Cars, Birds and Fred's Cousin

The past 10 days have been interesting and, starved for content, I thought I'd share them with you. First I was on hold for a movie for a supporting role. Great! Three weeks of work in June. Then I was called back to read for one of the leads - fabulous. And on Friday I was told via my agent that I "won't be going any further". (The casting director didn't specify if that meant 'in your career' or if her comments were restricted to this particular job.) Hopefully the latter.

Fresh from my let down, I set out on my bicycle, only to have something thrown at me by a woman on a balcony. I specify gender simply because I like to believe that women are beyond such filthy antics. While I don't think it was intentional, it was nevertheless upsetting, especially when I ran my hand through my hair and discovered the "item" had not only clung to my head, but was in liquid form. Some anonymous woman spat on me.

Yesterday I returned to my bicycle to discover that a bird (quite possibly assisted by a number of brethren) had relieved itself on my helmet. Not an unsightly cue ball splotch on the outside that would be visible to passers by. Oh no. This feathered wretch had deposited its business inside my helmet, so only I would know the nastiness cradling my bothered brain.

For the past 4 days, my left eye has been twitching involuntarily. The later in the day, the more it twitches. At first, it was fairly mild and would come and go. However, the past 24hrs have been particularly twitchy. I feel a little (more) conspicuous in public. It's bad enough I look like the creepy guy - the twitchy eye seals the deal! I'd put it down to a couple of late nights and too much TV, but it may have something to do with Fred's cousin.

Today I returned to my friendly auto mechanic Fred to deal with an overheating problem, a mere 2 weeks after a service that set me back $650. The day after that service, the engine light came on (permanently) , the car started overheating and I discovered the door handle they had replaced was missing its rubber seal and subsequently an area of scratched paintwork was exposed. Fred's cousin had done the work, so perhaps I should have anticipated a different level of service.

Fred's cousin happily informed me that he can fix the overheating problem. I just need a new thermostat, new hoses and oh yes - a new radiator. Grand total? $600. Oh- and he threw away the rubber seal, so will try to cover the door handle with touch up paint. (Insert twitch)

I must confess that I was a little abrupt with Fred's cousin, possibly insinuating that he and Fred were trying to fleece me and I couldn't afford it and what the heck, Fred's cousin, I just paid you guys 650 bucks, you're killing me here! But I quickly (and nauseatingly) came to the realization that while I didn't (and for the record, still don't) want to cough up the dough for the repairs, I can't really drive a car that overheats after 5 minutes. It can't possibly get better by itself, no matter how gently I massage it's flagging ego.

Where does all this leave me? Well, $1250 in the hole and 8 hours spent farting around Burbank while Fred's cousin tinkers under my hood and dreams of ways to spend my hard earned cash. (Or more accurately my 'credit' - thank you Visa, you're a true friend)

On the upside, that movie I shot in Prague nearly 4 years ago, which I can't talk about, finally sees the light of day - or more accurately the light of one theater on June 14. For one grand showing. Oh- and I had the delight (no sarcasm here) of working on George Lucas' Clone Wars series, which I also can't talk about. Oh- and Fred's cousin just called to say my car is ready.

Ready for what?

Ready for a sound beating!

Who's been a bad Volvo?

**twitch twitch**

When Breakfasts Go Bad

Settling down to breakfast at Doughboys on Highland, I was thrown by the wide array of options. Great to have a choice, but it seems harder and harder to find somewhere serving a simple eggs and toast option - without the biscuits, pancetta, latkes, ham and pancakes. When I asked if they had such an option, our friendly waiter asked if I was English. I felt a little offended, as if only a foreigner would dare ask for something so unimaginative. I admitted I was and he suggested ordering a side of eggs and toast.

Genius.

So that's what I did - wheat toast and eggs over easy.

And here's what arrived:


Yummy, right? Not only was the toast burnt, but had been cut on an odd angle, as if by a blind person. Now don't get me wrong, the blind deserve employment as much as the next person. They just shouldn't be cutting toast. The broken piece was also prepared in the kitchen - as if to facilitate my first dry and crusty mouthful.

