once we hit the dog run I put on my headphones and listen to the
morning news. Today, as soon as I hit the switch on the radio, it was obvious something had gone terribly
wrong somewhere. Just the timbre of unfamiliar News Voices, joined mid-sentence, filled my stomach with
acid and numbed the surface of my skin. It's funny how that reaction to Dread stays the same throughout your
life. I can remember the same exact feeling as a child.
Minutes went by and as the situation became clearer that dread feeling gave way to crushed sadness. At this
point, pretty early in the morning here, there are 33 confirmed dead. That figure will rise, of course, but still,
I've read stories in the news over the last week recounting disasters in other countries with higher death tolls.
What is it about this event that brings out such strong feelings? I suppose it's the fact that I was over there so
recently. One of the bombs went off under King's Cross Station, which was my base of operations in London.
Just yesterday I was adding more to the London Trip page on this site, which meant going back through my
travel journal and all the photos I took. Some of my favorite times in London were the meals I took in King's
Cross Station, trying to order the same fast food the locals did, sitting and eating on a bench as the river of
travelers rushed by and around me. The same thing can be done here, in Grand Central Station or even Port
Authority, and I find when you do that, when you stop and pull yourself out of that river and the
single-mindedness you must cultivate to negotiate it; when you do that...you look over that teeming horde of
humanity and fall in love with it. Freed of petty hatred for the Slow Guy in front of you and the Rude Woman
who cut off your path of travel, a rush of good will and appreciation for the profound, useless silliness of our
epic diversity leaves you stunned and joyfully whole, shaking your head and grinning like an idiot. This
stepping back, this opportunity to observe is one of the true luxuries of travel.
So to hear that this had happened to so many of my loved ones I didn't know is terrible. And underscores, I
suppose,the need to travel more, to allow more groups of people under that yellow tape separating the
sympathetic from the empathetic. In the meantime, life here in New York will chug along in a slightly
heightened vein. Walking back from the dog run I heard two sets of sirens and, as was the case for almost a
year after 9/11, the sound of multiple sirens brought the acid, and the numbness and the twisted hope it was
a bad car accident.
Sitting down to write another entry here, I'm usually concerned with finding some sort of clever way to start
out, presently I just don't know where to start. I've turned my television toward my desk, making it possible to
type and keep up with the latest news from London on the BBC. It's often best to begin with a cliché, so I'll go
ahead and say my prayers are with those folks over there. I'm not a religious man, but I met a woman years
ago who taught me prayer and faith are two separate things, so on occasions like this I bust it out, just in case
it might help. It probably does nothing but mildly alleviate the hideous feeling of powerless concern, but there
you go...
I've been in contact with the Londoners I know, and they're fine but shaken, still trying to track down coworkers
who haven't shown up yet and wondering how they themselves are going to get home with public
transportation shut down.
Every morning I take Henry down the block to the corner store, pick up a newspaper and a small black coffee
and head across the street into the park. Once we hit the dog run I put on my headphones and listen to the
morning news. Today, as soon as I hit the switch on the radio, it was obvious something had gone terribly
wrong somewhere. Just the timbre of unfamiliar News Voices, joined mid-sentence, filled my stomach with
acid and numbed the surface of my skin. It's funny how that reaction to Dread stays the same throughout your
life. I can remember the same exact feeling as a child.
Minutes went by and as the situation became clearer that dread feeling gave way to crushed sadness. At this
point, pretty early in the morning here, there are 33 confirmed dead. That figure will rise, of course, but still,
I've read stories in the news over the last week recounting disasters in other countries with higher death tolls.
What is it about this event that brings out such strong feelings? I suppose it's the fact that I was over there so
recently. One of the bombs went off under King's Cross Station, which was my base of operations in London.
Just yesterday I was adding more to the London Trip page on this site, which meant going back through my
travel journal and all the photos I took. Some of my favorite times in London were the meals I took in King's
Cross Station, trying to order the same fast food the locals did, sitting and eating on a bench as the river of
travelers rushed by and around me. The same thing can be done here, in Grand Central Station or even Port
Authority, and I find when you do that, when you stop and pull yourself out of that river and the
single-mindedness you must cultivate to negotiate it; when you do that...you look over that teeming horde of
humanity and fall in love with it. Freed of petty hatred for the Slow Guy in front of you and the Rude Woman
who cut off your path of travel, a rush of good will and appreciation for the profound, useless silliness of our
epic diversity leaves you stunned and joyfully whole, shaking your head and grinning like an idiot. This
stepping back, this opportunity to observe is one of the true luxuries of travel.
