Normally, when I need work, I have to get on the phone - calling everyone I know and asking if they're working and need guys.
When it's busy (like now), I don't have to work that hard; all I have to do is call our union, register as out of work and I'll be sent out on a call within a few hours.
This won't last, so I'm taking advantage of it while I still can.
Today, I'm off to NCIS (I have zero idea what that is) which shoots in Santa Clarita. Santa Clarita is a suburb about 30 miles north of L.A, and there's only one way in and out - Interstate 5.
I have a 10 am call, and I'm going to have to leave in about 10 minutes in order to make it by 9:30.
(generally, one wants to be there at least 15 minutes early - 30 if there's a caterer who's serving breakfast. Arriving right at call time is considered 'late').
Plus, I have to stop along the way and get coffee so my brain will be working by the time I get there.
I promise I'll be more coherent when I get home.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Just too good for words.
Got called for a job that I can't take because I'm working on something else already - this is unfortunate, but happens all the time.
This particular call was for Fast and Furious 3. The notable thing about this is the rigging department's outgoing voicemail message.
"Hello, you've reached the rigging office of Fast and Furious two... no, three.... wait. Four."
(aside)
"Which fucking movie is this? Two? Four? Oh.. Three. You sure? Okay, then".
(pause)
"You've reached the rigging office of Fast and Furious Three. Please leave a message, and we'll call you back right away. If you need to page us, call XXX - XXXX. Thank you."
Beeeeeep
This particular call was for Fast and Furious 3. The notable thing about this is the rigging department's outgoing voicemail message.
"Hello, you've reached the rigging office of Fast and Furious two... no, three.... wait. Four."
(aside)
"Which fucking movie is this? Two? Four? Oh.. Three. You sure? Okay, then".
(pause)
"You've reached the rigging office of Fast and Furious Three. Please leave a message, and we'll call you back right away. If you need to page us, call XXX - XXXX. Thank you."
Beeeeeep
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
The Pet Bull
Today, as we were sitting on the lift gate of the truck, waiting for production to finish the two-hour long meeting they just had to have in the set we needed to rig, we started talking about our pets.
One of the guys was waxing poetic about the greatest dog that he'd ever had - which happened to have been a pit bull. As he continued the story, it took me a few moments to realize that he was saying "pet bull" and not "pit bull". It was on the tip of my tongue to ask "You meant pit bull, right?", but I stopped and thought about it for a moment.
"Pet Bull" is, in fact, a very descriptive term. It brings to my mind a big, joyous drool factory of a dog who's always jumping on you to kiss you, trying to crawl into your lap while you're watching TV, wagging it's entire back end when you get home from work, and dropping slobber laden chew toys at your feet in an attempt to get you to play 'fetch'.
Turns out, this is a spot-on description of the dog.
The dog also loved everyone - the mailman, the cops, the guy reading the gas meter, muggers - with equal enthusiasm.
Since most people who get pet bulls - er, pit bulls - want them as guard dogs, the coining of a new phrase for a happy friendly pit bull seems perfectly logical.
Pit Bull + Pet = Pet Bull.
Makes perfect sense to me.
Tragically, the pet bull disappeared one night - stolen by robbers who broke into the house, took the TV, the stereo, the dog, and all the dog's food and toys.
Good pet bulls make bad guard dogs, I guess.
One of the guys was waxing poetic about the greatest dog that he'd ever had - which happened to have been a pit bull. As he continued the story, it took me a few moments to realize that he was saying "pet bull" and not "pit bull". It was on the tip of my tongue to ask "You meant pit bull, right?", but I stopped and thought about it for a moment.
"Pet Bull" is, in fact, a very descriptive term. It brings to my mind a big, joyous drool factory of a dog who's always jumping on you to kiss you, trying to crawl into your lap while you're watching TV, wagging it's entire back end when you get home from work, and dropping slobber laden chew toys at your feet in an attempt to get you to play 'fetch'.
Turns out, this is a spot-on description of the dog.
The dog also loved everyone - the mailman, the cops, the guy reading the gas meter, muggers - with equal enthusiasm.
Since most people who get pet bulls - er, pit bulls - want them as guard dogs, the coining of a new phrase for a happy friendly pit bull seems perfectly logical.
Pit Bull + Pet = Pet Bull.
Makes perfect sense to me.
Tragically, the pet bull disappeared one night - stolen by robbers who broke into the house, took the TV, the stereo, the dog, and all the dog's food and toys.
Good pet bulls make bad guard dogs, I guess.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
You didn't see nothin'.
Okay, let's try this without the Vicodin (I tweaked the wrist at work yesterday, and then made the mistake of trying to update the blog last night - which resulted in one hell of an incoherent entry):
Yesterday, I was back on the Bones rigging crew (and thank heavens for that - the shooting crew had a 5 pm call, which means they probably called wrap at 7 or 8 this morning).
Most of what we were doing was wrapping out a courtroom set that we shot yesterday (the set was part of the recently cancelled show Head Cases: Bones shot in it Thursday, and House is shooting in it Monday).
