It was discovered that my roommate, Gweat’s, has a video of some of his standup on YouTube. Here you go:
Hey, I recognize that interior. It’s the tool shed at the hostel.
Also, here’s his music video for the single, “Kandy Store.”
Fun Fact: “Kandy Store” is Gweat’s’s ringtone on his cell phone.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
Life's a Beeyotch
On this particular morning I’m writing about (due to the Janet Jackson incident at the Super Bowl, this blog is delivered with a slight delay), I woke up early, and for a change, it wasn’t Gweat’s related. Instead, Ruby and Rose, who as you know are two awesome gals from Ohio, and I were going to Venice Beach.
Before we arrive, I should imbibe some knowledge of Venice Beach on you. First, it’s the number one tourist attraction in California. Two, Arnold Schwarzenegger* used to pump iron there. Three, some of White Men Can’t Jump takes place there. And that’s all I knew about Venice Beach before I got there. Really, that’s all I know about anything. I made it through four years of college writing those three statements down as answers to every test question.
We got to Venice Beach early because it doesn’t take long for parking spaces to fill up, and those that have remained committed to this blog already know finding a parking space in California is about as easy as finding a sober Gweat’s. And those that have remained committed to this blog already know finding a sober Gweat’s is about as easy as finding a new post over at www.bullschmitz.blogspot.com.
So what is there to do on Venice Beach? Well, Arnold Schwarzenegger used to pump iron there. Also, it’s the number one tourist attraction in California. Finally, some of White Men Can’t Jump takes place there.
Upon entering Venice Beach, the first thing you see is a pharmacy that has a giant ballerina with the head of a vaudevillian tramp above the entryway. This would be the most normal thing I’d see the rest of the day. Rose, Ruby, and I walked around the boardwalk for a while, perusing the shops and vendors for arts and knickknacks. You can buy all sorts of stuff at Venice Beach. The shops are mostly souvenir shacks, with tee shirts and shot glasses that say Venice Beach on them. But they also have those delightful shirts that say things like, “I hear voices, and they don’t like me”—a fashion statement that makes a statement. Commonly found at monster truck rallies and the Blue Collar Comedy Tour. Other trappings include surf shops, wig shops, and worthless crap made out of wood shops. I shouldn’t say that. In one worthless crap made out of wood shop, I found a wall devoted to some large phallic carvings made out of wood (Ha!). I told Ruby and a 40-some year old man within earshot’s eyes lit up like he’d just heard his lottery numbers called. The second Ruby and I stepped away from the display, the man was right there, gawking the wares. Really, how worthless the worthless crap made out of wood shop is, is all relative to your level of homoeroticism (Dallas, I made note of where this shop is, so we can go back if you like. Man, two zingers on Dallas already. Can we make it three?)
In one store I bought a pair of sunglasses, a necessity in sunny California I have gone two weeks without, and then Rose and Ruby bought two pairs of the same kind of glasses I did because not so secretly they wish they were me.
Walking down the boardwalk with our identical glasses, more vendors were coming out to pimp their miracle crystal necklaces and hemp bracelets and Barack Obamas.** Rose and Ruby both picked up some neat paintings for their love interests back home. Since I have so many love interests, and since I’m on a limited budget, and since I don’t pick favorites, and since I don’t need material possessions anymore, due mostly to my limited budget and lack of storage space in the hostel, I did not purchase anything. I’m kind of like Gandhi in that manner. My, how far the mighty have fallen. I’ve got to get a job.
Really, Venice Beach is quite interesting. There are burnouts and Vietnam vets in wheelchairs everywhere. Oftentimes, the two are interchangeable with the other there. After seeing this, I can’t endorse the legalization of marijuana or any other drug. All you stoner college kids whose dad owns a dealership out there go on and have your fun with it, but seeing the long term effects of drugs on people that don’t have a trust fund to fall back on makes me just want to steer clear of all substances altogether. I imagine Kurt Russell had the same experience when he decided to abstain from drug use, knowing it would hinder his ability to escape from New York in 1997 back in 1981 and coach the 1980 U.S. Hockey team to a gold medal in 2004.
Other attractions included a wino wearing a dirty San Diego Chargers jersey and a signboard that told us he wanted spare change to get drunk, which freed his mouth to sing, “Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Get me drunk,” over and over again. Near the beach, there were guys with oversized hula-hoops spinning around and around inside them. How anyone determined they could do this sort of acrobatic thing in the first place baffles me. Probably French.
In the middle of it all the pandemonium, there was a man outside promoting the Venice Beach freak show. He had a two-headed turtle sitting in a plastic container with water. He told us that inside we could see all sorts of animals with two heads. It was only three dollars. But why would I spend three dollars on something I could get for free just by walking down the boardwalk? There’s a guy not three feet away with a foot growing out of his cheek selling authentic dodo meat necklaces. I’ll save my three U.S. dollars for next week’s issue of Amazing Spider-Man, thank you.
Around noontime, Rose, Ruby, and I went to a café for lunch called the Sidewalk Café. Things on the menu were named after famous authors or titles. I settled on the Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., since I didn’t see the R.L. Stine on the menu, and wasn’t sure I’d be able to keep down the Ernest Hemingway. Its prose just doesn’t sit well with me. While eating my sandwich, Ruby spotted a man wearing a giant black sock over his entire body. He would stand perfectly still until a passerby got too close, then he’d touch the back of their head. Turning around to inquire who just did that, the victim would only find a man-size sock, look baffled, and continue on. Eventually, the street performer got rid of the Tanooki suit (Super Mario Bros. 3 reference) and ran around tickling people with feathers or imitating their walk mannerisms. At one point, he spotted a man and woman, most likely brother and sister, walking down the boardwalk holding hands. He dislodged the woman’s hand from her brothers, and walked hand in hand with the guy a good fifty feet. Eventually, the man realized it, let out an angry, “What the fuck?” and broke the bond which had united the two. After realizing everyone was staring at him, the man pretended not to be bothered by sharing hands with another man and feigned a smile. The crowd clapped for the street performer. No one has done a bit better since Buster Keaton. Come to think of it, no one has done any of this stuff since Buster Keaton. Eventually, the performer moved on, as a crowd had formed to watch his act. His act, requiring people to be unaware of his presence, was shut down.
Having finished our meals and no longer having anything entertaining to watch, we moved on to the beach, where we would sun and I would run into the Pacific Ocean. Along the way, I spotted Seventeen Days Into the Future Dallas.
That’s three!
Shortly thereafter, we all left Venice Beach. But we took with us memories, sunglasses, artwork, and some sun. With nothing else to report, I’ll let you all go. Enjoy the footnotes.
*Spell Check recognizes “Schwarzenegger” as a word. No red squiggly lines here.
**Spell Check does not recognize “Barack Obamas” as a word. Good luck trying to win an election outside of Venice Beach, you schmuck.
Before we arrive, I should imbibe some knowledge of Venice Beach on you. First, it’s the number one tourist attraction in California. Two, Arnold Schwarzenegger* used to pump iron there. Three, some of White Men Can’t Jump takes place there. And that’s all I knew about Venice Beach before I got there. Really, that’s all I know about anything. I made it through four years of college writing those three statements down as answers to every test question.
We got to Venice Beach early because it doesn’t take long for parking spaces to fill up, and those that have remained committed to this blog already know finding a parking space in California is about as easy as finding a sober Gweat’s. And those that have remained committed to this blog already know finding a sober Gweat’s is about as easy as finding a new post over at www.bullschmitz.blogspot.com.
So what is there to do on Venice Beach? Well, Arnold Schwarzenegger used to pump iron there. Also, it’s the number one tourist attraction in California. Finally, some of White Men Can’t Jump takes place there.
Upon entering Venice Beach, the first thing you see is a pharmacy that has a giant ballerina with the head of a vaudevillian tramp above the entryway. This would be the most normal thing I’d see the rest of the day. Rose, Ruby, and I walked around the boardwalk for a while, perusing the shops and vendors for arts and knickknacks. You can buy all sorts of stuff at Venice Beach. The shops are mostly souvenir shacks, with tee shirts and shot glasses that say Venice Beach on them. But they also have those delightful shirts that say things like, “I hear voices, and they don’t like me”—a fashion statement that makes a statement. Commonly found at monster truck rallies and the Blue Collar Comedy Tour. Other trappings include surf shops, wig shops, and worthless crap made out of wood shops. I shouldn’t say that. In one worthless crap made out of wood shop, I found a wall devoted to some large phallic carvings made out of wood (Ha!). I told Ruby and a 40-some year old man within earshot’s eyes lit up like he’d just heard his lottery numbers called. The second Ruby and I stepped away from the display, the man was right there, gawking the wares. Really, how worthless the worthless crap made out of wood shop is, is all relative to your level of homoeroticism (Dallas, I made note of where this shop is, so we can go back if you like. Man, two zingers on Dallas already. Can we make it three?)
In one store I bought a pair of sunglasses, a necessity in sunny California I have gone two weeks without, and then Rose and Ruby bought two pairs of the same kind of glasses I did because not so secretly they wish they were me.
