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But none of it would prepare me for what would possibly be the worst work experience of my life. This is the story of how one bad Hollywood experience was just one too many.

It is 1989. My cousin Howie calls. He's a line producer with a keen radar for out-of-work production people, and he finds me at home wondering how I am going to pay last month's rent.

"Working?" he asks in his smug, self-satisfied way. "No," I quietly answer. "Great. I need someone to do extras casting. What do you say? It's right up your alley. Dark comedy. Great cast. Really left-field. It's this young, talented director, Adam Rifkin, and he wants interesting-looking extras. You'd be great at it."

"I don't know, Howie -- I've never done casting."

"Piece o' cake," he assures me. "Rob Lowe's in it. Judd Nelson and Jimmy Caan. I'll show you the ropes. You're gonna love it. I'm messengering the script over right now."

The script is called "The Dark Backward" and I am immediately repulsed by its infantile, misogynous drivel. The premise: In a bleak, not-too-distant future, a loser comic -- probably the worst stand-up comedian in the entire world -- grows a third arm out of the center of his back. This discomfiting abnormality yields him some notoriety, but as loser's luck would have it, his accordion-playing sidekick gets discovered by a sleazy talent scout and he's the one who gets to go to Hollywood to seek fame and fortune. I call Howie back and tell him I'm not really into it. But Howie's a producer and he talks the talk ...

Week 1

Howie sets me up in a wood-paneled production office in Culver City. He instructs me to take out ads in Variety and Billboard announcing an open casting call for "odd-looking people." I ask him what-all he means by "odd." He smiles condescendingly, tells me that Adam will explain later.

I share the office with a production coordinator who is Jimmy Buffet's sister and a frizzy-maned production accountant who flirts with anything that moves, including and especially the 19-year-old production assistant who surely rides his surfboard to work. During the relative calm of pre-production, Howie spends his time on the phone haggling with vendors about prices. He is especially pleased with himself when, one morning, he finds a place that sells the cheapest toilet paper in L.A. And then he gets it for even cheaper.

The production manager marches in and, with a trumpeted bellow, announces that the director is on his way up. When Adam enters the room, I mistake him for a P.A. because he is small and sickly looking with a jet-black ponytail, round silver glasses, stooped posture and skin the color of unbleached flour. Eager to begin my casting duties, I officiously grab a pad and pen and introduce myself to him. I ask him about the odd-looking people. What does he mean by "odd"? How many? What shapes and sizes? Ages? The production manager rushes over and tries to shoo me away. Adam stares down at his black Converse hi-tops and mumbles something about getting back to me later.

Later never comes. Days go by. I notice that Adam is spending an inordinate amount of time with Harley, a sexy, Harley-driving production designer. They huddle together, discussing scenic art and swing shifts while I stare at the veneer walls and watch the production accountant twirl her frosted curls as she flirts with a new P.A. after the old P.A. gets fired for eating too much trail mix off the craft-services table.

Movie hierarchies are the same from set to set. The actors barricade themselves in their trailers and when bored, fuck the cute P.A.s. The P.A.s hang out with the A.D.s because if they're lucky and/or fuck the least Draconian of the bunch, they might get promoted, so they too can bark orders at people until their ears bleed. The lowest scum on the production totem pole (in order of fungibility) are: 1) the crafts-service people, who are often approached with the same wary curiosity as temps because no one knows, or dares ask, why they don't have "real" jobs; 2) the poor stiffs who clean the honey wagons (aka the stinky trailer bathrooms); and 3) possibly the most shunned, but essentially indispensable pariah -- the extras casting coordinator.

Twice a day, Howie comes by and asks me about the status of the extras. I tell him there is no status. There are no extras. Adam is surrounded by so many layers of handlers and women and assistants, I can't get anywhere near him. The word out is that Adam is some kind of bébé auteur, a dark genius in dark clothes with a plethora of filmic knowledge that oozes from his pimply pores. In a town obsessed with youth, a 22-year-old director is a spin doctor's wet dream.

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