Riding Off into the Sunset (Strip)

So, the second-to-last nail has been pounded into the coffin of the NBC series "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip," with it going on hiatus for the unforeseeable future. The only step left untaken is network cancellation.

I was thinking about writing a little blog about the show and, I'm afraid, that by the time I post it, the show will be totally gone. But my buddy tyranist met me for lunch, and he wanted to talk about the show too. He and I have been watching the show together since the second episode, as sort of a fun tradition and excuse to get together every week. Today, he rhetorically asked why people hate the show, and I couldn't answer him. I don't know, exactly, but I know why I loved it, and thought I'd talk about that here and perhaps guess as to why it failed.

When the show first premiered, it got fantastic ratings (and why not? The pilot was some of the most compelling television I'd ever seen). But it was all downhill from there.

This last Monday, it got something like a 4.18 rating, which is what your average "Firefly" did in 2002 (and that, besides being an even better show, was MUCH more screwed over by its network than Aaron Sorkin could ever insist happened with "Studio 60"). There has been talk about giving the show the axe for months, and "Studio 60" must have had at least one champion that has kept it going this long (since the negative talk started up the minute the ratings dropped in the second episode). I, and especially tyranist, would love the show to continue.


It's a weekly Drama about a thinly-disguised weekly comedy sketch show on a thinly-disguised national network and the crazy stuff that goes on behind the scenes, as well as some of the politics and headaches that come with running a show (and a network) like that. Created by Aaron Sorkin and Tommy Schlamme, who gave us "The West Wing," it stars (I initially typed "starred," but that's just being negative) Matthew Perry, Bradley Whitford, Amanda Peet, Sarah Paulsen, Steven Weber, D.L. Hughley, and Timothy Busfield.*

On the same night, NBC's got a monster hit in "Heroes," a great multi-character superhero Drama that has actually been getting better as it goes along, but "Studio 60" hasn't been holding its lead in (in fact, it's dropping it like a baked potato wrap with a human fetus in it). Perhaps that's because "Heroes" appeals to one demographic and "Studio 60" appeals to another, or maybe there's some other reason for the dropoff. Besides bad ratings, the show seems to have created more enemies than a Republican agnostic running an abortion clinic, who also happens to vocally hate "American Idol."

There's a lot of good, even great, things to say about the show.

I love "Saturday Night Live." When I was with the Marines, I spent roughly one-third of my conscious life talking about that program. I am absolutely fascinated about how SNL is (and was) made, and "Studio 60" is the closest we've gotten (though I heartily recommend the book "Live From New York," an amusing and informative novel-sized collection of SNL cast and crew memories). It seems to be a pretty accurate glimpse at what it might be like to work in that kind of medium, and that kind of environment, with those kind of people. Minus 95% of the dull aspects of every job.

Matthew Perry, one of the most talented and comically-gifted actors of this generation, was allowed to shine on his own, and came across much more able than his other post-"Friends" castmates, managing to be realistic and lovable, in spite of being on the wrong side of virtually every argument.

It had that great advantage TV has over the movies in that there is time to set up long story arcs, drop threads to be picked up in the future, space to show us each character, hand them something to do, give them room to grow, places to go, and time to make us love them. "Studio 60" made Amanda Peet actually likable (something no other film or show has accomplished).

Every hour was a compelling look at what the guys at the top went through to make art. We saw frustration and hurdles, arguments and concessions, studio interference, ratings ups and downs, problems with budget and sponsors, writer's block, drugs and harassment and discrimination, pride and disappointment, lightness and despair, and lots of different kinds of relationships (of course). Most of the time, it was shown to us with cleverness, a quick pace, humour, and brilliant dialogue.

The show did have a few negatives it struggled with, however.

I will admit that "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip" was an overlong, awkward, and hard-to-remember title. But NBC tried to nip that by calling it simply "Studio 60" almost from the get-go.

NBC has been at the bottom of the ratings pile for the last couple of years, not just in third-place anymore, but often coming in below Fox (which used to be impossible). It's hard to create a hit when nobody's watching. And "Studio 60" was on Monday nights, opposite "CSI: Miami," which I have never watched, but I imagine has the same devoted following the fifteen other CSIs have. Not good.

Another thing the show had going against it was that NBC, in one of these crazy dueling-volcanoes/-magicians/-bodyswitchers/-asteroids/-Robin Hoods/-alien invasions/-Columbus occurrences, produced two different series about fictional sketch comedy shows this season. The other one was a half-hour sitcom called "30 Rock" (a reference to 30 Rockefeller Center, where "Saturday Night Live" is produced), this one created by ex-SNLer Tina Fey and starring Alec Baldwin, Fey, and Tracy Morgan. Comparisons were inevitable, and after that first hit "Studio 60" episode, pretty much everyone seemed to side with "30 Rock." I'm not here to bash that show (which I don't find unwatchable, but certainly not great), but many think both are Comedies, a lot of people appear to think that they are both trying to accomplish the same thing, and literally everybody thinks you can't love one and love the other.

Another downside to "Studio 60" is that it is smart. Smart is like garlic and a crucifix to your average Reality TV vampire. Maybe I don't even need to go into that.

I do feel that the show hasn't been as good the last few episodes, but even "Battlestar Galactica" has put out a stinker or two, a criticism "Studio 60" hasn't earned yet.

In writing this this week, I was going to go online and see what your average Joe had to say about the show (from message boards and such). But then I decided I just didn't care. I know that I liked it, and my friend liked it, and I heard enough criticism from professionals to get the gist of it.

A lot of people complained that the show-within-the-show was not funny. Yeah, that may be a valid complaint, but how often did we actually see the live show? Maybe one minute out of each episode (or two if you count the musical guest)? We saw snippets, enough to show that they actually had sketches and recurring characters. But even if those moments were as bad as people say they were, "Studio 60" was laugh-out-loud funny pretty much every episode, just due to character and dialogue. And what's more, "Studio 60" wasn't a comedy, it was a drama, and that drama was often just as compelling as any medical, courtroom, or procedural series.

One of the things that has most surprised me about the critical reception to "Studio 60" is that it has been so reviled. While "30 Rock"'s detractors just shrug it off as inconsequential silliness (which is also my opinion), "Studio 60" seems to engender outrage not seen since the ABC show about the priest with . . . god forbid . . . real human weaknesses (or NBC's own "Book of Daniel," which probably offended people for the same reasons, though it's sometimes hard to tell). People are angered by the gravity and self-importance of "Studio 60," both the real show and the fake show-within-the-show. How dare they make it look like it takes work, talent, and inspiration to put on a live TV sketch show? How DARE they show people who are passionate about their work?

But come on. Have you ever tried to create something? Something that entertains? Something involving a group of people? It takes sweat, collaboration, talent, compromise, heart, teamwork, dedication, and inspiration. "Studio 60" was trying to show that, and the feeling of satisfaction you get when it works out right. Dude, even a turd like "Mad TV" takes a tremendous amount of work to get on the air.