Walking down the boardwalk with our identical glasses, more vendors were coming out to pimp their miracle crystal necklaces and hemp bracelets and Barack Obamas.** Rose and Ruby both picked up some neat paintings for their love interests back home. Since I have so many love interests, and since I’m on a limited budget, and since I don’t pick favorites, and since I don’t need material possessions anymore, due mostly to my limited budget and lack of storage space in the hostel, I did not purchase anything. I’m kind of like Gandhi in that manner. My, how far the mighty have fallen. I’ve got to get a job.
Really, Venice Beach is quite interesting. There are burnouts and Vietnam vets in wheelchairs everywhere. Oftentimes, the two are interchangeable with the other there. After seeing this, I can’t endorse the legalization of marijuana or any other drug. All you stoner college kids whose dad owns a dealership out there go on and have your fun with it, but seeing the long term effects of drugs on people that don’t have a trust fund to fall back on makes me just want to steer clear of all substances altogether. I imagine Kurt Russell had the same experience when he decided to abstain from drug use, knowing it would hinder his ability to escape from New York in 1997 back in 1981 and coach the 1980 U.S. Hockey team to a gold medal in 2004.
Other attractions included a wino wearing a dirty San Diego Chargers jersey and a signboard that told us he wanted spare change to get drunk, which freed his mouth to sing, “Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Get me drunk,” over and over again. Near the beach, there were guys with oversized hula-hoops spinning around and around inside them. How anyone determined they could do this sort of acrobatic thing in the first place baffles me. Probably French.
In the middle of it all the pandemonium, there was a man outside promoting the Venice Beach freak show. He had a two-headed turtle sitting in a plastic container with water. He told us that inside we could see all sorts of animals with two heads. It was only three dollars. But why would I spend three dollars on something I could get for free just by walking down the boardwalk? There’s a guy not three feet away with a foot growing out of his cheek selling authentic dodo meat necklaces. I’ll save my three U.S. dollars for next week’s issue of Amazing Spider-Man, thank you.
Around noontime, Rose, Ruby, and I went to a café for lunch called the Sidewalk Café. Things on the menu were named after famous authors or titles. I settled on the Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., since I didn’t see the R.L. Stine on the menu, and wasn’t sure I’d be able to keep down the Ernest Hemingway. Its prose just doesn’t sit well with me. While eating my sandwich, Ruby spotted a man wearing a giant black sock over his entire body. He would stand perfectly still until a passerby got too close, then he’d touch the back of their head. Turning around to inquire who just did that, the victim would only find a man-size sock, look baffled, and continue on. Eventually, the street performer got rid of the Tanooki suit (Super Mario Bros. 3 reference) and ran around tickling people with feathers or imitating their walk mannerisms. At one point, he spotted a man and woman, most likely brother and sister, walking down the boardwalk holding hands. He dislodged the woman’s hand from her brothers, and walked hand in hand with the guy a good fifty feet. Eventually, the man realized it, let out an angry, “What the fuck?” and broke the bond which had united the two. After realizing everyone was staring at him, the man pretended not to be bothered by sharing hands with another man and feigned a smile. The crowd clapped for the street performer. No one has done a bit better since Buster Keaton. Come to think of it, no one has done any of this stuff since Buster Keaton. Eventually, the performer moved on, as a crowd had formed to watch his act. His act, requiring people to be unaware of his presence, was shut down.
Having finished our meals and no longer having anything entertaining to watch, we moved on to the beach, where we would sun and I would run into the Pacific Ocean. Along the way, I spotted Seventeen Days Into the Future Dallas.
That’s three!
Shortly thereafter, we all left Venice Beach. But we took with us memories, sunglasses, artwork, and some sun. With nothing else to report, I’ll let you all go. Enjoy the footnotes.
*Spell Check recognizes “Schwarzenegger” as a word. No red squiggly lines here.
**Spell Check does not recognize “Barack Obamas” as a word. Good luck trying to win an election outside of Venice Beach, you schmuck.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
A Bender and a Bender
After a harrowing day making a Weezer music video, I claimed today as a day of rest. Not so much because I wanted to or can afford to, but because I’m really sore. My whole body aches. It’s probably from showing a bunch of scrawny, sickly Weezer fans how we play no mercy dodgeball back in some parts of the country.
But that didn’t stop today from having a few highlights here and there. During the day, Marko, Sait, Hiro, others, and myself were messing around with someone’s pellet gun on the back porch. Whose pellet gun? Good question. Each person would eyeball it once over then pass it on, with the exception of Sait. Sait, being Muslim, can’t help but point the pellet gun at a police helicopter flying overhead. We all rushed in to stop Sait from doing this since we didn’t want the helicopter’s sniper to get the wrong impression and end Sait’s life then and there. What a waste that would be—I don’t even think he’d qualify for the 40 virgins he’s entitled to in Heaven if he goes out like that.
Tonight, while some of us at the hostel were huddled around out laptops typing blogs, and others were rolling joints, we heard a car peel out along Pico Blvd. (major street close to the hostel) and smash into another vehicle. Everyone looked at each other, and without orally suggesting it, as a group, we collectively decided to check out the wreck.
Dressed in our nightgowns and formal eveningwear, we all walked down the street to see the fender bender. Apparently everyone else along Pico had the same idea. People from apartment buildings and the healthcare center along Pico came out in droves. The hostel group crossed the street to observe the situation. Gweat’s told us jaywalking in California, if caught, was a $100 fine. They’ll get you for anything here.
The accident itself was nothing major. The wreck consisted of a parked car and a stolen one. I know it was stolen because there was no driver to account for the accident. Gweat’s told us the steering wheel on cars that have been hijacked have a tendency to lock up. This is probably what caused the driver to lose control.
As minor as the accident was, the damage was pretty significant to both cars. The parked ones entire driver’s side was taken out, as was the stolen vehicles, whose wheel well now stretched from the front bumper to the middle of the driver’s side door. It had also spun about 540 degrees Fahrenheit after the impact.
With nothing more to see, we all headed back to our hostel to continue writing/getting baked. Along the way, an old woman started cussing at us, yelling, “I’m tired of all you fuckers! I’ve had it! We don’t fucking need you here!” I’m not sure whom she was slings and arrows towards, because she kept saying it long after we’d walked past her.
Once we got back, Gweat’s started talking at us for about fifteen or twenty minutes. Ruby was kind enough to record this conversation, which I will share with you now in its abridged form. Nice work, Ruby. If ever you need to, there is a career waiting for you as a courtroom stenographer.
This is what Gweat’s sat down and talked about for 15 or 20 minutes... just rambling. Literally what I'm writing is what he was saying—in order. So if it doesn't make any sense to you, it obviously made no sense to me.
Gweat's is talking about a dream house he wants to build:
-There will be a 40 fence with pit bulls and alligators and poodles and cockatoos for security guards
-Drive out of the bedroom with a go-kart
-Have two space towers in the front each 5 stories tall
-Glass wall opens up in bedroom and drive go-kart to the go-kart track
-A big marble dinner table worth 100,000 grand
-An intimate mate to cook with. He wouldn’t marry his brother or sister he said.
Which segued into what kind of car he would drive:
-Would own a Rolls Royce: a Phantom to be exact. If I was going to wear pants every day to school, I wouldn’t wear my $200 Cartier pants? (Referring to driving a Jaguar and how it's only to drive once in a while).
-Mercedes inside dashboards look like soccer balls.
-He said he couldn't wear a leopard shirt. "Casually, he's not a tiger or leopard," but he can wear pastel colors.
Referring to the movie, “Apocalypto”:
-"Run for your life, the Mayans are here! Read the good book!" (Referring to the Bible)
Another natural transition:
- When he was 2 and a half, he bit an extension cord and got rushed to the hospital because he got electrocuted.
Um…
- Rich men built space ships just to cruise around in, and would go for trips on the weekends. They would throw their 6 packs out the window of the spaceship because they drank a lot.
- "No one should give a homeless person a day pass to ride the bus. They haven't wiped their ass since Jesus was born."
- "RUN FORREST RUN!"
And that's pretty much all I have for you right now. Gweat’s is off staring at his bottle of 7-Up.
Thanks, Ruby.
But that didn’t stop today from having a few highlights here and there. During the day, Marko, Sait, Hiro, others, and myself were messing around with someone’s pellet gun on the back porch. Whose pellet gun? Good question. Each person would eyeball it once over then pass it on, with the exception of Sait. Sait, being Muslim, can’t help but point the pellet gun at a police helicopter flying overhead. We all rushed in to stop Sait from doing this since we didn’t want the helicopter’s sniper to get the wrong impression and end Sait’s life then and there. What a waste that would be—I don’t even think he’d qualify for the 40 virgins he’s entitled to in Heaven if he goes out like that.
Tonight, while some of us at the hostel were huddled around out laptops typing blogs, and others were rolling joints, we heard a car peel out along Pico Blvd. (major street close to the hostel) and smash into another vehicle. Everyone looked at each other, and without orally suggesting it, as a group, we collectively decided to check out the wreck.
