It’s  4 a.m. and I just got home about 20 minutes ago. I left for work at 8:45 this morning. This is all in the nature of the business I’m in. In fact, it isn’t even unusual.

I started the day shooting camera on two scenes for Ben. The first was a young girl who’d done very few scenes who was sweet, but as boring as boring can be. The second girl was doing her first scene ever and, really, performed like a champ.

Afterwards, I went to shoot on Punk Rock Schoolgirls for Joanna Angel and James Deen. Joanna writes rally cute, funny scripts for her movies, but sometimes they’re a bit… overambitious. As the oldest warhorse on the set (I’ve got five years on the next oldest person, and 11 years more experience in porn), I had the unenviable task of pulling James & Joanna aside and suggesting that they weren’t going to make their day.

In the past, Joanna has always gotten lucky and pulled off the impossible. This time it just wasn’t going to happen. So, the plug got pulled with one incredibly intricate dialogue scene to be picked up at some later date.

For all that the populace at large things porn is an enormous fuck-off job, I often think there are no harder working people in the world than porn shooters.

Tomorrow I’m going to run errands and spend the evening with Mischief and some of her friends. It’s good because I’ve been feeling incredibly anti-social lately, I think as a reaction to being so overwhelmed by work and debt (strange combination). She forces me to get out in the world.

For my birthday she took me to a big cat preserve, ironically located right next door to the Tropic Desert Mine where we shot The 8th Day, so I was already aware of the place. It was a great day out, spent mostly in the company of animals (whom I largely prefer to people).

Rape of the Aboriginal Americans day and most of this coming weekend will be spent at the computer, working. Indulging my misanthropic nature.

My fingers are stiff from too many long days in a row, so for now let me just say eat some dead turkey in honor of a dead Indian and enjoy your Thanksgiving.

We had orphan’s thanksgiving here at the Shelter on Thursday. A handful of our friends with nowhere better to go joined us (surprisingly, many of the potential orphans found better things to do with their time than peel potatoes or consult on turkey) to gorge, watch Cars, and play theParanoia card game.

To me, there is no holiday more quintissentially American than thanksgiving. Every year we, as a nation, gather in celebration of our glorious near-genocidal defeat of the aboriginal Americans in what became one of the most shamefully one-sided conflicts in history.

Sure, we’re pretending to give “thanks” for stuff… we’re “thankful” we don’t (yet) have cancer, we’re “thankful” we got a PS3 without waiting in line, we’re “thankful” there are more mashed potatoes… But what we’re really thankful for is that the Indians didn’t run the goddamned pilgrims back into the sea at First Encounter Beach, didn’t know enough about smallpox to not accept the blankets, and didn’t manage to convince the French to stay in the game when the British came over the Adirondack Mountains in 1755.

We celebrate our war against a hopelessly outclassed opponent. Centuries ago. But hey, as Carlin said, “We like war, we’re a warlike people!”

And how do we celebrate? We stuff ourselves senseless (anyone wanna submit their epistemological thesis about the thanksgiving turkey as a surrogate sacrificial offering to the benevolent, white, Chistian-capitalist god?) and watch halfwit hyperthyroid retards playing mock-war on the football field. Really, what could possibly be more American than this?

Anyway, my mom came out from snakefuck Arizona to make her yearly visit. And she brought pie, which is the price of admission for any parent wishing to spend time here. On Friday, as we were looking for something to do, she asked if we had a modern art museum.

My experiences with MOCA have been less than extraordinary. The first time I went — when it was still the Temporary Contemporary — it was a Rothko exhibit,  which, to me, is pointless. I’m firmly of the “anyone could do that” school in my opinion of Rothko, and the simple fact that no one else did doesn’t make it a good idea. No one (to my knowledge) has tried to live on a diet of old, used condoms as a statement about the Catholic Church’s complicity with third-world hunger, either, but that doesn’t make it genius.

At any rate, we trotted down to MOCA. Their current exhibition is a paen to very stretched and thinly-drawn parallels between cutting-edge architecture and fashion design. And it stinks.

I could spend another 3,000 words doing the full Edward Goldman review (though, without the Russian accent it wouldn’t be nearly as good), but what’s the point? It’s a poorly-executed, frustrating, tiresome exhibit. The clothes on display are nothing but examples of semi-talented fashion “luminaries” with too much time on their hands. And the various architectural models, sketches, realizations and photos are a testament to engineers with vast amounts of imagination and absolutely no common sense.

Each building seemed designed to waste space, offend the eye and empty the public coffers. When K & I saw the model that demonstrated what the saintly Frank Gehry (personally, I think Disney Hall is an obnoxious eyesore) had done to his family bungalow which was built in the 20s — and which, I’m sure, was a delightful structure before it became a “modern art masterpiece” — I could feel her desire to smash the model, track Gehry down and dangle lugies in his face.

This is my third strike with MOCA. When people from the East coast come out here and make fun of L.A. and what passes for culture, I think about trying to put up an argument. Then I remember all the bad theater I’ve sat through — or been in — and all the horrible film and TV we’re responsible for and the laughable L.A. Philharmonic with it’s cover-boy conductor and all the pathetically snooty, inacessible museums we have around town, and my objections die in my throat.

I learned one thing at MOCA last Friday; or rather, I had something I have long suspected confirmed: haute couture is stupid. And it’s worse when it’s applied to a building.

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