There are a lot of shows that have been canceled before their time (I could write an essay about "Enterprise," "The Dana Carvey Show," "Space: Above and Beyond," "Freaks and Geeks," "Police Squad!", "Star Trek," "The Flash," "The Others," "Adventures of Brisco County Junior," and the most egregious example, the aforementioned "Firefly"), and "Studio 60" won't be the last. The bottom line is, television is a money-making enterprise. While some shows go on and on, regardless of quality ("The Simpsons," "e.r.," "Crossing Jordan," "Survivor," etc.), it's because they make money for their producers and networks. And, to a lesser extent, it's political too. But I'm not privy to any insider information, so I can't even guess at all those goings-on.**

It's taken me a while to type this up (and I'm still not entirely satisfied with it), and during that time, there's talk that the final handful of episodes might not even air (but just be dumped onto the internet, which is better than nothing, but still). Losing a show is hard, and it's too bad that so much has conspired to kill it, but I have really enjoyed watching "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip" with my friend.

And that's something.

Rish "You Can't Take the Sky From Me" Outfield


*Which reminds me of a stupid anecdote. Last year, I was working on the series "Without A Trace" (with Anthony LaPaglia), and Timothy Busfield was directing it. I had been paired off with another extra, a hard-partying Hispanic dude, and we joked around for most of the time, walking the halls pretending we were FBI men (which isn't totally absurd, since we were supposed to be FBI men). We saw Timothy and I mentioned the fact that Busfield had played a character on REVENGE OF THE NERDS. My new friend didn't believe me, either because Busfield had aged so much, or because this dude just didn't remember him. "I swear," I said, "He played Wormser." "No way, dude," he said, though he may actually have said "ese," or "vato," or "pedaso de la mierda de mil arañas," I don't really know), and I said, "I'll prove it." We walked up to T.B. and I said, "Mister Busfield, you played Wormser on REVENGE OF THE NERDS, didn't you?" He looked at me and looked at my friend and seemed to get really, really angry. "No!" he shouted, with (feigned) frustration. "I played POINDEXTER!" Then he smiled and we laughed and he went about his business.Thanks for letting me share.

**Anecdote Number Two: I was on the set of the Fox non-starter "Kitchen Confidential" the day that show was cancelled. I could see how deflated the people involved were, how the crew looked around and at each other and realized that their little group would be split up a week later, and they'd be going their separate ways. The actors seemed to take it the hardest (I saw its star, Bradley Cooper, unhappily passing the news to someone--hopefully not just his bookie or dealer--on his cellphone), and there was a break, hard to say if it was an hour or three, where everything shut down and people lamented their fate. I never watched that show, so I can't tell you if it was crap or not, but there were people who spent eight to fifteen hours of each day working to bring it to the screen. And that was all over as soon as they wrapped that episode.

What's In A Name?

I don't really know if anyone reads these blogs. My guess is that, now that I don't write about being an Extra anymore, the only people who read it will be those who accidentally came across it, and that's fine. If you have accidentally come across my blog, can I ask you for a little help?

I've been a writer since before you were born (well, not tyranist, if he's reading, but everybody else), and a lot of elements keep me from doing the work I would like to get done. Every once in a while, I get stumped on character names (I'm not alone; I read yesterday that Joss Whedon sometimes so agonizes over names that he can't continue writing until he gets them down).

So, I'd like you readers to suggest me some. I need names for the following:

1. A ten year old girl, pretty, but sad.
2. An evil grandmother from the Bible Belt.
3. A wizard with a scary-sounding name.
4. A handsome, football-playing teenage boy.
5. A skinny, bookworm teen with a big heart.
6. A beautiful seventeen year old girl from England.
7. The football player's expendable girlfriend.
8. A gas station attendant.
9. A nice elderly neighbor lady.
10. An arrogant fast food manager.
11. A fat girl, works at the fast food joint.
12. A county sheriff.

If I actually get some suggestions (use the comments section), I will be impressed. Surprised, but impressed.

Thanks,

Rish

Feb. 12, 2007

So, I nearly had an accident this morning. It was one of those semi-miraculous things that happens, where if there had been cars around, I probably would've wrecked my car or someone else's, but due to unexplainable providence, the roads were empty, and I hit no one.

Basically, I felt my car fishtailing a little bit almost from the get-go, due to it having rained a lot last night, and then froze in the morning. Aware of the danger, I was going slow, but as I descended a hill (taking a route I had never gone before to get to work), I felt the back of the car start to slip, and quick as can be, I did a complete 180, turning around and into the opposing lane, but facing back the way I'd come. It's possible that I'd have hit a car head on, been rear ended, or both, had there been others driving.

There were other accidents I passed on the way to work (the entire main road was closed off for a block and northbound traffic actually had to cut through a gas station parking lot), but at least mine was avoided, and I remain okay . . . or more importantly, my car is okay. I ought to get new back tires, though. I wonder if this would've happened had they not been bald.

I have a tendency to whimper, "Why me, why is it always me? Woe, woe, woe" a lot. But this is an occasion where I've gotta think, "Hey, I came out pretty darn well on this one."

Woe anyway.

From the Eternal Web He Rises

February 15th, 2007

So, I've been thinking (a dangerous pastime, I know), and it may be time to resurrect this blog.

There were various reasons why it died, but chief among them was that I no longer did Extra work, and hence had nothing noteworthy to share with total strangers. There were other reasons, yes, and I'll admit that events conspired to make me feel ashamed of my blog (and in connection to that, ashamed of myself).

But hey, loser though it made me look, I told the truth in my blog, and it was an accurate peek into my life and lifeview. Now that time has passed, I'm proud of my blog, and I've almost gotten to the point where I'm glad I did it.

When I initially started it, I was working at a desk job, with at least an hour free every day, and the purpose was just to mention what my thoughts were and to rant from time to time. I also thought it would be nice to use the blog to post essays that weren't appropriate for my horror film website (http://www.xmission.com/~tyranist/horror). Then came the extras thing and I thought I finally had something interesting to blog about.

So, hey, now we revert to the old format. If I ever do movie production work again, it could switch back, but that don't look likely right now.

I'm not sure if this is the place for anti-religious rants, for referring to Anna Nicole Smith a whore who is RIGHTFULLY dead, or for calling my friends a douchebag. I'll try to keep it clean, keep it semi-inoffensive, and keep it as nonspecific as possible.

I might put cartoons on here too, if I ever figure out how to post them (and now that they're years out of date, would I even want to? I mean, how timely will jokes about LAND OF THE DEAD seem in 2007?). And I was thinking it might be fun to write an online story, in installments, just to see if I could do it. And that would belong here too (that way, strangers can post my typos, point out logic flaws, elucidate about my lack of writing talent, and complain about the plotpoint of having a child molester save the world).



Or, I could just lose interest and stop writing.

Again.

Rish Blogspot Outfield

Musings (Talk About Lame)

"You said you'd be comin' back this way again, baby.
Baby, baby, baby, baby, oh baby."

You ever have an unlikely friend, or gain a friend under laughable circumstances?

I recently got the special edition of TOMMY BOY on DVD, and started writing this the night I watched it. There's one moment in that flick that was played on the first day of my Introduction To Film class. It's the scene where Chris Farley and David Spade are driving along and the song Superstar by The Carpenters comes on.

FARLEY: Talk about lame.

SPADE: Tell me about it.

FARLEY: You wanna change it?

SPADE: I'm okay with it if you are.

Then suddenly, both are belting out the song with all their might, weeping at the power of this sappy, stupid song.*

Our professor, having talked to us about the great hundred-year legacy of film and its ability to teach, enlighten, shock, and stir us, had just played a clip from TOMMY BOY. Amid the hisses of the intellectuals, and the boos of the mature, not to mention the angry whispers of the religious zealots, our teacher explained the clip.

