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.
Tore up from the floor up,
Friday, July 24, 1998: Production Day 5
What a sexy day on shoot. I was at my usual station- picking my nose, counting dots on the ceiling while keeping various vagrants, hands, and monkeys from walking onto set while shooting- and I managed to catch a glimpse of some very racy action going down: Cameron Diaz in a metal cage, with a monkey, as directed by gunpoint. Now, I'm not real sure what kind of filth they think they are going to get away with, but somehow I don't think middle America is going to stomach the graphic portrayal of forced bestial rape on the silver screen. Hollywood, you have finally gone too far. And I thought this movie was going to be about a Weezer cover band who get caught up in a web of intrigue and nudy bar scenes. Boy was I wrong. They should call this "Peeing on John Malkovich" and fully exploit the dark fringes of perverted sado masochist activity. I really need to find myself behind the director chair, and quick. An unfettered prodigy like your intrepid narrator has no place being bossed around by subhuman mercenaries who are all clearly upset that they couldn't amount to anything higher in the Hollywood food chain than an assistant third grip, second unit. It's rather insulting, and I can only imagine the effect it is having on my writing project (I say I can only imagine, because my time is now so completely absorbed by this offensive production I haven't so much a minute to devote to my craft. I haven't written a page in weeks, I can hardly remember who is who in the damn screenplay, much less what their motivations and dramatic curves must be.) Another of my duties, which I don't recall if I mentioned in previous journal entries, is to yell "Rolling!" when the call comes through on my walkie, sending the message down the line so that even homeless people fishing through dumpsters on Olympic will get the life-depending message to shut the fuck up for one minute, important things like making movies are happening! And while my imagination is still reeling trying to comprehend the absolute destruction of my precious mental machine, yours might be better taxed trying to comprehend the shitstorm that followed an honest mistake by your faithful narrator- one missed "Rolling!" yodel and you would think God's great sky was raining diarrhea on a parade of hemophiliac albinos modeling Versace whites. I thought the dreaded 2nd AD and I might come to blows. My quick thinking, however, skirted an otherwise potentially violent situation when I pulled a Jedi mind trick and reminded him that another shoot had just begun, and his cursing would certainly not please the talent's delicate ears. Regardless, he finally stormed away, and I gave him the finger while he wasn't looking. Million dollar idea: low potency pepper mace- just enough to deter ill-minded assailants without incapacitating them. Liquid Smack I shall call it, as in a light smack to the face (and not the habit forming heroin drug that probably wouldn't get too far past the FDA's probing eyes.)