Dressed in our nightgowns and formal eveningwear, we all walked down the street to see the fender bender. Apparently everyone else along Pico had the same idea. People from apartment buildings and the healthcare center along Pico came out in droves. The hostel group crossed the street to observe the situation. Gweat’s told us jaywalking in California, if caught, was a $100 fine. They’ll get you for anything here.
The accident itself was nothing major. The wreck consisted of a parked car and a stolen one. I know it was stolen because there was no driver to account for the accident. Gweat’s told us the steering wheel on cars that have been hijacked have a tendency to lock up. This is probably what caused the driver to lose control.
As minor as the accident was, the damage was pretty significant to both cars. The parked ones entire driver’s side was taken out, as was the stolen vehicles, whose wheel well now stretched from the front bumper to the middle of the driver’s side door. It had also spun about 540 degrees Fahrenheit after the impact.
With nothing more to see, we all headed back to our hostel to continue writing/getting baked. Along the way, an old woman started cussing at us, yelling, “I’m tired of all you fuckers! I’ve had it! We don’t fucking need you here!” I’m not sure whom she was slings and arrows towards, because she kept saying it long after we’d walked past her.
Once we got back, Gweat’s started talking at us for about fifteen or twenty minutes. Ruby was kind enough to record this conversation, which I will share with you now in its abridged form. Nice work, Ruby. If ever you need to, there is a career waiting for you as a courtroom stenographer.
This is what Gweat’s sat down and talked about for 15 or 20 minutes... just rambling. Literally what I'm writing is what he was saying—in order. So if it doesn't make any sense to you, it obviously made no sense to me.
Gweat's is talking about a dream house he wants to build:
-There will be a 40 fence with pit bulls and alligators and poodles and cockatoos for security guards
-Drive out of the bedroom with a go-kart
-Have two space towers in the front each 5 stories tall
-Glass wall opens up in bedroom and drive go-kart to the go-kart track
-A big marble dinner table worth 100,000 grand
-An intimate mate to cook with. He wouldn’t marry his brother or sister he said.
Which segued into what kind of car he would drive:
-Would own a Rolls Royce: a Phantom to be exact. If I was going to wear pants every day to school, I wouldn’t wear my $200 Cartier pants? (Referring to driving a Jaguar and how it's only to drive once in a while).
-Mercedes inside dashboards look like soccer balls.
-He said he couldn't wear a leopard shirt. "Casually, he's not a tiger or leopard," but he can wear pastel colors.
Referring to the movie, “Apocalypto”:
-"Run for your life, the Mayans are here! Read the good book!" (Referring to the Bible)
Another natural transition:
- When he was 2 and a half, he bit an extension cord and got rushed to the hospital because he got electrocuted.
Um…
- Rich men built space ships just to cruise around in, and would go for trips on the weekends. They would throw their 6 packs out the window of the spaceship because they drank a lot.
- "No one should give a homeless person a day pass to ride the bus. They haven't wiped their ass since Jesus was born."
- "RUN FORREST RUN!"
And that's pretty much all I have for you right now. Gweat’s is off staring at his bottle of 7-Up.
Thanks, Ruby.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
=w=2
Let’s leave this blog’s timeline for a moment and jump forward to the present. Yesterday I posted a blog about the day on the set of Weezer’s “Troublemaker” video shoot. The video itself was shot at the end of August, I wrote the blog the first of September, and posted it in the middle of October. It worked out in my favor, because the video was released earlier this week. If you have not had a chance to view it, here is a link:
http://www.weezer.com/player/default.aspx/mid/4549
It is interesting to see how much got left on the cutting room floor for this video. At the shoot, it looked like they had a story they were going to tell, about how a bunch of world records were going to fall in this music video. There was a faux news reporter interviewing the Guinness World Records representative, the Guitar Hero players, and others throughout the day, along with pickup shots of the news reporter involved with events throughout the day, such as the game of dodgeball. That was left behind. As were most of the signboards explaining which record was being broken (this signboard can be seen in the crane shot where everyone is standing around the Flying W made of nachos).
Other things I mentioned in the previous blog were completely omitted or barely touched on, such as Pat Wilson playing the World’s Smallest Drum Kit or everyone crowding around the World’s Largest Skateboard. Or even the fact that a representative from Guinness was there to make sure everything was legitimate. If you did not have any previous context to what was going on in the video, would any of these shots make any sense? No, you would think it was just a weird video from the 80s when the music video genre was learning its way or a lost Batman comic book from the 1950s.
The fact the video was shot at the Forum in Inglewood is lost as well. This downplays Rivers getup for the video as well. Come to think of it, it’s almost funnier seeing Rivers dressed like that without any context to back it up with.
Don’t take this as a complaint or dissatisfaction. I had nothing but a great time on the shoot that day. Maybe the filmmakers had every intention of telling a story too, and due to the lack of time a music video allows, had to pare it down, lay down the key elements, and leave viewers of the video to fill in the blanks. Rather, I’m just doing this as a retrospective of how I thought the video would turn out in comparison to how it did turn out. It was great to see myself in a Weezer music video. As I was watching it, I saw some other people I met that day, and found myself thinking, “Hey, I know that kid.”
Also, here are some videos of what we did between takes. The kid that filmed this just walked around our tent with his MacBook in hand and captured everything with his computer’s camera. You might even recognize some of these people from the video.
This video is a slideshow of the various events throughout the day. Rivers son makes a cameo appearance (he’s the one carrying the dodgeball about the same size as him).
There are more of such videos on YouTube. Just search, “Weezer Troublemaker Music Video” and a whole slew of them will come up.
Hope you enjoyed reading about the Weezer “Troublemaker” music video shoot. Feel free to shoot me any questions you might have about the video, and I’ll do my best to try and answer them.
http://www.weezer.com/player/default.aspx/mid/4549
It is interesting to see how much got left on the cutting room floor for this video. At the shoot, it looked like they had a story they were going to tell, about how a bunch of world records were going to fall in this music video. There was a faux news reporter interviewing the Guinness World Records representative, the Guitar Hero players, and others throughout the day, along with pickup shots of the news reporter involved with events throughout the day, such as the game of dodgeball. That was left behind. As were most of the signboards explaining which record was being broken (this signboard can be seen in the crane shot where everyone is standing around the Flying W made of nachos).
Other things I mentioned in the previous blog were completely omitted or barely touched on, such as Pat Wilson playing the World’s Smallest Drum Kit or everyone crowding around the World’s Largest Skateboard. Or even the fact that a representative from Guinness was there to make sure everything was legitimate. If you did not have any previous context to what was going on in the video, would any of these shots make any sense? No, you would think it was just a weird video from the 80s when the music video genre was learning its way or a lost Batman comic book from the 1950s.
The fact the video was shot at the Forum in Inglewood is lost as well. This downplays Rivers getup for the video as well. Come to think of it, it’s almost funnier seeing Rivers dressed like that without any context to back it up with.
Don’t take this as a complaint or dissatisfaction. I had nothing but a great time on the shoot that day. Maybe the filmmakers had every intention of telling a story too, and due to the lack of time a music video allows, had to pare it down, lay down the key elements, and leave viewers of the video to fill in the blanks. Rather, I’m just doing this as a retrospective of how I thought the video would turn out in comparison to how it did turn out. It was great to see myself in a Weezer music video. As I was watching it, I saw some other people I met that day, and found myself thinking, “Hey, I know that kid.”
Also, here are some videos of what we did between takes. The kid that filmed this just walked around our tent with his MacBook in hand and captured everything with his computer’s camera. You might even recognize some of these people from the video.
This video is a slideshow of the various events throughout the day. Rivers son makes a cameo appearance (he’s the one carrying the dodgeball about the same size as him).
There are more of such videos on YouTube. Just search, “Weezer Troublemaker Music Video” and a whole slew of them will come up.
Hope you enjoyed reading about the Weezer “Troublemaker” music video shoot. Feel free to shoot me any questions you might have about the video, and I’ll do my best to try and answer them.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
=w=
I should’ve been a rock star. It’s in my genetic make up. I don’t trust anyone over the age of thirty, I can’t drive 55, and any chance I get to paint it, I paint it black. I should’ve been a rock star and probably would’ve been if school band hadn’t turned me off of music for so long. Then, during my formative teen years when I was removed enough from associating music with that awful thing my class did on days we didn’t have P.E., I picked up the guitar and got to play music I actually liked. However, by this time, I was in high school, and much too busy sexing up exotic women (not sitting in my room playing Castlevania, as is popular belief) to be able to devote the necessary time it takes to master the instrument.
I should’ve been a rock star. I could’ve been a rock star, and today, I proved it.
Waking up at 6:15am Pacific Time (use your Midwest work ethic to convert it to Central Time on your own), I got ready to drive down to Inglewood for my 8:00am call time.
I arrived at 7:50, allowing plenty of time to sign in and wait, but whatever—that’s just the life of a rock star. So I, along with about 49 other people, waited under the shade tent for our call.
Before going on, let’s review the theme of this video shoot: the goal was to set a bunch of world records that would be documented by officials from Guinness, the official source for all things world recordy since 1955. There was even a representative from Guinness there to oversee the whole thing. Some records to set were World’s Largest Hootenanny, World’s Largest Custard Pie Fight, and so on. Others I would find out about as the day wore on.
