The Lowest Rung On the Hollywood Ladder, Part 1

There was a good thirty seconds or so of absolute holy fucking shit stunned silence. I turn the lady standing next to me and say quietly, "That's a wrap."

That's when the screaming started. The cameraman was screaming, and bleeding like a stuck pig where a pointy bit of broken camera had ricocheted off his arm. The first AD was screaming at the support crew for not being where they were supposed to be. And the director himself had stomped up to the extra that did the bumping and was screaming about how she'd never work in this town again. Seriously. He fucking said that.

When everybody calmed down a bit, we were sent on our way, tongues hanging out in shock.

They got that horrible movie on the air anyway. Sadly, they didn't include any blooper reel at the end of it. I was rather hoping they would have put that shot of wholesale destruction in.

My Day On the Set of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (and why Germans are Such Scary People)

I'd heard bad things about this set. That the crew was clumsy and mean, that the cast were all a bunch of rude snobs, that the craft service was sub-par. I'd heard terrible tales of Sarah Michelle's temper tantrums, of 19 hour days with only half an hour for lunch, of people getting screwed out of SAG vouchers. The lot.

So when it came up on the casting line, I was hesitant. I was a huge fan of the show (in its third season at this time and just picking up steam) and I didn't want any bad "real life" experiences to interfere with my enjoyment of it. But, a job is a job, and the other show that I worked on regularly ("Sister, Sister." I was a Token White Girl.) was on hiatus that week. So, I called up the casting director, gave her my soch (biz talk for social security number, how we were all identified) and away I went.

I pull up to the parking lot with only one minor bobble: I'd managed to toss my lit cigarette, not out the window, as I'd intended, but back through the window and down the back of my neck. Of course, I didn't notice anything amiss until I smelled the distinct and disgusting smell of burning hair waft over me.

FUCK SHIT MOTHER COCKSUCKING SCREW BARBRA STRIESAND!

I managed to avoid slamming into any parked cars somehow, and safely extinguished the butt on the ground next to me. Lesson learned: Tossing things that are on fire out of a moving car on a windy day is NOT SMART.

So the day is already pissing me off. I get into hair and makeup to hear these words: "Didn't they tell you? No makeup today. You're a prisoner. You're grubby. We will grease your hair up real good though... wait, what happened it's all burned over here...?"

Oh my God just shoot me in the head now plz. I'm not one to be embarrassed easily. If I were, I don't think I could read or post here for any length of time. But this just killed me. Not only was I being mocked for my newly scorched 'do, but I was told that I couldn't wear makeup. I need makeup to survive! It is a medical necessity! Otherwise I look like... one of those freaky monsters they have on every week... oh God, I'm going to get confused for the Slime Beast MotW.

Well, maybe then I could get day player rate.

So I'm looking like a total and utter freak. In "dirty" clothes and "greasy" hair. (All thanks to the miracle of Hollywood effects! I'm not stinky and gross! I'm NOT!) And then I realize that I'd grabbed the wrong pack of cigarettes when I left the house. The nearly empty one. I've got to get through this day with only two goddamn smokes.

*deep breath* Ok. I can do this. Oh, hey, it's Nick Brendon coming right over here to me... and I'm looking so scary...

"Hey. Do you have a smoke I can bum?"

He must have seen me rattling around my pack. Oh, what do I say? Why does God put me in these situations? I don't litter. I don't kill kittens.

"Sure. Here." He takes the smoke, thanks me, and leaves. Good bye, second to last smoke. Good bye, hot guy who must think I live in a barn. Good bye, last remaining shred of dignity.

Hello large, German woman with a clipboard and radio.

Wait, what?