I should mention the toast was dry. No butter in sight - either on or off the plate. The ooze you see is the yolk, which quickly encircled the charcoal islands.

Could it look less appetizing? Yes. Could I have sent it back? Certainly. But, when it takes 30min for food this crap to arrive, I know that round 2 will take equally long and be almost as bad, by which stage I'm no longer hungry. So I ate it. Well, a little...


I know that if I ran a restaurant, I would ensure (either personally or through trained personnel) that food at least LOOKS well prepared before leaving my kitchen. Perhaps Doughboys was running a Cajun special our waiter didn't know about. My buddy James sent his eggs back because they were raw inside - that delicious translucent congealed goo state before becoming a solid. The waiter's retort: "well that's how we do our eggs". It's a good excuse for what any sane person would call incompetency. I can imagine Bush responding to critics of his policy in Iraq (or anywhere else, really), with a snigger and "well that's how I do the presidency".

The moral of the story (and you know I'll find one), is if you want something simple, (whether it's breakfast or a foreign invasion) prepare it at home. Otherwise, prepare to be disappointed. Or order Doughboys' "famous" SOS (sh*t on a shingle).

At least you'll know what to expect...

Wiggy Gets Some Sun

I see many things on my strolls around Hollywood. Most are grubby, some charming, others captivatingly odd. A few days ago, I came across this - a small furry creature. It was soaking up the morning sun, quite content to lie in the middle of the street. Not a safe place of rest, but who am I to tell others what to do with their lives? That's for those smiley folks offering free stress tests 2 blocks away.

I gave the creature a wide berth, so as not to scare it off. (I know the rabbits where I live are very shy and can be startled by the slightest noise) But as I circled the animal, I became suspicious. Why was it so still? I didn't notice any movement, not even the rise and fall of breathing. So maybe it wasn't a creature after all. Maybe it was...a wig. Which is not to say it wasn't a creature. For I have observed wigs (on film sets) being carried in little cages designed for small pets. And Lord knows they're treated as fondly. So who's to say they aren't alive?

Perhaps this little one was tossed from a moving vehicle. Or maybe it got tired of repeated abuse and simply left of it's own accord? Either way, by the time I came upon the poor thing, it was quite lifeless. I couldn't help and went on my way.

Returning home an hour or so later however, I noticed the creature was gone. Where? Was it scooped up by cleaners? Eaten by rodents? Or, as I like to think, it found a better, kinder, warmer scalp to nestle on.

Great Isn't What it Used to Be

It really isn't. Take the Great American Auto Center. It's not their fault they're not THE definitive auto center. However, it is - how shall I put this - uh, reaching, to claim ownership of such a lofty title. And post it outside for all to see the blatant incongruity of sign and service. But maybe it gets people to pause for just long enough to remember their worn out brakes and consider getting them done there.

It got me thinking, though. How many times have you passed a fast food stand claiming to make "the world's best burger" or some or other "world famous" dish? Chances are, you live within a short drive of the place and hadn't even heard of them until that moment. It's a blatant lie to claim that people hundreds of thousands of miles away are settling down at their local restaurant in Johannesburg or Karachi or Maidenhead, lamenting "this hotdog really isn't as good as Pinks!"

To make matters worse, big claims just beg for big retorts. I wrote and performed a show called The Great Glendini. One witty reviewer entitled his crit "The Great Glendini isn't that Great". I guess I was asking for it. To be fair, the character in the play was a failure, who missed out on fame and was now a bitter man. I think the reviewer was alluding to that fact, as his review was rather positive. But the headline certainly wasn't going to lure any theatre patrons looking for a night out.

We're all liers at heart, of course. We may not realise it, but we lie every day. Every time a coworker asks how you're doing and you say "great", you're lying. You are. Be honest now. You're not doing great at all, are you? You're neck deep in a mortgage, car payments and you're putting off major dental work your insurance won't cover. But you say "great" because that's your stock response, it doesn't invite further inquiry and you don't have to offload 35 years of baggage that all started when Samantha stole your matchbox car and you wept quietly in the treehouse while the other toddlers played hide and seek. But I digress...

