Miscellany From The Last Day of Shooting

A few bits of errata, Laz style:

-- Because we were on a Wednesday-Sunday shooting schedule, I had taken to calling each day "Fake ____". Like Wednesday was Fake Monday, Thursday was Fake Tuesday, Friday was Fake Wednesday.

Today, the last day I have to deal with this shift, I found a flaw in my cunning plan: I forgot that it was Fake Wednesday, not real Wednesday, and that therefore the aqua aerobics class would be taking over the pool at 9 instead of 9:30, and got kicked out of the pool halfway through my laps.


-- Are you really really bored? Try to identify the candy bar simply by looking at a cross-section. I went 14 for 20.


-- I am extremely excited to see Wall-E tomorrow. Almost as excited as I am to actually have a Saturday off.


--Our entertainment this evening was chasing the mouse that lives in the kitchen all over the office. My PA was taking videos of this with his cellphone, one of which has me saying in the background, "Well, the mystery guy who lost his clothes finally called back."

No, I will not be posting these videos.


--We finally finished shooting!

This has been a fun show, and a very good learning experience. The shifted week thing has been an absolute bear, but at least it was only for three weeks. I pulled a couple sixth-day paychecks, which is helpful in the realm of "Mama needs a new pair of everything."

I'm back to a normal schedule for the next couple weeks (well, I'll be in for a couple hours Sunday, but nothing like my schedule previous sundays of 5pm-5am), and then I'm scrambling for a new job. Gotta love the freelance world!

Not Dead Yet

Most of the fleas I've been battling, however, are. Huzzah! I hit a bunch of the rest with a big-ass can of Raid this evening, and they do not seem to have recovered...yet.

Unfortunately, because of my high sensitivity to the bites, I'm still absolutely covered in them. Even the smallest ones take well over a week to go away, and the bigger ones will probably last much longer.

The intense itching is driving me completely insane (even taking a crapload of antihistamines), and I've been downgraded to Flamingo from Gay Leopard - It's not just pink spots anymore, I'm totally covered in calamine lotion.

Anyway, hopefully this will prove itself resolved in the next week or so, and y'all will never have to hear about this nastiness again.

When Fleas, Six-Day Weeks and 5:30 PM Call Times Collide

It's been hellaciously hot in L.A. this week, so the fleas that I thought I'd gotten rid of are back with a MASSIVE vengeance. The only real solution is to flea-bomb the house to kill 'em all.

The problem is, flea-bombing is a stupidly elaborate and time-consuming process, since it has a tendency to cover everything in a sticky, disgusting, chemical-filled film. You therefore have to cover some stuff up in advance, and wash a lot more stuff off afterwards.

I'm also working ridiculously late (or early, depending on your perspective). Our crew call was really late, and my call was 5:30 PM. That means they expect to be shooting until at least 5:30 AM. You know it's going to be a long night when the thing that will cause filming to stop is the sunrise.

All that in mind, here is my rough schedule for the next 36 hours:

Now-6AM: Work in my office where they've turned off the air conditioning. Possibly longer.

6-7AM: Drive back to Santa Monica, try to obtain a flea fogger at Ralph's (the grocery store).

7-8AM: Prepare apartment for fogging by putting all open food and dishes in either the fridge or the dishwasher and sealing.

8AM-9AM: Drop Chaplin off for flea dip, go to pet store and get flea fogger if Ralph's didn't have one.

9:30 AM - Set off flea fogger. Flee to Nate's house and take a nap for 2-3 hours while flea fogger does its bit.

12 Noon-1PM - Go home, open windows and let apartment air out.

1PM-2PM - Return to Nate's and napping, let apartment finish airing out.

2PM-3PM - Retrieve cat from groomers, take him home. Start to clean up.

3PM-9PM - Continue cleaning and laundering. Probably pass out from exhaustion. Hopefully will not die from whatever toxic fumes remain in my apartment.

9PM-11PM - Wake up, realize I never made it to the gym and that now I have to go in the morning. Finish cleaning.

11PM-6AM - Sleep.

6AM-9AM - Get up, go to the gym, go to work.


If I don't post for several days, send help.