"People are different," he said. "They have different upbringings, different tastes, different mentalities and senses of humour. But sometimes through art, people can be brought together. Bridges . . . seemingly uncrossable chasms . . . can be crossed and people can look at another--a roommate, a fellow student, a teacher, even a stranger--and see themselves there. When art is good, it transcends racial, age, cultural, and religious boundries, and can touch us in the same way, reducing us from all the artificial isolations we have built up, and bringing us to the same level as human beings. You may find that someone who has nothing in common with you, not even nationality or gender, feels exactly the same about a song, book, or movie that you do. And when you discover that, you have found a brother* you didn't know you had. Someone who is like yourself. Someone who helps you understand yourself. And the world becomes a smaller place. A better place."

I didn't necessarily like the professor of my Intro To Film class. He hated STAR WARS with a burning passion, and ripped on it (and indeed, many of my favourite films) nearly every lecture. He was Canadian and adored Documentary film.

But I love that teacher now. And I wish I had been a better student.

In saying goodbye to Los Angeles, I have to think about how certain items of pop culture have brought me together with some of my closest friends (my pal Dennis and I became lifelong cronies after finding out we both loved RETURN OF THE JEDI***; my buddy Matthew and I realised we had a soul in common when he saw me at a Stan Lee signing promoting SPIDER-MAN; I have had countless conversations with people who became my friends because I liked "Star Trek" or "E.R." or Transformers or Stephen King or Sting or "Saturday Night Live;" and my good friend Jeff never tires of telling how he saw me wearing a Wolverine t-shirt when I was sixteen years old and decided I was somebody he just HAD to talk to).

My website partner tyranist and I have remained dubiously close over the last decade due, in part, to our love of horror movies, that most reviled of movie genres. Our website, the Horror Film Compendium, though not flashy and far from professionally done, has kept us in contact with each other, and with many fans who are passionate about Horror. While many friends have come and gone, never to return, I talk to tyranist (almost without fail) every single day.

Stupider things have brought people together, I guess. Though that makes me question if they're still stupid things.

"The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what we share with someone else when we're uncool."

Those words, from Cameron Crowe's ALMOST FAMOUS, really struck me when I first heard them. And they continue to strike me today. It's hard to connect--really connect--with another person, and maybe the people who are constantly winning, constantly rushing to effortlessly hurtle the next obstacle, constantly in the lead, constantly screwing, etc. don't get to make connections like that. I guess I'm lucky, in a way.

I'm not cool, folks. I don't know that I've ever been cool. I have made far more wrong decisions than right ones, more bad decisions than good, and failed many more times than succeeded. My life can be hard, and often empty.

But sharing moments of connection with other people, has made it more fufilling. I don't consider myself important, but THAT'S important. Friendship is a powerful, vital thing, in the life of a human being, and I'm grateful for the little things that planted the seed of friendship for me.

And maybe they AREN'T little things.

Rish "Cogito Ergo Sum" Outfield

*It's such a good scene that when it was ripped off in HAROLD & KUMAR GO TO WHITE CASTLE, it was still funny.

**Or a sister, though he didn't feel it necessary to compromise his lecture in the spirit of Political Correctness.

***Which reminds me, I once had a little statuette of a TIE Fighter hanging from my rear-view mirror, and one day, I had parked my car at Barnes & Noble Booksellers. When I came out, there was a note on my windshield. I thought, Oh no, not again, but it turned out not to be a ticket, but a note from a stranger. "I saw the TIE Fighter on your dashboard. I think that's really cool. May the Force be with you." Now, while that will never measure up to a hot chick leaving butt-prints on my hood, it made me smile and feel like the world was a little less empty than before.

So, You Want To Be An Extra?

Recently I got an email from a lady who wanted to try her hand at extra work. She asked me how to go about it and how the union worked. I thought I’d pass the information along, just in case somebody out there wanted to take up where I left off, filling the monstrous void I left behind.

Several years ago, there was a union for just extras, called the Screen Extras Guild. It apparently treated its members really well, and an extra who belonged to it could make a living if he/she worked regularly.

But a few years back, that union was absorbed by SAG, the Screen Actors Guild that all your favourite stars belong to. All the SEG members doing Extra work at the time were given the opportunity to join SAG. If you already meet SAG’s requirements from the work you did in the past, you may be able to forgo the hoops the rest of us jump through and simply pay the fee to join (currently around $1495.00).

Currently, there are three ways you can work: Union SAG, Union AFTRA, and Non-Union. If you’re not SAG eligible, then you’re back at square one with the rest of us. The crazy Chutes & Ladders game we have to play is to start out working Non-Union and try and become eligible to join SAG.

You do this by accumulating three SAG vouchers and then going down to the Guild, filling out the forms, and paying your fifteen hundred dollars. But herein lies the rub: how do you get your three union vouchers? Well, any number of ways, all involving being in the right place at the right time. You could replace a union extra at the last minute, or impress a director or A.D. and be given an upgrade, you could switch vouchers with a union guy, you could ask for a voucher and have pity taken upon you, you could be called to do reshoots and demand union pay for it, you could receive a SAG voucher by mistake, or the most common way, you could make friends with someone in a production and have them give you one, two, or all three.

It's irritating, but practically everybody gets SAG vouchers if they work at it long enough. In fact, some folks get upgrades and even lines of dialogue (which pays one heckuva a lot more than real work, let alone extra work). And, as I've said before, if you're pretty, you'll succeed quickly. And what are you doing in Little Rock anyway, with a face like yours?

You don't have to be beautiful to be an extra, though. If you have an unusual look, or are very tall or very thin or very ugly or are albino or are twenty-three but look thirteen, then you will probably get lots of work. Long hair, short hair, dark skin, light skin, beardless or facially hairy, there are casting agents looking for your look. The people who get the most work, in my opinion, are average-looking young adults that can pass for teenagers (since, as Wes Craven pointed out, there are no real teenagers in Hollywood).

I’d be the last to tell someone not to do extra work. I’ve been making my living that way for the past few months and have enjoyed it a great deal. Sure, sometimes the conditions aren't perfect, and often I've gotten up earlier than I would've preferred, and yes, you'll find pretentious, irritating and/or evil people out there, but that sort of stuff happens in most jobs, and you may make friends, obtain a cool story or two, and get to shake Dick Van Dyke's hand in this business. I'd probably do it indefinitely if I hadn’t made mistakes and enemies in the past and burned some bridges. Oh, and I plan to eat in the summer too, otherwise I’d still be doing it.

But if you know what you’re in for and want to go ahead, I’d advise you to get a calling service. They’ll book you on jobs (for a fee that usually amounts to one or two days of work) so you don’t have to do it yourself, and have contacts the average person doesn’t, to get you commercials and the like. If I could go back to the first day I tried extra work, I would have used a calling service from the very beginning. It would’ve saved me a lot of headaches and worry, as well as many empty wallets.

Otherwise, get yourself down to Central Casting, at 220 S. Flower Street, Burbank, CA 91502. They’ll take your picture, get your stats (height, weight, shoe size, inseam, hair colour, eye colour, texture and size of last bowel movement, hat size, jacket size, girth, etc.), and get you in their computer. After that, you can work as soon as the next day (I seem to remember that I actually booked myself the day I registered, on “The X-Files”). There are many, many casting companies, but Central is the biggest and baddest, and if you're not using a calling service, they're the one to hit.