One of the things that's not so great about the new, evolved, safety-conscious film industry is that we have a ton of restrictions on what we can and can't do, and all of the studios now have 'safety compliance' departments - which consist mostly of people who wander around and bust you if you violate that particular studio's written safety policy*.
For work on elevated walkways (the permanent catwalk system or 'perms', and 'greenbeds' which are walkways hung just over the top of the sets), people not trained on and certified to use fall arrest systems ("yo-yo"s) must stay within the confines of the handrails at all times.
Someone (like me) who hasn't got this certification may not stand on the knee or hand rails (to increase reach), crawl out onto the beams of the perms to retrieve objects, or go for a stroll on top of the set walls (which are outside the confines of the handrails).
Of course, we end up violating these rules on a fairly regular basis.
The trick is to violate the rules as quickly as possible to make sure that one doesn't get caught. You can't use the walkie to ask where the safety rep is, because production usually monitors walkie conversations, and if they hear a request for the safety rep, they'll call them and send them to your stage.
For obvious reasons, it is unwise to use the walkie to announce intentions to break the rules - "Hey, I'm going to climb up onto the handrails of the walkway - somebody make sure the coast is clear."
Naturally, there was one stubborn stinger (that's what we call an extension cord) that I couldn't get from the greenbed (despite my pulling really hard), so I had to go out onto the ceiling pieces of the set (not such a big deal if you know where to step, big problem if you don't) in order to retrieve it. Of course, because I was in flagrant violation of Fox's written safety policy, the damn thing had been taped down every few feet, requiring me to walk out further and further away from the greenbed in order to free it up. By the time I got the damn thing coiled up, I was standing on top of a set wall which was at least 20 feet away from the walkway.
Generally, among crew members, there's a policy of turning a blind eye towards that sort of thing - it's assumed that you know what you're doing and are doing it for a good reason. If it becomes clear to a crew member that whomever's violating a safety policy doesn't know what he or she is doing, we'll report it to that person's direct supervisor ("hey, Bob - your new kid's about to get himself killed. You might want to check on him.").
Luckily, I didn't get busted - although one of the painters looked up at me as I was WAY far off the greenbed. I just looked back at him and said (with a smile, of course) "You didn't see nothin', pal" to which he replied (also with a smile) "Wow. It sounds like there's a voice coming from up there, but I can't see anyone."
*I wholeheartedly support the industry's attempt to make the job less dangerous, and I applaud the safety program for basically forcing producers to pretend to give a shit about my health and welfare. I also do not condone or advise in any way, shape, or form violation of established safety procedures.
Rules, however, were sometimes made to be broken, and I'd just love it if they'd trust my judgment and knowledge of what's safe and not safe - for myself - in any given situation.
Yesterday, I was back on the Bones rigging crew (and thank heavens for that - the shooting crew had a 5 pm call, which means they probably called wrap at 7 or 8 this morning).
Most of what we were doing was wrapping out a courtroom set that we shot yesterday (the set was part of the recently cancelled show Head Cases: Bones shot in it Thursday, and House is shooting in it Monday).
One of the things that's not so great about the new, evolved, safety-conscious film industry is that we have a ton of restrictions on what we can and can't do, and all of the studios now have 'safety compliance' departments - which consist mostly of people who wander around and bust you if you violate that particular studio's written safety policy*.
For work on elevated walkways (the permanent catwalk system or 'perms', and 'greenbeds' which are walkways hung just over the top of the sets), people not trained on and certified to use fall arrest systems ("yo-yo"s) must stay within the confines of the handrails at all times.
Someone (like me) who hasn't got this certification may not stand on the knee or hand rails (to increase reach), crawl out onto the beams of the perms to retrieve objects, or go for a stroll on top of the set walls (which are outside the confines of the handrails).
Of course, we end up violating these rules on a fairly regular basis.
The trick is to violate the rules as quickly as possible to make sure that one doesn't get caught. You can't use the walkie to ask where the safety rep is, because production usually monitors walkie conversations, and if they hear a request for the safety rep, they'll call them and send them to your stage.
For obvious reasons, it is unwise to use the walkie to announce intentions to break the rules - "Hey, I'm going to climb up onto the handrails of the walkway - somebody make sure the coast is clear."
Naturally, there was one stubborn stinger (that's what we call an extension cord) that I couldn't get from the greenbed (despite my pulling really hard), so I had to go out onto the ceiling pieces of the set (not such a big deal if you know where to step, big problem if you don't) in order to retrieve it. Of course, because I was in flagrant violation of Fox's written safety policy, the damn thing had been taped down every few feet, requiring me to walk out further and further away from the greenbed in order to free it up. By the time I got the damn thing coiled up, I was standing on top of a set wall which was at least 20 feet away from the walkway.
Generally, among crew members, there's a policy of turning a blind eye towards that sort of thing - it's assumed that you know what you're doing and are doing it for a good reason. If it becomes clear to a crew member that whomever's violating a safety policy doesn't know what he or she is doing, we'll report it to that person's direct supervisor ("hey, Bob - your new kid's about to get himself killed. You might want to check on him.").
Luckily, I didn't get busted - although one of the painters looked up at me as I was WAY far off the greenbed. I just looked back at him and said (with a smile, of course) "You didn't see nothin', pal" to which he replied (also with a smile) "Wow. It sounds like there's a voice coming from up there, but I can't see anyone."