So to hear that this had happened to so many of my loved ones I didn't know is terrible. And underscores, I
suppose,the need to travel more, to allow more groups of people under that yellow tape separating the
sympathetic from the empathetic. In the meantime, life here in New York will chug along in a slightly
heightened vein. Walking back from the dog run I heard two sets of sirens and, as was the case for almost a
year after 9/11, the sound of multiple sirens brought the acid, and the numbness and the twisted hope it was
a bad car accident.
July 5, 2005--
The President and I don't always agree. That may be a bit of an understatement, but really, I find it hard to put
it more harshly, as we do actually agree on quite a bit. Baseball, for one, as well as the clear superiority of
the Texas style of barbecue over that from Kansas City. We also share a deep appreciation for our armed
forces, right up to but not including the point of actually serving next to them in harms way. (Ever since, in
desperation, they raised the Army National Guard age limit to 39 it has been on my mind.) In any case, he
mentioned the AmericaSupportsYou.mil website the other night and having been there, I agree (again! It's
like we're psychically connected, except for, like, all the big issues...) its a resource that deserves all the
dissemination it can get. Everyone's been over this a million times, but these poor service people over there
are fucked. They're fucked while they are there, their families are fucked while they're gone, and when they
come back, they're fucked again. I know they know what they signed up for, service-wise, but a woman
recently killed over there was a cook. Apparently anyone can get tagged for checkpoint duty and she did, and
got killed. I'm no military guy, but that just doesn't seem right, or smart. Isn't that some of the most
hazardous duty? We just revamped the system here inside the US to require the intense training of the
people manning the checkpoints at our own airports! If we need specially trained people to work the grey,
stooped and shuffling line of cruise ship passengers returning home through Fort Lauderdale Airport does it
make sense to have cooks and clerks on the checkpoints in Fallujah?
But I digress. Check out the site, there are easily 100 ways to make their lives a little better over there. Many
of the organizations are religious, which is a little weird for me, but I think I found one that will let me write a
letter directly to a member of the armed forces, which is what I'm hoping to do myself. I can't imagine being
over there and having no mail coming in, but thats apparently pretty common.
While I'm waxing patriotic-because I am, goddammit-I'll mention that the fireworks were excellent here last
night. I listened to the simulcast music, which I don't usually do, and found the whole thing very moving. I
should modify that: I saw most of it. Henry is not a big fan of fireworks in general, and the better they are, the
less he likes 'em. I tried having him on my lap, but his heart was still going about 1,000 beats a minute. I put
him in my room and put the mattress over the window but that still wasn't enough. Kicking myself for not
thinking of this sooner, I eventually put him into our windowless bathroom with the very old, very loud vent fan
going. He was certain his night was about to go from bad to worse. Not only was he about to become a
victim of what was clearly The Apocalypse, he'd need to endure a bath before we all died. Once that was
cleared up he was okay. He was shaky all night, as the locals did their smaller fireworks thing, but by this
morning he was right as rain.
AUTOMATONS UPDATE:
Finished up a couple more set pieces today, including the Sci-fi Planter and Sci-Fi Wall Flat. You can tell
they're Sci-Fi because they have Instant Sci-Fi Foam Pieces on them. We found this product that insulates
rafters or something useless like that when in reality...it was Born to Be Sci-Fi!
