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My last post concerned the astonishing revelation that Viva Video, my place of employment, might become a television series that would prominently feature my co-workers and me. That post concluded prior to the first days of production.

This is what followed.

As previously indicated, I felt the experience too important to document. On some infinitesimal level, it was a gamble: would I kick myself for having failed at a contemporaneous memoir, or revel in the simplicity of letting it happen, safe in the knowledge that I couldn't forget what might rank among the most exciting days of my life?

As of now, I feel I made the right choice.

The crew loaded in and began production design in Viva Video on February 19th. It was then I had my second or third substantive discussion with Beau, our art director. Assiduous yet remarkably easygoing, Beau possesses the enviable skill of entertaining interruptions to states of seemingly zen-like concentration for casual conversation with the affect of an infinitely abiding friend. If I ever annoyed him, I never knew it. The same could be said for Tim, the rangy, raven-haired, soft-spoken producer on the fringes of the action, a man for whom "welcoming" might be too forbidding a term. Like so many I would meet over the ensuing days, their kind, unassuming temperament made their presence seem astonishingly normal. We were all at work, but even with the crew's passionate enthusiasm eclipsing my own, the store felt the same, just slightly busier and far more convivial. This left me unprepared for the beautiful chaos that followed.

On 2/20, I arrived at my 3:00pm "call time", only to bear witness to that chaos at its most surreal. In truth, even a modest departure from daily routine can be perceived as chaos. Bad traffic. Bad weather. Bad news. Bad people. But this was a completely different program: my video store was closed to accommodate the production of a television show. I unlocked the door, only to discover the freshly spruced foyer choked with tables, computers, crates, and wires, but most alarmingly, a massive monolithic black partition obstructing my view of the front counter. I walked past the blockage to find yet another stopgap: a black curtain, fully covering the doorway into Viva's main artery. I peeled back the veil to uncover madness.

The new release wall and the space before it were bathed in the sort of darkness generally reserved for strip clubs. What little light remained cast a torpor of ominous dimness, a hot red illuminating the basic contours like the embers of a smoldering cigarette, creating shadows where none existed, swallowing up everything to the peak of the front desks. There reigned the stark contrast of a warm whiteness that extended only as far as it needed to, highlighting an area between the counters and between the shelves, elsewhere faintly intermingling with that ubiquitous crimson, giving playfully dramatic definition to the mundanities of my every day existence. Red was the mood, and white was the stage. My stage. Mine, Perci's, Dan's, and Miguel's. At least a dozen people resided in those murky details, seeing to the cameras, lights, microphones, props, and sets with tireless, efficient aplomb. Before any lasting impressions could be forged, I was sent for hair and makeup by Ali, a genuine conversationalist with an industrious work ethic, hard-hewn yet infinitely inviting. It was a pleasure to be seated in her chair. You never wanted to leave.

A break followed the filming of Miguel's segment, during which I chatted up Paul, one of the two directors. Ashen, lean, and vibrant in his pensiveness, Paul and I discussed, among other things, dialogue in films that sets a tone. It was fitting, then, that we were broaching topics of a more personal nature when I was called upon to perform. I stood in the white light between the counters, staring down the barrel of a dark, indifferent camera lens, belching out suppositions about House , a film I'd never seen. I was okay. Dan, having arrived recently, went up next.

We broke for dinner, after which I was on again. Like my previous segment, I was to deliver a series of recommendations, this time based on They Live . Seemed easy enough, until I started thinking about it. To my credit, I'd developed these recommendations months prior without having consulted them again. To everyone else's credit, none of them knew that. I'd had a few knocks of whiskey to loosen up, but soon found myself tighter than a Gordian knot; the swigs of booze blazed up my esophagus, setting my heart alight with the panic of a sublime flop sweat. Each sentence I started bore no clear exit strategy, emphasized by the flatulent failure of Tourettic profanity. After what seemed like an eternity, our directors managed to stir my bleeding body off the wire, and though they were successful, each additional word out of my mouth felt like an apology. There were no two ways about it: I was awful.

