So this weekend was pretty fucking full and I'm just going to disorganizedly babble for a while so sit back, grab a cookie, some pop rocks, your favorite and/or nearest crack pipe, and that bottle of dewer's you've been keeping in your desk drawer and sipping whenever the sadder realities of life begins to creep up on you, and read all about stee's weekend.

Friday night. I watched a tape of D.C. as I have a couple friends on that show. Yes, it sucks, but... OK fine, it just sucks. Dick Wolf is a smart guy, though, so I assume he'll figure out a way to make that show work. Then I worked on scenes for the shoot the next day until it was time to head to a party hosted by the former Big Cheese here at work. He recently moved to a small dot.com, and then took my friend/boss Fred along with him. So the party was a mix of the two businesses and took place at his very nice house surprisingly near my apartment. I'd never really partied with work people, but it was fine. Like any other party, once the booze got flowing, things livened up. We did tequila shots, danced to Beastie Boys, and chatted about things other than work.

I drunkenly schmoozed a lady from the dot.com place, and she responded really positively to my pitch. I don't know if anything will come of it, but with Fred also pushing me at the new company, I could have this crazy dream job. Not that it will happen, but it's moved from a joke I made when I found out what the dot.com does, to This Shit Could Technically Happen. So in all this, I ended up staying until 2am. Problem: I had to be up at 5 for the shoot. I am a very responsible actor, and would normally not go out drinking the night before a very early call, but, I did. And what happened?

I slept through my alarm. I ignored that shit like Whitney Houston turning down the TV and packing a bowl of chronic as E! wonders "what's happening to the erratically-behaving diva.".

Saturday. And I didn't just turn the thing off in my sleep or something - I slept through 90 minutes of Gangster Rap blasting in my ear. No shit, I dreamt about hanging out with Snoop Dogg and doing bong hits with ODB the whole time, until the producer of Frank's film called me wondering where the fuck I was. I arrived really late on set and apologized profusely, while clutching coffee and a bottle of Advil like Elian Gonzales hanging onto the raft wondering when mommy's gonna stop swimming face-down.

The shoot was about 100 miles outside of L.A. in the desert. (I'm not sure it was actually the desert, but let's just assume it was cuz it was hot and dry and full of tumbleweeds.) We shot at this schoolyard, having two main sequences to get through: both stunts. The first stunt involved riding a motorscooter through a ring of fire. The second, jumping a car over a ramp. Both might sound more exciting than they actually are, but being that the film is about a really shitty wanna-be stuntman, they weren't supposed to be especially impressive. In fact, the most perilous thing we encountered that day, aside from the mean sun turning us red, was The Yokels.

Yes. After a couple hours of setting up, pick-up trucks started pulling into the lot. People started piling out, heading towards us with coolers and puppies on ropes and screaming dirty children and portable meth labs. Yokel Party! So basically the entire day we battled against 40 yokels getting drunker and drunker, telling us we sucked and trying to steal our equipment and disrupt the shots. Our crew did a good job keeping them rednecks quiet, and I for one tried to be very very nice, but man, it was hard. They all had huge beer guts and some had missing limbs and all, I'm not kidding, had missing teeth. One guy wore a shirt that read, "Sex Instructor. First Lesson Free." They drank Coors Light and hit their kids and stepped on their puppies and tried to figure out how to rape our crew-women. Luckily we got everything done before sundown, and actually made it out alive and yokel-ass-kicking free. About 15 hours after I'd awoken, I got home, filthy and sunburned, but hey, at least I was no longer hung-over.

Saturday night. So around midnight I was falling over I was so tired and I made the vast mistake of going outside for a final smoke. A car pulled up and this guy I recognized from one of the back apartments in my small complex got out, staggering, and headed straight for me where I sat on my steps. He then fell onto me, and announced he was going to have a smoke with me. Then he told me that he always sees me outside on the phone and has never talked to me. He continued, "I'm 33, I have full blown MS and I'm bi-sexual and I want to kill myself."

I nearly went into panic mode from the sleep-deprivation, but I ended up spending about an hour and a half sitting on my steps as this guy explained how he's a punk-rocker (he is) and plays guitar and just did a show in front of 100,000 people and he can still play but his legs don't work well anymore and he's not staggering cuz he's drunk. At one point he began crying and then asked if I had a gun. Then he started kissing my hand getting me all snotty and explaining how he's bisexual and "what are you thinking?" and shit. At that time I just wanted to go so I explained that I'm sorry for everything that's happened to him and I know people with MS who live long lives and remain out of the wheelchair and he shouldn't count himself out but I'm not interested and I have to get up in 5 hours (true). I finally got him to go, after he insisted on seeing what my place looked like inside, and I tried to go to sleep. At that point I was criminally tired but also incredibly depressed.

I felt/feel very bad for the guy. Extremely bad. But at the same time he was pushy, talked incessantly, and kept trying to hit on me. I don't quite know how to deal with him when I see him now. If I see him. It really bummed me out, this guy.

Sunday. I eventually slept but had awful dreams about evil and murders and very bad things. The shoot was at Frank's and again lasted all day. But there were no stunts, just pure acting, and though it took longer than it should have with lighting and other small issues, it was a lot of fun. John is really great to work with/off. I bowed out of after-wrap drinks and went home and watched Clooney's live black and white version of Failsafe. Eh. It was fine. I actually liked Richard Dreyfus for the first time in a while. I think I was too tired to really enjoy it much. Plus John was on The Practice last night, so I kept switching back and forth, watching him play a guy on death row that Camryn Manheim is trying to free. Eventually I just succumbed and went to bed. Oh, and I forewent having a final smoke on the porch this time.

The Corin "Corky" Nemec Happy Song Corner

 
 
I listen to the wind, to the wind of my soul. Where I'll end up well I think, only God really knows. I've sat upon the setting sun. But never, never never never. I never wanted water once. No, never, never, never. I listen to my words, but they fall far below. I let my music take me where my heart wants to go. I swam upon the devil's lake. But never, never never never. I'll never make the same mistake. No, never, never, never... speaking of which. I take a cab down Sunset and go to the bars. I schmooze with Drew and Brad, and try to hang with the stars. I've sat inside that champagne room. But never, never never never. I never thought someday I'd get the boot. No, never, never, never. I listen to my agent, but he has no good news. I let them send me to auditions, but they give me the blues. I swam at the Four Seasons pool. But never, never never never. I never thought I'd be the fool. No, never, never, never.
 
 
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