Is It Incorrect to Say My Level of Braindead Is High?

So I am back from the whirlwind weekend at the beach with The Fam. What I failed to mention in my last post is that about four seconds after I got the internet, I lost it again, and, upset that I hadn’t finished the task at hand, proceeded to write up the whole post and then use my stubborn powers to find it once more by standing tiptoe on the back of the couch just long enough to send it into the ether and then lose connection again… I gave up after that. Sad, pathetic technology dependence.

Today after a delayed flight back followed by a shortened night’s sleep, I am The Braindead, and I feel as if I have fallen down the rabbit hole.

This sentiment is only reinforced by the fact that today, in the very same square in which last Tuesday there was a three-hour blues festival broadcast from a tiny stage with few to no spectators yet a remarkably effective amplification system which turned out to be a celebration honor of World Herpes Awareness Day, a film was being shot. Apparently Portland is the new Vancouver, BC because very recently a car was blown up a few blocks away and, in looking up the plot for today’s shoot it seems highly unlikely that this drama involves an exploding car. For this shoot, blocks and blocks of prime downtown parking have been cordoned off All Hours All Days for nearly a month. For this, countless rig trucks and black uniformed grips and lackeys roam the streets. For this, the police department has been hijacked. For this, you give your consent to be filmed merely by walking to your office. And the new line of the train, which is not yet fit to carry passengers, has been deemed fit to drive a block, back up, drive a block, back up, drive a block, back up, alternately revealing and hiding the hordes of extras crammed onto the platform to make the city look more packed than it is in Real Life in a large scale demonstration of hide-and-seek which constitutes the four hour ordeal that is capturing a ten second filler shot. All of this is more or less fine. What is not fine is when Brendan Fraser comes out for the marketplace scene and the god mic comes out to direct “Extra Group Yellow to your start locations please” and “Action” and “Cut” and “Reset” and “Action” and “Cut” and “Reset” and “Action” and “Cut” and “Reset” and “Now extras with last names P-S” and so on and so forth devolving until the woman is doing some sort of raffle with the extras, I kid you not – I even checked with a coworker to ensure that I hadn’t fallen completely into the rabbit hole. Seriously. She is advertising prizes and calling numbers – all still over the bullhorn.

Meanwhile my task is to find an estimate for a scar revision which involves lots of google searches that turn up sleazy plastic surgeons who do lipo and face lifts and consider themselves artists. I click on one doctor’s site which takes so long to load that I go to refill my water glass and return to find my screen plastered with naked breasts. So I buzz the associate who gave me this task and charge him with attempting to get me fired, to which he replies in all earnestness and without thinking about context that “he gives me oral consent.” So by then I’ve fallen off the deep end laughing, and we haven’t even GOTTEN to the part in my day when I started reading Stiff by Mary Roach and decided that decapitated heads should never, under any circumstances, be allowed to congregate.

And kids, this is all before lunch.

::sigh::

I need a nap.