Vishsanity

Be here now.

Is that OCD?

If 2012 was my year to cut loose and let my ADHD run then show, then 2013 shall be The Year Of My OCD.

Plans.
Lists.
Control.

My ADHD wants to check fb (REAL BAD) and Twitter, and Wikipedia, and YouTube, and Tumblr, and Erowid,

oscillation between two extremes. Which is essentially my Unified Theory.

Sick

I'm sick of being sick.

I must go over this and edit it according to the standards of my OCD. My ADHD will create and my OCD will revise.

creation & destruction
adhd&ocd
female&male

are you talking to yourself?

THE BLUR
THE BLEND

we create duality so that we may exist inside of it

raw crazy vishthoughts

Look at this mess. No Capitalization. Poor Grammar. Tsk tsk. Tut tut.

It's funny, initially I wanted to quit facebooking(/general internetting) in order to FOCUS on this blog entry, but now I want to quit this blog entry to focus on writing.

The logic was, despite numerous electronic setbacks (both phone and netbook are currently unusable and not easily/quickly fixed) I still had the blessing of Abbey and her equipment, namely the very laptop that's helping me type this very sentence.

So then, if one can reason that one should not be wasting one's time with facebook, so too then can't one follow the logic of wasting one's time on online journaling being better channelled into a more productive endeavor, like say typing up one's screenplay?!

BUT WHERE DO WE DRAW THE LINE?

Who is to say what's best? At this point, OCD (following the nature of yin and yang) is becoming ADHD, and vice versa. The strict adherence to reducing wasteful activities becomes almost a spontaneous way of leapfrogging ad infinitum and the burning ADHD longs to simply choose a single endeavor and pour heart and soul into it.

raw thoughts
I kinda don't wanna edit this at all....
I should do this more often, even if only to simply keep myself focused and on track...

I gave in. I'm checking facebook. I'm checking tumblr.
But I'm staying mindful (by recording such facts in text here.)

I did not work out today. That saddens me. It's Friday. I'd like to work out. I work out on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Too bad I am sick. Super sick. Hackin up a lung. I feel bad for the humans infected with what I've got.

SICK DEMON
BROKEN ANGEL
human

whole

One

1

.

0

None.

Divided.

DEMON.
FIXED GOD.
HEALTHY DEVIL.

well that was odd, I thought aloud without enough punctuation
touch the screen [here] Haha. It did nothing. Didn't it? You tried anyway. Why?
YOU WANT TO BELIEVE,

YOU WANT TO BELIEVE IN THE MIRACLE OF BEING SURPRISED.

Is that all Life is? The Big Suprise? The Divine Surprise?
food.
i am thinking about food.
i am heavily considering food.
contemplating eating.
pensive on the nature of food and eating

the word Ouroboros comes to mind...

suddenly I feel as if though this sickness of the body is actually of the mind........

how can I heal myself?

HOW DO I ACTIVATE MY JESUS POWERS?! do i even want them?

EGO
TAKE OVER
JOSH VISH
ACTIVATE

I want to stop being sick,
I want to eat healthy and enough, every single day.
I want to be active, get bigger, stronger, faster, leaner. I want to be as muscular as is possible for me to reasonably and affordably maintain.
I need to stop. I'm tumbling down into the internet. Literally.

There's music playing and I don't want it to be...

life can be summed up in two simple words: fuck you.

the philosophy of fuck you
the dao of fuck you
when you eat something, you say "fuck you, thing. i'm eating you."
when you fuck someone, you fuck them and they fuck you
when you die, yer fucked
when your born, it's because yer parents fucked and therefore indirectly fucked you
when you wake up, fuck you sleep/death/infinity
when you fall asleep, fuck you reality/life/people
when you masturbate, fuck you. literally. you fuck yourself.
when you take drugs, you say fuck you to reality
when you play videogames you say fuck you to reality
when you play music you say fuck you to silence

i am picturing a traditional ouroboros overlayed with a different kind of ourboros, one of a man with an immense phallus, fucking himself. a figure 8. infinity.

goddamnit, do I really have to stop eating meat?! but it's so tasty!
don't wanna die, reluctant to kill, so why eat death?
eat life. eat fruit. plant. water. nurture. grow

i only wanna eat badass predator type animals that i personally kill from now on

I MUST FEED MYSELF.

