i’m convinced the people in this office sleep here (or don’t sleep at all). that’s probably why there’s a pool table right outside the elevator door.
[true story: the first time i ever came here, i walked off the elevator and thought i’d taken a wrong turn into a bar. or someone’s bachelor pad.]
this place is like the black hole of labor. they must pay their staff a completely offensive amount of money to come here 7 days a week and pretend that they never want an hour off. ever.
there’s a photo of me on the wall that some random chick took 3 days before i ventured off for the cross country job.
crazy awesome non-sleeper-over-workers are the ones who sent me into the great unknown a few months back. and for that i owe them all the time in the world they want right now. and maybe even a kidney. and they owe me a beer. which is funny because just as i said that, the producer -- who i adore -- walked in with 3 shopping bags full of beer. ask and you shall receive.]
i look ridiculously perky in that photo. the one on the wall.
and really rested.
there is hardly any point to the photo above except that this window is on 1 of 4 walls of a warehouse that i’m shooting in on monday and unlike the billion photos i take for other people, this one i took for only for myself.
it’s a funny little place where this short guy named andrew takes people like me up and down the elevator giving tours of the space in hopes that our higher-ups will drop a stupid amount of money to film here.
i don’t think his real name is andrew and i’m not going to elaborate on this because you will call me a racist racial profiler and i’m just not going there. and maybe i’m wrong and his real name is andrew. but i doubt it.
one time, he made me scale the outside walls of the building in category-5 winds just so i could see the roof.
i felt like spiderman, but i almost peed in my pants.