Day 3 - Paris, Montmarte

In the Charles de Gaulle airport, Erika and I saw one of those cheesy MasterCard advertisements:

Dinner: 50 euro

Trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower: 25 euro

Well…all due respect to the good people at MasterCard, but getting lost in Paris costs about 25 euro – which is exactly the cost of the extra food and booze you promise to enjoy once you find your way back to your hotel.

The day started off innocently enough – we enjoyed a quick breakfast on our balcony, then walked from our room in Montmarte to the Hotel les Invalides for some sexy sight-seeing touristy action.

Crossing the Seine, I was accosted by an armed, naked guy

riding a fish...and made of metal.

However, about 30 minutes into our museum visit, I suddenly realized that I was literally dying of starvation (I was still in the very early stages, but still...) All feeling left my extremities, and I broke into a cold, unrelenting sweat. Lesson 56: don't go to a museum on an empty stomach – the glory of history quickly, and easily gives way to the burning, overarching desire for rest and food.

Thus began an epic "I'm-Hungry-Grumpy" mood…which Erika was more than happy to endure, because it's awesome to be with someone who's in a terrible mood. To fix my "tummy grumbles," we hopped over to a street which (apparently) has a very nice open-air market on it (though I don't recall seeing said market while we were there) called "Rue Cler." I got a ham and cheese sandwich, and Erika got a Croque Monsieur (which is French for "ham and cheese sandwich").

Erika's samich. It was better than mine.

Refueled, re-energized, and re-ady to see some historical junk, we returned to the museums…stopping at Napoleon's Tomb to pay our respects to the inventor of the Napoleonic Wars.

This is how I want to be buried -- in a massive, red-marble coffin.

Family: make it happen!

The next stop was the French Wars from 1871 to 1945. Apparently, during that time in France's history, there was a large amount of lot of retreating, surrendering, and bloody corpses (according to their paintings and photographs, that is).

Now, don't get me wrong, I had a blast at the museum. Like all nerds, I'm a big fan of military history…and it was fascinating seeing actual uniforms, weaponry, newspapers, photographs, and archival footage of these monumental times in history. There was the Maxim machine gun – the gun that heralded the wonder of trench warfare. I got to see the a breech loaded Krupp artillery cannon that ended the insanity of "men armed with muskets, standing in formation, shooting at each other" of the Civil War et al. Then there was a WWI trench coat still caked in mud, a vast assortment of grenades and explosives…I could go on…

Erika enjoyed it too…but after a while she told me it felt like "a series of rooms filled with guns, clothes, and maps." I can see her point – as happens with museums, it all starts to blend together after a while.

If you enjoy dressing fancy, I'd recommend the

German military. I mean...how cool does that outfit

look?!

And, as also happens in a museum, time flies. We'd spent most of the day working our way through the 1871 to 1945 wing, and we soon realized we had less than 2 hours to see the immense "Arms and Armor" wing.

So we buzzed through that section. It seems that the museum has collected every piece of plate armor made in the continent of Europe from 1400 to 1600…as well as every gun crafted before the flintlock musket. At one point the museum just gave up, and showed the storage room that housed all of the extra sets of armor that didn't make it into the display cases. Honestly – the Dauphin could have outfitted an entire army with the sets of plate mail in that place. Very cool.

Also, something I didn't realize until seeing them up close – these suits of armor were built for some very small people. I don't have the statistics in front of me, but I've read that people have gotten progressively taller over time – six feet tall was considered gigantic back in the day (for instance, hundreds of years later, Napoleon was considered "average height" for his day, at 5'7). And it seems that the average height in the 15th and 16th century was between 5'3 to 5'5).

So checking out all of that armor up close, you see that the men fighting in them were short, skinny little dudes. God forbid, if we ever got the chance to watch an actual medieval battle up close (through the magic of "time travel," or "a good imagination"), it'd probably be akin to two armies of shiny metallic jockeys whacking each other with metal sticks.

Now, luckily for me, the part of the museum that I was most interested in seeing (the Napoleonic Era section) was closed for renovations. Maybe the French needed a better angle on that whole "Napoleon trying to take over the world" business. But, in consolation, I did get to see a gypsy scam a lady…which was pretty cool.

Actually…I did want to talk about that for a second. A couple of weeks ago Erika read a posting on some online bulletin board somewhere about a new scam being perpetrated on tourists in Europe. What happens is, a gypsy (for comedic purposes I'll use the term "gypsy," even though she may have been a good old fashioned ne'er-do-well) bends down and picks up a sparkling golden ring in front of a foreigner. Astonished, the gypsy asks the tourist standing next to them if they dropped the ring. "No," the equally astonished tourist will say. Reveling in her good fortune, the gypsy then walks away…and turns back to the tourist and informs them "I'm allergic to gold, would you like to have it?" Not believing their good fortune, the tourist accepts the offer…and the gypsy walks away again…only to return at the last second and ask for "Would you mind giving something for my troubles?" At which point the tourist, believing the gypsy to be a generous saint, will give the woman some amount money.

Of course the ring is a total fake, and will turn your finger green if it's worn for any length of time. The gypsy tried it on us first – I saw the woman bend down and pick something up (I think she'd palmed it, though Erika swears it was on the ground as we passed), and…of course, it was a super-shiny golden ring. Immediately we both mumbled "Non" as we passed her…but we stood on the bridge and watched her pull the scam textbook style on a woman across the street (with the "walking away," the "pleading," everything short of the "making a scene"). It was very cool – akin to seeing a celebrity in Los Angeles. An actual European scam artist – our first of the trip.

The gypsy is in the white jacket...pretending to have found a (totally fake) gold ring, which she gives to the unsuspecting "mark." This is the "begging for money" part of the scam.

Where was I? Ah…yes. Our feet and brains aching from so much history, we decided to take in an early dinner in the Latin Quarter…but we still felt a little burned by our mediocre dinner at the Place du Tertre the night before, so we resolved to avoid all possible touristy places.

The problem is every restaurant looks touristy when you don't know the customs or the language. In fact, I figure that if a restaurant features French cuisine, it's almost (by definition) touristy.You think Parisians want go out to a nice dinner and have crepes and baguettes? No, they want Thai food like any good red-blooded American.

So we wandered…and wandered…and couldn't find anything that looked "just right. So we decided to go back to Montmarte…where we wandered some more…and got lost…and ended up walking for two and a half hours straight. Actually, we had our first encounter with a helpful Parisian, who asked us (in English) if we needed directions. So wary of scams were we, that we thanked him profusely and told him we were fine (a gross misrepresentation, but as we were in no immediate hurry, a harmless one). Eventually we returned to the Hotel Bonsejour Montmarte, and…gel insoles or not, 10 hours of standing and walking had made an absolute mess of the soft, tissue-y areas of the lower half of my body.

