Look! Pears!

It's time for pears.

God Is Good

Perfectionism is a disease. But blanking out in the face of a desire for perfection is a disorder.

Perfection itself is fabulous.

Okay, all this to say I didn't hit perfection with the shooting of Robot Secretary #3 but it went well. When I stood gnawing on a bagel-and-cream-cheese and sucking on a coffee at 10 am in Times Square, waiting for the cameraman/sound guy who miraculously materialized at 10 pm the night before, I felt like Andy Roddick at the U.S. Open. I'd done everything I could. I'd scouted locations and even written out the shots (I haven't done that before). I'd tried to figure out where to film what and when but I still felt scared, like I was facing the Federer of filming (street scenes). But when this affable guy with long hair and a camera mounted on his shoulder arrived, and I started telling him I wanted him to film my robot and her cowboy companion coming up the 49th St. subway station stairs, 'cause it looked neat, that shot, and he nodded like that was totally cool, he got it, he was ready, and then I said, "Have you seen Midnight Cowboy?" and he's like, "Of course!" then I knew everything was going to work out.

It was even overcast, like it was in that movie. And the city performed like a dream. Everything that's irritating and too much on a daily basis looked cool and poetic in the camera's viewfinder. Taxis swishing past us. Sirens screaming. Crowds, always crowds, milling through the shots in exactly the way we'd want them to anyway. Even the grey sidewalks of midtown, with those ancient blotches of discarded gum dotting them everywhere, looked poetic.

I had to concentrate but once in a while it hit me, I am making a movie in New York City. Did I ever in a million years think I'd do that?

My actors were very committed. At one point they had to be filmed walking down a crowded street with steel pots on their heads, and forks for hands. People stared at them, but they were both fearless. At the end, it was just me, the cameraman and Joleen, the robot secretary. I didn't want to make her walk too many times through the crowd at the base of the Empire State Building dressed as a prostitute, but with a pot on her head. I told her if anyone bothered her, she should bag the whole thing. But she marched through the crowd on 5-inch heels, totally impervious. She did it several times. The cameraman suggested one more take. I said, "no, that's probably enough" but Joleen said, "Oh, come on. Who's going to do anything?" At the cameraman's suggestion, she tried a sexy walk. Now that's guts. I had a feeling he would have filmed her doing this for the rest of the day, but he was thorough in other scenes too, so really, it was just a perfect end to the day.

For the Love of Mud

I don't really heart Jake Gyllenhaal. I couldn't care less about him. Well, I like his upper lip. But I just wanted to lighten the mood after my war-criminals posting.

I've been trying to get things together to shoot Robot Secretary #3. It's an outdoor shoot with a ton of sound issues. People have been telling me anyway that the sound on my videos is terrible and I should use mics. Now I'm lost in a miasma of logistics: finding locations in and around Times Square; trying and failing to rent a camera with mics; considering buying a new camcorder and mics but stressing about the money and the difficulty of learning how to operate a new machine; trying and failing to get friends to appear as extras who proposition Robot Secretary in Times Square.

It's making me want to scream. If I have to think about one more thing -- it feels like more problems than should crop up for a 3-page sketch. This is my attempt at a shorter episode. I've already gone through so much aggro it feels like my Fitzcarraldo (but so did #1 actually).

It's just so hard to do anything that isn't just sitting down with a computer or a notebook and writing. Boy, that's freedom. This is nuts. I did manage to get a tin bowl and roasting forks for my friend who will play the cowboy ... you'll see.
I got his shirt a week ago. I need to remember to bring two casserole pots and two sets of roasting forks now. My props and gear increases but my budget and crew does not.

Do not? Can't be grammatical, can't think about that now.

It's not like writing is easy anyway! It's torture! But at least it's all on my head. I can prod myself till I come up with something. Now I'm having to prod and beg and request all these things of other people. It feels like my head is being chewed out from the inside by worms.

love,
La Misma

I Heart Jake Gyllenhaal

Unbelievable

I just saw No End In Sight. Among other things, it's left me thinking the U.S. should prosecute Rumsfeld, Cheney, Wolfowitz and Rice as war criminals. Because what the film makes sort of horrifically clear is that the intention of this invasion (why call it a "war"?) was to create chaos, sustained chaos. There were systematic "mistakes" that ensured the streets would be full of enraged Iraqis with weapons. The main one was disbanding the army. Yes, the army that they've been supposedly trying to rebuild for the last few years. "We can't leave until the Iraqis are able to defend themselves" is the line. Things might be going better along these lines if they hadn't dissolved the army, cut off pay to the military and filled the streets with unemployed men who had weapons and knowledge of where bombs were.