The point, if indeed there is a point, is that we should come clean. Tell the truth, even the little truths like how we really are feeling. Otherwise what's the point of asking these questions in the first place? Because it's ettiquette? Well stuff ettiquette if no-one wants to hear the answer. Then don't ask the question. I'm telling all, people. Ask me how I am, and I'm gonna call it like I feel it. If I'm feeling like crap, I'll tell you. Because you have a right to know. And I have a write to tell you if you ask.

Also, I'm downgrading my standards of what's great. It used to be that a childhood trip to NASA (which I never experienced) would qualify as great. Nowadays, I'm making ice cream great. Getting in my car and realising I have a full tank of gas is great. Heck, waking up in the morning is great. And in another 2 weeks I'll need to come up with the rent.

Great.

Just a quick post to say you can catch me on CSI:NY tonight at 10pm on CBS. The episode,"Admissions", has the team investigating the murder of a guidance counsellor during the school prom.

Keen eyed Gary Sinise and Eddie Cahill discover a number of suspects, including a dodgy character you wouldn't want looking after your retirement fund. That fellow could be me. Or not. You'll have to tune in to find out...

It just occurred to me that you need to be quite fit to be a detective. Fitter than most cops I imagine. Why? Well look at how they're crouching - that's a deep squat, people. As an occasional body builder, I can tell you that you're gonna feel that in your quads. I would. Clearly Gary and Melina have been doing this for some time, otherwise they'd be grimacing. As I do. Whether I'm squatting or not.

CSI folks need stamina. We're talking strong thighs, lower back and above average vision to actually spot the tiny clues before you bend and squat. Unless you have an assistant. In which case you can tell your assistant to pick up the miniscule carpet fibers the murderer left behind. Yes, that sounds like a plan.

WANTED: Personal assistant to squat on command. Duties include scraping suspicious residues from unsavory surfaces, following up leads, working closely with cadavers and running DNA tests.

Hmmm. Doesn't sound like much fun at all. I think I'll stick to playing the detective or, in this case, the creep. Hey, if I get tired, I can always play the cadaver...

Coachella 08

In a rare moment of spontaneity I accepted the invite from Derek and friends Kavan and Tommy, to head through fields of windmills to the desert's musical celebration of excess called Coachella.

In 100 deg dry heat, we saw some incredible bands, including MIA, Prince, The Verve and my personal favourite, Portishead - still captivating more than a decade after their release of Glory Box. As we headed away with Prince's guitar still straining in the background, Kavan commented that people looked like zombies, staggering off in various states of trippy innebriation.


May I wish my fellow zombies a swift and gentle recovery...

Penguins and Sinise

What can be more satisfying than sharing your chocolate milk with a true friend? Even if that friend is of the stuffed and feathered variety.

I saw this (nameless) gentleman recently, snacking away while his pet penguin (also nameless) looked on. It begged more than a few questions. Was he going to feed the penguin or cruelly scoff everything himself? Does he ever bathe the bird? (It did look decidedly grubby) And, perhaps most importantly, are penguins permitted on table tops?

Whether it was too timid of its owner, in shock at the environment, or (more likely) dead, I will never know, but the penguin remained quite still and silent. More remarkable when one considers the bird had a chick to nourish. I returned to my tap-tapping on my laptop, only to look up later and find both bird(s) and keeper were gone. Perhaps they left in search of more tasty treats, fled security, or were merely a figment of my warped brain. Oh wait - the photo...

On a less intruiging note, I landed a guest starring role on CSI: New York which, coincidentally, films in LA. Less coicidentally, I played a creepy bad guy. The casting breakdown listed my role as "leathery skin and dangerous looking". A few more of these roles and I must surely be up for a Bond villain - or at the very least, "creepy bad guy" on CSI: Miami. Leads Gary Sinise and Eddie Cahill were a pleasure to work with.

Well that's my week. Now all I need is a bottle of Nesquik, a beard and a penguin...