The President and I don't always agree. That may be a bit of an understatement, but really, I find it hard to put
it more harshly, as we do actually agree on quite a bit. Baseball, for one, as well as the clear superiority of
the Texas style of barbecue over that from Kansas City. We also share a deep appreciation for our armed
forces, right up to but not including the point of actually serving next to them in harms way. (Ever since, in
desperation, they raised the Army National Guard age limit to 39 it has been on my mind.) In any case, he
mentioned the AmericaSupportsYou.mil website the other night and having been there, I agree (again! It's
like we're psychically connected, except for, like, all the big issues...) its a resource that deserves all the
dissemination it can get. Everyone's been over this a million times, but these poor service people over there
are fucked. They're fucked while they are there, their families are fucked while they're gone, and when they
come back, they're fucked again. I know they know what they signed up for, service-wise, but a woman
recently killed over there was a cook. Apparently anyone can get tagged for checkpoint duty and she did, and
got killed. I'm no military guy, but that just doesn't seem right, or smart. Isn't that some of the most
hazardous duty? We just revamped the system here inside the US to require the intense training of the
people manning the checkpoints at our own airports! If we need specially trained people to work the grey,
stooped and shuffling line of cruise ship passengers returning home through Fort Lauderdale Airport does it
make sense to have cooks and clerks on the checkpoints in Fallujah?
But I digress. Check out the site, there are easily 100 ways to make their lives a little better over there. Many
of the organizations are religious, which is a little weird for me, but I think I found one that will let me write a
letter directly to a member of the armed forces, which is what I'm hoping to do myself. I can't imagine being
over there and having no mail coming in, but thats apparently pretty common.
While I'm waxing patriotic-because I am, goddammit-I'll mention that the fireworks were excellent here last
night. I listened to the simulcast music, which I don't usually do, and found the whole thing very moving. I
should modify that: I saw most of it. Henry is not a big fan of fireworks in general, and the better they are, the
less he likes 'em. I tried having him on my lap, but his heart was still going about 1,000 beats a minute. I put
him in my room and put the mattress over the window but that still wasn't enough. Kicking myself for not
thinking of this sooner, I eventually put him into our windowless bathroom with the very old, very loud vent fan
going. He was certain his night was about to go from bad to worse. Not only was he about to become a
victim of what was clearly The Apocalypse, he'd need to endure a bath before we all died. Once that was
cleared up he was okay. He was shaky all night, as the locals did their smaller fireworks thing, but by this
morning he was right as rain.
AUTOMATONS UPDATE:
Finished up a couple more set pieces today, including the Sci-fi Planter and Sci-Fi Wall Flat. You can tell
they're Sci-Fi because they have Instant Sci-Fi Foam Pieces on them. We found this product that insulates
rafters or something useless like that when in reality...it was Born to Be Sci-Fi!
GLIMPSE THE
FU-TOR!
FU-TOR!
Way, WAY more interesting; we did a shoot for an interview piece in Satan Hates You this weekend, with an
actual pro! Yeah, that's right, slowly but surely, Jim's star will rise and eventually I'll be out of a job. Out of a
job that doesn't pay, but still...
Okay, seriously, the lovely and talented Pauley Perrette, who plays Abigail "Abby" Sciuto on CBS's NCIS came
to our little dusty hole to play the reporter in this interview piece that Jim will use somehow, somewhere. He
doesn't tell anyone a damn thing, so you're guess is as good as mine. I didn't hear-or maybe it just didn't
sink in-that she was on NCIS on CBS until the last minute and if I hadn't known, I would never have guessed.
She was super cool and relaxed, even though she was squeezing this into a three hour window before she
had to head back into Manhattan for dinner at a fancy restaurant with one of the Men From U.N.C.L.E. Did you
hear me? One of the freaking Men From U.N.C.L.E.! He's on the show as well I guess. (Apparently the cast
is all very nice) The only other tidbit about the show that I can divulge to anyone who googled it and found
this page-(sorry, man)-is that the scientific mumbo jumbo they have to say is often written on the backs of
every damn thing on the set. Bottles, the back of microscopes, etc.
actual pro! Yeah, that's right, slowly but surely, Jim's star will rise and eventually I'll be out of a job. Out of a
job that doesn't pay, but still...
Okay, seriously, the lovely and talented Pauley Perrette, who plays Abigail "Abby" Sciuto on CBS's NCIS came
to our little dusty hole to play the reporter in this interview piece that Jim will use somehow, somewhere. He
doesn't tell anyone a damn thing, so you're guess is as good as mine. I didn't hear-or maybe it just didn't
sink in-that she was on NCIS on CBS until the last minute and if I hadn't known, I would never have guessed.
