December 11, 2002

SO THERE I stood, with a mouthful of bagel and a Diet Coke, looking at the crowd looking at us, and not believing any of what was going on around me. But first, let me back up and explain.

I was on the first day of my brand new job in film/commercial production. We were shooting what we were told to say was "marketing research," but that was just code to throw the gawking civilians off the trail. I can't imagine anyone really bought it either, seeing as our cadre resembled a smallish Hollywood production. Four trucks, a mobile home, two vans, and two security guards lined the street, and a buttload of odd-looking equipment was strewn about like rich-guy Lincoln Logs.

We were, in fact, filming a commercial for a big New York ad agency that represented an even bigger fast-food conglomerate. The point of our production was to cajole the man on the street into pronouncing that the new chicken sandwich was not only the best processed chicken sandwich he ever had but was also a potential point of American pride. No shit. The whole "proud to be an American" tact is a direct quote, one of the many lines/questions tossed out by the director to the various victims interviewed. And damned if every single one of them didn't go for it.

So, like I said, there I was with a mouthful and all that jazz. I had recently found out the director of our little outing was once a man of art. He had directed a lot of (mostly hilarious) short films during Saturday Night Live's "classic" era, as well as the cult great "All You Need Is Cash," the mockumentary of fabled Mersey rockers the Rutles. The director was affable if a tad neurotic, and watching him push all this "marketing research" on America's supposed chicken lovers really began to eat at me. I recall thinking that I hoped he was being obscenely well paid, because the man was a shade away from sucking Satan's joint, careerwise. It seemed a shame and a waste of talent.

By the third day I was wondering where my eleven o'clock grilled cheese sandwich was. Food was constantly on the set: yogurt, bagels, donuts, and the like in the morning; candy, cookies, fruit, and so on the rest of the day. There were also at least two "real" sit-down meals and special snacks prepared throughout the shoot. And the grilled cheese special snack was late. Miffed but not entirely outraged, I grabbed some chocolate-covered popcorn. It was only an hour till the steak lunch, so I gutted it out for the team.

Now, a week later, I completely understand the psychology of the sellout. I appreciate riders with "no green M&M's" caveats and having bagels flown in from New York. As the lowest guy on the production totem pole, I was nearly ruined in a little under 72 hours. Luckily I caught myself in time. But now shitty albums and crappy movies all make complete sense to me. You need to keep it safe and down the middle or the next thing you know, you find yourself paying for your soda. Frankly, it's pretty cool.

I'm not saying I'm looking to sell out completely. But I might be looking for the next best thing.