Dan mercifully replaced me, at which point I went into full-on self-flagellation mode. Separated from the rest of the crew by the black monolith, I perched my throbbing skull against the cold, dark glass of the back door and began my autobiographical vivisection. How many thousands of dollars were being spent in this production for me to show up inarticulate and flabby, eating up precious time on camera with mealy-mouthed bullshit? How dare I waste the effort of these professional filmmakers by arriving unprepared? I categorically refused to blame anything or anyone other than myself, and rightfully so. The stage was set for me, and I blew it. I felt I was insulting the presence and function of everyone else who'd shown up to do their jobs, and I hated myself for it. No doubt about it, this was torture. But I've always found a bit of self-torture to be a good thing, lest I allow it to veer into self-harm; if I'm lucky, I glean something useful before causing any irreparable damage, and in this case, the takeaway was remarkably clear: stop giving them what you think they want, and start being yourself.

It was a deceptively straightforward platitude, but it worked like gangbusters. Following Dan, and my psychological self-laceration, I would be doing essentially the same act, this time adjacent to the Sci-Fi/Fantasy section rather than behind the counter. I was looser, freer, and less concerned with minutiae: any time you can get the crew to crack up, you feel like a stand-up slaying an audience, and there is no better feeling.

With the night's shooting completed, I returned home to an established routine I'd hoped to distract myself from overthinking the shoot: having recently acquired a blu-ray set of the original Star Trek movies, I intended to watch one a night, imbibing a few drinks along the way before writing a lengthy Letterboxd review and going to bed. This had been relatively successful the previous night, so I queued up Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan and prepared for round two. By happenstance, I checked my phone and saw I had recently missed a call and voicemail from my mother. So late at night, I correctly intuited the reason: my grandfather had passed away.

I called her back immediately and confirmed this fact. After exchanging our shared grief, she made it clear that the forthcoming funeral arrangements would not interfere with the shoot. Hardly my most pressing concern. His passing accorded my viewing of The Wrath of Khan an additional resonance, after which I rendered my review and went to bed in anticipation of an earlier day.

As I drove to Viva on 2/21, I tried, and failed, to amp myself up. By the time I was behind the front counter, among the bustling crew, I occupied myself with menial, work-related tasks. I was not sad, or mournful, but my preoccupation with my grandfather's passing quickly became a fixation: no matter what I did, I simply could not stop thinking about him. He'd lived past 90, and although our relationship had been personified by the fractured family unit of which he seemed the indifferent patriarch, he'd made strides toward redemption in his autumn years, particularly with my mother. Having been put in charge of his estate, I did not envy her the task of executing his will, and worried about her rough road ahead. This consumed my thoughts throughout the early part of my day, from the drive in to being seated in the makeup chair to noticing that two executives from The Network had arrived to witness us in action. Just as we prepared to commence the day's shooting, I pulled our producer James aside.

I've mentioned James before, but never given him his due: he is, if nothing else, a man worthy of description. Tall and intense, with thick-rimmed glasses, a granite jaw, and a shock of pale, gravity-defying hair that served as a seemly barometer for his frenzied, ceaseless energy (alongside a booming, maniacal laugh), James embodies the properties of a charismatic huckster and an unflappable advocate for all things positive. It's a lethal combination; once plugged into his reactor, James could talk you into anything. In spite of this, my impending encounter felt like a betrayal of his exuberance. I simply told him that I didn't want to make a big deal about why I'd asked to speak with him privately, but if I sucked today, it would likely be as a result of my grandfather's passing. His commiseration was warm and enduring; he indicated he'd find a way to take our directors aside and apprise them of the situation. Once we returned to the set, he did so with casual elegance.

Fortunately for all of us, Miguel, Dan and I appeared as a trio in the ensuing shot, finding all three of us at our best. Our only task was to talk among ourselves about the movies we'd be showing, occasionally remembering to look into one of two cameras. Unbeknownst to the crew, they pulled the rip cord on three nerds design-built for the purpose. We broke for a costume change, then resumed. All told, the only differences from the norm were the cameras and the absence of customers. Having observed us in our natural element, one of the three arrivals from The Network smilingly admitted "I could never keep up with you guys."