*I wholeheartedly support the industry's attempt to make the job less dangerous, and I applaud the safety program for basically forcing producers to pretend to give a shit about my health and welfare. I also do not condone or advise in any way, shape, or form violation of established safety procedures.
Rules, however, were sometimes made to be broken, and I'd just love it if they'd trust my judgment and knowledge of what's safe and not safe - for myself - in any given situation.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Waiting
I get asked the question "What made you start this blog?" a lot.
I started this blog to prove myself right.
After years of hearing "Wow, your job must be so interesting", "People really would eat this up", and "You should write a book" I started the blog - if only to prove to everyone that I'm really a complete bore and no one wants to read about me or my job.
I guess I've been proven wrong, as folks do seem to be interested, but I'm still afraid that I make my job seem a lot more action-packed and fascinating than it really is.
I blog about stuff that happens to me - but there's a lot of time in between that stuff, and most of it's spent waiting.
Waiting for talent.
Waiting on camera.
Waiting on lunch.
Waiting to see if they're going to move on.
Waiting for the AD's to call 'cut' so I can turn the page of the newspaper.
Waiting on the sun to go down so we can light the night exterior.
Waiting for no fucking reason at all.
Even rigging (setting up for the shooting crew) involves waiting:
Waiting to be let into the location.
Waiting for equipment to be delivered.
Waiting on the truck to show up so we can load it.
Waiting for the rigging gaffer to tell us what to do.
Waiting for the guys 'up high' to send the rope back down so we can tie on another load of cable.
Waiting on paperwork from the rental house.
I'd say that, on average, about 70% of my day is spent waiting.
When we have to wait, we take the time - even if it is just an attempt to stave off boredom - to talk to each other, find a common ground, and make friends of people we'd otherwise never speak to. I once had a 20 minute conversation with one of the biggest producers in Hollywood who never, ever would have spoken to me if we hadn't been trapped on a set - waiting, of course - and both been huge Futurama fans.
No matter who we are, where we come from, or what job we do, the beast that is the film industry forces us all to wait - locked on a sound stage, trapped on a location with no cell service, shivering on a night shoot in the dead of winter - and thus we find a strange sort of equality.
Okay, maybe it is kind of interesting.
I started this blog to prove myself right.
After years of hearing "Wow, your job must be so interesting", "People really would eat this up", and "You should write a book" I started the blog - if only to prove to everyone that I'm really a complete bore and no one wants to read about me or my job.
I guess I've been proven wrong, as folks do seem to be interested, but I'm still afraid that I make my job seem a lot more action-packed and fascinating than it really is.
I blog about stuff that happens to me - but there's a lot of time in between that stuff, and most of it's spent waiting.
Waiting for talent.
Waiting on camera.
Waiting on lunch.
Waiting to see if they're going to move on.
Waiting for the AD's to call 'cut' so I can turn the page of the newspaper.
Waiting on the sun to go down so we can light the night exterior.
Waiting for no fucking reason at all.
Even rigging (setting up for the shooting crew) involves waiting:
Waiting to be let into the location.
Waiting for equipment to be delivered.
Waiting on the truck to show up so we can load it.
Waiting for the rigging gaffer to tell us what to do.
Waiting for the guys 'up high' to send the rope back down so we can tie on another load of cable.
Waiting on paperwork from the rental house.
I'd say that, on average, about 70% of my day is spent waiting.
When we have to wait, we take the time - even if it is just an attempt to stave off boredom - to talk to each other, find a common ground, and make friends of people we'd otherwise never speak to. I once had a 20 minute conversation with one of the biggest producers in Hollywood who never, ever would have spoken to me if we hadn't been trapped on a set - waiting, of course - and both been huge Futurama fans.
No matter who we are, where we come from, or what job we do, the beast that is the film industry forces us all to wait - locked on a sound stage, trapped on a location with no cell service, shivering on a night shoot in the dead of winter - and thus we find a strange sort of equality.
Okay, maybe it is kind of interesting.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
The Five Dollar House: A bedtime story.
I know the following story to be true - it was told to me (a long time ago) by the location rep of the house as we were standing on the front porch, watching the sun set and wondering when the hell they were going to call wrap.
Once upon a time (okay, late 1990's), a then-wealthy foreign businessman decided to give his wife the mother of all anniversary gifts - a hillside home in Malibu with stunning ocean views and huge walk-in closets (or whatever it was that was trendy in the late 1990's).
He bought a gigantic parcel (I seem to remember it being at least seven acres), and hired a contractor to build his dream home - where he and his beloved would spend the rest of their lives in opulence and bliss.
One fine day, standing in the middle of his breathtaking ocean-view property, he held up a five dollar bill and said to the contractor "I want a house that looks exactly like the one on the back of this bill."
The contractor, being a working man, probably said "Sure thing, boss", while thinking what the hell would these wackos ask him to build next.
But the contractor, being a working man, gave the wealthy businessman exactly what he asked for - A huge, gaudy white marble house that, from the front, was a dead ringer for the Lincoln Memorial.
