Sunday: Too many airplanes in my future.
At this time please step aside
We reserve the right to shake you down
Stuff me in this metal tube, give me some drinks
And hope that we don’t hit the ground
The last day in my not-so-decadent Echo Park loft for a while as we were headed off to scour the Dirty South, looking for locations for an upcoming shoot. I’m growing attached to this place. Sort of. I have crazy neighbors, plants to take care of, and I recently decided that the view from my hilltop perch is the inspiration for Ryan Adams’ recent album cover. Tell me it’s not.
Monday: LA to Paducah, Kentucky.
This is our dream and we are living it. Two Wal-Marts and a railroad museum? Party.
Tuesday: Bowling Green.
I had a three-hour conversation (on purpose) with a local historian about wooden wagon wheels, the construction of their spokes, and the damage a spoke might inflict on the head of a disgruntled spoke factory employee ‘roundbout 1896.
Answer: A lot.
Wednesday: Paducah to Detroit (Halloween morning).
During the layover in Chicago I was served coffee by a clown. At 6:30 a.m. That is all.
The Punchnel’s staff was kind enough to fill in for me last week, posting a very sweet letter wishing for my speedy return to the Midwest. Meanwhile, someone posted on Facebook that they were sad I had died.
On the contrary, I am not dead. I am alive, fairly well, and am going to be a dad again. I’m thrilled, but my son is over the moon to be a big brother.
Friday: Los Angeles. I am a zombie.
Heard in the kitchen:
“You worked on Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?”
“So, like, are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Smarter than a 5th Grader.”
“Oh. Usually not.”
Heard while walking through casting:
“Starr Jones is going to be completely off limits.”
You said it, pal.