driving with your guts

When I left for the first time the rainforests of South America for the suburban jungles of British Columbia I met a man named Dustin, whom I chose to deify. I am not sure exactly what it is in me that tends towards hero worship, but I have done it for so long now that my list of heroes has gotten longer than my arm. Maybe it is some sort of Jesus thing, a yearning for a God-in-the-flesh as my own, personal buddy. If I had a buddy like that, I figure my problems would be pretty much gone. "Buddy Jesus", I would say, "Smite so-n-so for me, willya?" And he would do it, too, because Buddy Jesus is like that.

Buddy Dustin was a big guy with broad shoulders, cool blonde hair, a motorcycle and the most smashingly cool job you can imagine - whitewater kayaking guide in the summer, top-level ski instructor in the winter. Dustin was the sort of guy who would jump off cliffs with a couple of planks strapped to his feet, get all upside-down and twisty, and then somehow not die later.

He told me once, when we were e-brake sliding in his car around an icy corner at about two-times-cheetah speed, that the main thing in life is not to hesitate. "Hesitation kills", he said, "you've gotta drive confident, Sparkey". Something about guys like that makes me feel timid and very small.

Welcome to Smallville.

At midnight I was still awake. I checked my pulse to see if I was getting my biological undies in a bunch over the a.m.'s event, which was that I was scheduled to be an extra on the set of the TV show, Smallville. Anya and I had gotten riled up earlier picking out a collection of clothes (you have to have a bunch of stuff for the fashionably gay wardrobe guy to pick from) and prancing around pretending to be stars. Still, that was a while ago and it was all in fun. I mean, c'mon - extras are human fluff. No big deal.

Thump, thump, thump. Pulse, normal. It is just TV. It isn't real. I am told there is no superman. But for some reason, super thoughts kept creeping in as Sleep, that elusive bedfellow, kept creeping out. A few precious snores here and there and then the high-pitched beeping of my wristwatch played ayahuasca war drums on whatever dangly things it could find in the recesses of my head.

So, after a quick bowl of cereal I rode my bike out down the road towards Burnaby with a backpack and some hangers stuffed with clothes strapped to my back. When I got out on the highway I could feel the stares of the people in the vehicles around me. It was obvious they were jealous of me - the cool guy on the motorcycle with the cool battered black-leather jacket, headed off to get filmed for TV while they disconsolately plodded with the other rats towards their flourescent-lit cubicles. I coolly ignored them, coolly using my turn signal as I coolly took the Brunette Street Exit and then proceeded to coolly wind my way down a bunch of random, interesting roads.

As a side note, there is a book waiting to be written about how to look cool while getting lost in Burnaby before the sun comes up. So cool.

Eventually, though, I wheeled up to to 6228 Beresford Street, Burnaby, where there cluster a gaggle of warehouses crammed with sets for Smallville. Everybody in southern British Columbia thinks the show is filmed in Cloverdale, but while that is where they shoot the outside stuff, most of it takes place here, inside. Shhhh - don't tell anybody. Fifteen minutes late, I parked by the door of a likely looking warehouse and went inside.

Incidentally, fifteen minutes is about the minimum amount of time you can be late for an appointment and still be cool. I don't recommend it, though, unless you're cool enough to flick cigarett ash at Extra Handlers while they yell at you.

I don't smoke, unfortunately, so I went timidly in and wandered around a bunch of dimly lit barn and house husks. Eventually, a guy with a radio pointed me in the right direction, which I did not take. Because I'm just like that. After another fifteen minutes, I finally walked up to the doors of the correct warehouse.

Now, I want you to pay attention.

Seriously. Pay attention.

This is the defining moment of the story, the one that directly relates to that first bit about living decisively. Remember my last post, when I was talking aobut beating Anne Hathaway in a staring match, and how I said I'd like to punch Superman in the face? Well, as I pushed open the huge double doors, who should be strolling towards me but Clark Kent himself. Just me and him in a large, abandoned hallway and about four seconds to decide, cock back my arm and let him have it. I was wearing a padded leather jacket and wearing thick leather boots and a stuffed backpack to protect my spine. In my left hand was my hard black plastic brain-bucket. Iw as well protected and the moment was just golden.

I thought about it.

In the fraction of a second it took to size him up, I could see that even if the camera adds some weight, this guy was still about six-foot-three and weighted well over two hundred pounds of what might very well have been Krypton-enhanced muscle. He was square-jawed and had a smoldering blue look that said, "go ahead, Lex, make my day". I hesitated. What if, just what if this maybe was not the real superman? Not only would I get a real good beating, but it wouldn't even count. As I thought about assault charges, jail time and a fist-fractured skull, the man brushed by.

Oh, sure - he and I danced a dangerous tango (he had no idea how fragile his hold on life was) through forty-one takes of a ridiculous scene in a ludicrously tacky cafe called, get this, "The Talon" - but the moment had come and I had proved my weakness.

Another broken myth. Another heroic buddy, flying off into the silver lined clouds of memory. Another shattered TV dream.

What can you learn? What lesson has been craftily secreted into the tissues of this story? Never, ever, ever hesitate. Hesitation not only kills, it leaves you feeling small and un-heroic. Heroes probably don't exist, I know. But if they did, they would undoubtedly be the sort of people who saw what could or should be done and went and did it. So if you get a chance to punch superman in the face, take it. Seriously. He's an actor, for the love of Jim... probably just a pansy with a glass jaw. I'll watch.

Safely.

Over here.

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Not had enough of Josh's Screen Tales?

Tune in soon...

... as our hero Joshua Barkey, extra extraordinaire goes on the set of the new Jason Reitman (director/writer, Thank You for Smoking) comedy about an unwanted pregnancy (whoa, nelly! is that funny or what?!) with actors such as that Alias ninjagirlperson and one of those mutants from X-men III.