The businessman spend who-knows-how-much on the house and elaborately landscaped grounds (sort of Versailles-like: topiaries, garden paths, fountains and a pool that looked like it belonged at Ceasar's Palace), and then, on the big day, drove the love of his life to the new house to surprise her.
As they came up the winding driveway, and the brand-new house came into view, his wife said "Ugh - it's horrible! It looks like a mausoleum! I could never live in such an ugly house!"
I have no idea what he said next, but I do know that he turned the car around, went back home, and put the property on the market the very next day.
While he was trying to sell it, he allowed a bunch of rap videos (and rock videos, and infomercials, and anything else that would pay him - as the whole process apparently ruined him) to shoot there, and that's when I heard this story.
Speaking of stories, the moral of this one is that the next time you drop a few million dollars (which I just know you have lying around - admit it) on a house for your wife, maybe you should be very, very certain that she'll like it.
Like maybe ask her first.
Just a suggestion.
I was not working at the five dollar house today, but a few miles up the road in northern Malibu, just south (by about 100 yards) of the Ventura County line (for non LA-based readers, this means it's in bumfuck).
Everything about the day was unremarkable, except for the views. Good Lord, the California coast is beautiful at sunset.
Okay, the layer of smog's not so pretty, but otherwise it's stunning.
This is the guesthouse. I love the warm tones of late-afternoon sunlight.
This is the last of the light and the first star in the sky at the same time.
And as I was walking to my car, I noticed this sign on the neighbor's gate:
That's not very neighborly, now is it?
Oh, and I have no idea what happened to the five dollar house (which I seem to remember being above Trancas market, which is a few miles south of where we were shooting today).
It's probably been torn down and is now more than likely a condo complex called "Lincoln Estates" or something like that.
Once upon a time (okay, late 1990's), a then-wealthy foreign businessman decided to give his wife the mother of all anniversary gifts - a hillside home in Malibu with stunning ocean views and huge walk-in closets (or whatever it was that was trendy in the late 1990's).
He bought a gigantic parcel (I seem to remember it being at least seven acres), and hired a contractor to build his dream home - where he and his beloved would spend the rest of their lives in opulence and bliss.
One fine day, standing in the middle of his breathtaking ocean-view property, he held up a five dollar bill and said to the contractor "I want a house that looks exactly like the one on the back of this bill."
The contractor, being a working man, probably said "Sure thing, boss", while thinking what the hell would these wackos ask him to build next.
But the contractor, being a working man, gave the wealthy businessman exactly what he asked for - A huge, gaudy white marble house that, from the front, was a dead ringer for the Lincoln Memorial.
The businessman spend who-knows-how-much on the house and elaborately landscaped grounds (sort of Versailles-like: topiaries, garden paths, fountains and a pool that looked like it belonged at Ceasar's Palace), and then, on the big day, drove the love of his life to the new house to surprise her.
As they came up the winding driveway, and the brand-new house came into view, his wife said "Ugh - it's horrible! It looks like a mausoleum! I could never live in such an ugly house!"
I have no idea what he said next, but I do know that he turned the car around, went back home, and put the property on the market the very next day.
While he was trying to sell it, he allowed a bunch of rap videos (and rock videos, and infomercials, and anything else that would pay him - as the whole process apparently ruined him) to shoot there, and that's when I heard this story.
Speaking of stories, the moral of this one is that the next time you drop a few million dollars (which I just know you have lying around - admit it) on a house for your wife, maybe you should be very, very certain that she'll like it.
Like maybe ask her first.
Just a suggestion.
I was not working at the five dollar house today, but a few miles up the road in northern Malibu, just south (by about 100 yards) of the Ventura County line (for non LA-based readers, this means it's in bumfuck).
Everything about the day was unremarkable, except for the views. Good Lord, the California coast is beautiful at sunset.
Okay, the layer of smog's not so pretty, but otherwise it's stunning.
This is the guesthouse. I love the warm tones of late-afternoon sunlight.
This is the last of the light and the first star in the sky at the same time.
And as I was walking to my car, I noticed this sign on the neighbor's gate:
That's not very neighborly, now is it?
Oh, and I have no idea what happened to the five dollar house (which I seem to remember being above Trancas market, which is a few miles south of where we were shooting today).
It's probably been torn down and is now more than likely a condo complex called "Lincoln Estates" or something like that.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
I love my chiropractor.
Actually, he's my former chiropractor - he closed his human practice and started working on show horses (the pay's better and the horses don't talk back). He's exceptionally talented (he's the sole reason why I haven't had to have knee surgery), and since he stopped seeing patients I've not been able to find another chiropractor that seems to know his (or her) ass from a hole in the ground.
This morning, I dragged my pain-killer hung-over self out of bed and went back to the doctor's office to have him pop the wrist back in - only to have it pop (audibly) back out less than an hour later as I was making a left turn.
After probably traumatizing the pre-schoolers in the next car by screaming "Fuck fuck fuck fuck!", I called the chiropractor and started to beg.
He finally agreed to see me at 5 pm, so I had to run around all day (film festival deadline snuck up on me) with only one fully-functioning arm. Thank god the P.O.S. has an automatic transmission.
