Warning: This journal is rated R, for restricted audiences. It contains naughty language and adult situations. If you are under 18, do not read without the consent of an adult. Monday, July 20, 1998: Production Day 1 Smelly,
My delicate composition does not allow for such sudden and overwhelming changes as those thrust upon my famine-wrenched frame this black morning. I woke up a 5 am- 5 fucking am!- and took the bus to the set, literally ready to throw up in the isle at the slightest speed bump. (The entire bus, primarily full of Mexican kitchen staff, knew what was up, I'm surprised they even let me ride. The driver, especially, could smell my weakness, and I'm sure I would have been flung out the window onto SMBLVD before the first splash of puke hit the floor. They probably thought I was some hungover college twat on some fraternity initiation. In that case, they probably should have killed me.) Is that normal? Do most people feel sick to their stomach if they get up before the kinder hour of, say, noon? Luckily I didn't vomit, and the feeling subsided around lunch time (coffee didn't help, then I just felt sick *and* had diarrhea knife pains), but I really hope this condition alleviates starting tomorrow, because six weeks of morning sickness and I may have to abort, if you know what I mean. Man, I'm getting sick just thinking about it. Enough! So I got to the set and there indeedy was my headset walkie talkie, and, to be honest, I caught a few glimpses of myself in dark windows and bathroom mirrors, and I look pretty good with that thing on. Now, I'm no Madonna, but let's just say I could keep up with her on those stage crossing, writhing numbers she is so well known for. "No mucky muck", as Nigel would say. However, before I could get a solid chance to inspect my new visage, I was so violently thrust into the swirling vacuum of Hollywood drama I'm surprised my jaunty headset wasn't torn from my body, my head rolling along after it. Good lord. It was like entering a separate dimension- put the headset on, suddenly the sky goes dark and the entire staff of Nazi war criminals-turned-producers are yelling at you and cracking whips and firing rounds of ammunition at your feet. Dance! Well, even the great Oak must bend to the gale winds, and dance your faithful narrator did. We shot some prelight establishing footage, including a bizarre sequence involving "Tiny Woman" (that's how they address her in the shooting schedule, really), then some scenes with John Cusack and Cameron Diaz, who I guess are the stars. There were also a bunch of fucking birds and beasts on the set, like I don't get molested enough by the animallia in my own palace of residence. Monkeys, lizards, turtles, all kinds of shit. Crazy. I think Cusack is a puppet master or something, very bizarre, and Diaz was decked out in this frazzled wig that didn't look much like her. Mr. Jonze (isn't that a song?) must be heading in the artsy fartsy direction, because I didn't see a single damn Beastie Boy or car chase all day long. And, man, the day was long as a horse's dong. I need a shower. Million dollar idea: walkman/cellphone combination- wear the headphones, listen to music, switch over whenever you get a call.