The first world record to get underway involved a group of guys that looked like rock stars who would play Guitar Hero: World Tour (on the Xbox 360—the game will be released on all major consoles and handhelds, though) for 12 hours straight. The game doesn’t have a release date yet (scheduled for the fourth quarter of 2008), so this was kind of cool to see a working version of it this early on, however I have my doubts the game is completed being so far away from a launch date. My job during this portion of the video was to be in the background and cheer on the Guitar Hero players, which was hard to do because they only got about four notes into each song before failing. A representative from Activision had to keep interrupting to show them how to play. Finally, the faux rockers got the hang of it and filming began, along with their twelve-hour timer.
So myself and about seventy other Weezer fans at this point crowded around their tent, shouting, cheering on, looking like we were having a good time, while the director kept telling the Guitar Hero guys to, “Get more into it,” and, “Pretend like you’re rock stars.” I had a notion to show them how it’s done. I don’t need to pretend. Rocking out is as natural to me as breathing. Most of the principle shots were taken care of right then and there, but pickup shots were done throughout the day.
Next, more extras joined the ranks and we were all ushered to another area of the Forum parking lot, where we were to partake in the World’s Largest Dodgeball Game. The teams were split evenly by a long line of red dodgeballs in the center of the court. The rules were explained, the cameras started rolling, and the whistle blew—trumpeting pandemonium.
To brag is to use boastful language; boast. For example, “He bragged endlessly about his high score.”
What I am about to do is brag: I am one helluva dodgeball player (what can I say: the Olympic spirit fills me). It’s been my forte since I was in elementary school. And today, on the biggest dodgeball-playing arena of my life, I did not disappoint. I was merciless. Chumps were dropping right and left from my superior dodgeball skills. My kill count was close to that in Rambo III. When the dust settled, my team stood victorious. Sure, there were a few casualties, but so is the name of the game. The opposing team recovered their fallen, and reassembled for round 2. Again, my team would come out victorious. Although, I have to admit, I got out in this game. But it was a matter of sheer luck on the other team’s part. I threw a ball so hard at someone it bounced off of her backside and into the air, and just happened to get caught. That’s okay. Ichiro says he wishes he could have a perfect batting average, but it’s just not possible due to forces out of his control—a similar situation here. Not that it mattered—I’d already paved the way for Team Fizzlebottom to come up with the win. The third game was for the record. With all the world watching, and somewhat miffed at the dumb luck from the last game, I came out of the gates guns a blazing. In no time at all, I’d dropped half a dozen fools. When the game concluded, I remained standing, Team Fizzlebottom went undefeated with a 3-0 record, and we’d set a Guinness World Record. Go me. Go America.
Back at the shade tent, we all refueled with water. Shortly thereafter, the director came around and gathered the weird looking kids and hurried them over to stand around a giant flying W (Weezer signature trademark. It shows up in most of their music videos and concerts) made out of nachos. This was both cool and hilarious. Not being a weird looking kid, I did not get picked, so I sat back and took pictures on my camera phone. While waiting for our next assignment, a few people came up to me and complimented me on my dodgeball playing ability (no lie—if I’d had a Sharpie on me, they’d of probably had me sign their face).
It was also around this time I first encountered two guys that thought they were 2 Cool 4 Skool. One was wearing an Incubus shirt and the other a Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt. Their presence solidified my hate for the band Incubus and might have soiled my love of the Chili Peppers forever. Any time they talked, it sounded as if they did not want to be at the video shoot. In no way were they forced to be there and could have left at any time. While everyone else was having fun, they’d have to say something to completely kill the mood, which got obnoxious really fast. Therefore, any time I have to reference them, I will lovingly refer to them individually as Incubus Fag and Red Hot Chili Fucker.
Around 9:30, we extras were beckoned to line up around a beat-up station wagon with a raised hood. The sun was beating down, and it gave the parking lot that watery oasis look. Through the mirage, entered all four members of the band: Brian, Pat, Rivers, and Scott. You could tell just by the way they carried themselves—they were rock stars. As they got closer, we all broke down laughing, everyone except Incubus Fag and Red Hot Chili Fucker. The reason the rest of us were laughing was because Rivers, who is about 5’ 7” and 135 lbs. had his hair slicked back underneath a hairnet, wearing a wife beater, baggy shorts that stopped a few inches above his ankles, socks pulled up the rest of the way, and vintage black Nike shoes. Even better, Rivers had temporary tattoos all over his body. There was a design crawling up his neck, a spider web on his elbow, and two hands praying on the inside of his left forearm. I talked with a fellow fan of Weezer about how nice it was to see Rivers having fun with things again (the same Rivers, who at one point isolated himself in a room for two years after the release of their sophomore album didn’t perform as well as expected). Then Incubus Fag tried to correct me, saying, “Yeah, if dressing up like a gangster is your idea of fun.”
As a matter of fact, Incubus Fag, that is my idea of fun. Now shut the fuck up, grab a wide ruled notebook, and write some fucking poetry. Better yet, save a tree, grab a knife, and write that poem down your jugular vein. Fucking bitch.
But back to the subject at hand, Rivers was there to pull this supped up station wagon with his teeth and set a World Record. Again, we were there to cheer him on. Someone forgot to take the station wagon out of park, and the first attempt almost pulled Rivers’ teeth out of his head. Rivers, in all his ghetto glory, finally got to pull the car a few meters before the bit in his mouth broke. But I think it had already gone far enough to issue him the world record. What a productive day so far, and it’s not even 10:00am yet.
They began setting up for the token footage of the band playing that is in every music video. Before going over to cheer them on as they play, first we had to get some shots of the words biggest skateboard. It was a really big skateboard. They packed well over thirty people on that thing. Then one of the grips pushed it into frame, causing about twenty-five people to lose their balance and almost fall off. The rest of us cheered.
With that business out of the way, and the band plugged in, we all huddled around the Flying Nacho, people desperately trying to get positioned where they thought the camera would pick them up. I noticed some people eating the nachos and cheese, forgetting that this thing had been sitting out for over three hours in the California sun. (Un)fortunately, some Production Assistants saw that and immediately asked people to stop. Some did.
With the band ready and the extras fighting off salmonella, we were ready to shoot. Our instructions were to look like we were having a good time rocking out to Weezer. No problem. The cameras rolled, the band lip-synched to the song, “Troublemaker,” and we rocked out. The “we” being myself and Weezer—everybody else was just faking. It’s not their fault. They weren’t born rock stars like us. After more jumping around and looking like we were having a good time, the song ended and we got ready to do it again, and again, and again. During the interim, people were voicing their complaints that the band wasn’t playing live. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it pretty common knowledge that bands don’t actually play when shooting music videos? It’s not like every band that shoots a video is trying to pull the wool over the eyes of their fans—that’s just how it’s done so it doesn’t look goofy when you overlay the song in post-production.
During this segment, other members of the band set some records of their own. Pat Wilson, the drummer, played the world’s smallest drum kit. Yes, it was a fully functional drum kit, and Pat had two tiny drumsticks for which to play with. The man from Guinness came onto the set with an official Guinness measuring stick to measure every aspect of the kit to make sure it was a world record. While he was busy doing that, guitarist Brian Bell played his instrument using the world’s longest electric guitar amp cord. The thing ran from the set, which was at one end of the Forum’s parking lot, all the way to the other. It’ll be hard to grasp just how long this cord was until you see the music video, as I doubt any of my four loyal readers will have been to the Forum’s parking lot to know just how big that is. After running through the song a few more times with the band, it was lunchtime.
The Guitar Hero guys were still at it, looking bored out of their mind. The singer’s voice sounded shot. He was barely able to whisper into the microphone now. I keep hearing the same songs over and over again, and I’ve been busy doing things involving not playing Guitar Hero. Persevere guys—you’ve only got about seven more hours to go.
Lunch was served. It was Pizza Hut pizza. Maybe the greasiest Pizza Hut pizza ever served for lunch. The grease from my two slices of pizza soaked through my multi-layered paper plates and actually dripped like a leaky faucet onto the asphalt. But the lemonade was just right.
Once us extras had finished eating their bottle of Crisco, people started pulling out their instruments brought along for the hootenanny and played along together to Weezer songs. We ran the gamut, playing things like “Buddy Holly,” from the Blue Album all the way up to “Pork and Beans,” the most recent single, and even some B-side stuff, like “Suzanne.” Everyone had a good time playing along and singing a song—everyone except Incubus Fag and the Red Hot Chili Fucker. I think they were busy uploading sad photos of each other on myspace or something.
Going to grab more lemonade to neutralize the grease base ripping apart my small intestine, I bumped into Guinness World Record holder for playing the World’s Smallest Drum Kit and Weezer drummer, Pat Wilson. We chatted briefly—he was respectful enough to know that I was really busy with the shoot today, but I did let him take a picture with me on my cell phone. He thanked me for the opportunity, I told him it was my pleasure, and we parted ways. The first thing I did was sent the picture to my way hetero life mate Dallas and his cell phone. He texts me back the following message:
“I don’t know who that is. Is it Pat? It looks like Pat.”
