"Do you know who's in charge, soldier?" "Yeah."

I came back from the light and space of Panama into a cramped room in the Chateau Marmont in Hollywood and it really put the zap on my head. To go from raw power and beauty and chaos to the tight and uptight confines of a commercial with Halle Berry was to experience true jet lag. By the by, Ms. Berry is a jackass ("I'm very sensitive to spirits.") and has a really bad tattoo on her right ass cheek of a sunflower, the stalk looks as if the flower is growing out of her asshole.

I've spent the last week doing night shoots for an Audi commercial posing as a movie. Justin Timberlake is the star. The schedule is insane: twenty set ups before lunch. No time for marks, no time for rehearsals, no time to light. Shoot shoot shootshootshoothsootshothsooahoshoot. Hacking it out like butchers but the money guys don't seem to care. Timberlake is funny and nice enough but dammit that boy don't know when to shut the fuck up about continuity. We talked about guns all night and it would appear I'm not only a better shot but far more knowledgeable about the whole deal. Take that Mr. Bring Sexy Back. At least he's not as short as I assumed he'd be.

The night shoot is a particularly brutal bit of Hollywood film making. You lose touch with friends and family and your dog forgets about you. The house stops feeling like yours and you greet the sunrise with joy and regret: joy as it means night is done and unless the tent in a five story wherehouse we're going home and regret as you realize everyone else is up and you're about to go down. Done long enough you can go mad or get divorced or realize that your kids are in college all of a sudden. I hate night shoots.

We're trying to shoot a movie in one week and the producer underbid the job. We don't have enough time or crew to get this done right. Nerves are frayed. People are yelling a lot. An extra had a seizure. An actor cut his head open. The B 1st got his foot run over by the dolly. I am doing my best to keep my head low and my powder dry. I will not get killed on a job. I will not get hurt as bad as Sweden on a job ever again. In short, I am going to get through this and call it a wrap on the year.

Call time is 5pm. Time to brush the dog out and get a goin'. I'm going to sleep at lunch and then go duck hunting at wrap, which should be 5am or so on Saturday. I'll miss the early morning shoot but maybe I'll get on a blind in the early afternoon. Nice. Work all night, drive like a banshee out to San Jacinto, and crash out in the car for a few hours before tossing out the dekes and blowing some calls. Not a bad Fraturday.

Peace out, bitches!