She was super cool and relaxed, even though she was squeezing this into a three hour window before she
had to head back into Manhattan for dinner at a fancy restaurant with one of the Men From U.N.C.L.E. Did you
hear me? One of the freaking Men From U.N.C.L.E.! He's on the show as well I guess. (Apparently the cast
is all very nice) The only other tidbit about the show that I can divulge to anyone who googled it and found
this page-(sorry, man)-is that the scientific mumbo jumbo they have to say is often written on the backs of
every damn thing on the set. Bottles, the back of microscopes, etc.
The set, such as it is...
Rehearsing.
July 4, 2005--
Technology I Love #1: The HRM
I have been afraid to post over the holiday weekend, thinking it would remove forever any doubt I was
becoming some sort of loser shut-in, but then I saw that Noreen had posted in her blog this weekend and
she is, perennially and without doubt one of the Cool Kids, so I guess its okay. This is also the perfect
excuse to put off my run for a few minutes. I'm all strapped up into my heart monitor and ready to go, but why
rush, eh?
Yes, a heart monitor. I broke it out a while ago when I got back into running. I first used one in Houston,
when I decided to keep running around Memorial Park through the summer. 'Not sure if you've heard, but it
trends a bit toward the hot and sticky during the summer in those parts. I think the hottest day that summer
it was 103F in the city, and I saw one other person on the trail that day (In November there are hundreds).
In weather like that it is really easy to hurt yourself with the heat, so I bought a monitor to make sure I didn't
push too hard, Training with one really is a whole different world.
The great thing about a HRM is that it doesn't measure speed or time or distance, it measures effort. And
when you know that, it sheds a whole new light on those other three. Effort is the one thing it is hardest to
gauge, as far as I'm concerned. Two hours of flag football on a seems so much more effortless than a grim
20 minutes on a treadmill when I'm just trying to burn off part of the disgusting fast food slip up a few hours
before, just trying to make an appearance at the gym and feel less guilty.
The HRM doesn't care whats on your mind or how you feel or how much you drank the night before. Once
you program in those limits, it just heartlessly beeps away once you've slacked off or pushed too hard. This
objective eye on my effort was a real wakeup call. Like most people, I felt that I ran pretty much the same
speed the whole time once I got going on my runs. After a couple days on the HRM, constantly needing to
Heed the Beep and bump it up a notch, that illusion was shattered. I was starting at one pace and then
slowing down as I got bored or tired, I think nearly everyone does this, which is why so many people give up
on fledgling exercise programs. They don't work hard enough, so they don't see any results. It is also much
harder if you are already way out of shape and a small amount of exercise shoots your heart rate through
the roof. Thats no good either. This is where the HRM comes in. All but the very cheapest have a zone you
set, with audible alarms on either end. This way, you're not working too hard, but you're not slacking either.
The HRM doesn't get bored or tired. I have learned to respect, if occasionally hate, The Beeps. Of course,
any idiot can take their own pulse as they go along, and this idiot has done just that, but it's almost
impossible to do it while you're running. This is the genius of the HRM, one more reason to stop taken
away from you...
Another cool thing about an HRM is the fact you can really track yourself getting in better shape. I usually run
from my house over the Williamsburg Bridge and back, just about 6 miles. As I've kept at it this same run,
completed within the effort limits set on my HRM, takes less time. A very tiny amount less time, but
measurable. Which is cool to see. It just gives you one more variable to use in the equations you do in your
head to monitor your progress or regression and keep yourself motivated. I can also measure the amount
of effort I'm putting into weight training or even a bike ride to Park Slope. I use the Polar F4, which is cheap,
with all the stuff I actually need. After getting it home I realized it was the "First HRM designed for women"
but mine is black, and I really can't see any other differences, so I'd recommend it to men and women alike.
Of course, like a lot of stuff, it's easy to start walking up the product chain. I'd love some of the features on
the monitors just 20 or 40 dollars up, but then, for an extra $150 I could really get in shape, Uh-huh...