The Big Bang? pffffft. Try, The Big Fuck You.

I'm dicking off again. It feels good. Doing something other than what I'm supposed to be doing. Being "bad." Being "naughty." And in a very real sense, fucking myself.

it truly is a new year
2013 is really here
there's nothing to fear
reality is mine to steer
when you are One, you are without peer
your precious life you must hold dear
for death is inevitably near
you may think this queer
you may even leer
but take a look in the mirror
before you punch that deer
go ahead, launch that spear
and then drink that beer
do not jeer
listen here
walk off that pier
do you hear?
study the rear
become the seer
elevate to God Tier
when the time comes, do not veer

i made some macros for you

Capital L Love

My life has become terribly Romantic as of late. Infused with meaning and thick with casual rhythm. I'm not complaining.

 Matters of daily life once considered banal and monotonous have taken on a new layer of profundity inversely equal to the strata in which contemporary western society has reduced them to.

 Rain falling. A bowel movement. Brushing a stray hair behind an ear (mine OR hers.) Finding a comfortable position for the vessel that contains my soul whilst my mind takes me on a tour of the wonders within. Smoking. The sound a page makes as its turned.

 Everything has become saturated with Divinity and overwhelmed by graceful scrutiny dredged from the personal perspective of my genuine curiosity.

 I see beauty even in the profanely grotesque. I'm not sure there is any going back. I am in Love. I have half a mind to learn a musical instrument or three. The other half is hard at work weighing the pros and cons.

麻 + 鬼 = 魔

Kanji is the name given to the Han symbols the Japanese language borrows from the Chinese language. Early written symbols in Chinese were pictographs, which are simply rudimentary drawings of what was/is being seen. Pictography is a form of writing which uses representational, pictorial drawings. It is a basis of cuneiform and to some extent, hieroglyphic writing. The kanji for forest (麻) also means hemp. If you look closely, you will note that the two five-pronged groups of strokes (林) blatantly resemble the upside down leaves of a male cannabis plant. The 广 portion of the symbol represents a grass hut, in which the leaves are being hung upside down to dry. So prolific and ubiquitous was cannabis in these days that the very symbol for forest drew its inspiration from the characteristic long fanned out leaf pattern still visible in the plant today.

KYLE

He was running as fast as his little legs could take him.

His mother's voice was still echoing and trailing off with a sun that had almost finished setting. The bright orange glow was dipping behind the verdant hills and a soft indigo mixed with a loud fuchsia remained to light his way through the (relatively) tall grass. His steps were frantic and jostled his entire frame as he ran. Chubby cheeks and loose arms bounced with each successive transference of weight from right to left and back again. At this age, children don't really bend their knees when they run, they amble fervently, legs kept almost straight, achieving forward momentum only by constantly switching which stiff side is in front.

Kyle clambers up the hand-built wooden stairs of the house one-by-one, taking the steps in huge staccato strides. One tiny foot extends at the end of one short leg, just barely clearing the height, and the other one comes up to meet it. These aren't the smooth alternating steps we learn to take as our bodies grow to accommodate them. These are the genuine efforts of a small body desperately trying to keep moving onward and upward. He plows face first into the base of his mother's soft flower-printed, flowy dress and pulls his head back to gaze up at her. She smells like fresh laundry with a slight hint of spicy cinnamon. His dark brown, almost black hair pasted by sweat to his forehead is clumsily swept aside by one fat little fist. She gently ruffles the back of his head and softly pulls him inside, closing the door behind her.

