I Accept Your Presidency...

Yes, I accept the presidency. The Presidency of the newly-formed Dancing Actors of Burbank and Beyond. All rights reserved. Once those recently disbarred entertainment lawyers, now acting as our legal clerks complete the official Sacramento paperwork. 

We know that working in the shadows has been a tough gig. Thank you for your devoted endless hours campaigning on my behalf. The endless days. The dusk till dawn footwork. The in-and-out series of never-ending court appearances that helped bring me this honor.

I know I'll be busy promoting us both as dancers, and as actors, but my door will always be open for my constituency and any questions that may come to mind. 24/7. As always. 

Read that: My tent flap will always be open. (It might have something to do with living under the 5 Freeway viaduct in that Army surplus tent) next to the van, down by the river. Let me reiterate: My Flap will always be open. Come one. Come all. 

Actors. Non-Actors. Dancers. Non-Dancers. Homeowners. Homeless. 

Speaking of the homeless. Would the motley crew of malcontents that keep texting me that we are related, please bother somebody else.

OK, I knew you guys in the trailer park and we partied hard, and one of your sisters and I spent that unbridled heavy-breathing weekend in Yosemite but that was months...okay, weeks, okay, days ago. That doesn't mean we're engaged. I have my own life to live now. Writing comedy. Uber. Dancing. Thanks for your understanding. 

By the way, that family heirloom photo album you mailed me was much appreciated. That picture of our neighbor Jeffrey Dahmer helping me blow out the candles at my 4th birthday party brought tears to my eyes. Growing up in Wisconsin was beyond awesome. Jeff showed me my first dance steps and I like to think, helped me pave the way to this honor of becoming President. He was a great dancer with some badass moves and gave some back-yard barbeques to die for. Sure miss those days. Good times.

I'll be in touch with the Dancing Actors details as to future meetings, locations, and any updates that you need to know. 

Be Safe.

But, enough about me...

It's not a pretty sight...

It's not a pretty sight. I'm sitting in my birthday suit. Well almost. I'm wearing those Speedos. The one with the faded Union Jack flag. Mick Jagger probably wore these decades before I did. How they ended up in a thrift store in Hollyweird is anyone's guess. Another L.A. Heat Wave. Another Labor Day long weekend. Another day to dodge the pandemic bullet.

Dodging the bullet in L.A. What else is new? Slumlords. Grand Jury Subpoenas. I've dodged them all. In this heat, I'm doing what I gotta do with my new best friend. We're snuggling up real close.

Wish I could say my new best friend is that lady I met in Tango class in South Pasadena. My new best friend coughs and hacks like a senior citizen at 5am. My new best friend is that R2-D2 sized AC floor unit I bought off Craigs List for sixty bucks and change way back when. Back when Hitler was painting houses. It's still pumping out those BTUs. Still cool. Still Miles Davis cool. So far, so good. 

My AC unit and I are getting closer each time the temperature rises. I'm hydrating as well. I'm surviving and actually thriving, primarily on light catering. Bud Light. After a cold brewski or two, I start to forget all about the heat. I do have a Plan B. 

It's down the street next to the 24/7 laundromat. It's that 'Circus' liquor store and my buddy, Jake, a disbarred entertainment lawyer works there most nights. If my AC gives up the ghost during this heatwave, Plan B will go into effect.

My Plan B could stand for Brewski. Jake will pretend I'm a customer and let me walk through the icy cold beer locker. Domestic. Imports. Heineken. Fat Tires. Brewski heaven. We did this caper last summer and the owner, that country club guy, never knew the difference. 

Nothing planned for Labor Day. Not really. Keeping cool. Hand washing my cleanest pair of dirty jeans. Maybe hand-washing my Speedos.  Maybe buy some new masks. 

But, enough about me...

Another Hollywood Player Has Passed...

My heart is broken. Hearts across Los Angeles are broken. Hearts across Hollywood will never be the same.

Life will never be the same I'm sorry to say. When you've worked with someone special for a number of years on a number of shows it's tough to know you'll never see them again.

We were first introduced on my first feature movie "Dead Women in Lingerie." Broadway's Jerry Orbach, the father from Dirty Dancing was the star. I played an LAPD rookie, dressed in Hill Street Blues, standing by the dumpster. It was my first gig as Background, aka an Extra. At this time of industry-wide grieving, please forgive me, but I carried that movie.

Inches away from the dumpster, a new friend was waiting to enrich my life. Thank you, movie gods. Little did I know that many shoots and many missed Oscar nominations in the future, my new friend would be dead. As dead as my in-minus-numbers ancient SAT score. As dead as last week's 400th unrequited text to Jennifer Lawrence, pledging my future love and devotion. As dead as Julius Caesar. 

