I am not a human being II

Pictured: Middle of fucking nowhere

NOTE: I wrote this earlier this week and just got around to posting it now, it is now dated, we'll call it a period piece.

I’m sitting in my car right now 200 miles from Los Angeles in a blistering hot desert. My air conditioning isn’t working so I am dripping sweat onto the keyboard of my laptop. If you’re wondering where all those car commercials with a 50,000 dollar car ripping through the desert at supersonic speed are filmed, it’s here. Or rather 5 miles from here. Set is about 5 miles away, I am not there yet, because I accidentally arrived an hour early today. I could go to set, you know help out a bit, but I’m not into going above the call of duty. If I go over there now, I’ll have to lift heavy shit and get even sweatier than I am now. I can’t just cruise up and be like “yo, I’m not on the clock for another hour.” They will tell me to go fuck myself. Thus, I am on the side of this country road blogging.

Commercials suck, I think everyone involved in them hates them, but there is so much money involved. No aspiring filmmaker wakes up every morning and says “I can’t wait to film a car driving really fast through the desert, this is really going to be a great opportunity for me to express myself creatively.” They probably wake up and say, “Shit I’m making $20,000 a day, I’m going to go get 4 Taiwanese hookers when this is all over and take them from behind. Then just for kicks I’ll murder them and then pay someone to hide the bodies.”

Or maybe they are excited to stop working 16 hour days and get back to their wife and kids. Sorry, I’m just getting really excited for the American Psycho screening at Hollywood Forever next week.

So I’m in Target yesterday on a “run.” In PA’ing, a run is basically when anyone on set needs something. I’ve had to get tampons for a bleeding costume supervisor, I’ve had to get crystal meth for a grip, yesterday someone really wanted Sprite Zero,. You may think this work sounds remedial, but runs are fucking sweet. I get to get in my car (paid by the mile) and listen to sports talk radio while all the other PA’s carry heavy shit around the set and sweat all over their 100 dollar Brooks Brother’s shorts (scratch that, I’m the only one that wears pink seer sucker to set) I saw Little Wayne’s CD I am Not a Human Being for sale. Now to be honest with you, I’ve never been a Weezy fan. I liked the Hot Boys and all of Cash Money in the 90’s because I thought I was ghetto fabulous and I wanted the black kids at Belzer Middle School to accept me, but ever since the Carter 1, I think he kinda sounds/looks like a mumbling rat…and to take this even further, I was kinda hoping he wouldn’t make it a few weeks ago after that stroke.

We haven’t had a good celebrity death in a while, sometimes I hope for chaos.

Alas, he survived his purple drank overdose and now he’s touring promoting his new album I am Not a Human Being.

I thought about it for a minute and I realize, he’s probably going for the same definition I am. Every night, he crushes a bunch of Xanax and cocaine (this ingredient is optional) throws it in a cup of vodka, adds Nyquil and Sprite and drinks this shit until he goes insane. He has kids that he doesn’t really give a shit about (watch the 60 minutes interview) all the money in the world, goes to jail regularly due to various infractions against responsibility and is just generally someone that doesn’t give a fuck.

I can totally relate.

For example, Saturday night I had the Bones wrap party. I didn’t work on Bones, but I work at Fox a lot and I’m homies with some of the people there and I was really looking forward to this wrap party. Meanwhile my best friend had been in town the previous 2 days and I was in the midst of a hard bender. I think I singlehandedly went through 3 bottles of vodka at Lure on Thursday, committed felonies on Friday and Saturday was supposed to be the big grand finale. Hollywood wrap party, OPEN BAR. This should get interesting. The only problem was, I had a 4 am call time. In the desert. On Sunday.

I am then tasked with this. How in the fuck am I supposed to  black on on Saturday night at a wrap party, then pick up a truck, pick up 3 motorcycles, transport said motorcycles 2 hours to the desert all by 4 am on Sunday.

Most people would probably advise, “Hey, skip the wrap party, duty calls. Drink a little for the derby on Saturday and then get to bed early so you can take care of business.”

But like Little Wayne, I am also NOT a human being. Even after my boss called me and told me that I would never work in Hollywood again if I was late (I would be costing the production $50,000 for every hour late I was with the motorcycles) I decided the PARTY must go on.

Long story short, I crushed it. I raged at that wrap party, I taught young and old alike the value of the double dutch dance floor and I got those fucking motorcycles to the Antelope Valley at 3:45am. Why chose when you can have both right?

You might be wondering how this was all possible? You always have 2 options, sleep it off or pull a Denzel at the end of Flight.

So Mr. Wayne, I apologize for briefly hoping for your death. I’m glad you didn’t die, someone else will Amy Winehouse it soon and give me an enjoyable hour on Twitter (I love the inappropriate jokes made in the wake of a celeb’s death) but you and I are kindred spirits and we should hang out soon…I’m even going to buy your album, probably listen to it tonight before I crush my daily purple drank.