Hope that helps,

Rish "The Human Database" Outfield

Coming up next: So You Want To Be An Adult Film Janitorial Staffer!

Korean show

April 23rd/24th, 2006

Today may well be my last day doing extra work. And it's a unique one.

My pal Matthew told me that Koreans are supposed to be the most attractive Asians. I don't know where he obtained his knowledge--tentacle porn is my guess--but I hadn't heard that before, and made a note of it.

Today, I've been working on my first non-English-speaking project as an extra. It's a Korean TV pilot according to some, a Korean miniseries according to others (and a movie according to one). But it IS Korean, that's for sure. The majority of the crew speaks a few words of English, but when they tell me to do something, I have to ask them to repeat it so many times they usually just fetch the Korean-American P.A. to translate.

At lunch, if you can believe it, I actually had a conversation with a few of the Korean crewmembers . . . in Spanish. Seems one of them had married a Bolivian woman and the other two were his children. That was surreal, but they explained a bit about the production and told me it was called "The Beast and the Witch." At least that's English translated from Spanish translated from Korean.

Today is Sunday and I'm very tired. For the last while, I haven't been doing extra jobs, but instead working with the U.S. Marines in the desert at the Twentynine Palms military base. Every morning, I got up between 3:30 and 4:00, and I just got home last night. When I heard I had to be here--in the city of San Fernando--at 6:30am, I groaned, but remembered that it's an hour later than I'd have gotten up yesterday.

We're shooting in a warehouse where there's a mockup of an airplane and an airport. I was here once before, on an episode of "Malcolm in the Middle," before I started my blog. That day we shot in the airport side of the warehouse, and I chatted with Bryan Cranston about a horror flick he did called TERROR TRACT. Today we're shooting in the plane set, so it's mostly been sitting quietly (some have actually managed to sleep in these seats, but I've not been so lucky).

I actually got moved up to First Class at one point, sitting across from the principles, but that wasn't a big deal because I don't know who they are and will assuredly never see this programme air. I don't speak a bloody word of Korean, so I've been pretty lost and wide-eyed about the goings-on. I have noticed that they went from saying something that sounded like "Queue!" to "Action!" and say "Cut!" or "Okay!" at the end of each take. They are fast and efficient (about, say, one thousand eight hundred times more than an American production), but they're shooting on video and a heck of a lot more by the seat of their pants than we do.

For example, the lighting guys tend to just hold the lights in their hands, rather than doing lengthy setups, or hold varying scrims or bounce boards in front of lights. Also unusual is that they simply grab us (the extras) and bodily move us when they went to make a change, and have had us say oddly fragmented dialogue (such as "I am happy you are back") at the spur of the moment. Of course, a U.S. (i.e. Union) production couldn't do that, as they'd have to pay heavily for a line like "I am happy you are back."*

The young stars of the show are unfamiliar to me--but are apparently real sensations back on their home turf. I didn't get the guy's name, but the girl is almost ridiculously beautiful, and gets more so as the hours pass. Matthew may have been talking about her when he gave me his Korean info.

Oh, I got her name, Bo something, but I've forgotten it. I'll ask again before I go.**

I know less than nothing about Asian culture, only that theirs is very different from ours. The Korean acting technique certainly was unique; I actually had to look away a time or two. I have seen more subtlety in Saturday morning cartoons from the Seventies.

The Sunday shoot was pretty long, but they fed us and didn't make us wait for paychecks, and that made the hurt go away. It was to my shock that I discovered they shot fourteen pages today. Wow.

They asked who wanted to come back the next day, and I volunteered for some reason (in retrospect, I was glad). The Monday shoot was at LAX, subbing for LAX and Las Vegas airport.

We hung out in one of the terminals, sleeping or reading or talking (a guy who called himself Johnny Laos brought a guitar and entertained us with Johnny Cash and Elvis songs), and crazily, they gave us a per diem to buy lunch with (that had never happened to me before).

There weren't a lot of us, so we got used a lot, occasionally in the same scene. From time to time, I'd be moved because I had been too visible in another shot, but most of the time, I assume they just think we all look as alike as many of us think they look alike.

They also depended on us to help them communicate with the non-Korean-speakers in the airport, asking them not to look at the camera or to stand in a certain place, and that made us feel more important than we usually do.

These guys really know how to hustle and they pay in cash (they were generous, too, in a town that never is). And something else, for a couple of shots, they brought out the Steadicam, and shot their scenes so fast, that sweat was running down the camera operator's face. I've NEVER seen an American Steadicam operator sweat, and since I'm writin' this little account, neither have you.

It was like guerilla filmmaking, but with permits. I worked on a super-cheap American production a few weeks ago that was the complete opposite of this in pretty much every way. The Koreans were all polite, all seemed friendly, and got their work done quick. It was a cool experience, tired as I was.

I'm in a fairly good mood today. Days and days in the desert sun gave me a slightly healthier pallour, and listening to three of my squad members tell me I'm too hard on myself and need to believe in my own abilities has given me a more healthy glow. I'm about as handsome today as I'm ever gonna be (right now, I'm just itchin to say something like "that's like a zombie saying he's as alive as he'll ever be," but that kind of thing bugged the crap out of Mark when I did it, so I'm trying to cut back), and I'm glad to be back in my apartment for a couple more days. My life, folks, is never going to smell like roses, but I'm struggling to avoid the thorns. How's that for a senseless metaphor?

I'm going to try to be positive in the next few days. So, positive comment #1: I'm ahead of the game financially for the first time this year. I'm almost back to the point where I look for people to give things to again.

#2: Yesterday I got an email from the girl of my Nineties dreams, just writing to say hello. It don't mean nothin', but it is the first time she's written since 1994. I still care a torch for her, and I guess I always will. No biggie, though.

#3: I lived in constant fear of returning home to find that the parasitic thieves of my neighbourhood would've broken into my apartment for the fifth--count 'em FIFTH--time while I was away. I was almost disappointed, in some sick way, to find everything perfectly fine when I opened my door last night. I went from corner to corner, sure I had missed something, that it was too good to be true, like the X-MEN 3 trailer.

#4 I gotta say, I'm glad I'm not a Marine. To be shouted at for hours all day when I was uncomfortable and tired is not really my definition of a swell time, despite the hefty paycheck.

And I've really had a ball being a professional extra (or "unprofessional," as a few have said) these last few months. This could well be my last blog post about extra work, so I had to say something. I've met good people, like my mom said I would, and gotten up early, like my dad would've wanted.

But really, it's been a vacation, as I learned at Twentynine Palms. To get on set and get (mostly) free food, sit around and read or write, watch babes like Elisha Cuthbert and Rebecca Romijn and Miss USA and Beyonce Knowles and Callie Fredericks and Paul Walker (whoops, did that one slip out again?), doze and dream . . . Well, it ain't been the most trying work.

And if you've gotten a smile or a nod out of it, then it's been even better.

Rish "Mister Brightside" Outfield

* That reminds me, one of the extras near me was given the line "I am going to the bathroom," and said it for two takes, then boasted about the pay raise he was going to get during lunch. I'm not sure what his reaction was when he found he was getting no extra pay for delivering dialogue in the movie/show.