Now, passed, I'll always remember the good times. We were a team. On more sets than you've had hot lunches. Seabiscuit. The Grifters.Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. 24. Grey's Anatomy. Mad Men. Scandal. Jersey Boys. Bosch. Curb Your Enthusiasm. Indiana Jones-Crystal Skull. Vice. Sharknado. The heartbreaking list goes on and on. 

The virus caused the death of my near and dear lifelong movie-loving friend: Craft Service. 

'Crafty' as she was known was most generous. Sometimes in your face. But always there. Always there. Flaunting her womanly wares for Cast & Crew. Hot coffee. LAPD-style 4am Call Time donuts. You name it. Cheese sandwiches with tomato soup on those winter all-nighters in Downtown LA with the team from Snow Business, making it look like Christmas in Chi-Town.

We all have good days. We all have bad days. But she always wore a smile. Always there for all of us: Directors. Producers. DP's. Actors. Wardrobe. Crew. Hair. Make-Up. Background. Teamsters.      The Whole Enchilada. 

I heard through the grapevine that the spirit of Crafty is slowing returning. Returning as those most-welcome Call Sheet emails have begun arriving again, as the virus slowly but surely, heads South.

As Crafty's spirit reinvents herself, in this LA LA Land of reinvention, I'm stopping for 4am Java at Starbuck's. Stashing a few Cliff power bars in the pockets of the costumes and business suits I wear in front of the cameras.

Wardrobe. Hair. Make-up. Thanks for making me look good. Look after yourself. Mask. Social Distance. Washing hands. I'll join you. 

But, enough about me...

 

I'm sick. I mean really sick...

I'm sick. More than sick. Sick of it all.  No, not the virus. Not the mask-wearing.  I'm sick to death...of carrying this town. 

Why do I have to answer every email? Every text? I'm starting on my 5th book. 

Now people are asking me to teach writing. Get a life, people. 

I'm carrying this town and waiting. Waiting on two of my speaking line roles to wiggle out of post-production and get to the big screen. Talk about development hell. Thanks to that freaking virus, I'm in post-production hell. 

Can't wait. Can't wait till they see me on the Big Screen. Ex-professors. Ex-wardens. Ex-parole officers. Ex-1st ADs. Ex-Lovers and other strangers.

I pray to God every day. I know she's listening. I ask for her guidance. Help me cope. Help me cope with the Cretins in Hollywood.  Divine Ma'am, Why do I have to carry this town?

I'm sorry. I 'm sorry. 

Sorry that my good looks (a debatable proposition) questionable talents both on and off the dance floor and my never-say-die hustle have catapulted me to fame and most likely shame, as a Hollywood icon. 

Okay, maybe being a Hollywood background movie extra ain't your cup of Green Tea. Still, it's almost a living. 

Fellow actors,  disgruntled directors, and recently disbarred entertainment lawyers, I'm still walking tall and an occasional muffled communication from a small, disgustingly oily but loyal fan base keeps me going (usually from within prison walls on stolen devices)and is enough to keep me living the dream.

And back to auditioning, once this virus thing is dead and buried. Whatever.

A lot of people out there are jealous of my performances. 

I've worked with the Best: Cruise. Walken. Pitt. Clooney.

So have they. Me. How long do I have to carry this town? 

But, enough about me...

There's not much time left...

There's not much time left. Not much time left to do what I gotta do.  What I gotta do, is what I shoulda done, way back when. Woulda. Coulda. Shouda. Time to man up. May God help me. I know she'll be there for me. It's time. Time for my...plastic surgery.

The virus crisis is on. I know that's important. But this is more important. This is my career. This is Hollywood. This is my life. This is my face. My face is my fortune. 

I have fans. They buy tickets. The little people. Fans. Not those dwarfs that live down the street. My fans. I don't want to disappoint either one of them. Enuff said. A couple of inches. A couple of pounds. A little Nick. A little Tuck. I owe it to myself. Forgive my candor. I owe it to the world. 

I've gone the extra mile here in the City of Actors & Angels. I've worked in the mud and rain on War of the Worlds. I've danced in a Tuxedo for 17 hours going into Golden Time on Atlas Shrugged at the Biltmore Hotel. I've worked Non-Union. Some would call Non-Human.

I was used. I was abused. Even with a SAG card, times were tough and getting tougher. Acting is no cake-walk. Lately, I've been doing more acting out, than acting. But, now it's time to shine.

Now it's time to go under the knife. Wish me well. I'll Uber over to that private doctor in Chinatown. He doesn't speak the King's English, but I heard he's good with a knife. Disbarred by Sacramento, but nobody's perfect. Hopefully, I'll see you on the other side. A new face; a new career. But, enough about me...