I was stupefied. This is a very hard movie to watch. My ignorance bothered me afterwards. Why would they disband the army? Why create such an inflammatory situation? Just to have one to be in? Then I thought, was it because they didn't trust the army? They thought the army would turn against them? Well the joke's on them because the army did turn against them, but because they were turfed out. And now they're "trying to rebuild the military."

Other things the U.S. army did make them look somewhere on a par with Hitler's gang. They began to arrest insurgents, but indiscriminately, often incorrectly, knocking on doors at 2 in the morning and leading out of the house a young male who is often the only bread-winner (in the words of the film's narration). Watching Iraqi citizens being led out of their houses and stuffed into the back of trucks felt sickeningly familiar. Who did that? Oh yeah.

We destroyed a country. The people are bleeding rags. They have nothing. Except danger. Apart from the horror and death I was heartsick at how boring it all looked. What an endless dreary nightmare -- you never get to read, your stomach is never full, you're always reacting to some horror. I mean what a way is that to live? We sit over here saying "we must bring home the troops." We don't talk about how to address what we did to a country that didn't even attack us.

Change of Pace

I'm major-assedly tennised out.

I'm ready for some hikes, like vacuous does.

I don't have his camera, his car, or his get up and go.

But I do have a vague wish to climb a mountain.

Fedder-Roddick

Third Set

Andy down two sets.

"Fed," as Andre calls him, quick as a cat. Andy is sweating and groaning at every serve. He doesn't hide the effort it takes to return a single shot of Federer's. But those serves!

Maybe I'm wrong, but Federer is serving so well I think he's had many more aces than have been called. I think Andy thinks so too. Several times when Federer's serve has been called out, Andy has just stood there with his head turned, watching the blistering track of the ball.

Andy's starting to try too hard. Going for those really tough volleys. He needs to lay back, imitate Federer's effortlessness.

Does Federer do Pilates? He seems to have something elegant and elongated about his neck.

Andy fights and fights. He is not giving up. That's something, with this super-cool magician across the net from you.

Fed does inspire awe. McEnroe and Agassi sound stuck for ways to describe his brilliance. Though Agassi does a good job of analyzing why Roger seems to have so much more time than other players to make the shots. It seems to have something to do with his shoulders.

Andy goes for another hard half-volley and loses. But he wins his game. It's 2-2 in the third.

Fedder-Roddick

First Set

Fedder looks like he's strolling at the mall.

Roddick is a lumbering dump truck by comparison.

Fedder is a lathe.

Roddick, a fullback in tennis shorts.

Fedder glances the ball back. He snaps it back like he's swatting a badminton birdie.

Roddick smashes the ball, stumbling on heavy legs through the point.

Fedder is cool, unsweating, still with the mall stroll.

Andy, lunging and pumping.

But Andy is going to do as well as he can. He's strong in himself. That's all he can bring.

And he's bringing it. Andre Agassi said he was, a minute ago, in the booth.

Fedder

John McEnroe and the other American commentators call Federer "Fedder" with just a hint of a drawn-out 'r,' like, "Fedderr", to gesture at the third syllable.

British talk show host Jonathan Ross pronounced it "Federuh," revealing the sometime-usefulness of a phonetics that turns open vowel sounds into 'r' sounds and the opposite ('r' sounds into open vowel sounds).

On the other hand, both the New York and Boston accents do that too, so you'd think he'd be called "Federuh" over here too.

Quien sabe.

The tension mounts. Nadal tonight!

I Miss Smoking

But I also miss wanting to smoke. I don't even think a cigarette will be pleasurable. I can't make myself believe it will be the thing I need. I think the ads have worked on me.

Not like it would be good if I was still fighting cravings. It's good they're gone. It's good this long battle is over.

But I miss having that thing that comforted me in times of sadness, stress, boredom, anger, even happiness -- any kind of emotional extremis. I miss having something to resort to. I miss being unhealthy. I miss other people smoking too. I miss the whole smoking world.