Pilot season – when, unsurprisingly, the pilots for next season’s new TV shows are shot – is officially over.
Since I didn’t get a spot on a crew, I bounced around between three shows, sometimes only getting a few hours of turnaround before guzzling coffee and going to work another job.
Also, there’s a 5 am mental barrier for me.
Getting up at 5? Fine. No problem.
Getting up at 4:30? Anxiety about oversleeping which results in sleep so fitful I’d be more rested had I stayed up and shopped for shoes on eBay, especially since one of these shows was with a gaffer I love working for, but who is absolutely intolerant of anyone being even a nanosecond late to work.
In production world, 15 minutes before call is on time, and exactly at call time is late. Well, not late, but…frowned upon.
So I got there 20 minutes early every morning. And I worked. And then I worked. And I worked some more. And when I didn’t have work, I called our union hall and got send out on a job immediately, because there was so much work.
I’ve mentioned before that I enjoy going out on hall calls. I get to meet new people, who may hire me in the future, and in fact one best boy who had me as a hall call recommended me for full-time spot on a show. I didn’t get it, but it’s the thought that counts.*
Now it’s all over.
The pilots are finished, and the established episodics are ending their season within the next week or so, so it’s down time.
Which is a really good thing for me, because over the weekend I had an allergic reaction to an antibiotic and am now covered in hives.
Since I can’t seem to do anything that’s not excessive, these aren’t normal hives. They’re super hives that have spread into giant weeping mats of blisters.
I can blame the initial upper respiratory infection on what the newsbots are calling the worst allergy season in 30 years, combined with working in a junkyard (which may or may not allow toxic waste if you slip the right person a few hundred bucks), and the city deciding to jackhammer the alley behind my place presumably for the sole purpose of coating the entire neighborhood in dust from the Yorty administration. You know, for the lulz.
Of course I had to go off the antibiotics, and I have to wait until the reaction subsides before I start anything new.
So I’m itching, oozing, staggering around like a drunk, and coughing like a tubercular Victorian poet.
The elderly woman three apartments down keeps bringing me matzoh ball soup, which is great, but it’s 90 degrees and I don’t really want anything hot.
On the upside, WordPress has brought back the built-in spell check, so I can be lazy when I type.
*It really does count, because a bad referral usually reflects badly on the person who made it, as in “What the fuck with that guy? You said he was good. You must be smoking shoelaces.” So any time anyone throws my name in for a job, I take that as a huge compliment even if I don’t get the call.