Quondam Dreams

Thursday, June 14, 2007

Time Is Relative (Or Maybe Math Is Hard)

I'm adding up the numbers, and they keep telling me that I worked almost two weeks last week -- and spent two days shooting a pilot, too.

But, dammit, we got that site launched. A few days before launch, with things not going as planned (as if they ever do, especially when they rely on other people), a few of us took a collective deep breath and launched into a frenzy of site-building not seen since about mid-2000. Take note, all you kids with your dynamic this and on-the-fly that: We don't need you. Yes, we like the tools; yes, we like the part where you don't have to create and save a bunch of static pages. We also know how long it will take to create a static version of a site to hold us until you've held up your end of the bargain, which we will do. In fact, we'll finish early, because when you've been cranking out pages for fifteen hours, what's another two or three more?

And, dammit, we got that show shot. When the show is picked up and we go on the publicity circuit (just smile and nod, folks), we will have amusing anecdotes about the trials and tribulations of independent television production, including how one goes about mounting a production when the building in which one is shooting loses power. We will give shout-outs to the sympathetic crew shooting a couple of doors up, who let us plug into their generator; to our phenomenal crew, who made sure we looked and sounded great despite the less-than-ideal circumstances; and to our audience, who gamely hung in there despite the heat.

I know all that stuff gone done. I have no idea how I squeezed it all in.

No wonder I'm tired. I get a little loopy when I'm tired. I find myself doing odd things like... you know... getting home before midnight. And going to bars and... asking for a Diet Coke.

"That stuff's poison," this guy said to me at the Kitty the other night. (So sue me, I went out on Monday night. I'd meant to take it easy, but I was bored. I stayed for maybe an hour and a half, belted out a couple of karaoke songs, consumed perhaps a bit too much soda, and was home by 12:30. Really, Mom.)

I looked at my cola, communing with a plinth of ice in a highball glass. I looked at the suspiciously amber contents of his tumbler. And I asked him: "And that stuff's not?"

He looked like he was sorry he'd gone through all the trouble of trying to save my life.

Somewhere in all this, there's a lesson about how you can sit around waiting for conditions to be perfect, or you can make whatever it is you want to happen... happen.

I'm just not entirely sure where.


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