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.
Tuesday, July 21, 1998: Production Day 2
Ready to kick ass,
Got sick again this morning, up at 5:00, rising like the dead. Had a terrible dream about riding the space shuttle from party to party with a bunch of Hollywood dicks; my unholy awakening was slightly improved with deliverance from such a mind-numbing midnight reverie. And I ran out of toothpaste, so I rode the bus all the way to work with my buttery nubs wearing little turtleneck sweaters. Ugh. The morning light is brutal, the repeated sight of which I would never wish upon my worst enemy. Thank god for coffee, although I may find myself graduating to some harder chemicals if this pace keeps up. Caffeine is a "stepping stone" drug if I've ever smoked one. The demented agenda of my days is now becoming clear: I am one of the first people on the set. My immediate superiors are the Key Set PA and the 2nd Assistant Director (a power hungry slavedriver of the shortest order.) The only poor souls beneath me in the food chain are the interns, who not only neglect financial compensation but must also receive the fiery whip of my lash as impulse necessitates. Everyone else on set, it seems, not only enjoys more thrilling employment, larger paychecks, and a modicum of respect, but gets to tell me what to do. I can only imagine the abuses of power that are sure to occur in such a warped hierarchy. And I guess I wasn't the only one who found myself fetching in my walkie talkie regalia, because I have been assigned walkie talkie detail, which requires charging all batteries, handing out walkies in the morning, and collecting them at the end of the day. Oh joy. Further insulting my injurious sentence as impotent peon, I must hassle and haggle each and every crew member at least twice a day for their cooperation, a task that grows exponentially difficult as my relative power-level decreases. Maybe, like in jail, I will have to kick someone's ass in the first day or two so everyone knows not to fuck with me. I shall commandeer a bitch. I will begin considering my first victim- perhaps the demonic 2nd AD himself. Kill: I am too weary to work on the screenplay. I am afraid my writing will suffer dearly as I pursue these base notions of "employment" and "income". Note to self: get toothpaste, see if Garret has any. Million dollar idea: toothbrush with toothpaste tube built into the handle. Squeeze, brush, when empty, discard.
