Sunday, February 27, 2005
I was in a club last night but who cares?
No one cares when there are 20 of me all pressed up against bar counters, all wondering why each other are in the scene. In between scripts I sometimes can't sleep. I toss around on my bed, and get up and read a shitty script and still can't sleep. I feel like I have to immerse myself in a character to feel whole. I know other actors like that. They get obsessed with it. Their regular selves don't even seem normal unless there is a hint of their latest character, or latest read, burgeoning. I can read a dismal script and still immerse myself into thinking, ' What if I were him?' Even if it was some dumb cocktail hour story.
The day it started I had so many posts: Here's more posts from June 14th, 2004:
10:27 pm Urban Wage Slaves
I’m memorizing lines. This helps me, even so early in the game. If I want to help scout an area I need to feel the pain of such a transition, such a transcendence from idealism to pessimism and self-decay; the debauchery of a pulp novelist character on the edge of insanity—the actor can believe in it if he chooses. I do. I could be him in Vegas. I have. It’s Hollywood for the stars, the stars to be, and the common glitter bug on the streets. Vegas is the perfect metaphor, though some might say New York would be as well. You build tall buildings and cram people in from all walks of life, into endless cubicles by the hundreds and hundreds of thousands. How can you not have decay? In one sense, NY is a society of caged urban wage-slaves.
10:59 pm Abu-Hollywood Prison
T****** said, “Old vampires never die, they continue to suck.” He had also taken one look at Nancy bent and crying over the casket, then called me on the phone. “Now that’s great acting,” he said. “They even got the whole family involved.” Of course I argued with him on this point.“It was sunset. She was sad,” I said. He didn’t let up. He figured someone had pried open the man’s eyes, made him look at his family, that they agreed on the sunset moment and last gasp of breath, that no one needed to know the real end had been so inconsequential, just like the final casket moment of the whole family in tears. T****** was furious as he yelled, “Gorbachev and Thatcher were both paid huge retirement sums years ago so they would make such noble speeches!”“It was their history. They could be so noble,” I said.“You will be history one day too, and I will scream just as loud at your demise.”I never know when he is just trying to make me mad. But I’m lying on this bed and thinking about it and it sure does make me want that swordfish and vinaigrette he had been eating the other day. Maybe this is just the character coming out in me, realizing what a Fusion Suit is: to hate the crime boss, to hate to go back to Vegas, to hate the need for the tormenting moment that sucks you into its slimy grasp. Why couldn’t the world have just let the old lady cry, scripted or not? Why does Mr. Fusion go meet the crime boss; why does he feel that he needs to interview the crime boss for a more realistic Wal-Mart shelf pulp novel? It sucks him in. He wants to interview him because he needs that dark underworld as badly as the crime boss. Am I like that without having to reach too far? I hate to say it but I know a lot of Abu-Hollywood people. They torment and stack the supposed criminals like corpses and make millions. ¶ 12:42 AM
The day it started I had so many posts: Here's more posts from June 14th, 2004:
10:27 pm Urban Wage Slaves
I’m memorizing lines. This helps me, even so early in the game. If I want to help scout an area I need to feel the pain of such a transition, such a transcendence from idealism to pessimism and self-decay; the debauchery of a pulp novelist character on the edge of insanity—the actor can believe in it if he chooses. I do. I could be him in Vegas. I have. It’s Hollywood for the stars, the stars to be, and the common glitter bug on the streets. Vegas is the perfect metaphor, though some might say New York would be as well. You build tall buildings and cram people in from all walks of life, into endless cubicles by the hundreds and hundreds of thousands. How can you not have decay? In one sense, NY is a society of caged urban wage-slaves.
10:59 pm Abu-Hollywood Prison
T****** said, “Old vampires never die, they continue to suck.” He had also taken one look at Nancy bent and crying over the casket, then called me on the phone. “Now that’s great acting,” he said. “They even got the whole family involved.” Of course I argued with him on this point.“It was sunset. She was sad,” I said. He didn’t let up. He figured someone had pried open the man’s eyes, made him look at his family, that they agreed on the sunset moment and last gasp of breath, that no one needed to know the real end had been so inconsequential, just like the final casket moment of the whole family in tears. T****** was furious as he yelled, “Gorbachev and Thatcher were both paid huge retirement sums years ago so they would make such noble speeches!”“It was their history. They could be so noble,” I said.“You will be history one day too, and I will scream just as loud at your demise.”I never know when he is just trying to make me mad. But I’m lying on this bed and thinking about it and it sure does make me want that swordfish and vinaigrette he had been eating the other day. Maybe this is just the character coming out in me, realizing what a Fusion Suit is: to hate the crime boss, to hate to go back to Vegas, to hate the need for the tormenting moment that sucks you into its slimy grasp. Why couldn’t the world have just let the old lady cry, scripted or not? Why does Mr. Fusion go meet the crime boss; why does he feel that he needs to interview the crime boss for a more realistic Wal-Mart shelf pulp novel? It sucks him in. He wants to interview him because he needs that dark underworld as badly as the crime boss. Am I like that without having to reach too far? I hate to say it but I know a lot of Abu-Hollywood people. They torment and stack the supposed criminals like corpses and make millions. ¶ 12:42 AM