** It was Lee Bo Young, actually. Her male co-star, whose name I've misplaced, was all over the IMDB, and the next day, Korean travelers constantly asked him for his autograph, so he must've been the real deal.

Him and Her and Me (and Us)

March 29/30, 2006

This week I was booked for work on a Disney TV production called "Him and Us," a concert scene shooting over at the Staples Center. Concerts and sporting events are often irritating, because although they book hundreds of us and we're crammed in tight together with no room to breathe, there's never enough of us to fill a stadium, and we invariably have to move from section to section to make it look like a packed house. I know some extras who refuse to go to gigs of more than a hundred people.

One thing I ain't gonna miss too much about living in Los Angeles is that it doesn't rain for three months, and when it does, it pours down. They call it torrential rain, and it fills the streets and crashes down mud and million dollar homes. Well, due to some of this typically torrential rain, they moved locations on us, and made us drive to Disney in Burbank.

I'd never been to the Disney studios before, and enjoyed seeing murals and displays of the classic characters in windows and on the sides of buildings. Our holding was in a big stage next to the one where they had (hurriedly) built the concert venue. Cooly, an underwater set and the interior of the Black Pearl set from PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN 3 were housed in our holding stage. I wonder what becomes of those sets once the shoots are done.

Elton John is the producer of "Him and Us," though he wasn't there, as far as we knew. 97% of the jobs that we get, we are instructed to bring a certain kind of wardrobe, and 75% of jobs, we are supposed to bring more than one option for the wardrobe people to choose from. In this case, though, we never had to go through Wardrobe, and got to wear what we wanted. I saw John the Ladykiller--or rather, he saw me, coming over as I started to read my book. He chided me for always shuffling off by myself to read (or hide, as he called it), and told me my antisocial ways were one of the reasons no woman liked me. Also, apparently my clothes, shoes, and haircut are what my Irish friend would refer to as shite.

Also on hand was the small, attractive lass we hung out with on "The 12th Man" last week. She shot toward John like a Scud missile, but because I was by his side, we became instant friends. I found out her name was Tiffany, and once again drawn to her. Maybe it was her light Oklahoma accent, maybe it was her sense of humour, maybe it was her girl-next-door good looks, I don't rightly know.

John, hearing about my unfortunate need to give up this whole extra thing, told me not to leave, to be strong, and not to be a pussy. I don't think it's really about that, but his words did strike me pretty hard. He asked me what I moved to L.A. for and why I was giving up. He then said, "If you want to make movies, just do it. Mark and Jonathan and Bryan and LesbianJanet and Pogo and Klaatu and I will all be in them. We'll help you out." That also gave me pause. Even though PHANTOM MENACE was lame and the way Jake Lloyd delivered the line was even lamer, "the biggest problem in the universe is that no one helps each other" is a pretty big truth.

Well, after but a moment, we moved through the rain to the next stage, where we'd be watching the concert. We sat down where they told us, but John wanted to sit on the end for some reason (later, I would find out why). Somehow, due to this, Tiffany and I ended up sitting next to each other, and one of the A.D.s immediately pointed at her, wanting to take her away from it all. He paused, "You're not WITH anybody, are you?" Without thinking, I shot out my arm and put it around her. The A.D. shrugged and said, "Okay, you too." He marched us over to the section on the right, pretty close to the stage, and John followed. "Not you," the A.D. said, in a less-than-polite tone. Poor Ladykiller John had to head back to his seat in the middle.

I felt a bit sad about that, and later in the night, we got the row to scoot down one seat so John could rejoin us. Tiffany had this cute little way of talking, and referred to what we did for John as "ganking" him a seat. He joined us, but didn't enjoy himself so much, and snuck out to smoke cigarettes after every setup.

Once the concert started, it pretty much didn't end. The performer, Maxx Flash, was energetic, middle-aged, and very British. Tiffany laughed when she realised who it was: the man who played Giles in "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." There were two songs performed, over and over and over. One song was fast and sounded like "The Bitch Is Back" (it was called "Without a Fight") and the other was slow, ending the concert, and sounded a bit like "Crocodile Rock." Our job was to stand up, cheer, and dance around. Because they played the tracks so many times, the girl and I actually did learn the choruses of the songs and creeped the people around us out by singing along with Maxx.

So, we broke for lunch not long after. It was what is called a Walkaway Lunch, which, as the name implies, means the extras are dismissed for an hour to find lunch where they can. Because we were on a studio lot, it was pouring rain, and was night, there weren't a lot of places we could walk to, so we went to the studio commissary. I thought John was with us, but he either stopped off to smoke or went back to get a jacket, because we didn't see him the whole hour. Tiffany and I (I really should come up with a nickname for her rather than using her real name, don't you think?) discovered a Panda Express there, and both loaded up on Chinese food, then found a table. After a while, the woman from DARK STREETS that called Bijou Phillips a bitch saw me and sat down next to us. A friend of hers joined us, so suddenly, it was me and three ladies at a table. Who's the Ladykiller now, Johnny?

Tiffany was excited because she got a gig on "American Idol" being the stand-in for that really hot blonde girl with the southern accent (my sister was living with me for a while and she made me watch it . . . SHE MADE ME!!!). That is pretty exciting, even for a non-fan like me.

We went back to holding and found John there, pouting or something. Tiffany assured him we hadn't ditched him, and that I had told her I saw him heading toward the commissary (turns out it was some other underwear model-looking guy).

Practically immediately, it was time to go back to set. They were going to get their money's worth on this one. I found a couple of seats right by the stage, and Tiffany sat with me. John didn't want to sit there, though, as it would make his duck-outs more difficult.

So, for ten hours, including lunch, I sat next to this girl. I thought it was . . . well, everything my life has not been. I was funny, she was cool and friendly, John kept ditching out to smoke cigarettes and not work. It was fun, even though people were tired and it was raining outside. We went until late. John got twitchy and headachy. She got sleepy and sullen. I got, I don't know what, grouchy maybe.

They gave us roses for the last number, which they'd then take away, distribute again, take away, then redistribute. I didn't really understand that. Why not just do the first song until they were done with it, then do the second? The only guess I had would be to keep it interesting for us, but that shouldn't be a factor--it never has before.

Tiffany and I got along really well (I thought so, anyway). We found out we both like Elton John songs and sang a couple together. Then she went to sleep while I sang "Your Song." She said nothing, but the girl in the row in front of me complimented me on the song. I felt good.

At one point, the thought occurred to me that literally ANYBODY else would have put the moves on this girl to some degree or another. An inner voice said, "At least put your arm around her, man." I battled with this inner voice, that often tells me to do way more than I am doing, driving me to distraction. But finally, I thought, "Look, your whole life, you never lean in to kiss the girl or take her hand or put your arm around her unless she instigates it, because you're afraid she'll react badly like ole what's-her-name did back in, what, the Cretaceous Period? If the worst that could happen is that she recoils in horror (like Jurassic What's-her-name), who cares? Chances are she won't do that, and if she does, you can always kill yourself." Encouraged by this inner voice, I did as he asked.

You gotta understand that to me, a successful night at the club is having a few laughs with friends and maybe TALKING TO, or, if I'm lucky, DANCING WITH a pretty girl. If John spent a weeknight (let alone a Friday evening) that way, he'd eat the barrel of a shotgun.

