I grew up white trash. In fact, I come from a long, distinguished line of white trash. My childhood and teen years were surrounded with desert, a house that was built onto a double-wide (with the wheels left on under the house, that way property taxes were dirt cheap), and lots and lots of rusting cars in various states of disrepair.

I worked in my grandfather’s garage on and off for years. Working on cars isn’t fun for me; it’s a chore. I never aspired to own more than one vehicle.

When I got my directing contract after Corruption won its awards, I thought I had finally achieved one of my long-standing goals. I wouldn’t have to haul gear to set anymore. I bought a 350z, partly as a reward, and partly because it has a tiny, tiny trunk.

“Hey, Bryn, can you take the cameras home with you?”

“No,” I would say honestly, indicating the little convertible. “I can’t.”

And then I would drive home, beaming.

Then the contract fell apart, and my primary workload shifted to shooting camera and lighting. MY cameras and MY lights. All I do now is haul gear.

About a month ago, I decided I need a permanent vehicle for this purpose. I found a great Chevy step van (think FedEX truck) for $2k, and bought it. It ran great, has space, racks, etc. A perfect mini grip & electric truck. Almost immediately, my friend Hollywood asked if her could rent it for a low-budget horror movie he was gaffing.

I agreed, at first thinking I would get a little cash out of it. Then, I asked him instead to simply get some repairs done and we would call it even. Fix the broken turn signals. Replace the missing gas pedal. Niggly shit that I just didn’t want to deal with.

I should have known better. Hollywood is my people. We don’t “fix” anything. We just get it working. Half-assed isn’t our slogan, it’s our religion. This is one of the reasons why I’m so frigging OCD; my constant battle against my white trash urge to make do.

Long story short, as I write this I’m sitting at a location in North Hollywood, waiting to have the truck towed because the “mechanic” Hollywood describes as the “Redneck MacGuyver” fucked up the electrical system when he put in the supplemental turn signal unit, and now, the truck won’t start.

Hollywood had a different mechanic come to my place to fix this problem last week. The truck started no problem this morning. Of course, that was then. Whichever wire or harness I cannot find from the starter has now once again vibrated loose, and here I sit.

The tow should be about $250. Getting the problem actually repaired, oh, $350? So I’ve nearly worked for free today.

I’m angry. At myself. I know better than to let certain people do certain things. I cannot seem to absorb the parable of the frog and the scorpion, no matter how hard I try. You do not ask a leopard to change his spots. You do not believe a scorpion will not sting. And you do not allow a redneck to repair something and expect it to stay fixed.

One Response to You can take the boy out of the trailer…

  • Freiherr Karza von Karnstein says:

    In all fairness, what you described is not limited to one demographic. I am training as an Archivist and part of the programme entails bloody group grope projects. That sounds far more appealing than it actually is, given that the too many of the other gropees are middle-aged princesses who have to re-train two decades after earning their MRS degrees because their previous employers, having this affliction called common sense, dumped them.

    I had two group grope presentations of three people each. Given that Simple Fraking English is not a required part of the MRS curriculum, I had to write six fraking presentations…only to watch Whiny, Twatty, Bitchy and Psycho frak up simple two-minute, quasi-monsyllabic scripts that even a Wookie could do without breaking a sweat.

    There is a shortage of just about everything on this planet. The one thing there is no shortage of is retardation in all its myriad sphincter-clenching permutations and combinations.

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