War on Trash: Day 26 (replace with witty reference)
Posted on July 17th, 2009 –
Toronto, the city that never sleeps. No, wait, I’m confusing that with another city. The city of Lesbos. Or is that an archipelago?
This is the second too-long day of a second too-short night. This time it was the tail end of the Copper film for which they were shooting night scenes. Late night scenes.
In contrast to last night’s festivities, the crew were as quiet as very polite mice. Their lighting, however, was quite loud:
Right into the bedroom window. Clean, straight line. Living room too. And that’s pretty much my entire place.
At around 2 a.m., they packed up their trucks, pointed their New York license plates south, and quietly rolled out. Not only had they crept out with a whisper, but they’d also left my neighbourhood cleaner than it was before. Aside from two strips of gaffer’s tape marking out an “L” on the sidewalk, the place was impeccable.
They were still sweeping the left-over bits of trash from the location house this morning. The front lawn looked well-trodden but the house looked better than it had. They made it out to look like a real hussy, didn’t they?
I guess cops have to fight crime somewhere; might as well be in a nearby crack house. Or maybe it’s an abstract film where the cops stare and occasionally shout at a pear sitting on a blue plate for exactly forty-one minutes (with a midget dancing backwards in the background); those curtains are for the really-fuck-the-audience’s-mind effect. Does David Lynch still make movies?
Either way, I guess that’s fairly realistic, because danger really can lurk behind any shadowy corner:
One mistake and it’s all over. Your windshield. With open windows, your sleeve. Kid in the back gets banana peel in the schnoz. And who gets the half-drunk bubble tea cup in the frontal area? Maybe you, maybe me. And no one deserves that. It’s just not something you’d wish on your fellow human beings.
I think it’s a sign of desperation; a cry for help. Children are now being employed to produce impassioned pleas for an end to the savagery. I’m sure Walter Cronkite would have approved, and with a respectful doff of the cap, we thank him.
So under slightly more gray skies we find ourselves at the end of the week. As the tide of war waxes and wanes like a poorly thought-out metaphor (or simile?), more casualties are inevitable:
I guess it never gets easier.
It probably shouldn’t.
Well, maybe with a good night’s sleep it could.
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