I text Dallas back, informing him that it indeed was Pat. His response:
“I hate you.”
Ha ha. Today just paid for its self. But it gets better. Next, I run into Guinness World Record holder for playing guitar with the World’s Longest Electric Guitar Cord and Weezer guitarist Brian Bell. Once again, I was more than happy to let him take a picture with me on my phone. We too exchanged pleasantries and went our separate ways—Brian to do something important, me to do something even more important—I had to send this picture to Dallas.
Dallas text messaged me again:
“Where is it that you got to meet them?”
I told him I was on the set of the “Troublemaker” music video. After a moment’s delay, I receive a text back saying:
“I’m not talking to you for two weeks.”
The director came around asking for all extras to return to the set. It was now time to take part in the World’s Largest Air Guitar Session. We all once again huddled around the Flying Congealed Cheese and Stale Nacho while we went over what we were going to do for this part of the shoot. Someone is eating a damn nacho. No wonder Weezer fans look so sickly. California school system, loyal reader. California school system. Once again, my inner rock star shone through. I played the air guitar better than the Devil can play the fiddle. I had the look, the stance, the windmill strum, the stage presence. Pete Townshend would have been proud.
But it was during the hootenanny that I really shined. Did I say hootenanny? Yes, I said hootenanny. I said it earlier too. Our next record to break was for World’s Raddest Hootenanny. Those of us participating in the hootenanny picked up our guitars (I picked up Rose’s guitar—thanks again, Rose!), our snare drums, our accordions, and our spoons, and went to playing with the band. The song, “Troublemaker” is really easy to play. Aside from a bridge in the middle of the song, you only have to strum an A major chord and an A7 chord, over and over again. That’s all the song is for the verse and chorus. Writing a rock song is easy. Being a rock star is tough. That’s why so many bands never make it—they just don’t have what it takes to be a rock star. Weezer is both good at music and they have the chops to be rock stars. I’m bad at music, knocking me out of the running. But the potential is there. The hootenanny sounded just like a hootenanny would—a little outdoorsy. It didn’t sound great, but considering the eclectic mishmash of instruments in attendance, it turned out better than anyone could have expected. Weezer looked pleased, and we all had a lot of fun.
We did another round of pickup shots, which entailed more jumping around and looking like we were enjoying ourselves. After twelve hours of doing this, it started to wear on everyone.
Another record fell during this portion of the shoot. Weezer set the record for number of guitars smashed in a music video. Once again, the director came around and hand picked a bunch of people to go on stage and smash them while the band lip-synched. I was pretty bummed when I didn’t get picked. The director looked right at me and then past me. It egged me for a few minutes, and then I looked at the group of people that got picked. Again, it was just a bunch of weird looking, sickly kids. Then, I felt better about not getting picked. Not a single normal looking person got pulled from the crowd to smashy smashy. These kids will probably go on to be graphic design majors in college (or already are), and do quite well for themselves, sure, and I’ll probably live in a hostel with Gweat’s for the next five years with no future prospects, but at least I look normal. If ever I accidentally got in a line for a hipster concentration camp, someone would see that I didn’t fit in and pull me out of there before I got on the train.
I heard Incubus Fag and Red Hot Chili Fucker pipe up again, saying something impish. Apparently, everyone else has had it with them too today. Some other extra harangued them for being little fuck tarts and a couple other people jumped in to attack too. Looking back, it seems a little harsh and excessive, but when Mom comes to pick them up, she’ll probably take RHCF and his friend to McDonald’s to cheer them up. They’ll be fine.
After that, most people got to leave and prizes were handed out at the end of the day. These consisted of forty-fives, who probably more people there had a player that could spin them than should, to Weezer tote bags, to a guitar signed by the band. But I was out of the running for these prizes, as I had one more record to be a part of.
With the sun going down, we had to get this taken care of quickly before we lost all of our natural light. The groups were split again 50/50, and we all lined up on each side of a folding table lined with custard pies. The final record to go down was…you guess it, the World’s Largest Custard Pie Fight. The Guinness representative informed us for it to count as a world record, it had to last at least a minute. However, there weren’t enough pies to go around, so we had to drag the fight on by doing it in waves, the same way our founding fathers fought the English. The whistle blew, and the first wave got creamed (pun intended). Then the second wave went, then the third. I launched my pie at my opponent, and in turn, I got nailed big time. My entire head was covered in delicious custard. I couldn’t see through all of the creamy goodness. Wiping my eyes, I saw the next waves go. Everyone was a mess. We got it to last longer than a minute, though. Even with pies gone, people started picking up shells off the ground and chucking them. The pie fight continued on. It was a blast. People were slipping on residue left and right—a few even wiped out. By the end of it, there was more pie on people than on the ground. My entire head was caked in it, there was a good portion of custard resting on my shoulders and some going down the front of my shirt. My right pant leg had a healthy amount covering the span of hip to ankle, and my shoes were more crust than Converse.
The director yelled, “That’s a wrap,” we all cheered, and began wiping off custard. Apparently, no one thought a pie fight would get messy, and we were left to ration about two paper towel rolls amongst ourselves. Fortunately, a Production Assistant found a hose we could spray down with. Within a matter of minutes, I knew what it was like to be at Woodstock and the Civil Rights protests all in one.
Now, soaking wet and still pied, I hunted down the Cougar and called it a day. On my way, I crossed paths with Karl, fifth member of Weezer and their online site manager. We talked for a bit—he got some pictures of me in my baked goods glory, and went about our separate ways. On my way to the car, I spotted two of the Guitar Hero guys. I asked them how it was to play Guitar Hero for twelve hours. They said it was one of the worst things they’ve had to do in their life. I can’t even imagine. I get about three songs into Guitar Hero and get bored. Just like I assumed, they didn’t even have a full build of the game. In fact, Activision only gave them nine songs to play the entire day. Nine songs! Average each song to be about three minutes, that’s less than a half hour of material. Since this blog has run long, and you already had to convert Pacific Standard Time into Central, I’ll do the math for you on this one. That means they played each of the nine songs roughly twenty-four times. The toy guitarist told me, “If I hear another Bon Jovi song in my entire life, I’m going to fucking kill myself.”
Then the plastic drummer chimed in, “The only song I would listen to again is ‘Heartbreaker,’ by Pat Benatar, because she’s hot.” I hope Bon Jovi wasn’t in earshot to hear that.
I drove back through Inglewood and Los Angeles without my shirt on, and my seatbelt still got custard on it. That’s going to smell so bad. Of course, the nearest open parking space to the hostel was three blocks away, so I lugged my dirty clothes in one hand, and Rose’s guitar in the other (my hands were clean, at least), walked past Sait, Marko, and Ruby, who were all busy doing work on their computers. I hear running water in the bathroom. Gweat’s is in there singing. Who knows if he was actually showering. I hoped he’d be out of the bathroom by the time I dropped my clothes in the laundry.
On my way down the hall again, I still hear water running, then I hear the toilet flush, followed by Gweat’s saying, “Holy shit, that’s hot.” There are so many things wrong with this picture. One, the shower is too far away from the toilet for Gweat’s to even reach the handle to flush it. Two, why would he flush the toilet in the first place if he were in the shower? A paradox.
Upon returning upstairs after starting my load of laundry, Gweat’s emerged from the shower, so I hopped in. When I was finished, the bathroom smelled like a bakery, and it wasn’t because the Dutch Letters Gweat’s was making in there were finished cooking, either.
All in all, it was an excellent day. I’m really starting to dig California. There’s just so much stuff to do and see. Even though I haven’t done much of anything yet. I’d never have seen or done the things I have done here back at home.
Lastly, I’ve got to thank Weezer and their crew. They were great to work with today, and it was a lot of fun. I’ll remember today now and forever. Should I somehow forget, I’ll simply be able to watch the music video as a quick reminder.
=w=
I should’ve been a rock star. I could’ve been a rock star, and today, I proved it.
Waking up at 6:15am Pacific Time (use your Midwest work ethic to convert it to Central Time on your own), I got ready to drive down to Inglewood for my 8:00am call time.
I arrived at 7:50, allowing plenty of time to sign in and wait, but whatever—that’s just the life of a rock star. So I, along with about 49 other people, waited under the shade tent for our call.
Before going on, let’s review the theme of this video shoot: the goal was to set a bunch of world records that would be documented by officials from Guinness, the official source for all things world recordy since 1955. There was even a representative from Guinness there to oversee the whole thing. Some records to set were World’s Largest Hootenanny, World’s Largest Custard Pie Fight, and so on. Others I would find out about as the day wore on.
The first world record to get underway involved a group of guys that looked like rock stars who would play Guitar Hero: World Tour (on the Xbox 360—the game will be released on all major consoles and handhelds, though) for 12 hours straight. The game doesn’t have a release date yet (scheduled for the fourth quarter of 2008), so this was kind of cool to see a working version of it this early on, however I have my doubts the game is completed being so far away from a launch date. My job during this portion of the video was to be in the background and cheer on the Guitar Hero players, which was hard to do because they only got about four notes into each song before failing. A representative from Activision had to keep interrupting to show them how to play. Finally, the faux rockers got the hang of it and filming began, along with their twelve-hour timer.
