Inner Monologue

Just in case you needed any more proof that Rick Rolling is officially retarded.

“The first actual television occurrence of a Rickroll occurred on June 21, 2007 on the late-night talk show Last Call with Carson Daly. Carson claimed that he was going to show “a video of Paris Hilton and Busta Rhymes making out” that he found on the Internet. Instead, a clip of the music video was played, and he declared the audience to have been Rickrolled

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rickroll

This is a man who only talks about golf and still wears livestrong bracelets. If he’s Rick Rolling people, you’re not allowed to anymore.

My Office

I have an office. I’m currently sitting in the air-conditioned comfort of suite 500, in the building at 7211 Santa Monica Blvd., across the street from the Formosa Cafe, next to Jones Cafe, and directly above your friendly local medicinal marijuana dispensiary. This is the very first time in my life that I’ve had an office to call my own. If you’ve spoken to me in the last couple weeks, you’ve probably gotten sick of me talking about it. “I have an office.” The sentence feels strange coming out of my mouth, but I will also admit it elicits a certain vague pride.

My father always had an office of his own. I remember as a child accompanying him on evenings and weekends to work there. I’d sit and draw, usually sketching one of the Ferrari models he had on his desk, while he poured over paperwork. Occasionally we would draw together, bonding experiences that would inevitably turn into unspoken drawing contests, a product of the streak of competition that we both share. He’d always win, and by the time I was skilled enough that I might’ve had a shot at beating him I no longer was interested in the weekly visits.

His office was the closest thing to church that I had growing up (except for real church, of course, which we went to on major holidays and random friday afternoons). We went almost every sunday, and it was a clean, quiet place to be introspective and do work without interruption, free from the chaos of home. It was one of those childhood rituals that never is aknowledged by anyone involved, but comes to feel like an integral part of growing up. I have similar emotions associated with washing cars with my father on Saturday mornings. Go figure.

So now I have my own place of work and reflection. It feels important too, like another step in the march towards adulthood. Not age associated adulthood, but the real feeling of maturity and self-reliance that comes only gradually as you attain those little milestones in life. Like getting an office. I have an office.

457 Unread Messages.

So I’ve been home for three days and I’m still not close to being dug out from under the pile of shit I need to do right now. If you wrote or called me and I haven’t gotten back to you yet I’m sorry.

I just wanted to thank everyone that worked on the movie for all their hard work and dedication. It was an amazing shoot, and everyone rolled with the punches extremely well considering all the factors of being there. Special thanks especially go to Stacey Hinnen, Doug Davis, and Kevin Monge, who constituted the whole of grip / electric / camera. You guys worked your asses off, and it shows in the footage.

Last day of shooting.

Part of me says thank god, it’s almost over.

Also, part of me wishes I could do it every day.

I get home on Sunday. I want to sleep and drink for three days straight.

The least desirable job on just about any set is that of clapper / loader. The clapper is responsible for maintaining and operating the slate to mark each take before action is called. It’s usually the lowest position in the camera department, and it’s a high stress job. Everyone on the set is waiting for you to do your job, and if you screw up, everyone knows. The clapper is the subject of endless amounts of abuse at the hands of stressed DPs, time-crunched 1st ADs, and annoyed stars who don’t like loud claps right in front of their face. We all try to be as pleasant as possible to our clapper, but sometimes when heavy cameras are being held paitience wears thin. The slate on our set has become something of a running joke on our set, because due to the numbering system for our scene labeling (we’re getting pickups for existing scenes, so we had to come up with a special system to keep track of them), the amount of letters and numbers that must be called out gets extraordinarily long. A typical scene might be called out as “a one b one scene i thirty four p one take 4 cameras a and b marker!” With such a small crew, we’ve had to call on just about every crew member to slate a scene at least once, and no one enjoys doing it.

The worst thing you can possibly hear in a hotel room in Louisiana at 3:00 am.

“Previously, on ‘According To Jim.’”

Today my hands are stained red with blood (fake). I got to shoot a creature in the eye. I got to tell people where I wanted to place gore so that it would catch the light just so. I got to shoot on a giant set dressed to look like an exploded section of oil rig. I got to set a spear gun tip on fire. Have I mentioned that I love this job? Today was a 15 hour day. But it was fucking awesome.

Oh jesus.

Today was our second full day of production. In typical Louisiana fashion, we were shut down around 4:00 by a freaking TORNADO. We were shooting outside a hangar surrounded by helicopters for a huge dolly shot when the owner of the airport came running up telling us we had to get inside immediately. After a long series of disasters after that we found ourselves over an hour and a half behind in the mid afternoon. We picked up the pace, and thanks to everyone’s hard work we still managed to get done 5 minutes ahead of schedule. That feels good. We also got some fantastic scenes today, some gorgeous shots, and, oh yeah, we got through over ten pages of script. Not bad. We may be a small crew, but we kick ass. I’ll post some pictures soon.