It's Time For Another Good Idea, Bad Idea

Courtesy of the Tenant Services folks in the building where our Production Office is located:

Good Idea: Throwing a picnic for the tenants to kick off the summer and show your appreciation of their business.

Bad Idea: Serving Chili at the picnic, to a building full of people whose office windows do not open.

I'm going to go find myself a big box of matches...

Thoughts That Cross My Mind

After blotting calamine lotion on my ridiculous number of flea bites, leaving a pattern of dark pink spots on pasty white skin: "God, I look like a gay leopard."

A Brief List Of Things I Am Doing Instead of Posting

1. Killing fleas.
2. Washing all my bedding.
3. Working.
4. Itching.
5. Working.
6. Eating.
7. Itching some more.
8. Working some more.
9. Driving.
10. Killing a couple more fleas.
11. Applying calamine lotion.
12. Working.
13. Going to the gym.
14. Itching.
15. Wishing Chaplin were not so susceptible to fleas.
16. Maybe, just maybe, sleeping.

Is It Just Me?

I'm not normally a germophobe, but this morning at the gym, someone did something that icked me out something awful.

When you swim, you're supposed to rinse off in the communal shower by the pool before and after. This both helps prevent dirt from getting in the pool (before) and helps get rid of some of the chlorine (after).

Some people like to also take the post-swim rinse as an opportunity to shampoo their hair, and perform other parts of the showering ritual, just in a bathing suit. I find this odd, but not gross.

What I found gross was the woman who insisted on brushing her teeth in the communal, open shower. Spitting onto the floor that everyone walks on, as if the mere fact that she was showering while doing it makes it okay.

I can see doing that at home, where you are the only person who has to stand in that, and the one who has to clean it up. But in a shower by a pool? Where people you don't even know go? Where everyone can see exactly what you're doing?

Frankly, I don't think there are shower shoes in existence thick enough to make that okay.

And You Thought You Had A Shitty Christmas

Clearly, none of us have anything on this guy.

Flavor vs. Color

Having had a bad cold and having blown through my remaining supply of Real (ie. pseudoephedrine-based) NyQuil, when I stopped by the drugstore to pick up another prescription tonight, I decided to pick up some more of the good stuff.

Two problems arose with this idea.

First, because pseudoephedrine is used in the manufacture of methamphetamine, anything containing it is now banished behind the counter, where you must scan your driver's license in order to purchase it, allowing Big Brother to track your purchases and ensure you're just sick and not manufacturing meth.

Because of this ridiculousness, most pharmacies just sell the "reformulated" (ie. completely useless) version over the counter, and keep a limited stock of Real NyQuil.

Secondly, because the cold I have has been going around for some time, said limited stock was depleted to the point where the only bottle left of the good stuff was the Green flavor.

Previously, I've always purchased the "Cherry" flavor, which tastes nothing whatsoever like cherries, but is at least bearable in its own foul, familiar manner.

Tonight was the first time I tried the Green flavor, which is only labeled "Original." Now I understand why Laz refers to it as the GREEEEEEEEEEEEN flavor.

Because it doesn't taste like anything else you've ever tasted. You taste it and you think, "UCH! That tastes....GREEEEEEEEN!"

You can hear and read that description all you want, but you cannot understand it until you take a sweet sip of the disgusting weirdness. Now, I understand.

And now, I must head for bed before I pass out facefirst on the keyboard.

He Ate WHAT?!

I listen to the BBC Global News Podcast in the car while I'm schlepping various things around Los Angeles, because it's an easy way for me to maintain my goal of being reasonably informed about the rest of the world.

It's normally fairly straightforward and British and reserved, but with one rather odd story to finish up the podcast.

This video was the subject of this morning's kicker:



I have to admit, when the BBC announcer, in his velvety, dignified British tones, said "An Australian politician is caught eating his own earwax" at the top of the podcast, I burst out laughing.

Plain Cheese =! Anchovies

So I used to eat a lot of pizza, but as I've been trying to lose a large amount of weight, I've limited myself to one pizza per five pounds lost.

After a long break because I took so much time off the gym after my surgery, tonight was a pizza night. I was very excited about this, because I looooove pizza, and trying to be disciplined is...well, trying.

