Everyone in NYC knows what it means when signs like this start appearing along your block.
Already scarce parking replaced by orange cones. Enormous wardrobe trailers blocking the sunlight. Craft service tables taunting you with cookies you can smell but not touch. PAs with unfortunate facial hair acting self-important while you try to maneuver a stroller over a tangle of industrial electrical cords. Maybe there’s a decent enough star sighting, like Heather Locklear. Or Ted McGinley. Or, Hey That Guy From That Movie, You Know With That Other Guy About That Thing? (Man, he’s in every movie!)
Film shoots around here are about 10% excitement 90% annoyance.
We’re a jaded bunch.
Um, holy shit.
Coen Brothers. George Clooney. Brad Pitt. Frances McDormand. John Turturro. Tilda Swinton.
On my block.
ON MY BLOCK.
And where am I?
Not on my block.
I am working.
George, please, hear me now: I’ll be home by 6:30. And I just need one hour with you. Just one. I know you broke your rib this week. So I promise to be gentle. And you have a girlfriend. And she’s hot and I’m kind of not these days. And we probably have nothing in common except that I want to have the sex with you and I sense that you like the sex.
So let’s just make it a half hour.
Maybe I need Bossy to make a video for me.