I had arranged to meet the Medic at her Subaru station wagon, parked on 38th Street.
She was working a commercial for an airline company. James Gandolfini was “starring” in it, along with a Chihuahua. Ah, television. When I arrived, though, the Medic wasn’t in her car. Turned out the dog had bit a background player, or what we used to call an “extra,” so she was putting a Band-Aid on him and calling in a doctor for a tetanus shot and prescription for antibiotics (on call, the MD was $350). Because the crew had worked ‘til one the previous night, and been called in to start today at 10:30a.m., they were making triple time. Union rules mandate a ten-hour break, or else. The budget on this one, she implied, was endless. Any other production would have had the crew report half an hour later at 11 a.m. to avoid that triple time. In seven years of moonlighting on these gigs, she’s never made triple time.
All the trucks, the people, the equipment, all for a 30 or 60 second production. It’s really quite amazing. What not freeload a little? Sitting in her car, we drank tea and ate chocolate cookies, edame, and chicken dumplings from the craft wagon tent. She's a very sweet woman (although she can't shake her mom, who called), and we'll team up for some birding on Saturday.
Speaking of which, the blue grosbeak was spotted again in the Vale. Argh! And now there's a sora on the southern end of Prospect Park. The nor'easter seem to have blown some things off reservation. Now, I'm not a Ticker, but I am a bit of a Twitcher.