When I got to his house, he took one look at my wrist, rolled his eyes, sighed, and said "It's not your wrist, it's your elbow."
Me: "But I heard the wrist pop."
Chiropractor: "I'm sure you did - the wrist bone's not in the right place, but the real problem is with the elbow. Shit rolls downhill, you know."
Me (confused): "Okay."
Anyways - it's not totally back in yet (he says it'll take a few days to move itself back, and it's still sore, so I'm keeping this post short), but it feels about a thousand percent better. I've got an ice pack on it, and he told me to take Advil for the next few days to keep the inflammation down.
It hasn't popped back out yet, although I was extra-careful on the drive home.
This morning, I dragged my pain-killer hung-over self out of bed and went back to the doctor's office to have him pop the wrist back in - only to have it pop (audibly) back out less than an hour later as I was making a left turn.
After probably traumatizing the pre-schoolers in the next car by screaming "Fuck fuck fuck fuck!", I called the chiropractor and started to beg.
He finally agreed to see me at 5 pm, so I had to run around all day (film festival deadline snuck up on me) with only one fully-functioning arm. Thank god the P.O.S. has an automatic transmission.
When I got to his house, he took one look at my wrist, rolled his eyes, sighed, and said "It's not your wrist, it's your elbow."
Me: "But I heard the wrist pop."
Chiropractor: "I'm sure you did - the wrist bone's not in the right place, but the real problem is with the elbow. Shit rolls downhill, you know."
Me (confused): "Okay."
Anyways - it's not totally back in yet (he says it'll take a few days to move itself back, and it's still sore, so I'm keeping this post short), but it feels about a thousand percent better. I've got an ice pack on it, and he told me to take Advil for the next few days to keep the inflammation down.
It hasn't popped back out yet, although I was extra-careful on the drive home.
Monday, October 10, 2005
This is exactly as painful as you'd imagine.
Had an interesting day, and there was something that I really wanted to write about (someone remind me to do a post about the 'tier system')...
But my number came up in the' injury lottery' today.
After lunch, as I was tightening the bale* on a light we were pulling off the shelf, I heard a 'pop'.
It took me a moment to realize that it came from my wrist.
The doctor popped it back in; but, of course, after I got home it popped back out. Also of course, as soon as I got home, I took the pain medication and now can't drive back to the hospital (it seems to be having little effect on the pain, but is very effectively screwing up my motor skills).
I don't want to call in a favor (for a ride) to sit in the ER for 5 hours. I just want to go to bed.
*I'll explain it later. Typing is excruciating.
But my number came up in the' injury lottery' today.
After lunch, as I was tightening the bale* on a light we were pulling off the shelf, I heard a 'pop'.
It took me a moment to realize that it came from my wrist.
The doctor popped it back in; but, of course, after I got home it popped back out. Also of course, as soon as I got home, I took the pain medication and now can't drive back to the hospital (it seems to be having little effect on the pain, but is very effectively screwing up my motor skills).
I don't want to call in a favor (for a ride) to sit in the ER for 5 hours. I just want to go to bed.
*I'll explain it later. Typing is excruciating.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Friday Photo
This was on a dusty shelf in a dark corner of Universal's lamp dock.
I had no idea what the hell this thing was (I stood and looked at it for a while, with my head cocked to the side like that dog in the old RCA ads) - I ended up having to hunt down one of the older guys to tell me.
It's a DC (Direct Current) underwater light from the 1950's. There's not a good sense of scale in the photo, but it's about two feet (60 cm) tall.
Back in the days before specialized underwater lighting systems, electricians would take a bare 10k (10,000 watt) globe, epoxy (the gooey looking grey stuff) the connection to make it waterproof, drop the bulb in the water and turn it on. This was how they lit the pools on all those old Ethel Merman movies.
This one is clearly an attempt to build a better mousetrap, and has a metal reflector to magnify the light, a steel cage to prevent bulb breakage, and a weighted plate on the bottom to keep the whole contraption near the bottom of the pool (light bulbs - even big ones - float).
Wacky. I can't believe the lamp dock still has these things. I'm almost positive they're not allowed to use them anymore.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
I was right about that one.
As predicted, I ended up working on the lamp dock all day. Lamp dock duty involves typical warehouse stuff - putting away equipment, testing stuff that's going out, sorting, repairing, etc...
Hey, it may have been busy work, but it was in the air-conditioning - and that was a good thing, as my other prediction also was true. It was approximately five thousand degrees on Universal's back lot, thanks to the Santa Anas.*
I've known the guys on the Uni dock for a long time, and they're a nice bunch of folks. I got to catch up on what's been going on (I mentioned in a previous post that Universal's dock is gossip central), saw a few friends who are loading shows, and got to see a new baby for the first time (well, the baby's almost two, I just hadn't seen her).
Before lunch, I was working on the cable side of the dock (cable on one side, lamps on the other) with a proselytizing Jehovah's Witness and an observant Muslim (who's fasting for Ramadan). These two have worked together for years and get along fine - at work, at least. If they hate each other, they're doing a damn good job of hiding it.
