The drunk’s name is Chuck. Purporting to be retired from the film industry, Chuck is at the end of the bar, just out of frame, rambling on about how we’re all a bunch of amateurs, with our lights and our cameras and our director, the latter telling everyone where to go and what to do like he’s oh, I don’t know, directing. Every so often, Chuck slaps the scarred wood surface of the bar to make his point, almost knocking over his mug of beer. Other times, he argues with people who aren’t there, a natural hazard for someone who views a 12-pack as part of their minimum daily requirements, emphasis on minimum.
The glam life, this movie making. Continue reading
Harry Hunsicker 