Taking one of his hands in hers, she leads his short little legs up the stairs, patiently waiting for him to ascend. When they reach the top of the stairs she releases his hand and he hurries off to his room. The lights are already turned down, and the mood causes a short yawn to break the rhythm of his panting. He hops up onto the fluffy comforter adorning his bite-size bed and with one hand deliberately held in a fist, he uses the other to struggle to his feet. His head has just snuck under the curtains as his mother enters the room. Pressing his outstretched hand to the window, he gazes outward mouth agape. She is turning the ceiling lights off and flicking his bedside lamp on while shaking her head back and forth.

"Kyle, honey. What did we say about shoes on the bed?"

He is oblivious to her, rapt with the dancing specks of light in the field he just came from. His breath is fogging the glass as she scoops his feet out from under him with one hand on his backside. Laying him on his back, she begins unfastening his overalls, his little chest and belly still heaving up and down from the night's endeavors. As she slips them off from around his feet, she sweetly rubs and caresses his rising and falling tummy. Another yawn escapes him. Noticing his clenched fist she inquires,

"What do you have in your hand, sweetie?"

He coyly looks away and attempts to roll toward the wall. One smooth firm hand placed on his middle pulls him back to her and quickly dances around, tickling him for a moment. After stifling his giggle he quietly utters,

"Pweez?"

She shakes her head again and leans in close. Her hand gently pats his stomach and then settles into a slow rub.

"Now baby, we talked about this. He can't breathe in there. You have to let him go."

He defiantly shakes his head and yawns yet again. She sighs and sits up, meeting the boy's father at the threshold of the door.

"Oh let him be. He has to learn his own lessons." he says to her.
"But he's just a little boy. It's too much for him." she retorts.
"He's not going to be that way forever, and this is how we can prepare him for the rest. He's just going to do it again, tomorrow. Just like he does every night. He'll learn eventually."

"Hi, Daddy!" Kyle spurts.

He walks toward the bed holding a sustained, "Shhh." leading his wife forward with one hand tenderly placed on the small of her back. She settles on the corner of the bed nearest to his head and resumes tucking him in. The amount of time his eyes remain open between blinks is steadily decreasing.

"Hi, buddy." he whispers, and both of their hands find his forehead, rubbing and overlapping in tandem. Kyle lets out one final yawn and they both take their turns lightly pressing their lips to his rapidly cooling brow. She leans in close an utters an almost imperceptible,

"Mommy loves you, sweetheart. Sleep well. Sweet dreams."

She exits the room and his father remains behind. While keeping his eyes on Kyle he slowly pulls the door shut. After it clicks shut, it immediately opens back up and he peers in at his now sleeping son. This time he only pulls it most of the way shut and continues looking at the boy for a moment through the narrow vertical slice left open. With a pleasant sigh he walks away.

Kyle's fingers begin to loosen and a single firefly escapes his grasp, lighting and blinking as it flutters about his dim room...

[Ready For The Next Step]

Dear Harley,

I'M COMIN' FOR YOU.

Click this picture, and then click Like. Do it, or I will eat you. I mean, I might eat you anyway, but clicking Like will bump you down the list.

7.22.12 UPDATE - AT LEAST 11 more, PLEASE.

I have a few episodes written/outlined, and I'm working on a few more. Gonna try to shoot/edit/upload a "Vish-pilot" ASAP. The only thing I'm waiting for is my parents' visit. Once they've come and gone, unless I hear differently from Harley, I AM WALKING TO FUCKING CANADA. I've mapped it out. I know my fitness/capabilities and while it will be hard, IT WILL BE SO WORTH IT. And so goddamned Epic. Befitting of both the Vish name and the EpicMealTime brand. Should take a little less than a month.

Harley, while I would greatly appreciate the help getting up there (bike, motorcycle, car, airfare, piggyback, magical flying baconweave, the money for any of those, etc.) save your generosity til after I arrive. This is some crazy shit, everybody knows that, but when I pull it off it will reach proportions that can fittingly only be described as Epic. I can hear one or both of our voices now, "THIS NUTJOB WALKED OVER 600 MILES. ALL THE WAY FROM PENNSYLVANIA, THE CANADA OF AMERICA." Besides, yer gonna need all that youtube money to feed me, 'cause when I arrive, I'LL BE FUCKING STARVING.

