OK, so I’ve been sick for what seems like 2 months now. Between the lack of sleep and the non-stop traveling, every time I start to get better I get on another plane and catch something else. The worst part is that the moment that I get on a plane I can usually spot the sickly douchebag coughing up his life that is ultimately going to make me sick. But today I suppose it’s me. I am the guy that is going to make some other poor soul sick. I am the sickly douchebag.
All I can think of when I’m on these planes (aside from my intense fear of death, flying, and silly jihad) is that scene in the movie OUTBREAK where they actually followed the disease out of one person’s mouth, through the air of the movie theater, and into someone else’s mouth. Fucking gross. The fact that I keep getting sick everytime I fly means that I’m sort of indirectly making out with a total stranger nearby me on the plane. I hope it’s at least a SHE and that she’s hot. But have you ever noticed that there’s never good looking people on planes? And if there are…they’re certainly not sitting next to you. They walk down the aisle looking right at the number above your head and you’re like “please god, please, let her be sitting next to me…” but no. She walks right by you and Muhammad the over weight un-showered coughing king sits down next to you and starts eating pickled eggs. And the worst part is that you never even see those hot people again. I swear they pass your seat and then exit the back of the plane. The pilots must be like “Alright, send the models walking down the aisles. Let’s get that guy’s hopes up in the middle seat of aisle 48. Anyone remember how to land?”
I’ve had some pretty awful experiences on planes…but I suppose one has never gone down into the ocean and I survived only to be eaten by sharks…so I haven’t had it THAT bad. (Yet.) But today I am about to embark on the longest flight of my flying career. Los Angeles to Barcelona. I leave at 5:50pm today and land at 5:45pm tomorrow. I lose a full day of my life. Does that mean that my birthday comes a day later next year or maybe it just doesn’t count? But thankfully I was introduced to a wonderful thing called Thera-Flu yesterday. Has anyone ever tried this? You just heat up some water, cast a magical white powder into a mug, and 20 minutes later…things just don’t seem so bad. In fact, I’m pretty confident that if I didn’t have to go get on another flying tin cesspool of infection today that the Thera-Flu may have actually had me all better by tomorrow. But no. I can’t even bring the required amount of water needed to create the Thera-Flu goodness because of Umar Mus’ab who I’m probably sitting next to. Christ, this next day is gonna suck.
Maybe I could be a spokesperson for Thera-Flu? “Hi, I’m Adam Green…when I’m sanding off a woman’s lower jaw with a belt sander or making two actors throw up in each other’s mouths in the dead of night…sometimes I can catch a cold. That’s why I look no further than Thera-Flu.”
So Spain here I come. And why do I do it? Why do I accept the offers to be flown all over the world with my film to these festivals and appearances? Well there’s two reasons. First of all because I’d be an asshole to say no or complain about it. (Hey, cut me some slack- I can bitch about the flying part all I want. I’m a stand-up for fuck’s sake. Air travel and dating is 75% of our material.) It’s a huge honor to go to all of these places and speak to audiences, tell my story, and answer questions. Second of all, the best part of this whole career is meeting the fans. It sounds cliche, but it really is true. You can get all the good reviews and industry suits knocking down your door- and still doubt them. But each real person who comes up to you with that look of excitement in their eyes just talking a mile a minute while excitedly gripping your hand…that makes all the bullshit in the Hollywood circus worth it. And I think anyone who ever takes that for granted has lost their soul. So yeah, this flight is gonna suck, I feel like I’m gonna die at any given moment , and my eyes feel like someone rubbed cancer in them…but I’m going to get to go hang out with people who are just as passionate about the movie I made as I am. How cool is that?
At these events, I’m constantly putting on more and more anti-bacterial hand stuff and fans often ask why I smell like a stripper. Though I’m a sitting duck on the plane- there’s at least something I can do about preventing getting sick from shaking hundreds of hands. Plus cucumber melon, juniper breeze, and cotton blossom make me happy. So what? You want to fight about it?
Which brings me to my last subject. My ass. Towards the end of summer my girlfriend and I decided we would not only join a new gym…but go the distance and do the whole personal trainer thing. I’m happy to say that even with all of this non-stop international travel and the 500 projects I have going on…I’ve been sticking with it. I gotta admit that I still think it’s weird to pay some guy to stand there and give me odd jobs. “Run up these stairs. Hold this and squat down. Push these heavy weights up and down. Row with this thing. Run back up those stairs.” But I’m sticking with it.
Needless to say- yesterday he nearly killed me and for whatever reason (maybe it was the squats, maybe it was the rowing) my ass hurts like you wouldn’t believe. I swear I can barely sit down. Between my constant hacking cough, my bloodshot sleepless eyes, weeks of unshaven-ness, and crippled ass…I kind of look like an elderly, stoned, AIDS victim these days. How the hell am I gonna sit on a plane for 15 plus hours? By the time I arrive in Barcelona, Juan Carlos is gonna walk up to me and say “Hola, Senior Green! It’s a pleasure to…hey, what’s wrong with your ass, man? And…why does it smell like a fucking strip joint in here?”
But here’s the best part…the screening of HATCHET in Barcelona is at 1:15am on Sunday morning. Let’s assume it ends by 3am. (Apparently the Spanish do not sleep.) That gives me one hour to answer questions, meet fans, and get back to the airport for another eternal flight back home to the USA. And when I land…I go straight to the red carpet of the CHAINSAW AWARDS. And when I say “straight to”…I mean like most likely having to change in the airport bathroom when I get off the plane.
So if you tune in to watch the awards ceremony on FUSE …and you see a guy who makes Tobin Bell from SAW look like a John Biestow infomercial…that’s me. I’ll be drinking Thera-Flu, dousing myself in my girlfriend’s Bath and Body Works products, and holding my ass in agony.
All in the name of horror.