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.
Not in a good mood,
Wednesday, July 29, 1998: Production Day 8
Like the serpentine Hydra, the poisonous politics of film production are beginning to sprout ugly heads, each with their own flavor of dreadful breath. I feel not unlike Hercules himself who must cleave asunder these vile manifestations as they spawn, forever hacking away at the writhing, regenerating beastie, my own hide at risk. It's ugly work, and with each infantile argument I find myself engaged in, I begin to further curse the demeaning and asinine process of movie creation in general. Magic my ass. For instance: one of my myriad tasks on set is to organize meals for the talent. As each superstar arrives, I must alert the appropriate parties and bring the requested meal to the trailer. Now- just in case my previous Herculean metaphor was a little ambitious for you, dear reader- for this particular work detail I feel more like a Shanghaied cabin boy, dreading each captain's confrontation for fear of the lash, the plank, or some good ol' fashioned forced sodomy. There is nothing quite so demeaning as hand-delivering food to an overpaid megalomaniac only to have it tossed back in your face for any one of a thousand ludicrous reasons. Like I cooked the fucking futomaki myself, you precious motherfuckers. Like it's my fault one of the drunken, cocaine smoking deck hands smashed into me when I was walking along and made me drop your macrobiotic bean sandwich on the sidewalk. Like you can't pick a pebble out of a side baba ganoosh or whatever the hell it is you call it. You want a waiter, go to Shoney's you despotic crybabies! You're hungry? Why don't you lean down and take a juicy bite of my ass, shit heads! Million dollar idea: the nuclear fucking bomb. I don't care if it was already invented.