I called up Papa John's to order for pickup as I left physical therapy, since they're doing a $6.99 large one topping deal on pickup orders. Here is the relevant part of the conversation I had with the guy taking my order:

Him: And what topping would you like on your pizza?
Me: I'll have half pineapple and half cheese.
Him: Just cheese?
Me: Yeah, plain cheese.

So imagine my surprise after plowing through half my breadsticks and opening the pizza to eat when I found nasty-ass anchovies on half my pizza, the half that was supposed to be plain cheese.

Now I don't eat seafood at all (food poisoning when I was ten gave me what's basically a conditioned taste aversion), but even if I were to make an exception, it would not be for oily, salty, gross, horrible anchovies.

I suppose it's probably better for my continued weight loss that I ended up just trashing that half of the pizza. Still, it's a bit frustrating to have to throw half a hot, fresh pizza in the dumpster.

Scratch That Itch

I can't tell what the hell is going on anymore with these ridiculous bug bites I'm getting.

I keep getting these horrid, hive-like things all over myself, and if I hadn't had chicken pox when I was three, I'd be concerned I had it now.

Most of the time these itches flare up at the office, but the timing is weird enough that I can't quite narrow down what's happening and where, though I'm convinced it's bugs of one sort or another.

The itching is making me absolutely insane, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why I'm apparently getting bitten by every bug that could potentially bite humans.

All I know is that I'm increasingly covered in itchy red welts and/or scabs, and I really am reaching the end of my rope in terms of how on earth to continue coping with this without losing my mind.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go bathe in calamine lotion.

That Can't Be Good

I knew Chaplin wasn't going to react well to me being back at work all day today, after being home with him for the last 2 months.

Puking all over my bed, though...that's a new one.

Bad kitty. Good thing I was already planning on doing laundry tomorrow.

Fleabag

It is a moment many a pet owner has had, and it's never good. You look at your pet, and you think you see something moving.

And you move some fur and you look closer and you realize: It's a flea. Your pet has fleas. Oh god, there are FLEAS IN THIS HOUSE! AAAAAAAAAAAH!

That was me this morning right after I woke up. I leaned over to pet Chaplin, and when I ran my hand up the back of his head, out crawled a big, nasty flea.

I'd seen something on him yesterday but couldn't conclusively identify it, and decided to ignore it out of wishful thinking. However, having looked at pictures online, I knew this second one would be the start of a very long day.

I have to say this: God bless L.A. and its mobile everything. By 9:30, the groomers had picked up Chaplin and whisked him away for a flea bath.

Certainly not the cheapest solution, but money well spent in my opinion, since it allowed me to keep my blood on the inside of my body. I don't think that would have been possible had I tried to give him a bath.

But the real pain in the ass was the washing. When you find fleas, you have to wash...everything! Every blanket, every pillow, every single thing that might possibly harbor eggs that you can cram in a washing machine, you cram.

The problem with this is that the washer is downstairs. I'm still on the pegleg, so going down stairs is a painful hassle, involving taking stairs one at a time while clinging to the railing with whatever free hands I can muster.

I can't carry anything heavy while trying this and it's hard enough to carry anything unwieldy with two good legs, so it was damn near impossible with one. I did five loads of laundry and I thought my shin was going to disintigrate.

But I got it done, and I vacuumed the couch and the mattress and his carpeted scratching post to get any last little whatevers out of there. I also went online and ordered up some Frontline.

Chaplin came back from the groomers smelling like Mountain Fresh Tide, and substantially whiter in the white portions of his fur than he did when he left. I'm still not sure they didn't actually bathe him in detergent instead of flea-bath.

So now I'm left, in a substantially cleaner yet still somehow dirtier-feeling house, paranoiacally looking at every wee movement I catch out of the corner of my eye, praying it's not another flea.

Because I am not washing all this shit again, I can tell you that much.

"I've Got David Duke and Farrakahn Down There!"

I don't know why, but for about the last 20 hours, I've been really nauseous. I have a Seinfeldian non-vomit streak going (last time was when I was 10 and had food poisoning from bad shrimp), but I don't know how much longer it will last.

I have stayed home from work in an effort not to puke on my coworkers. I may get a chance to change things up and puke on the cat instead of having him puke on me.

Good times.