This afforded me an opportunity to impress the values of Viva Video upon her: though the average video store clerk from '90s lore was a snide elitist, affecting an air of superiority while excoriating dissent, we respect anyone who loves film. I, for one, would never taunt someone confiding their favorite movie. Our opinions are immaterial so long as we share a love of the medium. Viva's recent fortunes lay on a bedrock of enthusiasm, passion, and knowledge, but I believe the heart of our appeal rests on an ability to receive customers without prejudice. We seek to not only embrace, but embolden film adoration in everyone who sets foot in our store. My declamation seemed well received; she and I spent long portions of the remaining two days talking movies.

Later in the day, while taking a break, I happened to be seated across from Kevin, our other director. Taller, broader, and decidedly more relaxed than Paul, his personality seamlessly ebbs and flows between engaging warmth and blasé wise-assery. He was an expert at taking the piss, the Brits might say, and having you love him for it. I can't recall where we started, but he ended up quietly and genuinely commiserating with me about my grandfather. The gesture was deeply appreciated. From my perspective, that dimension of this affair was a subtle thing. I did need to talk about it, but I did not want to turn the production into a pity party. I needed someone to know about my grief, but not everyone. Later, I learned that no one, not even Miguel, had heard about my grandfather's passing. In other words, my muted grief could not have found a better conduit than James, Kevin, and Paul.

Following our impromptu break, we did a few setups that would be built into the following day's shooting, most notably a mockup of the impending festivities in which Miguel and my co-worker Lisa would have an opportunity to talk shop on House . Dan departed, and Miguel was required later than I was, interviewing Susan, one of our more passionate, mercurial, and elder customers. At some point, several of my co-workers asked if I wanted to join them for Quizzo down the street. I did, and we won. First time ever. I returned to work victorious and another sheet to the wind, just in time to participate in the closure of the store for the night. I hung around with James to do some mild preparation for the party that would follow.

The "party" requires some explanation. The structure of our proposed show is predicated upon the archetype of late night movie hosts on television. In my view, the reason for the success of such programs throughout history is that they tapped into fandom: the hosts knew people dug what they had on offer. While we adore these scions of the cult classic, we endeavored to bring something new to the table. Viva Video is more than just a disc merchant populated by colorful characters, because unlike every other late night movie host who preceded us, we don't exist in a vacuum. We can't. We exist because of our customers, and that brand of symbiosis is endangered. It's why video stores have shuttered all over the world: it's easier to stay at home. What Viva Video lacks in camp and costumes, we make up for in honesty and humanity. Our store, and our customers, are what make us real. And when it all comes together for a screening party, we are inviting the world of fandom to sit down for a movie in our store. On a metaphorical level, we are not pandering to an audience, but asking them to watch with us. To join our community. To become a part of Viva Video. And we sought to embrace the terms of our appeal with the party on 2/22.

Heretofore in the production, I had forbidden any of my friends or family from visiting the set. The reason was simple: I had no idea what to expect, and I was terrified of any possible distraction. Though I am hardly encumbered by my work environment, Viva Video does encourage a certain rhythm, and there have been a few times in which my temperament has been cast asunder by visitors. By now, a different sort of rhythm had taken over: the environment and atmosphere of the production had become infectious. On the eve of the party, I hurriedly invited everyone I could on short notice, hoping to expose them to the palpable energy, joy, and industriousness overpowering my reservations.

