I Will Not Wear a Rug

I’m not even supposed to be here today. We’re supposed to start shooting soon, so soon… so so soon that I guess I’m not part of the first stretch of production? If so, um, wow. Wow. I thought we had a connection, Quentin. Long nights in the cigar bar, watching old movies in your private movie theater, “The Church,” getting to know all of the squirrels and other small animals on your property. I hope you took my recommendation for a landscaper, your ferns are overgrown and you may be fined. You never know, someone could report you. Like me (moment).

While I wait, the producers of the film—who shall remain nameless, as they’re irrelevant and of no interest to the general filmgoing public—are pressuring me to wear “a wig.” I politely informed them that their communique must’ve been meant for someone else, as I’m a rooster, and have plenty of feathers all over my body, as well as a full and healthy mane. They clarified that no, in fact, you are the recipient rooster. I took a few paces back, reading the form they gave me… I was becoming very angry… but before I could do anything, such as a simple spur claw to the thigh or throat, they were gone. Quentin and Mr. Fincher were nowhere in sight. I suppose they were “busy” making “their movie.”

Increasingly, I’m feeling left out of the process. Why was I invited to all of those read-throughs, rehearsals, and private meetings? For fun? My idea of “fun” is definitely NOT watching five exploitation movies in a row, even if they’re screened in “glorious 35mm.” First of all, I saw most of these movies when they came out, and I was an actor in even more of them. I don’t need to see Piranha, Crocodile, or Alligator ever again; ditto Earthquake, Rollercoaster, and Avalanche. Why did we watch all of those killer animal disaster movies, anyway? Was Quentin trying to tell me something? What exactly is my role in The Adventures of Cliff Booth? (The “Continuing” has been removed, it’s official, I confirmed, I’m still very upset and do believe that Mr. Fincher and Quentin have sacrificed just a little bit of artistic integrity by removing that word from the title. It’s a sequel, after all).

I can’t find Q or Mr. Fincher, so I start chopping it up with the cast. Did anyone else get to watch movies in “The Church”? Everyone says yes, but apparently we were all shown different movies: Brad (I call him Brad) watched The Mechanic and 92 in the Shade; Scott Caan watched Trackdown and The Fan; Carla Gugino watched Pretty Maids All in a Row, Rolling Thunder, and Slithis. I tried talking to some of the department heads, but none of them would even give me the time of day. The first assistant director, who also shall remain nameless, not only refused to answer my question but attempted to have me requisitioned as a main course in his lunch. I spur-clawed the guy, and because he’s an assistant director, his job is to be an asshole (they’re necessary); hundreds of problems need to be solved every day on a movie set, and the first AD takes care of it. I guess he was just stressed out; luckily, he was too proud to report the attack. He said he “walked into a door.” Yeah, right. Now everyone’s asking if he needs a place to stay, if his wife is acting up again.

They’re not going to make me wear that wig. They said it had nothing to do with my “hair,” and that my mane is glorious, but for the purposes of the film, they need to keep everything consistent; this is the same reason all actors are put into makeup, despite already looking ultra super-duper fabulous. I’m the same, except even more, and since I use makeup, I understand. Once that was clarified, I said fine, put that garbage on my head, I don’t care anymore. It’s nice acting like a movie star, but being a diva is only fun for so long; I miss my friend. Q, where are you? Have a cigar?

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