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Filmmaker's Diary:
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Fuck it, i'm going back.
I turn my 85 Buick LeSabre around and head back to the Casting Studios on La Brea and 3rd in Hollywood. I was just there for an audition for a Microsoft commercial. I decided to blow it off, which is not something an actor does very often. Or ever. But my case is different.
This audition is the last one I'll have to go on under contract with my current agent (who shall remain nameless. Crazy and nameless). My relationship with this person actually began very well. Very promising. It was pilot season and lots of auditions and meetings were coming my way. Also a couple of jobs. It appeared that I was finally turning a corner after a decade in LA. But suddenly things changed. This person started making very unusual demands. Unusual quickly became uncomfortable. Then inappropriate. Then finally intolerable. To protect the guilty I won't go into the details, but man, it sucked. Having to deal with or even talk to this person actually made me sick. I tried to hang in as long as possible for the sake of the hard work this person was putting into promoting me, but ultimately it didn't matter. I think a big part of being happy is about getting people who have a negative effect on you the fuck out of your life. I don't care if this person got me a thousand auditions, it's not worth it. They had to go. But when I tried to break it off, this person refused to let me out of my contract. As frustrating as it was, all I could do was wait it out.
And so here I am, two and a half months later and just about a week or so from the point where I can legally terminate my dealio, and I get called for this damn audition. Why should I even go? If I get it I'll just have to be tied to this person longer. Fuck it. I'm not doing it. I'm leaving. But as I'm driving away it occurs to me that by doing so, this person may be able to claim that I did not act in good faith while under contract. It's kinda paranoid, but I don't want to do anything that might screw up my release. I don't want to get shanked in the showers during my last days of incarceration. I gotta play it safe, stay in my cell. So I turn my 85 Buick LeSabre around and go back to the Casting Studios on La Brea and 3rd in Hollywood. I audition. I do well. I go home. Happy that my long local nightmare is almost over.
Of course, I get a callback.
Flash forward to June 17th...
...the 17th anniversary of my first date with my wife, and my first official
day of freedom from the nameless one. I'd sent a legal type letter terminating
this person's services a week ago, but have recieved no acknowledgment. But
today I get a call. Trying to take the high road this person says " I wish
you good luck. I really, really, really, really do." Now when a person
uses that many reallys, they generally "really" mean that you should
get hit by a fucking bus. But rather than ruining my day as they would in
the past (for months I was the only actor in LA who didn't want to hear from
his agent), these final two incoherent ramblings just make me laugh. Because
it's the last I'll hear from them. Cut to menacing music and a close-up shot
of a dog with shifty eyes.
On to other bi'ness. Namely this here Suckumentary .Is anyone still following the progress of this project? If so, thanks for your patience, and I hope you'll stick with us for a while longer. Please check out a few new clips just added to the site, including the surprising presence of Glen Campbell, a little worse for wear, wishing PopCanon farewell with a song. In an excerpt from his journal entry, my new partner in this thing, Travis White (my stage manager from PAINS OF YOUTH), has this to say about the PopCanon Suckumentary Post Production experience:
I spent three hours at two video game stores on Saturday, browsing. Didn't buy a thing. Managed to watch four movies (FULLTIME KILLER, OFFICE SPACE, SERPICO, THE PARALLAX VIEW) with another on the horizon (THE TRANSPORTER, in all of Jason Statham's glory). Attended an awkward surprise party for a close friend, after which I cleaned the hostess' apartment after she passed out (Honest to Christ, my roommate heard her hitting on Alex). I cleaned my own apartment, did my laundry, some menial errands and ironed some shirts. Slept a total of 12 hours Friday and Saturday nights combined.
I also spent about three hours working on the PopCanon documentary.
I figure 3 hours out of a 48 hour period ain't too bad. What is that, about 5%?
The gist of this doc has always been planned out, and a few months ago, Alex and I were chompin' at the bit to edit this motherfucker into the can. Primped, primed, and confident. With delusions of working full tilt boogie to produce the greatest thing since STOP MAKING SENSE (or in Alex's goofy little world, something called THE LAST FOXTROT or ELECTRIC SLIDE or WALTZ or some shit ). But reality, busy schedules, and sometimes forgetful laziness impeded the process.
Similar to these journal entries (one of about five I have written and promised Alex, but have somehow failed to provide), this doc is proving mighty tricky in getting me to roll up my sleeves and fucking finishing already. Happily, these entries are way easier and give the illusion that we're sitting here actually doing something other than fantasizing about Jason Statham
(BART: And I'll take up smoking and give that up.
HOMER: Good for you son. Giving up smoking is one of the hardest things you'll
ever have to do. Have a dollar.
LISA: But he didn't do anything!
HOMER: Didn't he, Lisa? Didn't he? )...
I think he's just making fun of how stupid and off topic MY journal entries are, but I'm not sure.
This is the guy I enlisted to help me get focused.