After lunch, I got moved to the lamp side of the dock and spent a few hours test burning HMI's**, and then it was time to go home.
As leaving for the day, my walk to the parking lot took me through the extras holding area for "The Good German". There were at least 300 extras milling about in 1940's costumes. I couldn't see any AD's, so for a minute or so, I was the only person around not in period costume.
*For those of you not familiar with Los Angeles; this time of year we get hot, dry winds called the Santa Anas. The temperature rockets up, the humidity drops to single digits, and anywhere outside feels suspiciously like a blast furnace - even the beach areas, which are normally cool and overcast.
** HMI's are electronically controlled lights, and must be tested to be sure they start, burn at the correct color temperature, and don't flicker.
Hey, it may have been busy work, but it was in the air-conditioning - and that was a good thing, as my other prediction also was true. It was approximately five thousand degrees on Universal's back lot, thanks to the Santa Anas.*
I've known the guys on the Uni dock for a long time, and they're a nice bunch of folks. I got to catch up on what's been going on (I mentioned in a previous post that Universal's dock is gossip central), saw a few friends who are loading shows, and got to see a new baby for the first time (well, the baby's almost two, I just hadn't seen her).
Before lunch, I was working on the cable side of the dock (cable on one side, lamps on the other) with a proselytizing Jehovah's Witness and an observant Muslim (who's fasting for Ramadan). These two have worked together for years and get along fine - at work, at least. If they hate each other, they're doing a damn good job of hiding it.
After lunch, I got moved to the lamp side of the dock and spent a few hours test burning HMI's**, and then it was time to go home.
As leaving for the day, my walk to the parking lot took me through the extras holding area for "The Good German". There were at least 300 extras milling about in 1940's costumes. I couldn't see any AD's, so for a minute or so, I was the only person around not in period costume.
*For those of you not familiar with Los Angeles; this time of year we get hot, dry winds called the Santa Anas. The temperature rockets up, the humidity drops to single digits, and anywhere outside feels suspiciously like a blast furnace - even the beach areas, which are normally cool and overcast.
** HMI's are electronically controlled lights, and must be tested to be sure they start, burn at the correct color temperature, and don't flicker.
Great day, bad coffee.
After almost an entire day wasted sleeping,* I went back to Bones second unit (yesterday was Wednesday, right?).
We had yet another new gaffer (just for second unit, though. No crew changes on first unit that I've heard about), and while he was a bit uptight for the first half of the day, after lunch he relaxed, started cracking jokes, and we all had a great time. We only had about 6 pages to shoot, so no one was in a hurry (to the point that production moved a bit too slowly and what should have been a 9 hour day turned into a 12 1/2 hour day - it's true that the work expands to fit the time allotted).
The only major bummer of the day was that, for some reason, the coffee on second unit tasted like ass (hey, the DP said it, not me). We kept having to walk all the way across the lot to stage 6 (where first unit was) to get decent java. The craft service guy kept telling us that it was Folgers, which 'scored higher than Starbucks in a taste-test', but no one was buying it.
Next door to stage 10, Arrested Development were shooting on NY street - I ran into a friend of mine who's been working on the crew and I took a few minutes to shmooze the best boy in an attempt to get days on one of the only TV shows I watch consistently. I so rarely get to work on anything I like anymore.**
During lunch, I took a 9 am call at Universal, which I instantly regretted; but once you say yes, you can't really back out. Universal's back lot is about five thousand degrees during the summer, and I generally say no when they call me anytime between June and Thanksgiving.
The fact that it's a 9 am call leads me to believe I may be working on the lamp dock, which I ferverently hope as I'll be in the air conditioning all day.
* There was a time in my life when hours like Monday's didn't seem to bother me. Once, when I was trying to get my days to join the union, I worked for 24 hours straight (on two different jobs). Afterwards, I went home, took a six hour nap and then went out to a nightclub.
Needless to say, I can't do that anymore. Nowadays, anything more than 14 hours hurts me bad - I must be getting old.
**That statement makes it seem like I've often - in the past - worked on shows that I liked.
This is untrue. I've very rarely worked on anything that I'd actually want to see.
We had yet another new gaffer (just for second unit, though. No crew changes on first unit that I've heard about), and while he was a bit uptight for the first half of the day, after lunch he relaxed, started cracking jokes, and we all had a great time. We only had about 6 pages to shoot, so no one was in a hurry (to the point that production moved a bit too slowly and what should have been a 9 hour day turned into a 12 1/2 hour day - it's true that the work expands to fit the time allotted).
The only major bummer of the day was that, for some reason, the coffee on second unit tasted like ass (hey, the DP said it, not me). We kept having to walk all the way across the lot to stage 6 (where first unit was) to get decent java. The craft service guy kept telling us that it was Folgers, which 'scored higher than Starbucks in a taste-test', but no one was buying it.
Next door to stage 10, Arrested Development were shooting on NY street - I ran into a friend of mine who's been working on the crew and I took a few minutes to shmooze the best boy in an attempt to get days on one of the only TV shows I watch consistently. I so rarely get to work on anything I like anymore.**
During lunch, I took a 9 am call at Universal, which I instantly regretted; but once you say yes, you can't really back out. Universal's back lot is about five thousand degrees during the summer, and I generally say no when they call me anytime between June and Thanksgiving.