Which meant I'd need a nap, because lord knows Erika didn't want me to get "grumpy" again. Man, I'm such a pain in the ass. Anyhow, after the nap, we made good on our promise to find a good, non-touristy local place...and found a restaurant offering the best food, service, and prices thus far on our trip (slim pickings…but still remarkable…because I just remarked on it). Don't remember the name of the restaurant (sorry!), but it was a nummy, homey, cozy kind of place tucked away in the back alleys of Montmarte. With a stomach full of French-flavored foodstuffs, we decided to bounce over to catch a show at the Lapin Agile.

I didn't quite know what to expect from that place. It's a famous bar, famous for being a quiet, dumpy shit-hole where a bunch of famous alcoholic smart people drank at one point. I was told there would be a "show," but the only Parisian shows I knew of involved sequins and boobs (or face paint and invisible boxes).

Turns out the "show" consisted of a group of about 10 Parisian folks sitting around a table, singing old Parisian folk songs (in French) while an old Parisian dude tickled the ivory (wow…does that sound like a naughty euphemism or what?). They encouraged the crowd, scattered around the dimly lit bar, to join in. So, I tried to sing along, but the only song we actually knew was "Alouette," which is, apparently, a charming little childrens' song about torturing and maiming a skylark.

It was a little kitschy (okay…it was very kitschy), but it was an experience. I'm sure Picasso would shudder were he to find out the fate of his favorite local dive…but…what can you do.

After about two hours of watching this, with no obvious breaks to make our departure, we decided to just skedaddle as the waiter was ushering new people to their tables. As we were walking back, I realized (to my horror) that I had left my hat (chapeau) behind. Merde. So I returned, made with the "merci" and the "s'il vous plait," and got my chapeau bleu back in one piece...with a good deal of what I believe was "annoyance" from one of the performers.

Now we're about to turn in, for what will be our last night in beau Montmarte. Once again, I must strongly recommend this part of Paris to anyone coming to town for the first time. It's exactly what I pictured when I pictured Europe. In fact, if I may be so bold, I'd recommend any future Europe travelers to make Montmarte their first stop. It doesn't have any of the insanity of the busier parts of town, but it retains all of the old world charm.

We move in to a new hotel tomorrow…one block from the Bastille. Hell, if I get enough of the drink in me, I just may storm the sumbitch. Vive le Revolution! Then again, maybe I'll just drink a Coke Zero and have some trail mix. I guarantee you – one of those two things will happen. Keep your eye on the news (you'll probably have to watch BBC. Sorry) to find out which one it is…

Day 2 -- Paris, Montmarte

I can just hear my old man's voice in my ear: "What are you? Dammit, Tyler, don't fiddle with that! Leave the switch where it is! Dammit boy!" Followed by him ripping his beloved power converter out of my hands before I accidentally set the building on fire.

Not really, but pops did warn me, in his own kindly, fatherly way, that I should keep the switch on our power converter on "50 watts," as opposed to "1600 watts." I didn't really understand why at the time -- I didn't think we'd need all 1600 watts at any point. And honestly, I don't even know the difference between a watt, a volt, and an amp…so I took his advice to heart.

So what happened? Glad you asked. I woke up with the "morning groggies," and Erika was in the midst of a crisis. See…her hair was accidentally "cleaned" in the shower this morning (at least, I'm assuming it was accidental), and she needed it to be "dry" before we left for the day. Apparently she's "too good for a towel," and she needed a "hair dryer" of some kind. Luckily, she brought a "hair dryer" as part of her 20kg suitcase (see "Day 1" entry). Unluckily, the prongs of the plug do not fit the mysterious holes in the wall of our hotel.

Round hole. Square peg.

Not to fear, says I! Father loaned me his "power converter!" Joy! Now…here's where the problem comes in. See…the hairdryer requires a bit more juice than the "laptop recharger" I'd been using up to that point. So I ask electrical expert – my wife:

"How many watts does this use?"

"I don't know." She looked at the hair dryer. "Um…1875, I think."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it says so on the side."

I look at the side of the hair dryer…and saw the number 1875 printed on the side. It looked suspiciously like a "model number" not a "voltage requirement." But…lacking anything better to go off of, I gave myself the go ahead for launch – damn the torpedoes, 1500 watts straight ahead!!! (I can just see my father cringing at this point, and not just from the botched literary reference).

So, against my father's wishes, I "fiddled with the switch." Then I plugged in the dryer. Then I heard a pop, and saw a flash. Then I smelled a little smoke (or, as the French say, "Le Petit Smoke"). Then I unplugged the dryer. Then I cussed loudly (in English…not French).

The good news is: we've started the journey down the path of "dropping some unnecessary luggage weight." Now, luckily the converter survived the excitement totally unscathed…but the hair dryer did not fare so well, and had to be thrown away. Now, if only I could find a way to convince her heavy coats and shoes outlet…

Leaving the excitement of the ruined hairdryer behind us, we left to explore this great city…most specifically, the area around our hotel. Home of…well…a bunch of famous artists at one time. Or something.

We did the little walking tour outlined in our Frommers guidebook. I must say, I highly recommend Montmarte, especially to those of you visiting Paris for the first time. It's quiet, things are open late, and if you're into "strolling about," this is the place for you. It's actually exactly what I imagined Paris would be -- it's the Paris cliche.

But first things first: breakfast...or as the French say "Petit Dijonaise" (really Dejeuner, but it's easier to remember the other way). We left early in the morning and went to one of the dozens of bakeries in the area, and grabbed what had to be "The Most Delicious Pastry Ever Made." It was some kind of bread-type-loaf, with chocolate marbled throughout. I don't know why I've never had anything approaching this level of "delicious" in America. It was flaky, but moist inside...and...man, are you bored of this description yet? Let me just say, this pastry alone was worth the cost of the flight over here. It's the $1,500 pastry. Easy.

I also had a gigantic jus l'Orange, and Erika drank l'eau (water). We got to test out our awesome "coffee ordering skillz" by requesting a café au lait. When we were back at our hotel, we ate breakfast on our awesome balcony, overlooking the bustling, cobbled streets.

But I tell you what…speaking to foreigners in their own tongue is terrifying. We turned into a couple of timid, mumbling fools. Ideally a conversation would go:

Me: Bonjour!

Them: Bonjour.

Me: Je voudrais (I would like) [the thing on the menu that I can't pronounce correctly] s'il vous plait (please).

