|
Filmmaker's Diary:
|
I'm writing this from the 8th floor, room 801 of the Superior Court of Los Angeles, where I have been fortunate enough to be summoned for jury duty. Note to self: write a treatment for new tv series, LAW & ORDER: JUROR SERVICE. "In the criminal and civil juror system there are two separate, but equally important groups; those who can get out of jury duty, and those who cannot. These are their stories." Bong Bong...
I called Ned to see if he'd received my latest diary entries, but they made me turn my cell phone off before we could discuss them. Although he did have time to say that they were so good it makes him all the angrier that I haven't been updating them all along. It's true I suck, but it's part of my mystique.
They just showed us a couple of lovely videos detailing what a moving and fulfilling experience being a juror will be for all of us. We may even want to stay in touch with our fellow jurors after it's all over. I believe they call that the Stockholm Syndrome. Actually, isn't that when you fall in love with your captors? Oh, fuck it, I don't care. I'm bored. I don't want to be here. Of course, if I am called, I will dispatch my duty to the best of my etc. Notice I said "if". Apparently, if we manage by some miracle to sit in this holding pen from 9am to 5pm and not have our name called to be part of a jury, we're free to go and our service is complete for one year. Tick tick tick tick...
You know, Ned was just here in Los Angeles for a visit. He, his wife Anne, and their amazingly beautiful daughter Harper. I was actually embarrassed during their stay, as I have been during every other time they've visited. You see, I'm the resident, the Los Angeleno, I'm supposed to be the host during their time here. And yet, I seem to know virtually nothing about the city in which I live. I haven't been anywhere and I don't know where anything is. All the nice restaurants we went to were actually found by Anne using her trusty Zagat guide. Case in point, we had dinner at Pink's, the world famous hot dog stand that I'd somehow never been to even though it's right near where I work. By the way, I told Ned that I didn't think that we should go there because there was no parking and no seating. Of course, when we arrive there's ample parking and a huge outdoor seating patio which I never noticed before. [Neditor: Oh, crikey, that place is great! I don't care if you're a vegan, get your ass to Pink's and have the onion rings at least ...] But that's not the story.
The story is: after dinner, when we decide we'd like some ice cream. Or perhaps donuts. Or both. I inform them that we'll have to make two stops because I know of no magical place which sells both. So we go to Winchell's for the donuts, 7-11 for the ice cream, and head home. However, once we hit my neighborhood, we discover that there are no less than THREE shops with signs that clearly say: 24-HOUR ICE CREAM & DONUTS not one mile from my apartment. But to be fair, I've only lived here ten years.
Also my wife Melody and I were doing the play, so weekend evenings were out. And I'd taken so much time off from work lately with acting buisness that I couldn't take extra time while they were here. So that left just a few hours of hang out time together. And they have a baby. They can't just 'hang out'. But we still managed to enjoy their visit. Ned came to see the play and was impressed, which meant a lot to me.
Oh hey! Did I mention the awesome old-timey Western Union Telegram he sent me on opening night?
It's now 2:30 pm. They called out a bunch of names, but I wasn't one of them, so I'm safe for now. 2 1/2 hours to go. I'm pretty sure the guy sitting directly across from me is Foster Brooks. Although he may have died. Perhaps this is his hell. I've had a lot of celebrity run-ins lately:
* Jerry Stahl (Permanent Midnight the book and movie, plus a
Consulting Producer on CSI) at the Ralph's supermarket;
* Richard Lewis, whom I helped at the store (he kept calling me "bro");
* Adam Sandler, who's office was across from my trailer on the Sony Studios
lot when I was shooting THE GUARDIAN (Apparently, he only uses his office for
hanging out with his pals and heckling passersby. Now that's a great life. And
PUNCH-DRUNK LOVE is wonderful, too);
* and the big one, Winona Ryder. Although I have seen her in person before,
when I walked in on Ned titty-fucking her in a cabana at the Sonesta Beach Hotel.
This was back in the early 90's, during his brief stint with Soul Asylum...
I would've met Sir Paul McCartney on the Sony lot, if it weren't for the six
huge guys who would've beat the shit out of me if I tried to get close to him.
But all of these brushes with celebrity pale in comparison with the evening
I got in a shouting match with Marty Engels. I'm not sure what he's famous
for other than being married to Shirley Jones. He wanted to be let into my bookstore
after we'd closed. When I said no, he handled it with grace.
"Fuck you! What's this world coming to?"
"Sir, the store's closed (the moose shoulda told you). The registers have
been shut down. I'm not letting you in!"
"One of these days, your car is gonna be on fire, and you'll ask for my
help and I won't be there!!"
Everyday I live in fear that his words will prove prophetic.
Ding ding ding!! It's five o'clock! I dodged an inconvenience bullet. I can
go back to my life of joy, where I sit in judgment of no one. May you all be
as blessed as I.
P.S. Ned and I didn't have a chance to work on the movie at all while he was here. I only mention this so as to finally bring this diary back to the topic of the PopCanon Suckumentary. Does anybody remember laughter?