Pretty much unless The Sauce Boss says otherwise, the plan is to spend some time with my parents and then secure my apartment until after I get back, whenever that may be. I'll need to pony up a couple of months of rent and of course a little money for food for the journey. I'll be packing EXTREMELY light. Probably just a single outfit and my phone along with money and a few toiletries. I'll record videoblogs along the way and post them here to keep everyone apprised of my progress. That way everyone can follow along from the comfort of their own homes.

My goal is in sight and I'm getting sick of waiting for Morenstein to pull the trigger. Stime to show some initiative.

Knowing me and my charm it would be all too easy to fund-raise for travel fare and or secure rides along the way, but that won't do. That's not Epic enough.

No no.

When I burst through that door, likely the leanest I've been in years, HUNGRY AS FUCK, barefoot and barechested, I'll scream at the top of my lungs "HARLEY. I'M HUNGRY." and the whole crew will look at me and know "That's a crazy motherfucker right there." CRAZY LIKE A FOX.

I'm tired of waiting for things to come to me. It's time to go for what I want. Vish-style. Zero fux given. BALLS DEEP.

GET AFTER IT.

Rubbin' Elbows? More like Slammin' Shoulders!

My life has been one big fantasy as of late. One long string of wish-fulfillment. Goal-setting is a helluva drug.

So about a month back I got a call from Nancy Mosser to come be an extra on the film OUT OF THE FURNACE. An actual phone call, while I was reading the e-mail they sent in tandem. Usually, when you sign up with Nancy Mosser, you'll get notifications about what's available and then you call them. Well, this time, they called me. From about that moment forward I've been giddy as a schoolchild and for good reason.

Looked up the movie for that link above and now I'm distracted reading about all the other people that worked on it. And now I am editing my own IMDB page instead of finishing this entry...

Anyhoo...

Day 1

Arrive on set.

Within 10 minutes all my dreams begin coming true. Exactly like how they occur in movies and fantasies the globe over.

I can plainly see a line, so like a good little sheep I walk over and insert myself in it. A crew member asks me if I've signed in yet and when I respond that I have not, he tells me to go to another line. I was in line for wardrobe. I go over to the sign-in line which is about 20-30 people long and before I've settled into my spot, another crew member asks "Has he seen wardrobe?" and pulls me out of the line. I politely inform that I've yet to sign in and am quickly poo-poo'd off. They pull me out of the line and bring me back over to wardrobe. I'm wearing a wifebeater and the boys and girls of the wardrobe department are making no attempts at subtlety. Within seconds they begin undressing me. A gentlemen that I'm going to assume was gay, asks me with a signature slight lisp "Can we use these muscles?" Nodding and pulling my shirt off of me before I've had time to respond. Certainly, I say. That's what they're there for. They hand me another wifebeater and after I've put it and the other items handed to me on, two of them (a male and a female, both seemingly quite eager for this part of the process) begin "juicing" me up. A process involving rubbing me down with dirty rags.

Inside of a minute I am wearing different clothes and there is a woman purposefully applying product to my beard and twisting it into fours. I stare back over at the other extras, who are all staring at me like a hungry puppy stares up at the dinner table.

As I'm whisked away to go sign in, I can hear my fellows complaining. "But it's so hot! That guy gets to wear a wifebeater!" The scene we're were there for is set in November, so everyone else is wearing long-sleeves and pants, regardless of it being 70/80 degrees out.

I get signed in and go back over to the extras line.

"Sweet beard, dude."
"You're ripped, dude."

Thank you, thank you.

Not even a half an hour on site and already I feel like a doted-on celebrity.

After more beard/muscle praise we're all corralled to a school bus that will take us to the actual location that we're shooting at.

Sometime around there we're informed of the rules. We were literally told not to address celebrities. "Don't ask for pictures, don't ask for autographs." The caste system began asserting itself.

