Strange thing to say, but on the morning of my 34th birthday, I feel absolutely on track. I learned that I share the day with not only Barry Manilow, but also James Brown. And the radio stations flipped from Outkast's Ms. Jackson to Hot Hot Heat's Bandages to Marvin Gaye's Sexual Healing. And you can't go wrong with that.
Cop shows. Crime shows. Forensics shows. I'm watching 'em all lately, with the exception of COPS itself, and I find the A&E ones to be the best. However, during Scene of the Crime last night (or was it Investigative Reports?), the show featured a reinactment of a witness interrogation regarding the fact that she'd been raped while vacationing in Florida. The scene took place at the home of the witness, somewhere in southern Ontario. Kudos to the set dec folk for dressing the tiny set as such: in the corner behind the detective -- a stack of firewood. And draped across the back of the chair, prominent every time the detective leaned forward with a concerned look on her face -- a Hudson's Bay blanket. It's a minor detail that probably only Canadians and set dec would understand. If the camera could have zoomed in just a bit closer, I imagine there would have been a small splooch of maple syrup on the edge of the blanket, just for added credibility.
Proof positive that I've been in this industry too long: when I hear a good song, I don't think "damn, that's good", I think "damn, that'd be good for a closing credit sequence". Case in point: the first track off the as yet unreleased EP from Death Cab for Cutie, whom I caught live last night. Music supervisors: snag that track.
But before that, I had to endure the Dismemberment Plan. Twice now I've suffered through this band because they happen to be opening for some other group I really do want to see, and twice now I've been astounded by their crowd. But first, the band: I hate their music, it frustrates me. It could be the pitch of the singer's voice, it could be that noodling kabbalahesque fuckery of math rock, it could be something much more ad hominem like the simian headjerks and serious "I'm playing now" browline of the bassist. And it's not as though I want all my lead singers in tight leather, but slacks have no place on stage. Slacks. What are you, the Yes for our generation? Hurry up and break up already.
However, their audience is mesmerizing. Fueled by a combination of Mountain Dew and Tom Lee paycheques tucked into their dress shirt pockets, this audience loves them some Dismemberment Plan. They know all the lyrics. They cheer when they hear the first few notes of each song. They dance. I haven't seen this sort of enthusiasm at a show in Vancouver since...well since the last time I endured their live show when they opened for Hot Hot Heat. Or since I saw Duran Duran open for David Bowie on the Glass Spider tour.
Saving graces: Gold Chains and Enon. Immediately I want to snag that red/green/revolution song so I can "blast" that from the stereo of my old man car during my morning drive. That'd be a fine way to start each new glorious day.
Last night, the difference between Americans and Canadians became apparent. When the movie started up and the row of chatty westside property owners in front of us kept on chatting, the two Canadians stewed between moments of AHEM!! and contemplation of yelling "WE'RE NOT IN YOUR FUCKING LIVING ROOM SO SHUT THE FUCK UP" while the American just leaned forward and politely asked them not to talk during the film, thanks. The two Canadians were perplexed. You could just do that? And it works? Cool.
Over here, my parking space has been moved 3.8 steps closer to the front door, and is now in a patch of shade. On my contract, I'm credited as "Story Editor" yet on our crew list, I'm an Executive Story Editor. Even though one will remain on paper while the other goes on the screen, the longer title was a nice pick-me-up alternative this morning to my regular 18 lines of coke. A quick scan of the crew list opens up a whole new world of grippage. No Drydens (sob), no Huttons (thanks!).
Oh, and in case you were waiting for the answer, bruising would occur under the circumstances of a midline fracture to the thyroid cartilage.
Few things are better than this. A corner office. Windows. Free and unlimited access to snacks, in addition to paid-for lunches. And a beloved song loading on the internet radio. See me got photograph of you and momma-momma-mommasan.
Story department day #3: my script. The meeting went well. Minimal notes. Dialogue tweaks and a new chip on the shoulder for the detective who's taking the lead in this episode. The rewrite should only take a couple of days, but I feel on hold. There have been discussions about casting Asian for the role, and while that wouldn't change the majority of the dialogue/action already in there, it does affect a couple of things. And no, I'm not thinking she should sound like that chunk of Straight to Hell above. I mean, this is a moot point anyway because her dad is going to be cut in the next draft (I don't mean he's off to see a moyle, I mean he's out), but at the moment, she plays white-trash, and her dad is a boozer, most likely on the dole. And, you know, I lived in the downtown eastside/chinatown for three years, and worked down there for another two after I moved to my current place, and I just never saw boozy, welfare-collecting, white-trash chinese dads. Which isn't to say they might not exist. Hell, I've never seen a baby crow.
I had some bullshit segment in the script about blunt force trauma and depth of bruising. But here's the thing...my DB (that's dead body in cop show lingo) gets it in the throat and dies from asphyxiation due to crushed windpipe. The ME realizes it's not accidental based on depth of bruising. However, would brusing even occur? Think about it. Bruises don't really turn up for a couple of days, and that's only because blood is still circulating. So if DB takes it in the throat and dies, that blood is going to pool rather than circulate, and unless it's pooling at his throat, the bruise wouldn't even have a chance to start. Even if it did pool at his throat, how could you distinguish between simple lividity and bruising? Our assistant production coordinator is trying to track down last year's coroner consultant so I can sort this out.
Which brings me back to the beginning. Few things are better than this.
I've been assigned parking space #7. This is the raccoon on the totem pole, maybe even the small bear. Somewhere quite far down from raven, but nowhere near as far down as frog. I've also been assigned the slowest computer known to man. It's running Windows 95. This is slightly better than the 386/DOS dinosaur that I bought to do all my papers for my Master's degree, but only by one species on the totem pole. My 386/DOS was a frog. This old PC is a lemming.
Very little has happened on my first day as story editor on the cop show. We hooked up our computers. The intern and other writers arrived. We ate (bagel, peanut butter), wandered around, printed two scripts, checked out the preproduction crew for cuties (so far, so good), ate more (pork tenderloin), rolled on the floor, made lists of furniture needs, tested couches, photocopied two scripts, opened and closed blinds, were hugged by one of the construction crew, plotted the use of the garden terrarium (smoking + dog storage). The work kicks in tomorrow. "Work". The phone guy said "Do you guys come up with the ideas or write the scripts?" "Both," I said. "Hmph," said he, "I don't know how you do it." Meanwhile, he was rigging up our LAN lines and configuring our phones. Who has the harder job, the one requiring more grey matter? We'll see. I still have yet to check out craft services, and if there aren't any gummy bears, then I have the more taxing occupation.