Them: Bien sur (sure).

However, more often then not, there are follow up questions. Or, sometimes, they'll tell us that they're "all out" of something. Holy cow! We have to order something else!? But, thank heavens, most of the good folks we're struggling to speak to will either respond in English…or pepper English phrases among the French ones to help us out. The one time we got through without tipping our "English-speaking" hands was when we got a bottle of Evian at the mall…although as she was leaving, Erika told the cashier "Bonjour" (as opposed to the more appropriate au revoir).

But I'm getting ahead of myself (how did you get to a mall? Weren't you eating breakfast on your deck? I'm so confused...). We finished the best breakfast ever, and headed for a "Frommers-recommended" walk through touristy part of Montmarte…remarkable because of the number of painters who lived and died in the area.

Truth be told, Montmarte is lousy with artists. You can't go 10 feet without bumping into an easel. Sketch artists prowl about the streets, and if you stand still too long, one of them will approach and start drawing you (I'm assuming if you allow them to finish they'll request compensation of some kind -- quite a little gambit). We avoided them mostly, but Erika was accosted by one man who insisted (in an outrageous, thick French accent) "Please, let me draw you." "You must have a drawing of yourself in beautiful Montmarte." She shrugged him off with a shy "Non." It was adorable.

The first "major" structure on our little walking tour was the Basillica Sacre Coeur – supposibly the place where Jesus' heart is located (hence: "Cathedral of the Sacred Heart). We went up to the top of the dome (climbing what must have been 200 miles straight up some narrow-ass stairs), and saw a breathtaking view of Paris. Once we'd taken in the spectacular sights, we descended the 200 miles back down, and tried to get into the crypt to see some sweet Jesus body part action…but it was closed for some reason. C'est la vie.

The monolithic Sacre Coeur.

Looking out at Paris, after a backbreaking climb.

The view.

We cruised through the rest of Montmarte, checking out the Lapin Agile, Moulin Rouge, and several dwellings that housed renowned artists at some point in their careers (Degas, Van Gogh, Dali, Picasso). The tour ended at a cool cemetery with a bunch of dead French people in it.

Following that macabre interlude, we had lunch at another little café (there are probably on the order of several billion cafe's around Montmarte), and we decided, "Aw hell. Why don't we just walk down to the Arch de Triomphe?"

And walk we did. For about 430 miles. We passed a huge park. We bought a couple of tiny French chocolates. Eventually, we came to the Arc…and how it forms a "generally arc-shaped shape." We didn't go to the top, because it cost money, and because we'd already had a pretty spectacular view in Montmarte.

As you can see...my wife is much smaller than the Arc.

Leaving the shadow of the Arc (which would be an awesome name for a Paris-based adventure novel), we strolled down the Avenue des Comps Elysees (pronounced "Shomps Eh-Leezay," apparently…because the French are fond of silent letters and soft, fru-fru sounds).

The Champs. Looks pretty stroll-able, don't it?

Now let me take another moment here to address something. I don't want to give the impression that we were just trotting about, arbitrarily checking locations off a list (because we didn't carry a list – it was more of a "paragraph" than a "list"). I bore you to death with my ruminations about the immensity of the Sacre Coeur, how we smelled fresh baked bread on the cobbled streets of Montmarte, or gazed in wonder at the immaculately carved Arc…but really, who wants to hear me brag about how much I can appreciate these things? Sure, it was breathtaking – hell, seems like every street in Paris is just lined with architectural works of art, featuring facades of Rococo, Renaissance, Gothic, or [what you will]. It seems like every street seems to end in a massive ornate cathedral, government building, opera house, or some other monolithic monument (is that redundant?) But I'm not a good enough writer to really describe how pretty these things are. I don't know the difference between Rococo and Roquefort (hint: one is totally delicious, and the other is a cheese).

What I'm trying to say is that, this is just an experience. We're both just trying to "experience" as much as we possibly can in what will (no doubt) be our very brief time here. I can't begin to accurately describe what we're experiencing – as I say, I'm not nearly good enough at "adjectives" for that – but I can assure you that we're in constant and unending awe just ambling about here.

I'm not going to try to impress you with how pretty Europe is -- just take my word for it. You may find me complaining more than gushing...but that's just how it goes sometimes. So if I come off as "less than wowed" at times, please just assume that I went "Holy Toledo!" when I saw something...because I probably did.

Anyhow, where was I? Ah yes. So we made our way back to the hotel following our stroll down the Champs Elysees (because that's the only way to get down that street – via the stroll), and took a well-deserved nap. Napping in Europe is quite a sweet experience -- I suggest you all try it at some point. Especially after you've walked 3,342 miles in one day, like we had.

Once we were good and rested, it was time to hit the town. Since this is our first marriage anniversary (yay!), we decided to spend a few euros on a "nice dinner." So we went to the touristy-type place called the Place du Tertre, which is just west of the Sacre Couer (it was in the same little square where we'd been accosted by a portrait-man earlier). We got our square-side seats, and awaited our feast.

And it was…hmm..."adequate." We had, what is called a "menu" item. Meaning it's a set priced, 3 course meal – appetizer, main course, & desert. Our appetizers were fantastic – French onion soup (here's it's just called "Onion Soup"! Crazy, right?) and a strange cheese thing…wrapped in bacon. The old "anything better with bacon" definitely applied here. For the second course Erika got the lamb (only after getting assurances from the waiter that the adorable creature was tortured mercilessly before it was slaughtered), and I got the beef burgouise (pronounced "bo-ief bur-zher-oo-er-oo-is-ee-oo-ah-eh-voos-zheh-zeh"). The main course was...decent. The final course (chocolate crepes and a strange cheesecake with nuts and fruit in it) was…a little under decent.

All-in-all, I'd recommend to people, stay away from restaurants in areas with dudes offering to draw your picture for money. Truth be told, it wasn't all bad (as I was telling Erika, all "bad" food in Europe is comparable to most "good" food in America), but I feel we could have done much better. But…now we know…

Following our mediocre meal, we meandered around a bit more…got a drink in a local bar featuring a live band…then retreated back our hotel room…which is where I am now…sitting in my boxers…typing on a laptop. I'm also wearing socks…and a white t-shirt…to complete the image for those of you that are curious. And for those of you who aren't curious…sorry.

Day 1 -- Paris, Montmarte

To get you up to speed here, I decided to keep an "on-line" journal of my time in Europe. This has never, ever been done before, so far as I can tell. In fact, I think you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone out there who's even been to Europe, much less written about it.

Irregardless (synonym of "regardless?"), here is my journal, in blog format. Truth be told, it's exactly one year later as I'm writing this -- I figured I'd touch up the "Europe" entries of my new "japesandjibes" blog, because...well, I think they're the most interesting.