The fact that it's a 9 am call leads me to believe I may be working on the lamp dock, which I ferverently hope as I'll be in the air conditioning all day.
* There was a time in my life when hours like Monday's didn't seem to bother me. Once, when I was trying to get my days to join the union, I worked for 24 hours straight (on two different jobs). Afterwards, I went home, took a six hour nap and then went out to a nightclub.
Needless to say, I can't do that anymore. Nowadays, anything more than 14 hours hurts me bad - I must be getting old.
**That statement makes it seem like I've often - in the past - worked on shows that I liked.
This is untrue. I've very rarely worked on anything that I'd actually want to see.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Next time, Just Say No.
I had almost forgotten why I hate rap videos so much (I've managed to not work one in years), but yesterday reminded me all over again.
Call time: 7 am
Wrap time: 3:30 am
Highlights of the day: One of the rapper's "posse" threatening the craft service girl because she 'disrespected' him by telling him he'd have to wait a few minutes for coffee.
Another one of the "posse" telling the transportation co-ordinator that they felt the lighting trucks should move because they didn't want to park a block away and walk. They threatened him when he suggested that they park in crew parking with everyone else.
Yet more "posse" eating ALL the food that had been set out for second meal - before the crew got to eat. I'm fairly certain they threatened someone, I just didn't hear about it.
Can you tell that most rap video problems are "posse" related?
Luckily, it was my turn to be "truck bitch",* so I managed to avoid any direct contact with the rapper, his friends, associates or assorted hangers-on. Thank goodness.
Now I remember - very, very clearly - why I hate working on rap videos so much.
On the bright side - there was a little stray dog hanging around the trucks all day. He was dirty, skinny and afraid of everyone (but he was very hungry and we were feeding him, so he hung out). At some point during the day he fell in love with one of the production assistants, and followed her around looking cute (he even let her pick him up and pet him) until she decided to take him home with her; so the day worked out really, really well - at least for the dog.
At the end of the night, I overheard about three of the production staff telling the producer to lose their phone numbers if this was the type of job he was going keep getting.
Ouch.
*"Truck bitch" is the person who stays in the truck all night - putting things away, prepping lights that are called for so they get on set faster, and going on the coffee (or in this case, food) runs. It's boring, but sometimes it's the best place to be.
Call time: 7 am
Wrap time: 3:30 am
Highlights of the day: One of the rapper's "posse" threatening the craft service girl because she 'disrespected' him by telling him he'd have to wait a few minutes for coffee.
Another one of the "posse" telling the transportation co-ordinator that they felt the lighting trucks should move because they didn't want to park a block away and walk. They threatened him when he suggested that they park in crew parking with everyone else.
Yet more "posse" eating ALL the food that had been set out for second meal - before the crew got to eat. I'm fairly certain they threatened someone, I just didn't hear about it.
Can you tell that most rap video problems are "posse" related?
Luckily, it was my turn to be "truck bitch",* so I managed to avoid any direct contact with the rapper, his friends, associates or assorted hangers-on. Thank goodness.
Now I remember - very, very clearly - why I hate working on rap videos so much.
On the bright side - there was a little stray dog hanging around the trucks all day. He was dirty, skinny and afraid of everyone (but he was very hungry and we were feeding him, so he hung out). At some point during the day he fell in love with one of the production assistants, and followed her around looking cute (he even let her pick him up and pet him) until she decided to take him home with her; so the day worked out really, really well - at least for the dog.
At the end of the night, I overheard about three of the production staff telling the producer to lose their phone numbers if this was the type of job he was going keep getting.
Ouch.
*"Truck bitch" is the person who stays in the truck all night - putting things away, prepping lights that are called for so they get on set faster, and going on the coffee (or in this case, food) runs. It's boring, but sometimes it's the best place to be.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Timing really is everything.
I'm off to an out-of-state wedding. I'd been bitching about having to go (not so much the wedding - more that I really hate flying), but now it's starting to seem like a great idea to get out of town for the weekend.
The air in Los Angeles is about 45% smoke today (there's a layer of ash on my car right now), it's hotter than hell, and the sky is a really gross color.
Hopefully, this fire will be out by the time I get back on Sunday night, and no one in or near the burn areas will lose homes, pets or loved ones.
The air in Los Angeles is about 45% smoke today (there's a layer of ash on my car right now), it's hotter than hell, and the sky is a really gross color.
Hopefully, this fire will be out by the time I get back on Sunday night, and no one in or near the burn areas will lose homes, pets or loved ones.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Fun things to do with idle days....
In Los Angeles any fruit which is accessible from a public area (sidewalk, parking lot, etc), and can be picked without trespassing is, by law, public property.
Fallen Fruit is a website which maps locations of publicly available fruit.
Since I'm not working today, I'm off to pick some free avocados!
Fallen Fruit is a website which maps locations of publicly available fruit.
Since I'm not working today, I'm off to pick some free avocados!
Monday, September 26, 2005
I'd like your finest fried food, please
Saturday was a girls' trip to the LA County Fair!