The Polar website is really well done with a huge amount of information. If you check it out, be sure and try
out the "BodyAge" calculator. It's really interesting and when you're done, gives you some pointers on how
to improve it, Just one of those fun things to do to motivate yourself, I guess. Speaking of motivation, its
time to prove I've got some and to get out there and run over the Williamsburg Bridge. If you see me out
there, wave...
Technology I Love #1: The HRM
I have been afraid to post over the holiday weekend, thinking it would remove forever any doubt I was
becoming some sort of loser shut-in, but then I saw that Noreen had posted in her blog this weekend and
she is, perennially and without doubt one of the Cool Kids, so I guess its okay. This is also the perfect
excuse to put off my run for a few minutes. I'm all strapped up into my heart monitor and ready to go, but why
rush, eh?
Yes, a heart monitor. I broke it out a while ago when I got back into running. I first used one in Houston,
when I decided to keep running around Memorial Park through the summer. 'Not sure if you've heard, but it
trends a bit toward the hot and sticky during the summer in those parts. I think the hottest day that summer
it was 103F in the city, and I saw one other person on the trail that day (In November there are hundreds).
In weather like that it is really easy to hurt yourself with the heat, so I bought a monitor to make sure I didn't
push too hard, Training with one really is a whole different world.
The great thing about a HRM is that it doesn't measure speed or time or distance, it measures effort. And
when you know that, it sheds a whole new light on those other three. Effort is the one thing it is hardest to
gauge, as far as I'm concerned. Two hours of flag football on a seems so much more effortless than a grim
20 minutes on a treadmill when I'm just trying to burn off part of the disgusting fast food slip up a few hours
before, just trying to make an appearance at the gym and feel less guilty.
The HRM doesn't care whats on your mind or how you feel or how much you drank the night before. Once
you program in those limits, it just heartlessly beeps away once you've slacked off or pushed too hard. This
objective eye on my effort was a real wakeup call. Like most people, I felt that I ran pretty much the same
speed the whole time once I got going on my runs. After a couple days on the HRM, constantly needing to
Heed the Beep and bump it up a notch, that illusion was shattered. I was starting at one pace and then
slowing down as I got bored or tired, I think nearly everyone does this, which is why so many people give up
on fledgling exercise programs. They don't work hard enough, so they don't see any results. It is also much
harder if you are already way out of shape and a small amount of exercise shoots your heart rate through
the roof. Thats no good either. This is where the HRM comes in. All but the very cheapest have a zone you
set, with audible alarms on either end. This way, you're not working too hard, but you're not slacking either.
The HRM doesn't get bored or tired. I have learned to respect, if occasionally hate, The Beeps. Of course,
any idiot can take their own pulse as they go along, and this idiot has done just that, but it's almost
impossible to do it while you're running. This is the genius of the HRM, one more reason to stop taken
away from you...
Another cool thing about an HRM is the fact you can really track yourself getting in better shape. I usually run
from my house over the Williamsburg Bridge and back, just about 6 miles. As I've kept at it this same run,
completed within the effort limits set on my HRM, takes less time. A very tiny amount less time, but
measurable. Which is cool to see. It just gives you one more variable to use in the equations you do in your
head to monitor your progress or regression and keep yourself motivated. I can also measure the amount
of effort I'm putting into weight training or even a bike ride to Park Slope. I use the Polar F4, which is cheap,
with all the stuff I actually need. After getting it home I realized it was the "First HRM designed for women"
but mine is black, and I really can't see any other differences, so I'd recommend it to men and women alike.
Of course, like a lot of stuff, it's easy to start walking up the product chain. I'd love some of the features on
the monitors just 20 or 40 dollars up, but then, for an extra $150 I could really get in shape, Uh-huh...
The Polar website is really well done with a huge amount of information. If you check it out, be sure and try
out the "BodyAge" calculator. It's really interesting and when you're done, gives you some pointers on how
to improve it, Just one of those fun things to do to motivate yourself, I guess. Speaking of motivation, its
time to prove I've got some and to get out there and run over the Williamsburg Bridge. If you see me out
there, wave...
The Williamsburg Bridge in cooler times.
Don Wood Online
For the love of Pete, who's in charge here?
For the love of Pete, who's in charge here?
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More of those goddamned nice people I keep running into...
