I’m lighting a Truck Press Event… That’s right. Trucks. Those things that people like me can’t even fit in my garage. Even if I had a garage, I would have to move my clothes rack/treadmill and my complete collection of plastic wrapped Mad Magazines.
Yes, it’s almost time for the BIG REVEAL, and I’ve got sweaty palms that I keep rubbing on the arms of my comfy chair. Yeah. I must be a little scared. The older I get, the more anxious I get about these things. With all this technology at my fingertips, there’s so much that can go wrong AND be totally out of my control, Ya know? Yeah. I’m living on the edge. That’s right. The edge. The edge of my freakin’ seat! It’s the place where if I screw up, I will never work again! It’s the place that I go to because I’m told I need to occasionally get out of my “comfort zone.” That’s where we do our best work, right? Some art teacher told me that a long time ago. The art teacher wore Grateful Dead t-shirts to class and talked about finding our “creative center” a lot…
An Edgy Design Concept
If that’s really true, this new truck reveal will be the most artistic thing I’ve ever done, because I’m so uncomfortable right now that I can’t even feel my feet. Plus, my right hand’s index finger keeps tapping something on my desk. Tap tap. Tap. Tap tap tap. Maybe it’s Morse code for: “Help! Come get me! I’m on a desert island, and I don’t have any matches.” It’s funny what you think about sometimes, right before the show, isn’t it? If I screw these cues up, producers won’t ever call me again because “That freakin’ guy can’t take the pressure anymore.” Yeah. Livin’ on the edge…where if I don’t hit that “Go” button at exactly the right time, I will become the laughingstock of the industry. Industry? Really? Okay. If you say so. And “laughingstock”? Is that even a word? Is that something like the Pilgrims used for witches that smiled? Or maybe the CIA uses them to get information from suspected bad people? Where suspected terrorists get tied up and then they’re forced to laugh at Dane Cook’s jokes? No, no. I won’t be the laughingstock. I will simply be pitied. And that’s even worse. “Poor, poor, Wayne, he never missed a cue… until now. He must be losing his edge. Too bad. How old is he anyway? It was a good run, though. I wonder who’s available for next year? Better make some calls.”
I guess I could put all my cues in time code or something. But where’s the fun in that, huh? Besides, I hate trying to figure all that stuff out. I got into this for the rush, ya know? Hey, I remember that time when…
Don’t need a bunch of digital stuff for that, right? I don’t want everything to be totally, absolutely computer controlled. I need the feeling. The rush. Yes! That’s it. The chill up the spine! Yes, that actually happened to me one time. It was during an ESPN broadcast of the National Cheerleader Competition. Important stuff. It was a human pyramid and it was magnificent! Did I just say that?
Anyway, I want that rare feeling again! I may be very uncomfortable right now, but at least let me have a little fun! Yeah! These Press guys all have digital cameras, and virtual cameras, and camera phones, and I know why they’re all here: they’re all here for the free booze. Plus, they’re waiting for that new truck to bust out of the “mountain” and drive downstage so they can take a bazillion pictures while I screw up all the lighting cues.
Of course, that assumes that they will actually be able to see it. After all, when I punch “Go,” there will be pyro, and fog, and lasers, and as many strobing, flashing lights as I can get my hands on! Yeah, baby!
A Mountain of Styrofoam
Also, when I say the “truck busts out of a mountain,” I’m talking about a “scenic mountain.” I’m talking about a hunk of Styrofoam and muslin that six underpaid “scenic artists,” worked for a long two weeks to produce. And then, because I’m scared and losing my mind, I wonder why they’re called “artists” and I’m just a lowly “designer.” Is it because most true artists are really, really, poor, and weird, and dirty? And I’m just average? I mean, I don’t even smell that bad. Except when I sweat a lot. Like now.
NOTE: Most scenic artists lived a long time ago; way long before LED panels and 20-year-old kids reproduced everything in the world on computers and video games. Most of those scenic artists drank too much because it helped with their creativity and all. They died young and left a pathetic corpse, with brown liver spots and ears cut off. They were almost as bad as those people who spend their parents’ hard earned money majoring in art history. Mind you, that’s only slightly below the folks who spent 150 grand to obtain that theater degree.
Yeah. The set is truly beautiful. It’s “art.” In fact, it’s so artistic, that right after the show, it will be smashed, cut up, crumpled, stepped on, shoved around, and broken up by a bunch of stagehands while they talk about some cute production intern’s butt.
NOTE: Okay. The intern is cute. But I doubt she will ever talk to, or even look at the stagehands. In fact, she probably considers stagehands one notch below dumpster grease. Which is not that far down the food chain, if you ever think about stuff like that. Which, I’m sure you don’t, because you’re reading this.
Then the greasy stagehands will throw the beautiful art parts into a greasy 40 yard dumpster to be hauled away to some greasy landfill that will probably, one day, destroy the environment.
Yeah. This uncomfortable art I’m about to do must be some real important stuff, right? This art will not only help sell trucks, it will one day give my life some real meaning. It will do something really important, right? Yeah!…Okay. Okay. Maybe it won’t do anything that really matters… So what? Aside from being very anxious and uncomfortable, I think it just makes me feel good too. What’s wrong with that? Am I supposed to feel guilty because I like living on the edge?
I’M JUST SCARED, okay? I’m scared that I’ll screw up and I’ll never work again! I’m scared that if I screw this up, the work will just cease. Disappear. Vanish. The phone calls will stop. The paychecks will stop coming. Yeah…I’m scared that I might be losing my edge, …the edge that I never knew I had in the first place.
Life goes on, though. Jobs will go on. With or without me. I better figure it all out before I say something stupid.
Wayne is a freelance LD from Texas who used to sleep in his truck because money was tight. He eventually got tired of being impaled on his stick shift every night and decided he would get rich instead. That didn’t work out either. You can reach him at wayne.lambert66@gmail.com and read more of his blogs on ProLightingSpace at www.plsn.me/WayneLambertPLS.