I would detail the place we went to, but as the movie has yet to come out, I don't want to ruin anything for you, so instead, I'll speak generally.

We were there to be spectators for two underground fights. One between two actors I'd not heard of prior. And another between Casey Affleck and one of the guys from the previous fight.

The two stunt guys were cool as fuck and keen to eye me up as I mirrored their stretching routine. This was the beginning of the shoot and therefore the beginning of 15 hours days and balancing shooting with my day job. My fitness was beginning its decline. Regardless, I was still decently jacked and receiving no shortage of confirmation of that. "Haha, so are you one of the fighters?" and many variations of that contributed to what was one of the longest Ego-stroking sessions of my life. In between takes my fellow extras would ask for fitness tips or forcefully tell me of their routines/diets. Shortly thereafter, the crew began joining in. Crew would walk me away and introduce me to other crew. Everyone shook my hand, looked me in the eye, told me their name and asked me for mine. Handshakes were firm and compliments were flowing like water.

Now despite our stark direction from the crew earlier, one of the ADs granted me exception. Everyone was told not to touch the actors, or to get too close or to do anything like Mary Tyler Moore tugging on her ear. "If we see you doing something to stand out on camera, you will be asked to leave." Regardless, T.Coe, whom I later came to affectionately refer to as "Coach" (the moniker bestowed upon him by the crew), leaned in and gave me special direction.

"Hey. You're doing great. Have you acted before?"

Indeed.
"It shows."
Thanks.
"Hey, don't be afraid to get in there. Don't be afraid to touch them. Get a lil crazy."

Again, I'd detail how I went crazy, but I'd rather you wait and see on the big screen. This is, after all, how we get paid and how I hope to be paid in the future.

Well after the first take wherein I "got crazy" the extras near me started doing the same. After cut was called, Coach came over and bluntly scolded "NOT you guys, okay? Him." Boy I was starting to feel like a snotty little shit at this point, and indeed I could feel a disconnect forming between me and my fellow extras.

I was the privileged guy. The special case. The exception. They were the faceless horde.

Sorry my friends, but we all get our due and this one was mine.

After a few takes, the energy was beginning to wear off of everyone whereas I kept resetting and giving 100%. It did not go unnoticed. After this first day, we switched around a bit. People that were across the way on day one eagerly offered, "Great energy, man." "Yeah, you really set the bar."

NOW THAT IS SOME PRAISE I CAN HANDLE.

Beard/muscles praise is nice, but.... it's just a beard, you know? This, this was something I was doing.

After that "Great energy." became the new go-to compliment that I'd receive and eventually lose feeling for due to semantic saturation.

We took breaks to eat and there the hierarchy became even more evident.

Now, I can't remember if it was that first day or the next as all the days blended together, running on 4 hours of sleep or less, but at some point, again when energy was waning, people were settling into modes of psyching themselves up between takes.

In between one take, Casey dropped to the ground and pounded out a couple of grueling pushups. Obviously to give himself a little pump and get his head in the game. Well when it looked like he wasn't even gonna reach ten before standing back up I dropped to the dirt and started bangin' some out myself. Heads snapped toward me. I had crested ten and was onto twenty in under a few seconds. My form was borderline plyometric as I was coming several inches up off the ground each time. The moment got the better of me and I screamed (what is fast becoming a signature move of mine) a fratboy "Woooo!" and followed with "Let's go Affleck! Don't quit!"

Literally the entire group turned their heads my way.

I stood back up and bounced in place a bit. I was pumped. Fired up. Lovin' and livin' life. My actions had not yet fully registered with me. I could see something moving through the crowd like a wave does at a stadium. Unrest. When it made it's way to me it was the extras flanking me on either side.

"Yer fucked man."
What?
"Yeah they're gonna kick you off set. Everyone was watching you."
But it was in between takes!
"Yeah but that guy *gesticulates toward fight choreographer* looked over here and he HATED it."

Oh?

"Yeah and Casey looked perturbed too."

Really?