While much of our crew had the benefit of working together previously, most of them were strangers to me on day one. But by day three, they were beginning to feel like old friends. Mike, whose tall, fit, infinitely laid back disposition threw me at first, became a favorite for exchanging dryly comic appraisals of on-set failures. And hugs. Drew, shorter and wiry with thick glasses and a beanie that seemed a permanent fixture of his scalp, was just as warm and conversational but twice as serious. Both were our bearded directors of photography, the former a natural Balbo, the latter concerted bushy. The third party to the facial hair party was another Kevin, our gaffer, whose mighty ginger thatch fails to conceal a handsome, quiet smile which coolly abides all types. A third Kevin, a lightly bearded chap under the gaff-electric wing, came off as reserved, nearly saturnine, but no less pleasant or agreeable. Jes, our willowy and demure props master, bore perpetually empathetic eyes, perfectly matched to her beguiling affect.

I admit it seems unlikely that such a group would feature no bad apples. In the end, I came away justifiably astonished: my personal meltdown accepted, I had absolutely zero negative experiences on set, and certainly nothing approaching distaste for any of the professionals inhabiting Viva. And on 2/22, the final day of our first leg, I brought in those closest to me to experience that which I could never describe.

My best friend Henderson arrived shortly after he'd finished work, adamant that his stay would be brief as he had no desire to be on camera. He was swiftly infected by the circus, donning a new shirt, being subsumed into a crowd scene, and staying hours longer than he intended. We enjoyed our free catered dinner and chatted away while the shooting continued in earnest; Miguel, as always, was given the heavy lifting in carrying the on-screen enthusiasm and could barely speak by the evening's conclusion. I was happy to remain a supporting player. Dan departed early to attend a film screening in the city, and would thus endure endless raillery for abandoning this once-in-a-lifetime event. One feature of this continuous party was a karaoke station at which all were encouraged to participate; mine was a form of humorous protest. Once freed from this responsibility, Henderson left and my parents arrived. After the passing of my grandfather only two days prior, I was overjoyed to bring them on set so they could bear witness to the pure jubilation of Viva Video's finest hour.

After all the madness that was the party, we settled in for the screening, prior to which I delivered an on-camera speech for at least the fourth time that day. Finally, after more than a decade being aware of its existence, I would see House . Midway through the movie, half the power cut; the lights were plugged into a timed circuit breaker, and a hasty intermission was called to fix the problem. Once fixed, the screening was resumed, after which we were asked to deliver impromptu reactions. I barely recall what I said, but definitely felt the film had been worth the wait. As the throes of production died down, I proffered sincere goodbyes and said what I felt, namely that I'd miss the action and the people when I returned to work the next day. It was an easy guess. Sunday saw me acting out the role of a lone steward tending an empty ballroom after the world's greatest party.

What followed was a lot waiting and talking. It was a familiar state, but having sampled the sweetness of production, I had become an addict. I wanted more, I wanted it now, and I wanted it forever. A few people on set, including Drew and Paul, jokingly indicated that Viva's staff would not be so receptive if the show got picked up and we had to endure them for three straight months. I begged to differ. The alternative is far less fun. And since we only had a week and a half until production resumed, we had plenty of time to ruminate on the alternatives. By the end of production, most of the crew commented that Viva Video ranked among their favorite gigs, an acknowledgement that included how inviting we'd been: every industry professional can relate tales of how quickly hosts for location work sour on the presence of cameras, equipment, crew, and chaos. We, on the other hand, adored it. And, perhaps more to the point, understood it. But that would come closer to the end than the middle. As it stood, there was still much to be said and done.

Our first episode, House , was largely predicated on Miguel's passion, but also in part structured around the notion that I hadn't seen it. Needless to say, this opportunity had presented itself; not only had I managed to avoid House despite a decade of knowing it was one of Miguel's favorites, but we'd also had months of pre-production in which I could've been brought up to speed. I ultimately decided it was better for me, Viva Video, and the show if we shot and broadcast my initial exposure. I hated the idea of watching House only weeks before production, then standing in front of the cameras with Miguel and Dan pretending it was some hallowed classic I'd always adored. At this point, our followup pilot, They Live , was lacking a comparable dynamic. It was discussed that two of our fellow employees, Paul and Steph, had not seen the film and would thus be terrific guinea pigs as I had been before. My only reticence lay in the fact that we had done two-male-clerks-pitching-another-clerk in the first episode, and thus three-male-clerks-pitching-two-other-clerks would lack freshness. It would render our initial gimmick repetitive and stale. Though we assumed we'd had two customers queued up for the screening - both would have been perfect - neither was available. Nobody panicked. I mean that. The plan was continuing as designed, but I felt They Live was missing a certain je ne sais quoi.

