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.
Keenly aware,
Thursday, August 6, 1998: Production Day 14
Today not only did I continue my advancement as personal canine trainer, but I also got a taste of some Hollywood magic proper. It seems there is a tunnel on set that is going to serve as a "portal" into the mind of our headliner, Mr. John Malkovich. This tunnel is coated in muddy, sludgy, slime, and I anticipate two things from this exercise in special effects: I will get to see both Cameron Diaz and my new found soul-mate, Catherine Keener, rolling around in the mud (I can only hope they will find occasion, scripted or otherwise, to wrestle while coated in the sensual liquid earth.) Secondly, and this result is one that, I figure, only I am coherent and perceptive enough (on this set at least) to fully examine, will be the extended metaphorical and otherwise subconscious afflictions each of our star-studded cast suffer. I find myself in the rare position to critically psychoanalyze both cast and crew as they respond to this monumental manifestation of maternal anatomy: a huge, warm, sticky, tube that delivers you into another realm of consciousness. C'mon, man! How Freudian can you get? I should write a book, or at least some character sketches to sell to the tabloids, because my hyper-perception is about to unravel the mysteries of some of our most celebrated talent's inner beings. Mr. Cusack was certainly looking rather agitated on the set today- what might his body language and mutterings suggest as he approaches this prosthetic birth canal? Million dollar idea: tennis shoes with walkman-radios on them.
