Title: Saturday Night With Duck-Shoot
Author: Kevin Smith
Eliza Dushku is that rare breed of cat that most men spend their whole lives searching for: a Guy's Girl, AKA: One of the Boys. She's East Coast as all hell, which is refreshing, as I've been in L.A. for almost a week and can use a healthy dose of reality.
A week in L.A. - that's all this column has been thus far. All eleven of these puppies span only seven days that happened over two months ago. It's fucking appalling that I'm getting paid for this drivel. And at the rate I'm telling the story, I'll probably spend the better part of my semi-adult life relating the tale of 'Jay and Silent Bob.'
Then again, what else is new? That's all I've been doing for the last seven fucking years anyway.
So there's Eliza, ordering a beer and sitting in the outdoor bar of the Four Seasons Hotel with me and Mosier, waxing vulgar about Buffy, Ben (Affleck), and broads (she just kissed one in a movie she recently finished). Her voice has that kind of sexy, raspy quality guys don't mind taking orders from - unless those guys are married - like me - and answer only to one master's voice, particularly when that voice is bellowing "Get off that goddamned internet and fuck me, Stupid!" Like right now.
Three And A Half Minutes Later My husbandly duties complete, I return to my story.
I christen Eliza 'Duck-Shoot', and we talk about her native country, Boston. She's friends with Casey Affleck, so she knows Ben - which enables us to swap Ben Affleck stories (my second favorite pastime to trading Jason Mewes stories). She tries to fill me in on Buffy lore and how she plays into the mythos, and it only further solidifies my previously-stated assessment that Buffy is a show I should've been into early on, as it's now too intricately told a tale for a late-comer like me to catch up with.
Duck-Shoot's a funny, earthy chick - wise beyond her nineteen years. The fact that she is nineteen causes a bit of alarm, as I've just bought this minor the beer she's quaffing. I suddenly feel like the old man heading into the liquor store who's asked by the carload of teens to buy them a case of Bud and some rolling papers. I insist that I will purchase for her no further brewskis. Twenty minutes later, she suckers Mosier into buying her another. (What can I say? Mosier's a sucker for the raspy voice.)
Right away I want to cast her, because she's funny, familiar, and very East Coast. This is a girl I would've hung out with in high school, back when I was getting dragged to keggers on Friday and Saturday nights. I can tell Mewes and Eliza are going to get along famously, as they both collect friends with weird nicknames. Mewes numbers amongst his comrades a 'Neeny-Balls', a 'Stink-Weed', a 'Mustard', and a 'Tic-Tooth Ruth'. Eliza regales us with tales of her own home-town chums who sport equally bizarre monikers. The fact that she spends two hours bullshitting with me and Mosier in her Bostonian "Wicked-super"-speak only intensifies my desire to get her into the flick.
When she can no longer tolerate the company of a pair of thirty year olds with nothing to do in Los Angeles on a Saturday night, she bids us adieu, leaving Mosier and me to get down to the nitty-gritty of figuring out whether or not we should shoot in L.A. or Austin. After comparing the budgets and discovering there's only a twenty thousand dollar difference between filming in either city, we opt for L.A., as it'll make it easier on most of the cast who live there to get to the set. Maybe it's the Catholic in me talking, but I don't want to make it hard on the cast to get to where we're filming this debacle, as I'm lucky most of them even agreed to sign on to our sinking ship in the first place.