So myself and about seventy other Weezer fans at this point crowded around their tent, shouting, cheering on, looking like we were having a good time, while the director kept telling the Guitar Hero guys to, “Get more into it,” and, “Pretend like you’re rock stars.” I had a notion to show them how it’s done. I don’t need to pretend. Rocking out is as natural to me as breathing. Most of the principle shots were taken care of right then and there, but pickup shots were done throughout the day.
Next, more extras joined the ranks and we were all ushered to another area of the Forum parking lot, where we were to partake in the World’s Largest Dodgeball Game. The teams were split evenly by a long line of red dodgeballs in the center of the court. The rules were explained, the cameras started rolling, and the whistle blew—trumpeting pandemonium.
To brag is to use boastful language; boast. For example, “He bragged endlessly about his high score.”
What I am about to do is brag: I am one helluva dodgeball player (what can I say: the Olympic spirit fills me). It’s been my forte since I was in elementary school. And today, on the biggest dodgeball-playing arena of my life, I did not disappoint. I was merciless. Chumps were dropping right and left from my superior dodgeball skills. My kill count was close to that in Rambo III. When the dust settled, my team stood victorious. Sure, there were a few casualties, but so is the name of the game. The opposing team recovered their fallen, and reassembled for round 2. Again, my team would come out victorious. Although, I have to admit, I got out in this game. But it was a matter of sheer luck on the other team’s part. I threw a ball so hard at someone it bounced off of her backside and into the air, and just happened to get caught. That’s okay. Ichiro says he wishes he could have a perfect batting average, but it’s just not possible due to forces out of his control—a similar situation here. Not that it mattered—I’d already paved the way for Team Fizzlebottom to come up with the win. The third game was for the record. With all the world watching, and somewhat miffed at the dumb luck from the last game, I came out of the gates guns a blazing. In no time at all, I’d dropped half a dozen fools. When the game concluded, I remained standing, Team Fizzlebottom went undefeated with a 3-0 record, and we’d set a Guinness World Record. Go me. Go America.
Back at the shade tent, we all refueled with water. Shortly thereafter, the director came around and gathered the weird looking kids and hurried them over to stand around a giant flying W (Weezer signature trademark. It shows up in most of their music videos and concerts) made out of nachos. This was both cool and hilarious. Not being a weird looking kid, I did not get picked, so I sat back and took pictures on my camera phone. While waiting for our next assignment, a few people came up to me and complimented me on my dodgeball playing ability (no lie—if I’d had a Sharpie on me, they’d of probably had me sign their face).
It was also around this time I first encountered two guys that thought they were 2 Cool 4 Skool. One was wearing an Incubus shirt and the other a Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt. Their presence solidified my hate for the band Incubus and might have soiled my love of the Chili Peppers forever. Any time they talked, it sounded as if they did not want to be at the video shoot. In no way were they forced to be there and could have left at any time. While everyone else was having fun, they’d have to say something to completely kill the mood, which got obnoxious really fast. Therefore, any time I have to reference them, I will lovingly refer to them individually as Incubus Fag and Red Hot Chili Fucker.
Around 9:30, we extras were beckoned to line up around a beat-up station wagon with a raised hood. The sun was beating down, and it gave the parking lot that watery oasis look. Through the mirage, entered all four members of the band: Brian, Pat, Rivers, and Scott. You could tell just by the way they carried themselves—they were rock stars. As they got closer, we all broke down laughing, everyone except Incubus Fag and Red Hot Chili Fucker. The reason the rest of us were laughing was because Rivers, who is about 5’ 7” and 135 lbs. had his hair slicked back underneath a hairnet, wearing a wife beater, baggy shorts that stopped a few inches above his ankles, socks pulled up the rest of the way, and vintage black Nike shoes. Even better, Rivers had temporary tattoos all over his body. There was a design crawling up his neck, a spider web on his elbow, and two hands praying on the inside of his left forearm. I talked with a fellow fan of Weezer about how nice it was to see Rivers having fun with things again (the same Rivers, who at one point isolated himself in a room for two years after the release of their sophomore album didn’t perform as well as expected). Then Incubus Fag tried to correct me, saying, “Yeah, if dressing up like a gangster is your idea of fun.”
As a matter of fact, Incubus Fag, that is my idea of fun. Now shut the fuck up, grab a wide ruled notebook, and write some fucking poetry. Better yet, save a tree, grab a knife, and write that poem down your jugular vein. Fucking bitch.
But back to the subject at hand, Rivers was there to pull this supped up station wagon with his teeth and set a World Record. Again, we were there to cheer him on. Someone forgot to take the station wagon out of park, and the first attempt almost pulled Rivers’ teeth out of his head. Rivers, in all his ghetto glory, finally got to pull the car a few meters before the bit in his mouth broke. But I think it had already gone far enough to issue him the world record. What a productive day so far, and it’s not even 10:00am yet.
They began setting up for the token footage of the band playing that is in every music video. Before going over to cheer them on as they play, first we had to get some shots of the words biggest skateboard. It was a really big skateboard. They packed well over thirty people on that thing. Then one of the grips pushed it into frame, causing about twenty-five people to lose their balance and almost fall off. The rest of us cheered.
With that business out of the way, and the band plugged in, we all huddled around the Flying Nacho, people desperately trying to get positioned where they thought the camera would pick them up. I noticed some people eating the nachos and cheese, forgetting that this thing had been sitting out for over three hours in the California sun. (Un)fortunately, some Production Assistants saw that and immediately asked people to stop. Some did.
With the band ready and the extras fighting off salmonella, we were ready to shoot. Our instructions were to look like we were having a good time rocking out to Weezer. No problem. The cameras rolled, the band lip-synched to the song, “Troublemaker,” and we rocked out. The “we” being myself and Weezer—everybody else was just faking. It’s not their fault. They weren’t born rock stars like us. After more jumping around and looking like we were having a good time, the song ended and we got ready to do it again, and again, and again. During the interim, people were voicing their complaints that the band wasn’t playing live. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it pretty common knowledge that bands don’t actually play when shooting music videos? It’s not like every band that shoots a video is trying to pull the wool over the eyes of their fans—that’s just how it’s done so it doesn’t look goofy when you overlay the song in post-production.
During this segment, other members of the band set some records of their own. Pat Wilson, the drummer, played the world’s smallest drum kit. Yes, it was a fully functional drum kit, and Pat had two tiny drumsticks for which to play with. The man from Guinness came onto the set with an official Guinness measuring stick to measure every aspect of the kit to make sure it was a world record. While he was busy doing that, guitarist Brian Bell played his instrument using the world’s longest electric guitar amp cord. The thing ran from the set, which was at one end of the Forum’s parking lot, all the way to the other. It’ll be hard to grasp just how long this cord was until you see the music video, as I doubt any of my four loyal readers will have been to the Forum’s parking lot to know just how big that is. After running through the song a few more times with the band, it was lunchtime.
The Guitar Hero guys were still at it, looking bored out of their mind. The singer’s voice sounded shot. He was barely able to whisper into the microphone now. I keep hearing the same songs over and over again, and I’ve been busy doing things involving not playing Guitar Hero. Persevere guys—you’ve only got about seven more hours to go.
Lunch was served. It was Pizza Hut pizza. Maybe the greasiest Pizza Hut pizza ever served for lunch. The grease from my two slices of pizza soaked through my multi-layered paper plates and actually dripped like a leaky faucet onto the asphalt. But the lemonade was just right.
Once us extras had finished eating their bottle of Crisco, people started pulling out their instruments brought along for the hootenanny and played along together to Weezer songs. We ran the gamut, playing things like “Buddy Holly,” from the Blue Album all the way up to “Pork and Beans,” the most recent single, and even some B-side stuff, like “Suzanne.” Everyone had a good time playing along and singing a song—everyone except Incubus Fag and the Red Hot Chili Fucker. I think they were busy uploading sad photos of each other on myspace or something.
Going to grab more lemonade to neutralize the grease base ripping apart my small intestine, I bumped into Guinness World Record holder for playing the World’s Smallest Drum Kit and Weezer drummer, Pat Wilson. We chatted briefly—he was respectful enough to know that I was really busy with the shoot today, but I did let him take a picture with me on my cell phone. He thanked me for the opportunity, I told him it was my pleasure, and we parted ways. The first thing I did was sent the picture to my way hetero life mate Dallas and his cell phone. He texts me back the following message:
“I don’t know who that is. Is it Pat? It looks like Pat.”
I text Dallas back, informing him that it indeed was Pat. His response:
“I hate you.”
Ha ha. Today just paid for its self. But it gets better. Next, I run into Guinness World Record holder for playing guitar with the World’s Longest Electric Guitar Cord and Weezer guitarist Brian Bell. Once again, I was more than happy to let him take a picture with me on my phone. We too exchanged pleasantries and went our separate ways—Brian to do something important, me to do something even more important—I had to send this picture to Dallas.
Dallas text messaged me again:
“Where is it that you got to meet them?”
