Totally Unauthorized

A side of the film industry most people never see.

More foot fallout

Yesterday was our last day of work before 2010 – the main show goes down tomorrow and won’t come back until after the new year.

We had a late call and an easy day – well, set lighting did. The first part of the day was ‘drive-bys’ up in the desert, which meant that the camera guys, the director, the ADs, and the grips, etc.. all piled into a van and drove around with the camera stuck out the window of said van in order to get day exterior driving shots. Since they had no lights or power of any kind with them, there was no reason to send along an electrician, so we came in at lunch after the rest of the crew returned to the stage.

Since we came in at lunch, we only worked about six hours, which means we beat the rate (we get paid for 8 hours minimum, so if we finish in less than that we beat the rate) which is always nice – kind of like a Christmas bonus.  At the end of the day, we had a little impromptu party in one of the morgue sets. We had ice and margarita mix (no booze though. The film industry used to run on hooch and cocaine, but now we have the kinder, gentler, more responsible version and none of us would even dream of breaking the rules. Honestly. You can trust us) and a blender set up on a table where a fake rotting corpse usually rests, and we made virgin drinks and chatted before we drifted off to try to not think about the fact that it’s almost Christmas already.

Today, I ran some errands and went to the gym. When I got home and opened the mail, I got a nasty surprise.

When I was on state disability, they were supposed to report all those hours to the health plan so I’d keep my health insurance – I got the letter in the mail today telling me that I haven’t worked enough hours and am ineligible for insurance. Of course, none of the disability hours were reported. I have ‘banked’ hours that I can withdraw to qualify, of course, but had the disability hours been reported it wouldn’t be necessary. I’m also afraid to draw out of my bank since the past couple of years have been so slow. I’m afraid I won’t work enough to rebuild it, and then when it really slows down (like when the writers go on strike again and hours required to qualify jump from 300 per semester to 400 per semester) I’ll be fucked.

What the hell? The folks at the state disability office told me it was all automatic and that I wouldn’t have to do anything, because I anticipated this very situation and asked.

I know California’s broke and cutting staffing to the bone, but this is just inexcusable.

I’ve got all the paperwork still so all I have to do is spend the better part of the day tomorrow on the phone doing the telephonic equivalent of bashing my head against a brick wall, but honestly I can think of a whole list of things I’d rather be doing with my time.

I just know this is Karmic payback for my calling Joe Lieberman a waste of carbon on Twitter, even though I stand behind the statement 110%.

Stupid foot. How long is this going to go on?

Speaking of the foot, please enjoy the latest photo while I field more email from creeps:

Foot

Filed under: Uncategorized, , , , , , ,

Just in case you all were having a nice weekend

More articles about Axium and associated tomfoolery:

http://www.latimes.com/business/la-fi-axium27feb27,1,3609000.story?ctrack=1&cset=true

Enjoy!

The upside of my bank account being at crisis level is that it’s officially not worth suing me. For anything. This morning, the lady who picks through my recycling bin every week (technically, this is illegal but since the city of LA is broke I don’t see them doing anything about it, and really I don’t mind. If folks want to get up at the crack of dawn and dig through other people’s garbage to make a buck or two, they deserve that money and probably need it more than the city of … wait. LA’s broke. Nevermind.) threatened to sue me.

She’d cut herself on a bottle that had broken when I threw it in the bin, and I happened to be rolling my bike out the front door right as it happened. “Look what happened to me!” she yelled as she held up her bloody hand, “I’ll sue you!”.

I shrugged, said something about not being able to get blood from a turnip and rode off into the foggy morning which then turned to rain so of course I got soaked.

Filed under: life in LA, Non-Work, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Why yes, I am an asshole. Thanks for noticing.

In a moment of spectacularly bad planning, I have a 5 pm call today (I’m the ‘8 hour guy’ who’s just coming in to help wrap), and I have no idea what time I’ll have to be at work tomorrow morning. If it’s 7 am, I’m totally screwed – rules about turnaround only apply when one is on the same show from day to day.

So I decided to spend the day running errands, and started out with a stop for coffee. While walking back to my car, an Indian (sub-continent, not North American) guy – complete with beads, turban, sandals and nearly incomprehensible accent – stopped me and said “You look happy on the outside, but you’re disturbed inside. You have too many thoughts. Let me see your right palm.”

Then he grabbed my hand and started examining it.

At this point, I figured I was being punked (or New-Age robbed) so I started frantically looking around for either a camera crew or Officer Friendly.

Personally, I think fortune-telling is bunk (I see claims of ‘seeing the future’ as a grave misunderstanding about the nature of time), but you can’t actually tell these people that, now can you?

I must have looked wary because he continued (still clutching my hand) more earnestly, “You have a very long life-line and will live a long time with happy life and successful. You will have three lucky news in December. There are two men who love you – one loves you too much and the other is bullshit but you won’t know it for some time.”

No, I think I can see the source of the bullshit just fine, but thanks.

“Now, if you will pay me $40, you will have happy life.”

I stared at his beads for a moment, idly wondering if they ever got caught in his chest hair and asked “Does that mean that I’m not going to have a happy life if I don’t pay you $40? ‘Cause I got some bad news for you, my friend.”

“Well how much do you have?”

“Nothing. I will pay you nothing. I resent being hustled.”

“Asshole.”

Awesome. I’m still going to live a long life, though. Everyone on both sides of my family has lived past 90 (except the ones that had accidents and died young, but for genetics purposes, they don’t count), so unless the asbestos exposure gets me first I’ve got every reasonable expectation of living far, far beyond my usefulness.

So there.

Later, as I was sitting in the laundromat waiting for the dryers to finish, a guy wearing a T-shirt expressing his patriotic disdain for anyone of Middle-Eastern ancestry, wandered in and demanded I give him money. “My phone ran out of minutes,” he said, shaking his pink Razr at me for emphasis. “I need ten bucks. Please, sir.”

Sir? You need to work on your panhandling skills, kid. Scoot.”

“Asshole!”

Actually, I was more of an asshole than he’d imagined. A few minutes later, after I watched him buy some meth from the tranny hooker who hangs out in front of the coffee shop (I guess he got someone to give him some money after all), I called the cops and gave them a very detailed description of him, his meth, and his t shirt.

My laundry done, I headed back home – only to arrive right as the school across the street was letting out and all the parking was being taken up by waiting parents.

Except one space, which I slipped into ahead of the lady who was trying to make an illegal U turn in her minivan despite the heavy traffic and nearby police cruiser.

“Hey!” she yelled out her window as I got out of the car and started to unload my laundry “I want that space!”

“I want one of those really ripped Calvin Klein models and a big tub of butter, but…” I trailed off with a gesture intended to convey my good-natured disappointment at the lack of condiment-covered male models roaming the streets of American cities.

Actually, I’m on a diet, so perhaps I should want a really ripped Calvin Klein model and a big tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.

She glared at me for a moment and then yelled “Asshole!” before driving off.

Wow. Three times in one day and I’m not even wearing a costume.

Do I get a prize for that?

Oh, and happy Halloween.

Filed under: humor, life in LA, Los Angeles, Non-Work, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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