Enter Elyse.

Along with her parents, Elyse has been one of the more interesting Viva Video customers for years. We'd first rented to her at the age of four, when Miguel and I still worked for TLA Video. She was at once shy and exuberant, remarkably intelligent, and truly unique in temperament and appearance; I can think of no other customer who would engage in cosplay regardless of the occasion, and conversing with her was always a life-affirming reminder of the cinematic form as a fountain of youth, where theme, metaphor, plot, and character excite the electric reveries of adolescent wonder. And I sought to exploit her.

Just kidding. She's a terrific young adult, and several prior discussions with her parents yielded kernels that fueled my ultimate proposal: first, her mother indicated that Elyse had been self-regulating to a fault with her cinematic diet, and was nearing a point where she might want to investigate horror films. Naturally I was flush with ideas, but limited myself to a few suitable starting points. Then, irrespective, her mother called to indicate that Elyse was so fond of Viva that she'd like to work here. While I was flattered, her age remained a major hurdle; at 14, she would be legally ineligible to handle the adult product we carry. Without being specific, I insisted we'd be able to find some way to get her involved. The iron was hot. I struck.

There were some internal disagreements about Elyse's inclusion. Not sight-unseen, mind you. It was widely agreed that she was awesome and a qualified asset to the store, but the notion that They Live would provide her little in the way of cosplay opportunities and the fact that Miguel's interview with Susan had been an absolute grand-slam seemed to dim her potential impact. I held firm, arguing that the two pilots might be all we got, and that Elyse would bring an exciting new element to the production no matter her involvement. One way or another, it was agreed that we'd involve her, so long as her legal paperwork was completed in time. It came in under the deadline, much to my relief, and we had our new guinea pig.

With the plans now in place, phase two of the production was set to begin on 3/8. My best friend, previously reticent to stay on set for more than a few minutes, indicated that he'd be there for the entirety of both days. I was joined by my fiancée as well. The first day began with a comedian, Joe, doing his own interpretation of the protagonist from They Live . We'd become acquainted in the abortive first attempt to make Viva Video a show years back, where the lovably gruff and quick-witted punster portrayed a denizen of our adult room. Now, his rendition of this film's absurdly long fight scene would see him taking out his frustrations on a mock Redbox. I was not there to bear witness, but our crew informed me it was the funniest moment of the entire shoot. I believe it. The next gauntlet was a large, lengthy crowd scene where customers would leave the store to get ice cream next door, after which the stage was set for an interview between me and Elyse. And I had absolutely no idea what I was about to do.

To be fair, this was the mindset with which I entered production: it was both the reason for the cataclysmic failure of my initial They Live curations and my meteoric ascendance in the second rodeo. As Elyse and I sat down, dread flooded my bloodstream. What if I screwed up? What if she sensed I was screwing up and panicked as well? Worse, what if the interview somehow came off like I was leering at an adolescent? I took deep breaths as the crew finished the final lighting adjustments, then launched into it as though I was walking off a gangplank. I felt a rush of failure firing its way up my esophagus the moment I began to speak, but calmed down as I found a rhythm. She was nervous. I was nervous. But it worked. It's difficult to fake authenticity in front of a camera; this is, in part, why actors are paid handsomely, but I sensed that Elyse and I recreated the rapport that made me reach out to her family in the first place. We took a brief intermission, during which Paul whispered some direction in my ear. We continued, and it got better. When we finished, we shook hands. Moments later, she and her family were wrapping me up in a series of hugs. I was uncertain of what we got, but it felt good.