I told him I was on the set of the “Troublemaker” music video. After a moment’s delay, I receive a text back saying:
“I’m not talking to you for two weeks.”
The director came around asking for all extras to return to the set. It was now time to take part in the World’s Largest Air Guitar Session. We all once again huddled around the Flying Congealed Cheese and Stale Nacho while we went over what we were going to do for this part of the shoot. Someone is eating a damn nacho. No wonder Weezer fans look so sickly. California school system, loyal reader. California school system. Once again, my inner rock star shone through. I played the air guitar better than the Devil can play the fiddle. I had the look, the stance, the windmill strum, the stage presence. Pete Townshend would have been proud.
But it was during the hootenanny that I really shined. Did I say hootenanny? Yes, I said hootenanny. I said it earlier too. Our next record to break was for World’s Raddest Hootenanny. Those of us participating in the hootenanny picked up our guitars (I picked up Rose’s guitar—thanks again, Rose!), our snare drums, our accordions, and our spoons, and went to playing with the band. The song, “Troublemaker” is really easy to play. Aside from a bridge in the middle of the song, you only have to strum an A major chord and an A7 chord, over and over again. That’s all the song is for the verse and chorus. Writing a rock song is easy. Being a rock star is tough. That’s why so many bands never make it—they just don’t have what it takes to be a rock star. Weezer is both good at music and they have the chops to be rock stars. I’m bad at music, knocking me out of the running. But the potential is there. The hootenanny sounded just like a hootenanny would—a little outdoorsy. It didn’t sound great, but considering the eclectic mishmash of instruments in attendance, it turned out better than anyone could have expected. Weezer looked pleased, and we all had a lot of fun.
We did another round of pickup shots, which entailed more jumping around and looking like we were enjoying ourselves. After twelve hours of doing this, it started to wear on everyone.
Another record fell during this portion of the shoot. Weezer set the record for number of guitars smashed in a music video. Once again, the director came around and hand picked a bunch of people to go on stage and smash them while the band lip-synched. I was pretty bummed when I didn’t get picked. The director looked right at me and then past me. It egged me for a few minutes, and then I looked at the group of people that got picked. Again, it was just a bunch of weird looking, sickly kids. Then, I felt better about not getting picked. Not a single normal looking person got pulled from the crowd to smashy smashy. These kids will probably go on to be graphic design majors in college (or already are), and do quite well for themselves, sure, and I’ll probably live in a hostel with Gweat’s for the next five years with no future prospects, but at least I look normal. If ever I accidentally got in a line for a hipster concentration camp, someone would see that I didn’t fit in and pull me out of there before I got on the train.
I heard Incubus Fag and Red Hot Chili Fucker pipe up again, saying something impish. Apparently, everyone else has had it with them too today. Some other extra harangued them for being little fuck tarts and a couple other people jumped in to attack too. Looking back, it seems a little harsh and excessive, but when Mom comes to pick them up, she’ll probably take RHCF and his friend to McDonald’s to cheer them up. They’ll be fine.
After that, most people got to leave and prizes were handed out at the end of the day. These consisted of forty-fives, who probably more people there had a player that could spin them than should, to Weezer tote bags, to a guitar signed by the band. But I was out of the running for these prizes, as I had one more record to be a part of.
With the sun going down, we had to get this taken care of quickly before we lost all of our natural light. The groups were split again 50/50, and we all lined up on each side of a folding table lined with custard pies. The final record to go down was…you guess it, the World’s Largest Custard Pie Fight. The Guinness representative informed us for it to count as a world record, it had to last at least a minute. However, there weren’t enough pies to go around, so we had to drag the fight on by doing it in waves, the same way our founding fathers fought the English. The whistle blew, and the first wave got creamed (pun intended). Then the second wave went, then the third. I launched my pie at my opponent, and in turn, I got nailed big time. My entire head was covered in delicious custard. I couldn’t see through all of the creamy goodness. Wiping my eyes, I saw the next waves go. Everyone was a mess. We got it to last longer than a minute, though. Even with pies gone, people started picking up shells off the ground and chucking them. The pie fight continued on. It was a blast. People were slipping on residue left and right—a few even wiped out. By the end of it, there was more pie on people than on the ground. My entire head was caked in it, there was a good portion of custard resting on my shoulders and some going down the front of my shirt. My right pant leg had a healthy amount covering the span of hip to ankle, and my shoes were more crust than Converse.
The director yelled, “That’s a wrap,” we all cheered, and began wiping off custard. Apparently, no one thought a pie fight would get messy, and we were left to ration about two paper towel rolls amongst ourselves. Fortunately, a Production Assistant found a hose we could spray down with. Within a matter of minutes, I knew what it was like to be at Woodstock and the Civil Rights protests all in one.
Now, soaking wet and still pied, I hunted down the Cougar and called it a day. On my way, I crossed paths with Karl, fifth member of Weezer and their online site manager. We talked for a bit—he got some pictures of me in my baked goods glory, and went about our separate ways. On my way to the car, I spotted two of the Guitar Hero guys. I asked them how it was to play Guitar Hero for twelve hours. They said it was one of the worst things they’ve had to do in their life. I can’t even imagine. I get about three songs into Guitar Hero and get bored. Just like I assumed, they didn’t even have a full build of the game. In fact, Activision only gave them nine songs to play the entire day. Nine songs! Average each song to be about three minutes, that’s less than a half hour of material. Since this blog has run long, and you already had to convert Pacific Standard Time into Central, I’ll do the math for you on this one. That means they played each of the nine songs roughly twenty-four times. The toy guitarist told me, “If I hear another Bon Jovi song in my entire life, I’m going to fucking kill myself.”
Then the plastic drummer chimed in, “The only song I would listen to again is ‘Heartbreaker,’ by Pat Benatar, because she’s hot.” I hope Bon Jovi wasn’t in earshot to hear that.
I drove back through Inglewood and Los Angeles without my shirt on, and my seatbelt still got custard on it. That’s going to smell so bad. Of course, the nearest open parking space to the hostel was three blocks away, so I lugged my dirty clothes in one hand, and Rose’s guitar in the other (my hands were clean, at least), walked past Sait, Marko, and Ruby, who were all busy doing work on their computers. I hear running water in the bathroom. Gweat’s is in there singing. Who knows if he was actually showering. I hoped he’d be out of the bathroom by the time I dropped my clothes in the laundry.
On my way down the hall again, I still hear water running, then I hear the toilet flush, followed by Gweat’s saying, “Holy shit, that’s hot.” There are so many things wrong with this picture. One, the shower is too far away from the toilet for Gweat’s to even reach the handle to flush it. Two, why would he flush the toilet in the first place if he were in the shower? A paradox.
Upon returning upstairs after starting my load of laundry, Gweat’s emerged from the shower, so I hopped in. When I was finished, the bathroom smelled like a bakery, and it wasn’t because the Dutch Letters Gweat’s was making in there were finished cooking, either.
All in all, it was an excellent day. I’m really starting to dig California. There’s just so much stuff to do and see. Even though I haven’t done much of anything yet. I’d never have seen or done the things I have done here back at home.
Lastly, I’ve got to thank Weezer and their crew. They were great to work with today, and it was a lot of fun. I’ll remember today now and forever. Should I somehow forget, I’ll simply be able to watch the music video as a quick reminder.
=w=
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Tactical Espionage Action
CONFIRMED! I will be appearing in the Weezer music video. I have to be at the Forum in Inglewood at 7am tomorrow morning. Wait, Inglewood? From what I’ve gathered, Inglewood is Compton Lite. Why would Weezer, a band consisting of scrawny white boys be shooting a video featuring their scrawny white fans in Inglewood? And at 7am no less. Is that still a time of day?
But this is no time to question the Weezer authorities. If I’m going to be in the hootenanny, I need to bone up on my guitar strumming. Rose was kind enough to let me borrow her six-string so I could practice my scales. But instead of doing that, I drove to Hollywood to drop off my screenplay at a production company. It’s Wednesday street cleaning anyway, so I might as well do it now, lest I want a parking ticket.
Upon arriving at the production company in Hollywood, rather than pay to use a parking garage or fill the meter, I pulled the Cougar into a CVS Pharmacy lot, hoping and praying the “Reserved for CVS customers. Violators will be towed at owners expense,” signs littering the place didn’t pertain to me. While briskly walking to my destination, I came across the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I passed the star of Roy Rogers, who is right on the corner of I believe Cahuenga and Hollywood Boulevard, but that might not be accurate—I should’ve taken better notes. I’ve always wanted to see this attraction, but there was no time to waste sightseeing now. In my hands was Hollywood’s next rejected screenplay. I was on a mission to deliver this to a production company who would take it from me, throw it in the recycling bin, and move on to the next one in the pile.
I’d made it to the security building. I stated my name and purpose. They asked if I had an appointment. I said that I did not, and that I was just going to drop off my screenplay because the production company was open to taking unsolicited submissions. After a little sweet-talking and a bit of luck, I was sent up to the office.