But anyhow, enough with the preamble, and on with the show. This next paragraph is from my original blog posted to MySpace:

Okay...coupla' things. First off, I've been keeping faithful with the Europe Journal, but I haven't been able to upload my writing until now. So, I'll start you off slow, then post a couple entries a day to get you caught up.

Secondly, I have pictures [ed: ignore this paragraph -- I've added pictures to this entry since I wrote this]. Unfortunately, for this first day, the pictures are stuck on a camera for which I forgot my charger [ed: true, but it doesn't matter now]. So...no pictures for day one. But if I get time (and the inclination), when I'm back in the states, I'll go back and upload [ed: you still reading? Why? I told you not to read this]. Probably won't happen[ed: it did]...but if a publisher were to pay me several millions worth of dollars in cash money (it could happen -- blogs turn into millions of dollars all the time)[ed: that last parenthetical statement was from the original, not to updated post], I'd gladly make the effort[ed: sorry, I'll stop with the "[ed:] crap now].

Anyhow: ON WITH THE BLOG!!!

Normally I'd say something like: "We made it," but that's terribly predictable. Instead I'll just lead off with the completely appropriate: "POTATO LADDER of TURKEY CHEVROLET!"

The flight was…well, imagine leaving at 11:30 PM, flying 10 ½ hours in coach. The woman in front of you had breath that smells like poo…it's so bad you can smell it a row back...and because you suck at sleeping on a plane, you're not able to sleep a wink.

I kid. It wasn't so bad. I slept fitfully…and Erika slept as she always does – aggravatingly easily. Either way, it was an airplane, and it behaved as an airplane should behave.

Me, sipping some airplane coffee, and watching us make our way over the Atlantic

"Customs" was pretty intense – we stood in line for about 10 minutes, then when we were called forward by a man (who was carrying on what could only be a "lazy" French conversation with someone behind him) who took our passport, opened it to the picture, and handed it back to us without even glancing up.

I noticed, attempting to leave customs (and the airport) that, apparently the French have a problem with "turnstiles." They must not believe they're European enough…or something. Dunno'. Instead of turnstiles, they have these miniature metal doors that either open automatically, or need to be pushed (only true Parisians seem to know which is which…the rest of us are pushing on the automatic doors, or waiting for the manual doors to open). Anyway, we passed through several iterations of "doorstiles" (the name I just coined…because I'm awesome), and made our way to the RER.

From what I can tell, "RER" stands for "Paris Subway." And it rides…like a subway in Paris (if you can imagine that).

On the train we had our first encounter with Parisian hospitality (up to this point we had been pretty much ignored…no matter how "lost" or "American" we looked). The train was…say…about half full. Erika and I decided that it was in our best interests to pack "very heavy" for our trip (~20kg apiece…or 85 pounds total). Erika's bag is so heavy (HOW HEAVY IS IT?!) that she's unable to carry it up a flight of stairs (THAT PUNCHLINE WAS AWFUL). And guess what else Europeans love? STAIRS!

Anyhow, Erika had placed her 20kg bag on the seat. Sitting across from us was a mousy, blond French woman reading Chick lit, drinking a bottle of Coke Zero, and nibbling furtively on French chocolates. She told us that we weren't allowed to do that. I didn't quite understand why -- her English was about as good as our French – maybe she thought we'd needed to make more room for other passengers? Either way, she took the initiative, and tried to lift Erika massive bag into the overhead bin…and she couldn't even get it off the floor. It was pretty tense for about 30 seconds, and I tried to heft the bag into the little bin (it didn't fit, of course). Eventually we just ignored her and sat with our bags the way they were before the stink was raised – RER rules and protocol be damned. She returned to her mousy ways, and we kept to our "rude American tourists who don't know how to be polite in a foreign country" ways.

After about 30 minutes, we arrived at the Gard du Nord train station, which is…er…a train station (Gard) in the north (du Nord) part of Paris. Damn, French is easy, isn't it? So, looking as touristy and lost as possible, we started walking. And in a very touristy move, we discovered that we didn't know how to exit the station (all the signs marked "sortie" seemed to lead down stairs, to more trains). Eventually we found our way outside, and were fortunate enough to head in the generally correct direction…straight through the "sex show" district of Montmarte…pausing only occasionally to lift Erika's suitcase over a curb…or stare at a GoogleMaps printout (just begging to get mugged by some Parisian ne'er-do-well). Luckily, people seemed uninterested in either helping us, or hindering us…which was fine with us.

As a side note, for those of you who are curious – something the guide books don't tell you – the street names in Paris are typically on the sides of the buildings, not on the "streets" themselves. Coupled with a general lack of "lighting," we had a helluva' time making our way across town.

So, several wrong turns and back-tracks later…we arrived at Hotel Bonsejour Montmarte. It was just as adorable as advertised – a hotel manager with a big birthmark on his neck checked us in…and it was our first attempt at speaking Au Françoise, and boy did we suck.

See, our French language training started months ago…but we never really got past the first 10 minutes of our language tape (where they teach us, to the rhythm of some hilariously bad techno music, to order coffee with milk). Once we'd mastered the fine art of coffee ordering, we sat back and let that information sink in…until we were about an hour away from landing at Charles de Gaulle airport. It was then that we started hectically memorizing numbers, common phrases, greetings, responses, etc.

So when we were finally forced into an actual conversation with a Frenchman we failed miserably (because he was not selling coffee). Luckily the man spoke fairly good English…and the required transaction was a fairly simple one. We paid him for our room and trudged up four flights of stairs to our new home for the next couple of days.

The view from the deck of our hotel. Yes. It was adorable.

After settling in, and phoning home, we went out for our "first meal in Europe." We found a café about a block from our hotel. The menu had an English translation, and our waitress was fairly proficient at English. In spite of this, we tried like hellfire to bust out our new French vocabulary (by ordering coffee, for instance)…but our conversations with the waitress ended up being an adorable mix of us trying to order in French, and her responding in English.

Here we got our second lesson in Parisian hospitality. The food came relatively quickly, as did the drinks…but when we asked for the bill the woman decided to clean the bar…and the glasses…and bus the tables…and clean the bar some more…and wipe down the beer taps…and talk to some big Parisian guy who wandered in…and clean the bar just a little bit more...

Erika...finally able to exit our first Parisian restaurant.

