Last night I finally hit my official burned out stage.
I worked horror nights Thursday and then Friday and then a ten and a half hour shift on Saturday. Sunday I was simply 'blah'. I am over it. My throat hurts. I ache. I am tired of the smell of fog juice. I am tired of the steady stream of drunks hobbling by. I want weekends again.
My sleep patterns have been weirdly disrupted as well. I will be wide awake for a couple of hours, and then a wave of sleepiness will hit me for an hour or two, and then I will be wide awake again. This is going on even on the nights I have off. I will go to sleep, then wake up in the middle of the night and wander around my house and smoke a cig, and then an hour or so later I'll fall asleep again, only to wake up cranky and groggy. I need to get my sleep pattern back to normal.
At universal they finally fired that dopey dude last Friday night. I do not know what happened... they wont give me the details, but he is gone. They replaced him with some extra scare actors who do a much more fun job. They actually jump out and spook the people, instead of standing there like and idiot and shaking their hand. It was much more amusing for me to watch. However, Sunday night I was burned to a cinder. I did not jump around and yell and laugh. I just sorta stood there listlessly and picked at my dolly. The drunks did not care. Also, it was freezing in the soundstage. It must have been 40 degrees in there. The tip of my nose was cold.
Everyone else in my cast is gearing up to have a big farewell. There will be lots of hugging and picture taking and various forms of calibration. I really do not want anything to do with it. The people I worked with this year were really a great bunch, nice people and enthusiastic about what they were doing; however for me this was simply a part time job. During breaks while the other (younger) cast members cavorted and chattered and played, I preferred to stay off in a corner with my book. So when it comes time to go I will give a few friendly handshakes, but nary a tear will be shed by me.
Saturday night I-4 scared the hell out of me. I was driving home in the pouring rain at 3 am while countless drunks whizzed past me as if the word 'hydroplane' was not in their vocabulary. My nerves were already frazzled. I ended up getting off as soon as I could and taking 17&92 home. It took a little longer but at least I was not worried that some liquored up idiot would suddenly come flying through my windshield.
My cat has an ear infection. Poor cat. The other day I noticed him shaking his head, on closer inspection he had some thick waxy stuff coming out of his ear. I could tell it was hurting him. It bothers me that a creature that depends on me was in pain. I am going to take him into the vet tomorrow morning. I worked out a deal with my mother where I can just drop him off and my mother will pick him up and then take him home and throw him over my fence. One of the advantages of an outdoor cat.
Only one more night... Halloween... and I will have a life again. Whore ray!
2026 Update
Twenty years ago, Ed was running on fumes and fog juice, and I am here to savor every wheeze.
Ah, 2006: the era when a man could be dead on his feet, smoke at three in the morning, and still white-knuckle his way down I-4 with nothing but a cigarette and a grudge. Twenty years later, burnout has a subscription model. You would not wander the house dazed; you would have four sleep apps arguing about your REM debt, a wearable telling you to breathe, and a phone full of people recording their own seasonal Halloween breakdowns for content. You would not rely on drunk drivers having a lucky night; you would summon a ride and let some stranger hydroplane for you. And you definitely would not have your mother throw a sick cat over the fence after the vet—modern cat care is a carrier, pet insurance, and a telehealth consult disguised as luxury. Fog juice got replaced by sponsored content, but the true horror remains: the seasonal haunted-house grind never ended, it just got gamified and delivered to your phone. You wanted weekends back, Ed. Now everybody wants their weekends back, and nobody knows what a weekend is.
“2006 Ed, if you hated horror nights enough to count down to Halloween and turn down all the farewell hugging, why did you keep dragging yourself back to the freezing soundstage—was it simply the paycheck, or did you secretly enjoy being the grumpy guy with a book while the younger cast cavorted?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2006 Ed: Well, Beelzebubba, I reckon it was a little of both, and I’m not too proud to admit it. The paycheck sure didn't hurt—part time scareacting pays better than a poke in the eye, and I've got cat meds and a mortgage that don't care about my feelings. But yeah, I also sort of enjoyed being the grumpy old guy in the corner with his book while the kids cavorted. It gave me a role to play, and I am nothing if not committed to a bit. The hugging and crying stuff just ain't me, though. I'd rather shake a few hands and head home to a cold beer and a cat that doesn't demand emotional vulnerability. That soundstage was freezing, but at least nobody asked me to be cheerful. One more night, then I get my weekends back. Whore ray indeed.
