Fresh Bait

I’ve been here a little over a week and Santa Fe is Santa Fine.  Shooting’s going well despite the schizophrenic weather.  We were up at 10,000 ft yesterday on Hyde Park Road watching the sun flip us the finger every 30 minutes or so.  Later, after we wrapped around 6pm, it snowed.  I love the moody weather.

The morning was muddy.  There were golashes, slickers, and plywood puddle-bridges.  Midday, off on the horizon, we caught sight of the mountaintop we were on less than 24 hours before.  It was snow-capped.  In June.  In the desert.  Good stuff.

We were in an RV Park.  It had a pay phone.

Here’s what I’ll say.  Everyone’s got a cell phone nowadays.  And you know what?  People should.  People should and people do.  It’s 2009, don’t be an asshole.  Have a cell phone.  But pay phones?  C’mon.  They’re obsolete and useless.  They leave some confused and others pissed-off and annoyed.  Thank God someone posted some rules on how to use it at the RV Park:

See, all you need to talk to God is a freakin’ quarter.  Don’t be a cheap asshole.  Call the messiah.

When I went to get my physical done for this movie, about three weeks ago, David Carradine was in the waiting room.  He was dressed like his “Bill” character from Tarantino’s movie: worn leather jacket, open white button-down open to just below his chest, pendant necklace dangling, tight jeans, and cowboy boots.  He read a magazine, kept to himself.  So did I.

The doctor came out. “Mr. Carradine?”  

He rose slowly from his seat, without answer.

“How are you doing?” she smiled.

He sighed.  ”You know….I’m an actor.”

It was such a strange, melancholic reply, but I thought nothing of it until today.

“Well, you look good!” she countered pretty brightly.

And he did.  He looked bad-ass (as always).   Twenty minutes later, I got called in and so I headed down the narrow hall, lined with framed headshots, toward the examination room.  Carradine was there, standing next to a eleven year-old boy, pointing at some picture.  As I passed I made eye contact and I nodded with a smile.  He didn’t smile back but acknowledged me nonetheless.

I’m still kicking myself for not telling him what I wanted to say then: Mr. Carradine, I’m a big fan.  Thanks for the work.  I missed it.  It’s gone.  Lesson learned.  What sucks is that I knew that lesson already.  Say it when you can.  You may not get a do-over.

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Drove out to a small access road off I-25 here in Santa Fe.  We were supposed to flip a car today but we lost the light.  No go.  They called action and Simon, Nick, and I had our videos running…only to watch the sedan roll past where it was supposed to flip, then heard “Abort!  Abort!” from an AD’s bullhorn.  Still not sure what happened.  Tough first day, but better things (and stunts) ahead for sure.

I’m doing a movie here in this awesome, Southwestern town.  Got myself a cozy little bungalow.  Stocked up on some fresh fruit, Guinness, red chile salsa, blue corn tortilla chips, and a bottle of Jameson’s.   Ready to get to work.

I have to say, I’m a lucky SOB to be working with some immensely talented folks.  We’re doing a movie about two buddies coming from Comic-Con who end up driving cross-country with an alien.

I hit a great dive bar last night called The Matador.  It’s got a capacity of 67 (which is “assholes to belly-buttons” says Ceasar, the side-burned, tattooed co-owner and operator) and great music too.  Country, late punk, Americana.   Kurosawa’s Ikiru was playing on the TV in the corner.  Good shit.  

How can you not like this town? 

And my homage to Magritte:

My godfather’s grandson, Joseph, has this tradition of taking a picture every Christmas with me and my dad.  He doesn’t mess around.  No one else is allowed in, not even immediate family members.  Only The Three Joes:

He also played a fake scratch-off lotto ticket prank on my parents.  Some may find it mean, but my parents loved it.  And so did everyone there.  You can see that here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ZOD8ihRPLY

I’m in a bed at 2am in Marietta, GA watching CNN.  Breaking news, folks:

O.J.’s guilty.

Enjoy the love in the big house, fella!  Keep an eye on your Naked Gun.