Finally…after about 30 minutes of lolly-gagging, she came with the bill. Which we paid…because we're awesome like that. We left, strolled for a bit (minus the luggage encumbrance, which made Paris much more enjoyable), and went back to our hotel room…where I am right now, laying down, typing on a laptop. Erika's sitting next to me reading a guidebook. Just noticed, our bed seems to have plastic sheets…which is pretty cool. Maybe I'll pee the bed tonight to give them a test run…

My Day as an Extra: Part 2

Now, I'm leaving the country in less than 5 hours...so I won't be able to pretty this one up with hyperlinks, or photos, or anything. But I wanted to empty my plate before I start Euro-blogging tomorrow. Anyhow, on with the rest of the tale:

Now, lunch typically takes shape in one of three different ways:

Option 1: the production provides lunch. This is the best option, because the production is providing lunch.

Option 2: there is a walk-away lunch, but the production allows you to eat what the crew doesn't finish for lunch (the crew always gets fed). This is the second-best option…because it is.

Option 3: the production is a total dick, and they shoo you away from the food and make you buy your own food. This is the worst option…and if you can't figure out why, I take back the "dumb" statement I made about you all earlier.

Today the extras were given…………..OPTION 2!!! Sorry. Still stuck in GOSSIP MODE!!! Option 2. Oh…sorry…hold the phone. News flash from one of the nearby extras: "Making bread crumbs is so easy!" I did not know that.

Anyway…what was I saying? Ah. Yes. It was, what is called, a "walk-away lunch," but there was plenty of food left-over after the crew had eaten. Gyros. Delicious, delicious gyros.

So that's where I am now – belly full of gyros and pudding (I always have pudding on set, but no where else in life…and I have no idea why). Oh…wait…news flash 2: "Gnocchi is not that hard to make!" Do you hear that, Erika? MAKE ME SOME GNOCCHI!!!

Well, it's currently 2:01 PM…meaning that we are back from lunch -1 minutes ago. No one has moved, yet. Some day I'll talk about the dangerous "pack mentality" of extra work. When I have more time. Until then, I better go and loiter around set, in case I'm called to action.

Five hours elapse (Tim, I apologize if the verb tense is driving you crazy – in actuality I'm editing this two weeks later on a completely different set…but I'm trying to maintain some semblance of "tense continuity"). Five hours of waiting, thumb twiddling, etc. I decide to read my book. As compelling as I find Uhtred, my eyelids start to do battle with my brain. Eventually, the eyelids win, and I drift in and out of consciousness. At this point I've drained about 6 or 7 cups of coffee…but I'm mired in the depths of the "post-lunch sleepies," and my body is shutting down without my consent. So I prop my book open with my hand, bow my head as if I were pretending to read, and drift into a light sleep. After about 30 minutes of dozing, the caffeine finally gets its footing, and my body start to revive.

The guy next to me is stuck in the post-lunch bored-sies. I can tell, because he told me: "I'm bored." I make a non-committal noise, and continue reading. I was bored too, but the only thing worse than being bored is talking about being bored. Out of the corner of my eye I see him wiggling his foot and playing with his nametag. I keep reading. Then he totally rocks my world.

One of the background actors has been using a wheelchair as a seat. I hadn't noticed him until he stood up and said, "All right…I'm done sitting in that chair. Time to find a real seat." The bored guy chimes in:

"Yeah, man…I was thinking about sitting in that too…but then I thought about it, and it was…like…weird."

Wheelchair guy has gone, but I remain. Now, just because I always like to be the guy who "heard" a remark that someone says to anther person who walked away (or didn't hear in the first place) I make another non-committal noise.

"Because, like, if I were to sit in that chair, I'd be…it'd be like…what would it be like if I was paralyzed? You know? I mean…that would freak me out sitting there." There is a pause. "Man, sometimes, you can take things for granted." He took that opportunity to stand up and go to the wheelchair to demonstrate. He sat in it briefly, then stood abruptly, like Little Tommy Tinker. "Yeah, whoa! Can't do it, man. It's just…creepy."

I'd been watching the whole time, holding my place in my book with my finger. A lesser man would roll his eyes, or shoot him down with a snide remark…but I hate people like that. Still, I can't really think of anything to contribute to his stunning revelation, so I reply "Totally." I wait a couple of beats, and then go back to reading my book.

Suddenly, two hours after lunch was finished, there's a flurry of action. Anyone with light-blue scrubs was to report to set. I had grey scrubs, and dark blue…so I wasn't needed. Light-bluers started filtering in. Lucy was there, putting caps and masks on the men. And, predictably, several guys bent at the knee so she could reach their head easier, and every time Lucy would snap: "Just stand normal please." It happened to four guys in a row. Now I got it…Lucy just liked embarrassing people – there was no rational benefit from making the men stand lock-kneed while she tied on surgical caps. She just liked making them feel dumb. People like that need to be ridiculed blog-style…whenever possible. So Lucy, if you're out there reading this: "You're bad at your job."

But I wasn't able to apply my "Lucy doesn't like it when people crouch down so she can do her job better" knowledge, because I wasn't one of the light blue folks. So I continued reading. Occasionally I'd get up to refill my coffee, or grab a Nutri-grain bar…but I waited a good 5 hours before I was summoned.

My final cross of the night was behind a doctor…left to right. I had to time it exactly, squeeze between the lady and a large piece of medical equipment in the hallway, and dodge an incoming extra that was shooting for the same gap that I was. Tricky, yes…but still work that a well-trained monkey could easily accomplish. And I'm just as good at my job as a well-trained monkey would be. So…booyah.

Finally, the end of the evening. The director calls a wrap, and the crew scatters. The extras have to return their props (my nametags and a file folder) and costumes (grey and dark blue scrubs) then check out with the 2^nd A.D. Staph. My old nemesis.

So I change, return my clothes, and find Staph sitting on the hitch of the wardrobe trailer. The 2^nd A.D. is responsible for assigning two things to the extras – an out time, and any "bumps" (meal penalty, smoke, wet, wardrobe, etc.) that may have accrued during the day…which add up to extra money on top of the regular check (usually anywhere from 8 to 15 extra dollars). So…having filled out my voucher completely, I approach her at the trailer.

"So, what's the out time?"

"Ask someone else." There is a silence. I'm not going to ask someone else, because it's her freaking job. "I just…my mind's not functioning right now." More silence. There are other extras standing around. None of them are listening to her. "Pete, what's the out time?"

"8:30."

"There. 8:30."

I fill in the time. Whatever. I'm not going to give her the satisfaction of making me feel stupid. I then check the box for a meal penalty (because we went over 6 hours without a dinner break), and a wardrobe bump (because I wore more than two outfits during the shoot). I hand her my voucher. She looks it over.

"Oh, you don't get a wardrobe bump, because production provided the two changes."

