I knew should have plied her with liquor first.

Yesterday, The Blonde and I were shooting some short pieces at one of the Oscar (tm) giveaway parties. These invitation-only parties take place in hotels (they take over an entire floor and set up in the suites - each company gets it's own suite) and give products away to folks who can promote them (actors, actresses, nominees, producers, important people).

It's mostly cosmetics, clothing, jewelry, and shoes (although there were a lot of baby clothes, which they kept trying to give me - even though I'm pretty certain my cat would not appreciate being dressed in a pink hoodie), but in one suite a company was giving away sex toys.

Cool, modern-looking, beautifully designed sex toys given out by an affable German Guy (also very, very cute although I remember thinking that he was probably gay) and a smiling, happy press rep.

We arranged to shoot in their suite and interview them about their products - I thought I could get The Blonde to do a couple of PG-rated jokes, and we'd have a few funny wraparounds*.

We got German Guy to agree, and as soon as the camera started to roll, he launched into a sales pitch about the products, where everything's made (Germany, of course), what each one was and why they're superior to other sex toys, etc... standard sales-pitch stuff, and not sexual in nature at all. He was really hyping the quality of the products and the durability.

As soon as he started his spiel, The Blonde froze.

I mean completely froze - the only reason I knew she wasn't dead was because she would blink every few seconds, while an increasingly desperate German Guy tried pick up the slack by being informative, cheerful and non-threatening.

From behind the camera, I smiled and flapped my hands in what I thought was a gesture conveying happiness and fun in an attempt to get her to do something - anything - other than stand there, stock still and dead silent with a horrified look on her face, clutching a very expensive dildo.

After I'd given up and called cut, German Guy told me he thought he came off as rushed.

What I wanted to say was "Well, you only seemed rushed because you were standing next to someone who was catatonic, so I don't know if I'd worry about it."

What I actually said was "Oh, no! You were terrific! I wish everyone we'd interviewed today was half as much fun!"

Later, she told me that the whole suite just creeped her out, although it seemed to me that they'd really tried to make the vibe in their room non-creepy - the company's logo was bright orange, the sales reps were smiling and happy, and they were even giving away really good German chocolate for those who didn't want the proffered bags of free sex toys.

I suppose this would be a good place to mention that a decade of hearing 'boy talk' in the truck has left me incredibly blasé about sexual topics in general, although most of the time I'd rather not hear the graphic description of what one of my co-workers would really like to do to that stripper.


* A wraparound is the name for the little shots that air right before and after the commercials.

When all else fails, confuse the hell out of them.

In parts of Los Angeles, a movie shooting will draw a bigger crowd than in other parts.

In the heavily 'shot' parts of town, passers-by are more likely to shout obscenities than they are to placidly stand there, watching and waiting for something to happen.

Some of us, of course, make a beeline for the trucks to see if anyone we know is working and if they're picking up crew.

Yesterday, as I was walking down Melrose Ave (near the Pacific Design Center), I noticed a crowd gathering - as I got closer, I saw that it was folks watching a movie set.

This behavior on the part of West Hollywood passers-by is not normal - Melrose is a heavily shot area, and since I didn't hear shouts of "Fuck you, assholes!" and "Go to hell!", I figured that:

a) something horrible had just happened, or

b) someone really, really famous was standing there.

Sure enough - there, on the corner, waiting for them to roll was Big Action Star.

"Well, that explains the crowd", I said to myself* as I started to walk towards the lighting department's stakebed.

I was stopped by security.

"Big Action Star isn't signing autographs, Miss."

"Good for him - I'm just trying to get to the truck so I can give the best boy a card."

He had to think about what I'd just said for a moment.

"Why? Is it his birthday?"

Awesome.

They're not picking up crew, though.

Damn.


*I'm talking to myself with alarming frequency these days. All I need now is a beehive hairdo and 50 cats.

A big welcome..

To any new readers coming from People Magazine (don't get excited, it's just the industry-only Oscar-week daily), and Forbes Online.

The blog's a bit boring right now, as work is slow, but feel free to peruse the archives and tell me how full of shit I am.

I live for that.

Not what I wanted to hear, but it could have been worse.

The visit to the podiatrist was enlightening.

I got the reader-predicted advice to stretch more (apparently my Achilles tendons are 'incredibly tight' and it's the source of many of my problems), fitted for new orthotics, a lecture about not letting the tread on my work shoes wear down so much, and an injection of cortisone into a cyst (that hurt like hell and I had to bite my lip to keep from yelling - I didn't want the elderly woman in the next room to think I was a wimp).

The bad news is that I'm going to have to have the bunion surgery.

Not right now, thankfully. There's a predicted SAG strike next year, so I'll do the surgery then, since the doctor told me I'll be out of work for at least 8 weeks.

If I've got to be out of work for 8 weeks, it may as well be in the middle of what may very well be a protracted work stoppage.

Of course this was going to happen.

It never fails. Whenever I have something to do that can't (or shouldn't) be rescheduled, someone will call me for work.

This happens so consistently that I'm hesitant to schedule anything in advance anymore - doctor's visits, vacations, car maintenance, tax appointments, dates.

Naturally, since I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow that I don't want to reschedule, I got called for work by a best boy that I've had to turn down the past couple of times he's tried to book me.

Although I hate turning down work, I'm sufficiently desperate to get my feet looked at that I bit the bullet and turned homeboy down again.

Dammit.

Did I mention that if one turns down work too often people will assume that one is never available and stop calling?

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

This podiatrist better be worth it.