When I reached the top floor, the elevator opened up to what you would expect a production company’s waiting room to look like. Everything was sleek and streamlined. It looked fast paced and cutting edge, even though the receptionist was clearly bored. It didn’t look like she had too many projects to work on. She kindly asked me to have a seat and someone would be with me right away. I walked over to one of the couches—the back support was taller than I am standing up. When I sat down, I felt like I was about to get my picture taken in one of the oversize novelty couches they have at the State Fair (golly shucks). This was clearly a subliminal attempt at intimidation. Just because my feet couldn’t touch the ground right now didn’t mean I was going to let these Hollywood big wigs walk all over me. If they wanted to play by prison rules, we could play by prison rules. So the first thing I did was take out my hunting knife and carve up all of their throw pillows. That was phase one. In phase two, I knocked over their magazine rack. Finally, I threw myself through their glass coffee table. The receptionist looked at me like I was crazy. Feeling bad, I cleaned everything up and sat down again.
From there, the receptionist and I watched Divorce Court together. It concluded when the paternity results showed the defendant was the baby’s daddy, and decided to be a part in his son’s life from then on out. While watching the next show about a hard-boiled judge that had an erection for justice, I began running the numbers in my head for how much money it would take to get my car back from the towing company.
After a 45-minute moment, the head of the production company came out to greet me. After which, he said:
“Um, have we met before?”
“No sir, we have not.”
“So, how did you get up here?”
I explained the situation to him and how I thought it would be best if I delivered my screenplay manually rather than an electronic submission because I wanted to be sure he got it personally. He told me that was not how it’s usually done, and I tried my best to play it cool like Jack Nicholson in Chinatown, and act like this is how I always do these kinds of things. He took my story, we said our goodbyes, and I assured him we would be in touch in the future. I said goodbye to the receptionist whom I had bonded with over daytime courtroom television, and took the elevator back to the first floor. As soon as I left, the executive probably took my screenplay, peed on it, let it fester for a few minutes, and then went about his busy executive day. But that’s not the point. The point is, I infiltrated a production company’s office in the heart of Hollywood, hand-delivered my screenplay to the head of the company, and then hopped back in my not towed ’93 Cougar to drive back to the hostel I’d been living in for two weeks now. This left me feeling pretty badass, even if nothing comes of it.
To celebrate my victory, I went to Ralphs where they are having a sale on eight pieces of chicken for five bucks. That was too much chicken to eat, but it was cheaper to buy eight pieces than it was to buy three, so I went with it.
With four pieces down to nothing but the bone, I realized I couldn’t handle this all on my own. Fortunately, I heard a familiar voice coming from outside. Running to the window, I saw Gweat’s yelling at a dumpster. I shouted out to him, “Hey Gweat’s—,” he looked up. “I’ve got some chicken up here. You wanna help me eat it?”
Gweat’s paused, looked at the dumpster again, then back at me. “Yeah, hang on. I’ll be up in a minute.” Walking back over to the chicken table, I heard Gweat’s finish up his poignant argument. By the end of his roe, I saw his point.
Cut to:
Gweat’s and I sitting at a table eating chicken together.
After that, it was time to practice guitar so as to not let Weezer down. They also pushed back the start time to 8am, giving me another hour to become the guitar savant I always knew I was. As it turns out, I suck. Not consistently playing guitar for a couple of years has rendered me terrible. Not that I was good before, but I was failing at playing things I used to be get through with the greatest of ease. Giving up, I went outside where Marko, Sait, and a few others were sitting around smoking not whacky-tobaccee. Then Jeff, a first floor resident, asked if anyone wanted to play Guitar Hero. We all reluctantly went to the TV room, hooked up the Wii, and took turns passing the plastic toy guitar around like it were some peace pipe. After a couple of rounds, I can honestly say I also suck at Guitar Hero, too.
Whatever. It’s all about the image anyway, which I won’t have if I don’t get some sleep tonight. I crawled into bed, with images of Weezer and that dancing baby from Ally McBeal dancing in my head.
But this is no time to question the Weezer authorities. If I’m going to be in the hootenanny, I need to bone up on my guitar strumming. Rose was kind enough to let me borrow her six-string so I could practice my scales. But instead of doing that, I drove to Hollywood to drop off my screenplay at a production company. It’s Wednesday street cleaning anyway, so I might as well do it now, lest I want a parking ticket.
Upon arriving at the production company in Hollywood, rather than pay to use a parking garage or fill the meter, I pulled the Cougar into a CVS Pharmacy lot, hoping and praying the “Reserved for CVS customers. Violators will be towed at owners expense,” signs littering the place didn’t pertain to me. While briskly walking to my destination, I came across the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I passed the star of Roy Rogers, who is right on the corner of I believe Cahuenga and Hollywood Boulevard, but that might not be accurate—I should’ve taken better notes. I’ve always wanted to see this attraction, but there was no time to waste sightseeing now. In my hands was Hollywood’s next rejected screenplay. I was on a mission to deliver this to a production company who would take it from me, throw it in the recycling bin, and move on to the next one in the pile.
I’d made it to the security building. I stated my name and purpose. They asked if I had an appointment. I said that I did not, and that I was just going to drop off my screenplay because the production company was open to taking unsolicited submissions. After a little sweet-talking and a bit of luck, I was sent up to the office.
When I reached the top floor, the elevator opened up to what you would expect a production company’s waiting room to look like. Everything was sleek and streamlined. It looked fast paced and cutting edge, even though the receptionist was clearly bored. It didn’t look like she had too many projects to work on. She kindly asked me to have a seat and someone would be with me right away. I walked over to one of the couches—the back support was taller than I am standing up. When I sat down, I felt like I was about to get my picture taken in one of the oversize novelty couches they have at the State Fair (golly shucks). This was clearly a subliminal attempt at intimidation. Just because my feet couldn’t touch the ground right now didn’t mean I was going to let these Hollywood big wigs walk all over me. If they wanted to play by prison rules, we could play by prison rules. So the first thing I did was take out my hunting knife and carve up all of their throw pillows. That was phase one. In phase two, I knocked over their magazine rack. Finally, I threw myself through their glass coffee table. The receptionist looked at me like I was crazy. Feeling bad, I cleaned everything up and sat down again.
From there, the receptionist and I watched Divorce Court together. It concluded when the paternity results showed the defendant was the baby’s daddy, and decided to be a part in his son’s life from then on out. While watching the next show about a hard-boiled judge that had an erection for justice, I began running the numbers in my head for how much money it would take to get my car back from the towing company.
After a 45-minute moment, the head of the production company came out to greet me. After which, he said:
“Um, have we met before?”
“No sir, we have not.”
“So, how did you get up here?”
I explained the situation to him and how I thought it would be best if I delivered my screenplay manually rather than an electronic submission because I wanted to be sure he got it personally. He told me that was not how it’s usually done, and I tried my best to play it cool like Jack Nicholson in Chinatown, and act like this is how I always do these kinds of things. He took my story, we said our goodbyes, and I assured him we would be in touch in the future. I said goodbye to the receptionist whom I had bonded with over daytime courtroom television, and took the elevator back to the first floor. As soon as I left, the executive probably took my screenplay, peed on it, let it fester for a few minutes, and then went about his busy executive day. But that’s not the point. The point is, I infiltrated a production company’s office in the heart of Hollywood, hand-delivered my screenplay to the head of the company, and then hopped back in my not towed ’93 Cougar to drive back to the hostel I’d been living in for two weeks now. This left me feeling pretty badass, even if nothing comes of it.
To celebrate my victory, I went to Ralphs where they are having a sale on eight pieces of chicken for five bucks. That was too much chicken to eat, but it was cheaper to buy eight pieces than it was to buy three, so I went with it.
With four pieces down to nothing but the bone, I realized I couldn’t handle this all on my own. Fortunately, I heard a familiar voice coming from outside. Running to the window, I saw Gweat’s yelling at a dumpster. I shouted out to him, “Hey Gweat’s—,” he looked up. “I’ve got some chicken up here. You wanna help me eat it?”
Gweat’s paused, looked at the dumpster again, then back at me. “Yeah, hang on. I’ll be up in a minute.” Walking back over to the chicken table, I heard Gweat’s finish up his poignant argument. By the end of his roe, I saw his point.
Cut to:
Gweat’s and I sitting at a table eating chicken together.
After that, it was time to practice guitar so as to not let Weezer down. They also pushed back the start time to 8am, giving me another hour to become the guitar savant I always knew I was. As it turns out, I suck. Not consistently playing guitar for a couple of years has rendered me terrible. Not that I was good before, but I was failing at playing things I used to be get through with the greatest of ease. Giving up, I went outside where Marko, Sait, and a few others were sitting around smoking not whacky-tobaccee. Then Jeff, a first floor resident, asked if anyone wanted to play Guitar Hero. We all reluctantly went to the TV room, hooked up the Wii, and took turns passing the plastic toy guitar around like it were some peace pipe. After a couple of rounds, I can honestly say I also suck at Guitar Hero, too.
Whatever. It’s all about the image anyway, which I won’t have if I don’t get some sleep tonight. I crawled into bed, with images of Weezer and that dancing baby from Ally McBeal dancing in my head.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