I can't remember the day's final setups, but I recall having difficulty sleeping that night. My brain had been contaminated by the shoot, and no amount of tossing and turning could sanitize it.

The penultimate day was 3/9, the final party. My first thought when I arrived at the shoot was that I wanted to take a moment to thank the crew for shepherding us through this adventure. Work continued. We tried to get every last item on our itinerary, but a few things fell by the wayside. We shot another party scene, where the camera followed Miguel as he interacted with various characters throughout our catalog room. Once finished, we broke for dinner one last time, at which point I was able to treat my brother and sister-in-law to a tour of our "set". As with all that had come before it, this was a delight. Finally, as we all settled in for the screening, I gave my final thanks to our crew, and we were underway yet again. The movie played like gangbusters, aided by two interruptions to keep the audience's energy up. Elyse enjoyed the experience, but came away underwhelmed. Steph too. I chalk that up as a win overall.

And all at once, the major shooting was over. I shared a drink with Kevin, Paul, and Kevin as we spent nearly an hour shooting the shit. I once again indicated that I would be crestfallen without them, having failed to realize that they'd be returning for pickups the next day. My mood improved drastically.

Without the staff, the crowds, and the pageantry, I once again returned to work on 3/10. No pressure, no moving parts, just work. And the final leg of production. It was glorious. I chatted up the crew, tried (and occasionally failed) to stay out of their way, and remained generally cooperative. Near the conclusion of my shift, the remaining crew indicated they'd be going out for a drink, ironically in the establishment at which James had first attempted to ingratiate Viva. Following the libations, the group splintered into a smaller subset, stopped into another bar, and finally availed themselves of Wawa for the evening's final repast. On my way home, I KO'd the first deer of my life, supposing that it must be karmic retribution for so many things going so well in such a short period of time.

Then, the waiting game commenced.

James, in his infinite enthusiasm and exuberance, was already deep into editing our material, which would be presented to The Network in various forms during the following months. Miguel got to watch each pilot in its entirety, starting with the House assembly. I got a chance to see They Live 's fine cut. Eventually, we'd all be treated to a robust suite of clips, known as "sizzle reels", which would prove - at least to us - that the idea had legs. They were exhibited to many a customer and friend, all of whom came away impressed. But the bulk of the work, at this stage, was above our pay grade; we'd tested our limits as video store clerks, fulfilling this role for six glorious days of inimitable spectacle, and now, in the interim, we would return to work.

So would the rest of the crew, for that matter, whose comparative daily grind I cannot imagine. Through James, I would occasionally hear that members of our erstwhile production crew had yet to experience anything as fulfilling as the Viva project in the months that followed. Some of them stop into the store on occasion, where we discuss status updates and reminisce about the shoot, clearly longing for more.

For the staff, the palpable excitement of a classy production would wane as normality settled in; only days later, we were once again informing the store's numerous visitors that yes, we are a video rental store, and yes, people do still rent videos. By this point, we'd grown accustomed to hearing their predictably insincere well-wishing, where passersby would bemoan the absence of brick-and-mortar rental boutiques, only to indicate their theoretical support prior to evaporating without spending a cent, and failing to see the fucking irony. Or, for at least the hundredth time, entertaining phone calls from people who see themselves as benefactors in their intentions to donate VHS tapes. We, on the other hand, like to think of ourselves as service providers and preservationists, not a dumpster for outdated analog media.

I digress. We embarked on an astonishing, improbable journey just a little over a year ago. Most attempts to pilot a television series are slow, laborious, painful, and die on the vine. At every stage of planning, pitching, and pre-production, where a simple 'no' could have sent us spiraling back down to earth, we ascended another step. We dreamed up a show, cemented a pitch deck, and solidified a budget. We planned one pilot, then two, which we shot in six days of hectic glory, during which everyone involved enjoyed their labors and made friends. We got out on time, on the money, and though the work was good, the edits were better.

As of this writing, we are still very much alive, patiently awaiting our deliverance. Whether it comes or not, you can be assured I'll have something to say about it.

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