So I waited a few takes and then walked over to Casey and the Fight Choreographer. As I was approaching, the looks on the faces of the crew said "What the fuck? First you screamed at him, now you're walking toward him? Do you have a death wish, kid?"

I poke Affleck. He turns around.

Hey dude, did I fuck with your concentration or anything?
"Not at all man, I really appreciate the energy."

See! That's what I thought! We're here, we're supposed to full of testosterone and meth and I know everyone's tired. I was just tryin to keep morale up.

The Fight Choreographer chimes in... "Yeah, yer fine, man."

I walk back over to my spot, Big Dick Swingin'.

Balls just draggin' on the floor.

Yeah, that's what I thought.
We do some more takes and we wrap for the night, 15 hours later. I sleep for like 6 minutes and then head back out.

The next day is when things intensified.

Day 2

The wedge between me and my fellows was becoming more and more apparent.

Lots more praise was received and people were still pulling me away to introduce me to people. People knew my name before I knew their's. The crew and the stand-ins had taken a liking to me and would sneak me food and or grant me access to the swanky bathrooms. The jealously was plain on the other extra's faces. But fuck 'em, you know? Be happy for me you jealous little shit. Snot my fault you never lifted weights. Not my fault you still insist on bringin a thin strip of metal to your face daily. This is my time to shine, let me have it.

And a good group of them did. Indeed we all added each other on facebook and would talk and chat in between takes and at meals.

One of my favorite memories of this day (and it was filled with many) was when one of the men cast as one of the Slavics came up to me, shook my hand and told me I was his hero.

For what?

"Dude, you were in a push-up contest with Casey Affleck. Yer the man. We're supposed to be looking certain ways, but every take I can't take my eyes off of you. I kept looking over to see what you'd do. Yer an animal, man."

Wow. Set filled with celebs and I'm your hero? Thanks, guy.

So we got to talking about how we regarded the celebs and such and then the topic of Willem Dafoe came up..

Willem Dafoe is a goddamned force to be reckoned with. A sight to behold. The man is a samurai. Intense, focused and unfaltering. When crew would be scrambling to remember marks or subtle wardrobe changes Willem would always speak up, and from one fellow observer to another, he was always right. The man was the only other person on set besides me that was soaking in as much as I was. He was completely aware, completely present. I started this project expecting to meet Christian Bale, and wondering how starstruck I'd be, I left it with an immense and newfound respect for Willem Dafoe. The man was truly an inspiration. And from the way he creepily (Willem Dafoe is creepy as fuck. Nice guy, but gives me the willies) stared at me between takes he could sense my energy too. At first I thought he was gay and maybe just into me, but as the day wore on I realized something we all realize in middle school or sooner. You can't see that someone is staring at you unless you are staring back at them, too. He was essentially acknowledging my presence and keeping watch on me. As I was doing to him. It was a powerful moment in my life. I could notice him looking my way whenever he and I would reset. Everyone else kinda never hit the highs we did and also sorta stayed zazzed up in between takes. Willem and I, samurais that we are, hit our marks and then returned to our spots to await the call of action again. The more I watched him watching me, the more respect I gained for him and myself. 

The dude that told me I was his hero, claimed Willem was an asshole.

"He's an asshole. They'd already called cut and he still looked us in the eye and yelled at us."

What'd he yell?

"Get out of the way, you fucking zombies!"

Hmm. Weird. Is he method?

"Method?"

How are you supposed to feel towards his character on camera?

"We're not supposed to like him."

So you're supposed to regard him with disgust and scorn, right?

"Yeah."
And now that he said that to you, how do you feel about him?
"..."

Which means now, when you're on camera your genuine looks of disdain will shine through. No acting necessary.

"..."
Willem Dafoe just got inside your head. He did your job for you. You're a fucking pawn to him.

My broner raged on.

We eventually wrapped for lunch and what happened then is the only time I'm really comfortable name-dropping.

I FUCKING PLAYED SOCCER WITH WOODY FUCKING HARRELSON. FUTBOL WITH A MAN THAT PLANTED CANNABIS ON THE WHITE HOUSE LAWN.