Toward the very end of the night, Kim Cattrell came onstage and did the Rock & Rock version of “The Actor’s Nightmare.” It was strange that the people around me did not know who she was. Tiffany told them she played Samantha on “Sex & the City.” I told them she was the MANNEQUIN. At one point, Cattrell sang the chorus to “Toucha-Toucha-Touch Me” from ROCKY HORROR. Found out that Tiffany and I sang the rest of the song together. If there was a match made in Heaven (for me, Hell for her), it would appear to be us.

At 12:45 or so, I went on John's smoke break with him. I don't smoke (perhaps the only thing I like less than someone yammering away on their cellphone), but he just seems to enjoy sneaking away so much that I had to join him at least once. The second we got out in the rain, John laid into me (or at least that's how I took it) for being a dick to him and a . . . I don't know what--to the girl. "Stop with the kissing jokes, will you? Jesus!" he said, where I thought I was the charmingest ever. "Why do you keep mentioning my girlfriend?" he asked, and except for once, when I asked him if she wanted to see V FOR VENDETTA with us tomorrow, I didn't think I had. He said I had brought her up about six times during the night. Well, it really pissed me off. I was surprised by the level of anger I felt, perhaps reacting to his words as negatively as possible. I glowered for a few minutes, really angry and he knew it, actually having to take a walk through the rain to clear my head. But John is only trying to help me. I guess. "Let them come to you," he said, though I'm leaving in a few days, and there's no chance for her to come to me.

If I've not mentioned it before John is rather smooth with the ladies. I've seen it time and time again, and this time, with Lil Tiffany, he kept touching her ear and she'd bat his hand away, then he'd do it again. He claimed her ear was an errogenous zone--whether just for her or for all women, I have no idea--and if she really had wanted him to stop, she would've made it clear. Not to slight someone I considered a friend, but I think I now understand why he didn't want me mentioning his girlfriend.

I went back inside, soaked and surly, and sat down next to Tiffany, who still slept (she had spread herself over the three seats I had reserved for us). To keep people happy (fat chance, though, extras are almost as complainy as . . . well, actors), the production had ordered about a hundred pizzas, and I had a couple of slices. John poked his head in for a moment, scooped up one or two that was left, then was gone again.

That was the swan song, though, for the production called it a night after the pizza was gone. The line to check out was massive, but somehow I got there ahead of most people and was back on the freeway before the last person checked out. Everything is subjective, I know, but I choose to remember the positive about my evening on "Him and Us." For me, this was a fun, enjoyable, and worthwhile night, even if I was angry for an hour of it and tired when I got home.

Rish Casanova Outfield

Curtain Call of Sorts

March 22nd, 2006

My father had some home-spun wisdom he would repeat ad nauseum, chief among it was "Any fool can stay up all night, but it takes a real man to get up early in the morning." My Mom always used to say, "No matter where you go, you'll find good people, people you'll need and love."

Both those sayings came back to me today. My father's because I had to get up before the sun to work on a pilot. My mom's words come back to me at the end of this sometimes fun, sometimes lonely, sometimes dull, but usually interesting road of being an extra. I'm writing this, sitting in my Comfy Chair at seven-thirty in the morning, working on something called "The 12th Man" at the L.A. Colosseum, and it's sort of like the end of THE WIZARD OF OZ or "The Inner Light" here as I find nearly everyone who made an impact on me during my few months doing background is here today.

There's Mark, my bald friend, who talked for hours with me about "Saturday Night Live" and the STAR WARS TRILOGY, befriending me better than people I've known for years. There's the mop-headed loudmouth I first saw on "House" and has plagued me ever since. There's John the Ladykiller, sleeping in a sitting position with his mouth half open, and still managing to look handsomer than me by far. Next to me is the old man who I sat next to all night when I first started and worked on "Big Love," giving me advice and telling about his life of adventure. There's James, the chain-smoking extra who got doused with soot like me in Oliver Stone's 9/11 movie and, like me, didn't get paid for it (the difference is, he eventually got a check and I didn't). In line to get breakfast, I saw the girl who called Bijou Phillips a bitch on DARK STREETS (we were all thinking it). There's the General, a middle-aged guy with red hair who played the French commanding officer in THE GOOD GERMAN. There's Javier, who worked with me on my very first commercial, for Ford, which paid so much I thought I'd be doing this forever. Also from that show is the soldier who marched behind me and made me paranoid by telling me I was doing it wrong. And there's that kid from THE GOOD GERMAN holding tent who still remembered his boyhood when Jimmy Fallon was on "Saturday Night Live," and told me Spielberg's WAR OF THE WORLDS was the best movie he'd ever seen. I just said "Hi" to that Christian guy who got offended when I used the word "chingaso" and took my part on "Charmed" when I had to shave my beard off. Walking by is the bald black guy who got a line ("Is she alive?") on THE POUGHKEEPSIE TAPES. Wow, there's Guido from the SEPTEMBER set, who was really just trying to get ahead in life, like everybody else.

There's supposed to be three hundred of us here today, playing fans at a basketball game. Chances are, I'll see more familiar faces, here to send me off as my time as an extra comes to a close.

One of my first days as a "background actor,", years ago, was on "Boston Public," playing a student watching a talent show. One of the extras had brought a guitar and he strummed oldies while we waited to go on set. Unable to get into the book I was reading--it was "The Fellowship of the Ring," the first time I tried (unsuccessfully) to read it--and after a while, I went over and sang Beatles songs with the guy and the backgrounders who had gathered around him.

Off in the corner, a new guy has brought his guitar (heck, he may even be that same dude--I'd never know it) and has been playing Elton John, Simon & Garfunkel, and yes, the Beatles, for the last half hour. Could it be that six years have not gone by, that it's the fabled year 2000 again, and I'm just starting all this, instead of leaving it behind?

I doubt it, though the sentiment sure is nice.

***

This was a long day, consisting of us sitting and pretending to cheer, then being moved to a new area. They were shooting several games' worth of crowd shots, so we rearranged and changed the colours we had on (or waved). The heat wasn't on and a lot of people complained about the cold, but because the show was set in a non-California setting, we had our coats with us.

I feel lucky that I got to sit with Mark and Ladykiller John and Brian, a red-haired due I'd worked with a dozen times and never once talked to. They were funny and friendly enough to laugh at my jokes and let me hang out with them. They were all as tired as me, and more so, since John had been up all night drinking and whoring, and complained about the show, which, I believe was a pilot for Fox.

I didn’t recognise anybody in the cast, except Jodi-Lynn O’Keefe, who my little sister met years ago in Salt Lake City, Utah, and doesn’t seem to even qualify as a celebrity anymore. "The 12th Man" was a Comedy about guys who never get to play in the games, but just sit on the bench all the time, as far as I could tell. No idea if it will go anywhere.

It was Brian the Red-Head's last day as an extra--apparently, he'd gotten himself an agent and was going to go out for real acting from this point on. He had brought his head shots (you know what those are, right?) and resume, and we all chuckled at the pics of him decked out like some kind of ninja.