"Okay."

"Yeah, next time, just ask one of us before you fill in that part."

What I should have said was "You didn't seem capable of answering questions about 2 minutes ago. Now you're going to bust my chops for not asking you about this bump?" But that snappy response didn't occur to me. I pulled a Costanza, and realized the perfect response only as I was walking away. So what I actually said was:

"Got it. Sorry about that. Have a great night!" And I walked off. But, then again, you know what? It probably would have felt pretty good to get off that zinger. I would have loved to hear her mumbling, incoherent response to my "snap." To see her eyes widen with the realization of her hypocrisy. Maybe she hangs her head in shame. Maybe she apologizes to me. Maybe the extras standing around hear it, and cluck their tongues…shaming her. Then burst into a spontaneous applause. Maybe Stephen Spielberg happens to be walking by on the lot, and overhears my "ultimate come-back," and hires me in a principle role for his next feature film…on the spot.

But you know what – snappy comebacks are never satisfying for people like that. She would have stood her stupid ground, because that's what bullies do. Best case, she ignores it and signs me out. Worse case, she remembers my name and raises a stink with Jeff Olan Casting, and a "negative comment" gets attached to my profile. All-in-all, I think "polite" really was the way to go.

Epilogue: Not really an epilogue…more of a P.S…but this isn't a letter…so I figured "epilogue" was the better way to go. Anyhow, I'm walking back home in the dark, after 13½ hours on set. It's a narrow sidewalk, and I see an unkempt dude in jeans shorts and a white t-shirt coming at me…talking angrily to himself and gesticulating. I tighten my grip on my laptop bag – it's "No eye contact" "walk fast" and "keep an eye out for sudden aggressive movement" time. Then I get closer, and see that he's talking on a Bluetooth. I pass him, and he barely notices me. My first potential street mugging turns out to be a goofy Bluetooth mishap. Good stuff…

My Day as an Extra: Part 1

I'm going to chop this little thing into two bits...because it's 11 single-spaced pages long. A bit much to digest all in one sitting. Anyhow, here she is:

Well, for those of you who don't know, I have a sister. A sister with a blog. A sister who, at one point, wrote a blog about "her day." Now, because there's not a clever bone in my body (nay, I have merely 64 bones, and they're all quite dull), I figured I'd just hijack her idea and give it the "Tyler Twist."

Many of you (by "many" I mean "perhaps one or two," and by "perhaps" I mean "merely," and by "by" when I said "and by" the first and second times, what I meant to say was "also") may be curious as to exactly what a day as an extra is like. Many more of you, I'm sure, are not interested in the least. To those people I say, "Nuts!" Because that's what I say when I have nothing else to say.

Anyhow, to wit: I have "signed up" with four extras casting directors (I'd guestimate there are about 20 dedicated background casting agencies…of varying influence), all of which are programmed into my home phone: Sandy Alessi Casting, Central Casting, Jeff Olan Casting, and Burbank Casting. A few weeks back, I hit the speed dial for Jeff Olan Casting.

"Hello, you've reached the casting hotline for Jeff Olan Casting. It's 4:45 PM on Monday, and we've got a couple of things casting today. First off, we need all ethnicities, ages 18-45 to work on [a popular medical drama]…"

Just a note here…before I get carried away. I decided, late in the writing of this, to remove the name of the show I worked. I realized that I said some things that are…less than flattering about some (mainly two) members of the crew…and, being as I'm very interested in working background again in the future…I decided to make things more anonymous by changing names, not telling the name of the show, stuff like that. Maybe I'm just being paranoid…but there's a chance that one of those two I mention may Google something along the lines of "[The Show I Worked]" and "Background" and "Tyler Twist." May not happen…but better safe than sorry, yes? I'm sure some of you super-sleuths can figure out which of the eighty seven medical dramas out there I'm talking about…and to those people, I give a doff of my cap. In fact, while I'm at it, I'll doff my sweater as well, because I'm feeling punchy, and (also) I'm wearing a sweater.

All right...back to the story. Being as I met the criteria of "any ethnicity," I left a message on a separate line with my last name and phone number. Then I waited.

I did not wait very long – Jeff Olan himself (that's right…the legendary legend who goes by the name of "Jeff Olan") called back 20 minutes later and asked me if I was still available to work. I was. He gave me a third and final number (to get the details of the shoot), a booking number, and a call time of 7:00 AM…which is known (by me, inaccurately) as "The Witching Hour."

Flash forward to the next day (that is, unless you want to hear some very uninteresting details about how I spent the rest of the night watching Janice Dickinson's Modeling Agency reruns. No? Well…maybe some other time…). The only wardrobe I was required to bring was a pair of "Non-white tennis shoes," because they were going to outfit me in scrubs (and "what have you") at the studio. So, at 5:15 in the godforsaken AM, I rolled out of bed, showered, strapped on my shoes, and skittered out the door (because I love skittering).

I decided that, since my car is on the Fritz (poor Fritz…his name will always be synonymous with being atop broken crap), and since the studio was about two miles away, I did what no other Los Angelino has ever done in the history of movie making – I decided to walk to the studio.

A brisk 45 minutes later, I skittered up to the security gate. A friendly man sporting the studio lot "rent-a-cop" outfit checked my I.D., and directed me to "base camp."

I'm not sure exactly how to describe being "on the lot" to someone who's never been. Back when I was threshing grain in the wheat fields of Seattle, I held a good deal of mysticism about the art of movie making. This mystique (can I use both those words interchangeably? I don't think so. Sharla?) has gradually diminished the more I'm around it (which is a topic I've been meaning to blog about). But, to those of you who have never been on an actual studio lot, it pretty much looks like a bunch of shapeless office buildings, surrounded by big ol' warehouses. Littered liberally among the warehouses (or "stages") are dozens of trailers, and usually a bunch of really nice cars. The dozens of trailers house the hair, makeup, wardrobe, production staff, and actors for whatever T.V. show or movie is being filmed. The really nice cars are owned by the people occupying those trailers.

So, as an extra, those first 10 minutes when you walk on set are the most chaotic and weird time you'll have during a typical day. "Background artists" are paid to follow directions and keep quiet. So, when there is no one to give directions, or shush us when we talk, it's a little unsettling. You could ask someone, but the grips (the surly men and women, often identified by a roll of gaff tape on their belts, and an "I don't want to talk to you" look on their faces) feign ignorance when an extra dares to speak with them. And asking other extras usually just results in an Olympic-length shrug-fest (Olympic Shrugging – London, 2012). In fact, it's not unusual to see a half-dozen lost-looking extras, hauling wardrobe bags or clothes on hangers…searching desperately for "a person to tell us what to do." This person, generally, has a walkie-talkie, and a clipboard. He or she is known as the "2^nd Assistant Director." Or, as I call them (inaccurately), the "Extras Wrangler."