We'd just finished eating, when I noticed a pink ball being tossed around in the distance, giant manpuppy that I am, I jogged toward it. "What are they playing?", I inquired as I passed staggered groups.
"Kickball."

KICKBALL?! I increased my pace, I was now at an 85% sprint.

KICKBALL FUCK YEAH.

As I drew closer I could see that it was a soccer ball, not a dodgeball. I peeled off my shirt and shoes and began rolling up my jeans on the sidelines.

"That's Woody Harrelson out there. You can't go out there." A spectating extra offered.

Watch me.

I get out there, and I'm stuffed from lunch, tired from the long days/no sleep but something deeper and greater than my flesh keeps propelling me forward. When will I ever have this opportunity again? The super cute Brenna Lee Roth, cheered me on from the sidelines. This was real life. This was my real life.

"Let's go, beard!" she called after me as I chased the ball as if my life depended on it. I haven't played footy in years and barely knew what teams were, but we had a fucking blast. At one point the ball wooshed past Woody and I came in hot chasing it,
BOOM
I slam in to his shoulder. Reality turns to bullet-time. We're both shirtless and slightly sweaty and as parts of his skin stickily pull away from mine and other parts effortlessly slide past, I look him right in the eye, and what I saw there very well may be my favorite memory from the entire shoot. The look on his face was one of shock mixed with boyish pleasure. Pleasantly surprised. His face said "Thank you. Fucking thank you for not treating me like a little prissy pansy like everyone else on set does." At least that was my interpretation. He coulda been thinking, "YOU DARE SHOULDER WOODY HARRELSON?!" either way, next play he made a bee-line for me and shouldered into me. Wow. Either Woody Harrelson is playing with me or mad at me. Either way, WHO CARES, I AM PLAYING A GAME WITH AN A-LIST CELEB.

We got called back to set and as I'm unrolling my jeans and putting back on my shoes, someone addresses me,

"The balls on you, sir. I wish I coulda just ran out there like that. Weren't you scared?"

No. What's the worst that could happen? He'd just point and shake his head and I would've obediently turned around. "Any shot not taken is a goal not scored."

I've always taken that saying to heart.

Once we got back to set, the buzz of my actions made its way back to me a couple of times and sustained the high I'd had from the very moment they pulled me out of line.

I was standing next to a dude named Eliot and he totally ruined my attempts at staying calm in between takes. He and I were cracking each other up left and right and even some of the people around us. Funny dude and we both hope to work together in the future.

During a meal break I also accomplished something nearly as memorable as pushups with Affleck and soccer with Woody. The moment I perceived the hierarchical breakdown I desired to shatter it. And shatter it I did. I did exactly what I wanted. It was literally like a scene out of a movie. Extras on one side of the tent, crew/celebs on the other. Middle table vacant. You know exactly where I set my tray. Right at the head of that middle table. And just like I wanted and just like you'd want, representatives from each group began congregating on me. "You played soccer with Woody Harrelson!" I know man, I know. We sat and ate and chatted until it was time to shoot again.

Toward the end of one of my other personal favorite highlights began occurring. The crew and specific members of the crew at that, began shaking my hand and complimenting my work. I'd died and gone to heaven. "Great energy." "Pleasure working with you." Glad-handing and dick-sucking were in no short supply.

I fully expected that to be the last day of shooting, but instead in keeping with it being a fantasy experience, I was asked to come back the next day.

In between takes I continued to joke with Eliot and in between scenes I continued to flirt with Brenna. Interesting girl. Little troublemaker. A real firecracker. Hung out in the extras tent, encouraged bad behavior. My kinda gal.