Besides the fake basketball players, there were some shapely dancing cheerleader-type girls we ogled for a little while, but even that gets boring after a while. For some reason, the guys were restless, and kept trying to ditch out for cigarette breaks, to take naps in their cars, or to raid the craft service cart. Regardless of the little weasel I apparently come across as from this blog (don't get me started), I try to be quiet, easy-going, and obedient on TV and movie sets. Today, though, I felt rebellious, and joined them in one of their jaunts. We emerged in the light of day, feeling much like we were John Hughes characters skipping out on school or detention, and ditching the security people armed with deadly walkie talkies. I found that to be a lot more fun than I can explain.

There were others up to no good as well (apparently, when it's a huge cattle call like this one, there's a lot more opportunity for mischief), and we witnessed a very high-schooly pissing contest between a frowning stud-faced punk and a big Afro-wearing black guy. The big Afro-wearing black guy had apparently befriended the world's most obnoxious extra (Moptop) and was repeating the words "Nutter Butter" again and again. Frowning stud-faced punk finally got sick of it and asked him to please shut up. Afro-wearing black guy told him to mind his own f#$*ing business, and Stud-face told him what he could do with his business and Nutter Butters. The Afro-wearing black guy had friends (they always do, right?), whereas Stud-face had none, but Stud-face wanted to fight. Afro-wearin’ told him to take a swing, but Stud-face didn’t. It got pretty escalated, and Stud-face even told Mark to shut the eff up when Mark said Nutter Butter wasn’t worth getting mad over (I sort of disagree). Later, P.A.s were told of the little altercation, and I did feel bad when they warned Afro-wearing black guy that there better not be trouble, but nothing to frowning stud-face punk. That didn't seem right.

I’m not sure why I went on and on about that, since it’s surely not all that interesting, but hey, I write what I write.

At one point, alcohol was even produced (Brian might have been celebrating, I don't know), and a couple of blondes came to sit in the area, both attractive and one a huge Monty Python fan. She looked like that little girl that showed up at the end of the "Buffy" series and was in EUROTRIP, only with light hair and seems like a real keeper, if I'd even gotten her name.

I wonder sometimes*. I really do.

***

It was not an eventful shoot--we cheered, or pantomimed cheering, and pretended there was actually a game going on. At one point, someone started a rumour that they were on the last shot, and about fifty of us ran out to line up to sign out (the lines can be interminable, especially when you've got a group as huge as this was, so if you can get in line early, it saves a lot of grey hairs). We stood there for ten minutes, being joined by more and more, before we found out it wasn't the last shot at all, and we had to go sit down again.

By the time all the above had been written, we had been there more than twelve hours. I'll admit that the company (and all the screwin' around) made the time go much faster. On their last water and cigarettes break, I stayed in my seat to write in my notebook and ended up being selected to join a little group away from the rest of the main throng.

They were shooting a scene where, after the game, the team is marching toward the locker room, and our little group were fans hanging around the exit. We only did two takes and then everybody else (that wasn't in our little group of maybe thirty people) was wrapped (which, if I've never mentioned, means they get to hand in their vouchers and go home). The rest of us, nicely enough, got to go to craft services and eat pizza. I had a couple of pieces of Canadian bacon and pineapple (my favourite). Then, without us having worked again, all but fifteen were wrapped, split down the middle. Once again, I was among those that stayed.

We shot a scene where the team is heading to the showers and get complimented/chewed out by the coach and the team's owner. The extras in our group played obnoxious lookie-loos, waving and trying to get the attention of the players while security held us behind velvet rope. After they got all of those shots, they made the extras who were standing in the back go to the front and the ones standing in front . . . got to go home. There were now six extras left, and I was one of them. Pretty cool (or terrible, depending on your attitude).

We did a couple more takes of the same thing (it was supposed to be after another game--though why the coach and owner would be dressed exactly the same way and standing in the exact same spot must be part of the comedy), then all were wrapped. It was the longest day I've had this year, I believe (from 6:30am to 10:30pm, though they wrote down 10:15 on our vouchers**), and after this month of practically no work, it was welcome.

This didn't turn out to be my last day--I got a call around two to do two more days on DREAMGIRLS--but with so many familiar faces, it would've made a perfect one.

Rish "The 13th Man" Outfield

*That is, about myself and why I continue to exist.

**Which they ain't supposed to do, since we had to walk all the way back to our cars to leave (they're supposed to take into account the time it will take us to get on our ways). But ah well, I got paid plenty just to sit around.

Sing It, Gladys

"L.A. grew too much for the man;
(too much for the man, he couldn't make it)
So he's leaving the life he's come to know.
(he said he's goin')
He said he's goin' back to find;
(goin' back to find)
Oooh, what's left of his world,
The world he left behind . . . not so long ago."

This, of course, is from Gladys Knight and the Pips's hit song "Midnight Train To Georgia." Its lyrics are about as apt as you can get. But more on that in a moment.

A little out of it right now. I had my first all-night shoot with DREAMGIRLS last night/this morning, and got in around 8:30. Traffic was annoying, but not as bad as it was the last time I did this, coming home exhausted from shooting "The X-Files" and having to endure the 405 Freeway at its worst.

Seriously, there was no one I recognised on set. I knew the costuming women and the A.D.s, but as for the extras, I don't know what happened. It was like there was a two year gap from the last time I did this, and everybody I knew had moved on.

One guy, a very nice man in his forties with Reed Richards-style grey on his temples, recognised me, and rightly told me where we had worked together. I didn't remember him at all, though.

I hadn't worn a tuxedo in I don't know how long. I'm trying to remember if I wore one in a previous extras gig. None are coming to mind right now.

I have to admit that most of the night, I just sat and read. I'm not complaining, it was a very good book.

It was in the same stage where we shot the first couple days of DREAMGIRLS, doing something very similar . . . watching our three ladies do their thing. Or perhaps, more appropriately, their thang.

I apologise for using that word.

In the end, I got to see Beyonce one . . . last . . . time.

Okay, so "Midnight Train To Georgia." As Ms. Knight sang later in the song, "He's goin' back to a simpler place and time."

The song itself I was not familiar with--nor indeed many Motown songs (you see, I grew up in a village so hick and whitebread that when the miniseries "Roots" aired, they retitled it "The Good Old Days")--until I was on the set of "Boston Public" a few years ago. Loretta Divine taught it to us in a fake class and I never forgot it.

Only hearing it again a couple of days ago did the lyrics sink in. Except for the bit about selling my old car and having a Gladys Knight who'd rather live in my world than live without me in hers, that song could be about yours truly.

Yep, I'm packing it in.

All of us have enemies--or less dramatic, obstacles--that prevent us from doing what we want and being where we want. In my case*, chief of these enemies/obstacles is me myself. So, due to that pesky, nefarious character, my time as a professional extra in the great city of Los Angeles (well, great weatherwise, anyway) is drawing to a close.

I came here to be a screenwriter, not an actor. But I guess I should have specified PROFESSIONAL screenwriter, or PRODUCED screenwriter, 'cause I have written several photoplays, as they used to call them, but done little with them. I started out doing Extra work as a lark in between jobs, and last year sometime, that became my full-time job.

Even in extra-work, I had my dreams. I wanted enough SAG vouchers to join the union, I wanted to play a zombie or monster, and I wanted to work on "Star Trek." Alas, these three dreams will not come true.

Yet.

I keep telling myself I will return, head held high, when I've saved up enough money (and dreams) to get back for a second go-round. Those around me, though, don't think that I will. They seem to think I'm giving up, putting away childish things, and slinking back like a whipped dog.