I hopped in the car with a few friends and we headed out to Pomona (drive 10 miles past east bumfuck and make a left). We got to the fair about 11 am, and it took us a full hour to get from the car through the ticket lines and into the fair itself.
The LA County Fair was enormous. It had to be over a mile from one end to the other, and the trams were too crowded (and the line for the chair lift was too long), so we ended up walking all day.
The midway was colorful, but I skipped the rides - a few years ago, I worked on a commercial with a bunch of carnies and they scared me so bad I'll never again set foot on anything they've touched.
Instead of sitting on the ferris wheel, I decided to spend the day eating deep-fried food.
The deep-fried snickers bar was not really my thing. I'm more into a food that would be healthy were it not fried - that way I don't feel so bad about eating it.
Over a span of about 7 hours, I ate the following items that had been deep-fried: An avocado (not so good), artichoke hearts (not bad with hot sauce and vinegar, awful with that horrible packet of ranch dressing), an onion (very tasty), and a banana (very, very tasty).
I also had some beer, some wine, and at least a gallon of water.
The official temperature was 85, but with the asphalt and the crush of humanity, it had to be over 100.
I spent a lot of time in the barns, looking at the cute baby animals and getting the hell out of the midday sun.
I also watched a horse race from the outside rail of the track - right next to the winner's circle (where the poor panting, shaking winner had to have his picture taken before he was allowed to go back to the barn and rest), and I got to pet one of the Budweiser (tm) Clydesdales.
On the way home - stuck in traffic, of course - we started talking about what LA will do if the "Big One" hits us.
We, as a city, have always been told that after a large earthquake, we'll most likely have to fend for ourselves for a few days (this was true in 1994 - the power in Hollywood was out for a week, and although there wasn't looting, no stores were open), so we need to have supplies laid in.
After I got home, I surveyed my 'earthquake supply closet'.
One bottle of diet peach Snapple
One half-eaten box of Ritz Crackers
One can hearts of palm (which I ate while contemplating the shitty state of my disaster supplies)
One half box of bandaids.
Empty tube of neosporin.
Compare this list to what the LAFD tells me I should have.
Yikes. Were 'the big one' to hit tomorrow, I'd be totally fucked. So, Sunday I went out and did some of my earthquake shopping. I got six gallons of water, a bunch of canned food (all low-sodium. The LAFD recommends only low sodium food so that you don't drink too much water), some peanut butter and two boxes of a cracker brand that I don't like (Wasa rye) so I won't be tempted to eat it.
I still have to stock up on first aid supplies and a camp stove, though. That'll be another paycheck.
I hopped in the car with a few friends and we headed out to Pomona (drive 10 miles past east bumfuck and make a left). We got to the fair about 11 am, and it took us a full hour to get from the car through the ticket lines and into the fair itself.
The LA County Fair was enormous. It had to be over a mile from one end to the other, and the trams were too crowded (and the line for the chair lift was too long), so we ended up walking all day.
The midway was colorful, but I skipped the rides - a few years ago, I worked on a commercial with a bunch of carnies and they scared me so bad I'll never again set foot on anything they've touched.
Instead of sitting on the ferris wheel, I decided to spend the day eating deep-fried food.
The deep-fried snickers bar was not really my thing. I'm more into a food that would be healthy were it not fried - that way I don't feel so bad about eating it.
Over a span of about 7 hours, I ate the following items that had been deep-fried: An avocado (not so good), artichoke hearts (not bad with hot sauce and vinegar, awful with that horrible packet of ranch dressing), an onion (very tasty), and a banana (very, very tasty).
I also had some beer, some wine, and at least a gallon of water.
The official temperature was 85, but with the asphalt and the crush of humanity, it had to be over 100.
I spent a lot of time in the barns, looking at the cute baby animals and getting the hell out of the midday sun.
I also watched a horse race from the outside rail of the track - right next to the winner's circle (where the poor panting, shaking winner had to have his picture taken before he was allowed to go back to the barn and rest), and I got to pet one of the Budweiser (tm) Clydesdales.
On the way home - stuck in traffic, of course - we started talking about what LA will do if the "Big One" hits us.
We, as a city, have always been told that after a large earthquake, we'll most likely have to fend for ourselves for a few days (this was true in 1994 - the power in Hollywood was out for a week, and although there wasn't looting, no stores were open), so we need to have supplies laid in.
After I got home, I surveyed my 'earthquake supply closet'.
One bottle of diet peach Snapple
One half-eaten box of Ritz Crackers
One can hearts of palm (which I ate while contemplating the shitty state of my disaster supplies)
One half box of bandaids.
Empty tube of neosporin.
Compare this list to what the LAFD tells me I should have.
Yikes. Were 'the big one' to hit tomorrow, I'd be totally fucked. So, Sunday I went out and did some of my earthquake shopping. I got six gallons of water, a bunch of canned food (all low-sodium. The LAFD recommends only low sodium food so that you don't drink too much water), some peanut butter and two boxes of a cracker brand that I don't like (Wasa rye) so I won't be tempted to eat it.
I still have to stock up on first aid supplies and a camp stove, though. That'll be another paycheck.
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