Days 3 and 4

The beginning of day 3 we shot some scenes in a Buick and I became infamous for my Jamie impression. Jamie was the AD and the most stereotypical British AD ever. He spoke in an even disaffected tone but peppered everything with properly pronounced swearwords that seemed somehow simultaneously elegant yet extra laughable in his accent. So most of this day was driving back and forth and slaying my fellow extras with my impression. Twice, not once, but TWICE I'd accidentally fooled a crew girl. "Wait, when did he say that?" He didn't, that was Josh. "He literally sounds exactly like him." If I ever work with him again, I'll be sure to zing 'im.

After we wrapped the Buick scene, they walked us way the fuck back in the cut and left us there. Informing us that they'd call us when they needed us. So after about 2 hours in the COMPLETELY dark woods, alone, we began growing restless. Somebody played some tunes with their phone and eventually a pipe was lit and passed around. Most stuff was done, and besides I wanted the memory for posterity. I took as many hits as the circle allowed and got nice and high realizing the beauty of being paid to hang out on quads and smoke weed in the woods. There will be few moments in my life that simplistically beautiful. Life was literally perfect at that point. The perfect end to a perfect experience. I also got smacked with an unexpected life lesson. The dude that was passing around the weed was a longhaired, tattooed, sunburned ginger answering to the name of "Red". I'd written Red off as a good ol' boy and largely resolved myself to treat him with professional courtesy, nothing more. Well after he pulled out ganja he skyrocketed up in my book and then after we were high and got into talking, he brought up ancient aliens and lost civilizations and such. Here is this guy that I wrote off as some dumb hick and now here I am smoking his herbs and engaged in interesting conversation with him. Boy was my face....... red. That'll show you, Vish, you cocky, elitist sunuvvabitch. You looked down on him and now you realize he's into all the same shit as you. I felt bad, as I rightfully should, but still very thankful for the harsh lesson. It's one I won't soon forget.

So essentially at the end of Day 3 and then all of Day 4, I/we got paid to have a sleepover in the woods. We got paid to smoke tree and drive quads. For 2 days, that was my life. Get a ride with Jeff to Raccoon State Park and then sit in the dark puffing flowers, talking about shit and occasionally riding quads. Unbelievable.

Thank you Life. Thank you Universe. Thank you Jesus. Thank you Allah. Thank you Tom Cruise. Thank you Mom. Thank you Dad. Thank you Me.

Also, in addition to getting paid to poke smot and hang out in the woods, Days 3 and 4 consisted of getting paid to eat things like this:

On day 3 before shooting the buick scene I gave my phone to a crew girl and she snapped some pics for me. If anyone from the production is reading this and has a problem with these, please, let me know right away, I'll take them right down. As they don't give anything about the plot away, I see no harm in sharing.

My butts was a dirty butts.

This is where she took over:

Each of those lights was about the size of a recliner.

I loved the juxtaposition of the new equipment and old building/nature.

White tent to the right in the background is where the extras were held.

This pic makes it look like these guys were just sitting around, but truth is the crew hummed around set like bees or ants.

In between Days 3 and 4, a buddy of mine came into some quality cannabis and was kind enough it to deliver to me at work. I gave him my card and permission to go into my place and he rounded up the cash and made the purchase for me. I'd somehow already just come into free pizza and my buddy Joe had just purchased a six-pack to enjoy out front. So after a text to a fellow stoner, I smoked in the basement, drank a few beers and finished my shift the happiest and most efficient any one has ever finished a shift ever.

Beer was free, pizza was free. Herb was dank and reasonably priced. All brought to me whilst on the clock. That's right, I got paid to drink pizza and eat beer. #Vishlife

And to think, none of this would've been possible without that cowboy-hat-n-chux clad friend of mine (and favorite Betten): Jeff.

Me and Jeff

And no, jackass, it is not "Jeff and I". It would be, if that was a sentence. Like say, "Jeff and I went to the store." Because you wouldn't say "Me went to the store." Well, Cookie Monster would. And maybe the Hulk. But you're not Cookie Monster or Hulk, I am. This is a picture. If it was a picture of just me, I'd caption it as "Me" so saying "Me and Jeff" is applicable here. Class dismissed.

On a completely unrelated note:

This was Uncle Phil's face when I told him that he was Shredder.