Pro-Hymn

Hey, kids!  Today was my first real pro gig as a filmmaker.  I was supposed to P.A. (production assistant, i.e. gopher/runner/bottom of the foodchain) for a feature length documentary on international politics, namely the U.N.

I found the job on Craig's List but the information regarding the gig and what I'd be doing was pretty slim.  They contacted me on Monday and I said I would do the job and they told me that the call-time was 10am.  With my insomnia, 10am is okay but not great.  I may not even fall asleep till 7am some nights, so if that had happened I would've just stayed up (because that is no problem).

I got an email on Tuesday night saying that the call-time had been changed to 2:30pm.

Yes!

I looked down at the location and it said Taisho Sushi Restaurant, in Carlsbad.

No!

Oh well.  I already committed and it's not like I was going to hit traffic at 1 in the afternoon.

Last night (Wednesday), I settled down to sleep at 2:45am and of course, I didn't actually fall asleep till after 5am.  Yippee...

I woke up at 11am because my alarm clock is very annoying.  I did my morning routine (the 3 S's) and headed out for the shoot. 

I got to Carlsbad at about 2pm and had a tough time finding the sushi place.  The signs weren't big and it wasn't really on the road it should be listed at.  After a quick call to the producer, I was on the right track and I arrived on-time.  I introduced myself to the 5 or so people that were there and we chit-chatted about stuff.  It was clear that we weren't filming at the sushi place and we were going to go to somebody's house.  Then the producer says, "Oh hey, guys, whatever you do, don't mention Metallica while we're there."

"Awwww...," I said as a joke.  We even joked about whether or not we could mention Motorhead and I chimed in with Husker Du.  Then we all went back to talking about other things.  But it was bouncing around in my head for a few minutes, so I asked why we couldn't mention Metallica?

"Because he was in the band and they fired him," she answered.

"Wait a minute.  Who?  What's his name?" I questioned further.

"Dave Mustaine," she replied nonchalantly.

"Dave-Fucking-Mustaine?!" I said, obviously trying hard not to look like a fanboy.

Everyone seemed to not know who he was.  I was clearly the only fan at any rate.  I guess he has recorded a new album called, "United Abominations" so they thought he would be an interesting "color" interview.  I can only assume that he hates the U.N. because it ceases to do anything about genocide in Africa and elsewhere.  I would agree that that is a problem.

So here I am, getting all excited.  They decide we should car pool to his house to avoid anyone getting lost.  A few guys get into one car and me and 3 other people are gonna go together.

One problem: We're going in an Acura Integra.  It's clear that I'm going in the backseat, but how???  I offer to take us in my SUV.  They poo-poo the idea and say we'll all fit.

Yeah... not comfortably.  Yeah... not me.  I had to sit with my head at an angle the whole way, which by the way, was a LONG, LONG WAY AWAY.  Apparently, the only reason we met at this sushi place in Carlsbad is because that's where the crew wanted to eat lunch.  Mr. Mustaine, the rock legend, lives in fucking Fallbrook.  I know, fucking Fallbrook.  So that meant 45 minutes in the car with winding roads.

So we get to his gated community in the middle of rolling green hills that I'd rather not live in, ever.  I contort out of the car, a voila, I'm at Casa de Rock!  It's a nice place on the hillside of... well, a hillside.  It's not crazy big.  He did have a Mercedes in the driveway but that's about all the extravagance I could see.

I really had to pee at this point too.  People start shuffling around and I follow the producer ('cause I honestly don't know who to follow) and I end up in back by the pool (which is small and unimpressive).  The view was okay, if you like hills.  

As we looked at the pool, I hear, "There were ducks in there this morning."  And I look up and above a steel, spiral staircase leading to the 2nd floor is Dangerous Dave Mustaine himself.  He's in a t-shirt and jeans, with his long and flowing reddish blonde hair.  He talks a little about the place but I didn't pay much attention.  I realized I should at least pretend to work.  I saw some people carry stuff up to the 2nd floor, as Dave disappeared, and I followed them to see if I could help.  They didn't really need me but I handed them things anyway.  

We were lighting his "studio," which was really just a small room with a sound board.  I went back downstairs as there seemed to be an issue about what they would film first and it seemed like they were more concerned about something other than the sun, which would go down shortly.  Then I hear them asking about cars.  What people drive, more specifically.  They needed to get the lights back soon.  Sure enough, I was the answer they had looked for.  The guy with the SUV.

So, though I had offered it up before, now someone would have to drive me ALL THE WAY back to Carlsbad to get my car, then I would drive ALL THE WAY back to Casa de Mustaine, pick up the gear and take it to the rental house before they close.  

Just swell.  I'm the only Megadeth fan and I don't get to hang around.

Kevin, the other P.A., drives me to my car and I drive back.  Luckily, Kevin was a Grade-A, Class Act and good conversation.  Without him, I would've been pissed.  I actually learned a lot about the business from his eyes as he was a recent UCSD grad, who had made "the move" up to L.A. and was working as a grip.  He told me that if I want to direct, that I should direct and not fool around gripping or A.D.ing.  He said the only real ways to get there are to: get money and then direct, produce-make money and then direct whatever you want, or write and then direct (which I brought up).  Very insightful.  I need to get writing!

Anyhoo, I get back to the Mustaine Ranch (haha, get it?) and I load up some lights and C-Stands, and Kevin and I head down to Kearney Mesa to return them.  Traffic was surprisingly non-existent.  After finding the place, I drove Kevin ALL THE WAY back up to his car in Carlsbad.  Being the gent that he is, Kevin buys me dinner at the Pizza Port for my troubles.  I hope everybody in L.A. is like Kevin... except hot and female.

After a fond-fairwell, I drive ALL THE WAY back home.  

So here's a quick recap:  

Money earned- $125
Actually work done- Handed a balast to the gaffer
Time spent with the Mustainer- 2 and half minutes
Miles driven/ridden- 490 (approximately)
Tanks of gas- 1/2

Filmmaking, kids... It's FAN-TASTIC!  :-P  Pbbbbbbbbbbbth!!!