And maybe, in a way, that is true. But who knows what is around the bend, who knows where my destiny lies, and can I really afford to pay $3.19 a gallon for gasoline?

"He kept dreamin'
(dreamin')
oooh, that someday he'd be a star;
(a superstar, but he didn't get far)
But he sure found out the hard way,
That dreams don't always come true."

Rish "The Enemy Within" Outfield

*Though there certainly have arisen some from the outside; perhaps more on that later.

Back To (Day) One

"Back to One!" is the command an assistant director shouts at the end of every take, telling the extras to return to their starting point for another go. I didn't always know that, however, and am reminded of my first day as an extra here in Los Angeles.
(rubs long white beard)
Seems like it was just yesterday . . .

August 21, 2000

I’ve always been a problem sleeper. Maybe not all my life, but ever since childhood, when my mom would wake me up to go to school and then come back a half an hour later to find me still sleeping, with no recollection of her waking me, my sleeping habits have gotten me in trouble.

Take lately, for example. This week, through a tiny bout of courage and determination, I enrolled myself in Central Casting, and managed to book myself on "The X-Files." The only bad thing was, the call time was at 6:30am, meaning I’d have to go to sleep around 9:30 to get myself eight hours of sleep.

But I couldn’t seem to get tired. So 10 o’clock rolled around, then eleven, then twelve. Finally, I told myself I had to go to sleep or I’d be suffering like my soon-to-be-damned soul in the morning. 12:45am arrived, and I tried desperately to sleep. I couldn’t even yawn. One o’clock. One-fifteen. One-thirty. I was in trouble. My mind wandered to a thousand different subjects, and though I kept reminding myself that I had to sleep, I couldn’t get comfortable, and worse, I couldn’t get tired. 1:45am arrived, meaning I had been at it for over an hour. What the hell was wrong with me? Two o’clock came, and with each fifteen minute interval, I’d do the math in my head, exactly how much sleep I was going to get. Even worse, I thought, if I don’t fall asleep soon, my alarm’s gonna go off at 5:40, and I’m going to simply shut it off without thinking. A terrible thought since I knew my penchant for doing that very thing.

It was close to two-thirty when I thought about just getting up and going to Ralph’s to buy toilet paper and some razors. If I wasn’t sleeping, I might as well make myself useful and buy groceries, right? I couldn’t bring myself to do it, though, hoping that any minute now, I’d drift off to sleep. Again, my thoughts were everywhere. I was thinking of things and people and songs and phrases and stories and ideas that never would’ve been worth my time during the day, and were only making me miserable in the wee small hours. I tried to clear my mind of all thoughts. I tried lying perfectly still. Heck, I even tried self-hypnosis. But I was awake.

I got up and went to the bathroom. The light was blinding. My face looked pale and haggard (but hey, don’t it always?), and when I went back to bed, I saw that it was 3:15am. I didn’t even want to do the math. I was dead meat.

That’s the last time I remember looking at the clock before my alarm went off, so I must have fallen asleep after that.

I got up. I didn’t even push Snooze. I showered, dressed, and got out of here. Luckily, the location was even closer than I had anticipated, so I got there early. I was among the first to be given my wardrobe: the uniform of a Baltimore Police Officer. I didn’t know how I’d look, considering I think I barely pass for an adult, but the uniform fit well and was really cool. I got to carry a gun, pepper spray, a badge, a CB radio, and two ammo clips for my pistol. I even got ushered into the makeup trailer and got my hair cut.

Actor Joe Morton was guest-starring in this episode, and I talked to him a minute about his death scene in TERMINATOR 2 (he had been in a car accident and tried to recreate the experience of having a crushed lung). I should’ve talked to him longer, but I always feel uncomfortable about that sort of thing. Also on hand as a guest-star was Danny Trejo, who plays this episode’s villain, Cesar Campo, the Spiderman. I talked to him for a minute about always playing a villain.

Most of the shoot, I just sat around. I read probably a hundred pages in two books and had a sleep-deprived stomach-ache for a while. All around me were other extras, playing cops like me, detectives, prison guards, perps, or prisoners. Some of them got involved in a poker game, which I watched with awe (depressed and feeling like an outsider), especially since they were playing with real money (maybe I just felt like a depressed outsider). When I finally got my moment to shine, it was one of those shots where I’m not going to be seen, so it makes me wonder what they even needed me for. A couple of hours later, I got to sit at a desk in the precinct, but again, it’s doubtful that I was visible.

David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson were elsewhere, so today’s lead actor was Robert Patrick, the scary dude with evil blue eyes, who was also in TERMINATOR 2. We also had a conversation, but it consisted of: “How you doin’?” “Just great, how about you?” “Have you seen this boy?”

The workday ended and it was time for people to go home, but the assistant director asked if any of us wanted to stick around to play other parts. Knowing this was the first work I’d had in what seems like years, I asked if I could (and frankly, I love doing film and TV work so much, I would've done it for free). They were happy with my volunteering, and I suddenly found myself no longer a police officer, but one of the lowly prisoners. Stripped of all my props and uniform, I put on a bright orange jumpsuit and a pair of Keds.

A couple of hours still had to pass before we got escorted to the set (herded like a bunch of convicts, I might add), and by this time, my lack of sleep was wearing on me. The set was a two-level prison, with about eight cells on each floor. All was made up extraordinarily realistically, and it was only on close inspection that I realized that the cinder blocks were painted on, the toilets were fake, and the metal bars were made of wood. I was escorted to my cell, where I sat on my bed, waiting for them to finish rehearsing and setting up the shot.

Sometime later, I heard a snoring sound from the cell next to mine. The convict beside me had fallen asleep, but nobody really noticed because all the action took place on the floor below us. When it was time for us to go back to the rest area (they called it "holding"), I woke him, but he just stayed there. We came back twice more, but never was any of the action focused on our level of the prison. The lights were hot and bright, and I leaned back in the hard little bunk (is that what they call the beds in a jail cell?), listening to the directions and line readings. My eyes closed, opened again, closed . . .

I awoke with a start. I opened my eyes (it had gotten darker), sat up, and checked the cell next to me for the snoring man. He was gone. All the prisoners were gone, as a matter of fact. Down below was just a scattering of people, taking down lights and carrying equipment. Embarrassed, I made my way past the crew and out of the studio to the background holding section. There too, everyone was gone--the chairs, the cards, even the food. It was like one of those bad dreams, the kind you have during a good night’s sleep.

I found one of the assistant directors at a table, doing paperwork. She glanced up and asked what I was doing still dressed in my jumpsuit. I didn’t know what to say, so I just said "Sorry" and ran to the changing truck. I changed as fast as I could and traded everything back in. I felt like I had been caught doing something indecent by my mother or religious fanatic aunt, and was afraid of what would happen when I returned to the A.D. (which is illogical, after all, I had put in fourteen hours of exemplary extra work, what could they do?).

When I finally checked in, I said, "This is gonna sound stupid, but . . ." and explained it to her. She laughed and said, "You’re right, that was stupid," and told one of her buddies about it. But no censures came and that was pretty much all she said. I was sent on my way, still feeling tired and ashamed, and stopped at Ralph’s before I came back home.

So, that was my first day as a full-time extra. I’m going to sleep now. I hope it causes me no further problems.

Rish "Blast From the Past" Outfield