Today I located the base camp and saw a lone woman sitting amongst the trailers on a camping chair, reading a newspaper. Extras who bring their camping chairs with them to set are people who have been doing extra work for a long time – long enough to warrant the purchase of portable furniture. Some of them are quite pleasant. Some of them are arrogant braggarts who are "really proud" of their long history of background artistry, and the fact that some of the crew members know them by their first names. I made a pledge to myself early on – I will never be one of those extras who brings a camping chair. Something about that just seemed…unseemly to me. Can I use "seemed" and "unseemly" in the same sentence? I don't think so. Sharla?

After about 10 minutes of quiet waiting, my savior – the 2^nd A.D. (a woman by the name of Stephanie…which isn't her real name…OR IS IT?!) arrived with a folder full of "vouchers," which are basically an extra's time card, that has a couple of stapled carbon copies stapled to the back. Stephanie greets the four extras sitting around me by their first names, and even hugged two of them. Stephanie is probably in her late 20s to early 30s. She's got what could only be described as a "cap" on her head, a greasy flat face, horn-rimmed glasses, and short hair. She appeared harried (always a bad sign first thing in the morning, personality-wise), and she had a touch of the "abrupt but condescending" approach to speaking with the background actors (at least…those she doesn't know personally…which would mean: "me"). My defense against the "easily stressed condescender" style 2^nd A.D. is to find out their first name (so they'll humanize me…in the same way you're supposed to humanize yourself if you're ever held hostage), and be overly polite, punctual, quiet, and professional. And to try not to ask any questions – people who are easily stressed out seem to hate answering questions, as they'll typically automatically assume that the asker is stupid, and gleefully treat it as an opportunity to condescend.

After greeting each extra by name, and personally handing them their vouchers she returned to her perch on the back of the wardrobe trailer. Either she didn't notice me, or she ignored me – either way, it was odd. So I walked up to her, and without looking up from her print-out she asked:

"Number?"

"Four. Uh…number 4." (this was the "booking number" assigned to me by Jeff Olan) "Tyler Rhoades?"

She looks at her sheet. "Ah. There you are." She hands me my voucher. "Fill this out completely, and wardrobe will come out when she's ready for you all."

I fill out the voucher with my name, phone number, and other boring "fill out this form" information. Stephanie returned and looked at my half-filled-out voucher.

"You need to put your address down, and the production company is [whatever production company she told me…I don't remember now]."

I hadn't finished filling out the form yet, but I responded, "All right. Thanks." Trying out my polite.

About ten minutes later I'm assigned a set of "gray scrubs" (which apparently means I "work the catheter") by the wardrobe lady – a young, stylishly dressed brunette in Ugz slippers, a tight ponytail, and jeans. She jokes about how she's "so stressed" about having to outfit five extras (a joke, apparently, because she's normally tasked with dressing at least 50 extras)…but that weak attempt at humor aside, I get the sense that she's another one who gets easily ruffled. But 'tis no matter – the only times one typically has to deal with the costume department is first thing in the morning (to get your outfit, or have the wardrobe you brought approved), then right before you leave (to return your outfit).

Stephanie (whom I will henceforward refer to as "Steph," because it's easier, and it sounds like "Staph," which is funny) instructs the lot of us that we'll "be filming on stage nine today." I look around – apparently I'm on stage infinity (since I'm outside in a parking lot, and not near any stage), and I see nary a stage number in eye-shot. But I figure if I just follow the crowd, I'll be all right.

The only problem is that there was no crowd. After I'd changed into my grey "catheter person" scrubs, I came out to see the trailers deserted. In fact, the entire studio seemed to be deserted, except for a tumbleweed bush that rolled in a clichéd fashion in front of me. So, trying like hell to look like I knew what I was doing, I started walking. I don't know how many times I've been on a set and "tried to look like I knew what I was doing." I'm guessing somewhere in the million billion billion millions!!!!

Of course, inevitably, several terrifying minutes into my brave walk, I saw another person in scrubs and followed her. It was then I saw my first stage number of the day – stage number 7. Two stages to go, I supposed (though studios don't really like to place things in "logical numerical order," for whatever reason). Eventually the woman I was tailing arrived at stage 9…then walked right past the door with the big sign that said "Stage 9" on it. "Well," I thought, "When in Rome," then I stopped thinking, because I have not been to Rome (yet). I had figured she was heading to a different, better door to enter – maybe some secret portal only the "regular" extras knew about. Perhaps something closer to the actual set? So I followed.

As luck would have it, when I was about 20 feet past the Stage 9 door, Steph (who I will now only refer to as "Staph," because as I discovered earlier, it's much funnier than "Steph") pulled up behind me in a golf cart and whistled at me (as one would whistle to a Labrador) and barked (as a Labrador would) "Hey, where you going?" She then waved me at the stage door. Oops – there goes my air of cool professionalism. Oh well.

I followed Staph into the stage, and she told me abruptly to put my stuff down, and to "Make sure you've got your voucher." Well…of course I had my voucher – it was in my bag. Why wouldn't I have my voucher? So I went to follow her (she was walking at a break-neck pace, because she wanted to give me the impression that she was working really hard), then I realized quickly that she wanted me to "bring my voucher along with me." Oops again. I skittered back to my bag, grabbed my voucher, and promptly lost sight of her. She appeared (magically) at a door to the adjoining stage, and beckoned me over (as one would beckon a poodle), muttering, "C'mon, c'mon." I gave her as "cross" of a look as I could manage in the early dawn hours, and sigh audibly as I pass her. Screw "polite," she was being difficult…for no good reason.

See, the reason I was supposed to bring my voucher was that I had to give it to the props department (so I wouldn't walk off of the set with something like a sweet, sweet free stethoscope). The prop dude…a friendly, nondescript guy with a dirty blonde ponytail gives me a name tag, a strange security clip-on tag, and a folder containing x-rays. I attempt to return to the set, and promptly get lost again. Eventually I find Staph, and she guides me to the extra's holding area (actually the waiting room of the hospital).

Staph finds me in the extras holding area, and tells me that the disgruntled costume lady (I'll call her Lucy, because it sounds silly) will be outfitting me as an anesthesiologist (thank you spell check). Apparently folks of the anesthesiological (no thank you spell check) persuasion at this hospital like to wear dark blue. Fine by me. Now I'm the crazy drug doctor in blue.

