Pseudo-Zissou
It was a beautiful old-timey square, like something you'd find at Disney World, or on a movie set. Beautiful greenery everywhere in white-picketd planters. Incredibly well-placed garlands of white lights were above, in a delicate pattern, almost a spider web, a magical lattice against the distant starry palate of the night. It was night, and the place was just magical, a vision of how Man and his inventions could make things truly beautiful.
And I was standing next to Bill Murray, working on the latest Wes Anderson film. I was a co-star, or a producer, or somehow otherwise directly involved in the work. He was very much like he was in The Life Aquatic with STeve Zissou, minus the beard, and with a lot more clothing on.
I turned to him, and as earnestly as I could, told him that I was happy about what was going on. I felt great about the scene, about the project in general, and was thrilled to be working with a legend and a sort-of personal hero. I was trying so hard not so sound banal and common, but that's what was coming out. I ended with a simple, "Thanks for working with us," which strangely seemed to be the thing that resonated with him the most.
And cut to behind what I discerned to be the set. It was a darkened area, but much like the beautiful square only a few yards away. Same sort of decorations, but no lights. There were little shops and stalls here, manned by folks. There were massive trees along the perfectly done red brick sidewalk, but it was all dark. There was a gigantic tree, an oak or some such, and I noticed that right at its base, where it was probably 10 or more feet thick, the entire thing had been cut off. Like a Bugs Bunny cartoon, the massive, noble thing had been just chopped clean through, with it coming right back to rest on its base, maybe offset by an inch now. When would it fall? And where would it fall? How long would it take? How much danger were we all in, standing this close to it?
I looked up and down the path, and all of the massive, old trees I could see were the same. I could hear the grumblings of the merchants here, and the gist came to me that the area had been condemned and claimed by the city for a larger boulevard pass-through. They were going to run a huge urban thoroughfare through here, and there was nothing left to do about it.
There were noises that our movie had to do with it, but I knew that wasn't true. I made my way back to the set, behind the lights and gear, and watched from within the coils of the cables. There was a waist-high planter with a perfectly curled pile of dog shit on it, and as I wondered how a dog managed to get up on the planter and drop his load right there on the edge of it, suddenly it was in my mouth. The entire goddamn thing. I hadn't been that near it, hadn't even seen it other than to glance at it, and now it was in my goddamn mouth. I bent over to let it drop, not wanting to move my mouth at all, not wanting to move my tongue at all, no more interaction or movement other than to let it fall straight out, then all the spitting and rinsing I could manage. But it wouldn't fall. Its vile consistency, its size, something kept it in there, and I was dying a slow, agonizing death of heaving gagging, my mind reeling and my body quaking as I gagged and gagged, struggling to get the wretched thing out.
Finally it slopped out, the majority of it. Now how to get the rest out? Where was a hose, a bottle of water, something to pour into my still-open mouth to get as much out as possible, without any part of me, mouth, tongue, whatever, having to get further involved? A mental image of filthy peanut butter entered my mind, swiping my finger way back between the molars and gum to get it all out, and I was right back to gagging.
Then it struck me that someone might be watching. How mortifying would that be to be caught with a mouthful of dogshit? How to explain that? How to live that down? And what would my apparently new buddy Bill Murray think about me now, the on-set poop-eater? So, I've not gotta keep this quiet, keep it to myself, and get it fixed, fast.
Fade out as I ducked behind a planter, between a trailer and its huge concrete mass, squatting low amid the light cabling and thick power cords, my mouth still wide in its idiotic silent poop-scream, thinking of where I could go to fix things up . . .
And I was standing next to Bill Murray, working on the latest Wes Anderson film. I was a co-star, or a producer, or somehow otherwise directly involved in the work. He was very much like he was in The Life Aquatic with STeve Zissou, minus the beard, and with a lot more clothing on.
I turned to him, and as earnestly as I could, told him that I was happy about what was going on. I felt great about the scene, about the project in general, and was thrilled to be working with a legend and a sort-of personal hero. I was trying so hard not so sound banal and common, but that's what was coming out. I ended with a simple, "Thanks for working with us," which strangely seemed to be the thing that resonated with him the most.
And cut to behind what I discerned to be the set. It was a darkened area, but much like the beautiful square only a few yards away. Same sort of decorations, but no lights. There were little shops and stalls here, manned by folks. There were massive trees along the perfectly done red brick sidewalk, but it was all dark. There was a gigantic tree, an oak or some such, and I noticed that right at its base, where it was probably 10 or more feet thick, the entire thing had been cut off. Like a Bugs Bunny cartoon, the massive, noble thing had been just chopped clean through, with it coming right back to rest on its base, maybe offset by an inch now. When would it fall? And where would it fall? How long would it take? How much danger were we all in, standing this close to it?
I looked up and down the path, and all of the massive, old trees I could see were the same. I could hear the grumblings of the merchants here, and the gist came to me that the area had been condemned and claimed by the city for a larger boulevard pass-through. They were going to run a huge urban thoroughfare through here, and there was nothing left to do about it.
There were noises that our movie had to do with it, but I knew that wasn't true. I made my way back to the set, behind the lights and gear, and watched from within the coils of the cables. There was a waist-high planter with a perfectly curled pile of dog shit on it, and as I wondered how a dog managed to get up on the planter and drop his load right there on the edge of it, suddenly it was in my mouth. The entire goddamn thing. I hadn't been that near it, hadn't even seen it other than to glance at it, and now it was in my goddamn mouth. I bent over to let it drop, not wanting to move my mouth at all, not wanting to move my tongue at all, no more interaction or movement other than to let it fall straight out, then all the spitting and rinsing I could manage. But it wouldn't fall. Its vile consistency, its size, something kept it in there, and I was dying a slow, agonizing death of heaving gagging, my mind reeling and my body quaking as I gagged and gagged, struggling to get the wretched thing out.
Finally it slopped out, the majority of it. Now how to get the rest out? Where was a hose, a bottle of water, something to pour into my still-open mouth to get as much out as possible, without any part of me, mouth, tongue, whatever, having to get further involved? A mental image of filthy peanut butter entered my mind, swiping my finger way back between the molars and gum to get it all out, and I was right back to gagging.
Then it struck me that someone might be watching. How mortifying would that be to be caught with a mouthful of dogshit? How to explain that? How to live that down? And what would my apparently new buddy Bill Murray think about me now, the on-set poop-eater? So, I've not gotta keep this quiet, keep it to myself, and get it fixed, fast.
Fade out as I ducked behind a planter, between a trailer and its huge concrete mass, squatting low amid the light cabling and thick power cords, my mouth still wide in its idiotic silent poop-scream, thinking of where I could go to fix things up . . .
posted by Scrumpox at 1:49 PM
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