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.
Ripped,
Tuesday, July 28, 1998: Production Day 7
We moved to some new location shots today, an outside take and a bar scene. I ran about like a madman, and a potential perk of this strenuous activity has occurred to me: perhaps the brutal, physically demanding tasks of my employment may serve to reinvigorate my sagging muscular structure. I must have walked a good two miles, and lifted thirty or forty times my weight in film riggings over the course of the day. I am rapidly becoming a finely tuned machine, with fiber and sinew like sprung steel. I can't imagine anyone short of Navy Seal or Triathalete would stand a chance of keeping up this exacting pace, so I can only assume either my body will conform to Herculean standards or I will be crushed and discarded like a wet noodle. Given my performance today, however, I've tested my mettle and found a superhuman element, a veritable Titan, inside my modest frame. In less than a few weeks, undoubtedly, my menacing physique and Alcatraz swagger will only help my rise through the ranks of film production. I entertained a delightful fantasy today on the bus ride home involving the 2nd AD, a sad, petty man who continues to belittle and compromise my character with threats of executive action (like showing up 20 minutes late is the end of the world): I arrive at the set, my muscles rippling like pythons under my silk shirt, legs like tree trunks, stomach like an iron gate. Without a word I approach the craft services table and find the 2nd AD chewing delicately on a sandwich. My vice-like hands take my head and turn it, sending thunderous cracks of tendon and ligament reverberating through the food tent. He turns to look at me, and finds my awesome anatomy so intimidating he cannot speak. "What you eating?" I ask. "Uh, uh, ham sandwich" he stammers. "Looks good" I say, then reach down and pluck it from his dainty digits, shove it in my mouth and quickly dispose of it. Then I swing a mean karate kick around the side and knock his head off like a soccer ball. It will be a glorious retribution indeed. Million dollar idea: I had a 50 million dollar idea at work today, but alas, I forgot to remember it. Maybe it will come back to me, but in the meantime: stupid person's sewing machine: a device that performs the more intricate and esoteric mechanizations required of the seamstress for you, and allows any old jackass to sew up some shorts. I don't have the exact specifications worked out, but I will work on it.