Once I've changed, I'm brought to the set. I'm in a scene with two doctors, who are operating on a little girl (for some reason…probably because she's sick or something), and it's my responsibility to pretend to look at a screen that has her vitals, oxygen levels, drug levels, etc., and write stuff on a clipboard. I guess that's what anesthesiologists do – I always thought they injected people with syringes (or fiddled with knobs or somesuch) then left to go drug up other people. But apparently they just scribble on a clipboard while the real doctors do all the difficult bloody work, with the cutting, and the pulling, and the clamping. But I tell you what, if I were to ever get into doctoring full-time, I figure anesthesiologist'd be a good way to go.

Here I had my third brush with Lucy – and it turned out my initial impression of her was depressingly accurate. She was outfitting me with a neat-o surgical cap to wear during the procedure. As Lucy was a bit shorter than me, I bent at the knee to help her reach the top of my thinning dome. As I did this, she snapped: "Stand normal, please." I'm not really sure why it bothered her so much…she wasn't short enough to have an inferiority complex. Perhaps she just liked snapping and embarrassing people? Who knows.

Anyhow, a different crewperson got me into place (this person is one of the two "Production Assistants" or PAs, who are generically responsible for the extras' background movements).

I wish I could talk more about the magic of the filming process…but it's actually one of the more unremarkable parts of the day. There's a guy standing by the camera who is the "1^st A.D.", and when everything is ready he called, "Background…and…action," (sometimes the director makes this call…though they're typically out of the room watching the scene through a headset and a bank of monitors). When I hear the word "background," I'm supposed to come to life, so that when the actors start on "action," they've got an active scene that they can just jump into…as opposed to having every start at once. Helps with the editing.

Since I started doing this I've been able to watch some of the best actors in the world working, and while you're watching them live you realize quickly that what you see on the T.V. screen isn't really what happens in the studio. T.V. and film acting is usually done in about 30 seconds chunks…several times in a row, and then repeated from a different angle. Most actors come into a scene barely knowing their lines (and the vast majority of them will forget at least part of the scene during rehearsal and the first couple of takes). This is in contrast to theater, where the scenes can last up to an hour and a half…and there are no take-backs. Film acting is still something of a mystery to me, honestly…but maybe some day it'll make sense, and I'll be freaking famous or something. Probably not…but it'd be cool.

Eventually the angle I'm in is completed, and I'm booted out, and replaced by a large light aimed at the actual "actors" (and the camera flips to a new angle – a two-shot of the two doctors). I return to the holding area, and decide, "Hey, wouldn't it be cool to do a running blog entry of my day?" So I start writing on my laptop. I figure I'll be writing most of the day…at least, until my batteries run out. Then I'll have to find something else to do. Maybe strike up a conversation with some of the other actors? Naw…

After an hour or so of sitting around, typing this blog, another crewmember came over and asked me my name.

"Tyler."

"Hi Tyler, I'm Chelsie. We're going to use you in this next shot, so would you follow me?"

"Of course."

Finally…someone nice. Chelsie (henceforth to be called "Chelsie," because she was nice) walked me through my movements for the next scene (I was to start walking away from the camera…then turn around and cross back toward the camera – if you pay attention to the background actors in many of these T.V. shows where there are shots of a hospital or a street, you'll probably catch same extras crossing back and forth multiple times). I can't even hear the scene that's going on; I just know that when the dude (that's my name for the 1^st A.D. – please do try to keep track, because I'll probably forget at some point, and will have to scroll up to remind myself) calls "background," I start walking. Stop. Wait five seconds, and then start walking in the opposite direction.

This, my friends, is the extent of the skill required to be a background actor. Keep your head down, bring several options of clothes for the costume people, listen to very simple instructions, and try not to get bored. I'd say that this is one of the best jobs I've ever had, but the truth is, in addition to not paying well, it's also very inconsistent work (I worked one day last week. At that rate, I'd make about $225 for the entire month – a little less than half of what my rent is).

Now, I do want to speak to something. I'm afraid that just maybe I've been a little unfair to my good friend Staph (but not nearly as unfair as I'm going to get). See…the problem with background acting is…there are a lot of really dumb people doing background work. Of course, I'm hesitant to use the word "dumb" when I describe other people, because it's almost like bragging that I'm "not dumb"(and I'm just as dumb as the next guy…evidenced by my passion for America's Funniest Home Videos and Janice Dickinson's Modeling Agency), but I really don't know how else to put it. I mean…I'm friends with all of you people – especially those faithful readers of this here blog. So, I can say with authority that none of you are dumb people (because dumb people make awful friends). But some extras can be really…really dumb.

Having made that broad, sweeping, completely unfair and unjustified generalization, I must now state that – having mocked Staph et al, they really have a tough job. I don't know how many ignorant, inattentive, and (frankly, to repeat myself ad naseum) dumb extras I've had the pleasure of working with…I just know there are a lot. And so, when I hear a 2^nd A.D. speaking in a condescending, repetitive tone…I kinda' get it. Peoples' responses to the scourge of dumb are varied (like the beautiful rainbow…or a flower with different colored petals…or a bird flying over a rainbow and pooping on a toadstool) – some people get aggressive and frustrated, some people get mad and yell, some get sarcastic and snippy, some get sing-songy and condescending, some deal with things calmly and professionally, and some ignore it until it's a problem. Me? I stab. But that's just me.

Chelsie calls me back – now I've got the Herculean task of pretending to write on a medical file of some kind (the one I got from props, with the x-rays inside), then I was to follow two actors through a door…which means that I was stationed near the two doctors in-between takes…which really means…GOSSIP TIME!!!

Okay, time to gab. Guess what, people?! The stars are JUST LIKE US!!! What did they talk about? Oh…you know…the woman doctor joked around with a male doctor, saying he was acting like a CRAZY PERSON!!! The two women doctors near me discussed their CUES, and whether they were LEAVING TOO EARLY after ACTION was called!!! One of them talked with the hairstyling ladies about BUYING SHOES!!! And how she DIDN'T LIKE IT when women wore TOO MUCH HAIR SPRAY!!! Then she told a story about how, when she goes to an AWARDS SHOW she HAS to buy new SHOES!!! And how, one time, her STYLIST got her shoes that she COULDN'T WALK IN, and she was UPSET WITH HIM!!! The other one FLIRTED with a P.A., and asked a COSTUME LADY to cut off the TAG on her SHIRT!!!

Yep, they're just like us. Except famouser.

Stay tuned tomorrow for Part Two. Little hint -- one of the people in this story WILL BE DEAD BY THE END OF THE DAY.

Not really. But that'd be a sweet cliffhanger, wouldn't it?