My dearest JUSTICE,
I am writing you from the middle of the road। No, that is NOT a metaphor। I am literally sitting in the middle of the road stopping oncoming traffic from driving through the set just around the bend। I'm reduced to working as a lowly PA for half my daily rate on a Sunday afternoon. Getting paid to sit in the middle of the street and stop traffic. Awesome.
Better than that though is who I'm working for (or should that be for whom I am working?). You probably more than anyone I know will get a kick out of this fact. We're shooting in Lynchburg, home of Jerry Fallwell's notorious cult operations base camp known as Liberty University. The production company is self professed "faith-based" and the cast and crew consist almost entirely of Liberty alums. I'm functioning in some freaky parallel Jesus-centric universe making a movie about fucking MOUNTAIN BIKE RACING. It's like a sports movie in which God brings these two dudes together to overcome their personal tragedies through the power of pushing themselves to the physical brink via MOUNTAIN BIKE RACING.
Justice, are you aware of the bizarrely homoerotic nature of this sport? There's more spandex on set than at a fucking Richard Simmons yard sale. And all these super toned spandex wearing motherfuckers cream their panties every time a dude rides by with a cooler helmet than they have. And as if all these sweaty sack bulges aren't awkward enough all these guys are Jesus FREAKS. Like according to them God came to them in prayer and said, "Ye, my son, go forth and don your spandex psychedelic trousers, clip in, and achieve maximum torque homo Jesus killing blah blah blah and tackle my most bitchin creation: the mountain bike trail!"
Don't get me wrong। Everyone's nice enough and mostly professional. I've even heard the stray dirty joke and met a few folks I genuinely like. However that does not detract from the weirdness of Hollywood del Cristo. Moreso the weirdness of professional mountain bikers. I'm worried that at any moment I'll be exposed for a fraud. So far though, so good. On not being exposed I mean.
So yeah, that's my life at present। This letter is written on the "notes" pages (duh) of my planner. Yes. My planner. Day Organizer. Calendar. Trapper Keeper book of appointments. I'm enclosing (at least intending to be enclosing) this letter in a package containing $10, some dried seaweed (for your continued good health), and gosh, I don't know what else. I'll probably go home tonight, get trashed and fill the ready-mail envelope with all kinds of random things that I find around the house. So I can only truly be held accountable for the seaweed (which is weird enough), this letter, and the ten bucks. The ten bucks is for postage on the stuff I left behind. I must insist that you shove it all in the smallest envelope, mail it as cheaply as possible, and spend the rest of the money on beer or pot. Beer's cheaper though so I recommend 40's. And maybe just for yucks you should listen to that Kid Rock song "Wastin Time" while you drink said 40. But hey, don't let me tell you how to live your life.
Also, I miss you a lot. Duh. Also you're the best thing I ever found on craigslist...unless of course on of those cocaine orgy parties works out.
Love,
Lil
No comments:
Post a Comment