Healthy and Good

I went to help buddy Cliff Simon on a shoot recently and we stopped at a gas station for snacks. Among the usual assortment of chocolates and candy, I spotted this (how could I miss it?). A stand offering bananas. Not just any kind of banana, mind you, but fresh, healthy bananas. It even called them "good". Yum. I like bananas. Offer me a banana: I'll take it. Leave me in a room alone with a banana and lemme tell you - only one of us is coming out alive. You might even call me a banaddict.

Anyway, clearly one of the yellow fellows was well past his prime. And not in a "passed in the night" kind of way. More in the "dead for a week" kind of way. It was black, for crying out loud and bloody conspicuous. How the heck does one miss such a thing? Admittedly the guy behind the checkout was a little slow, as in weed slow. But surely he's not the only person in the store? Did no-one notice the thing? I find that hard to believe. Nay, impossible. I reckon he or one of his stoned San Bernadino cronies did spot the offending fruit and simply ignored it, too lazy to chuck it out. Instead, they left it for an unsuspecting/complaining customer to bring it to the counter for them.

It's not as if Chiquita Bananas are directly responsible for the lies on their stand. (For they become lies once the bananas go rotten) But on some level, they should shoulder the blame. Who actually delivers on their promises? In this case, clearly Chiquita did not. What's worse, of course, is the flood of TV ads promising to cure your headache, back pain, joint pain, sleeplessness, erectile disfunction, give you fewer periods or more hair. All sound wonderous and full of hope, yet the side effects, more often than not, include the very symptoms you're trying to alleviate. Anti-nausea drugs may cause nausea. Headache tablets may cause headaches. Anti-depression medication may lead to suicidal thoughts. How the f%$&* do all these things get approved the FDA (Farcical Drug Administration) if they can cause such hazardous or even lethal side effects?

It's all down to business, of course and the pharmaceutical companies are the biggest business, alongside WMD production. So they can push their products through, grease the right palms and it's business as usual. Maybe in 1980, but in 2009 it's still happening? They're not protecting us, the public. They're protecting the health of their stocks and patents. Every week I see a new TV ad from a law firm declaring a major suit against a drug company. "If you or a loved one became ill or died while taking XXX, call the law offices of..." Has no-one learned from all this? The sicker we are, the more it costs to treat us. That costs the economy in the long run. And the worse off all of us are, as States fall into bankruptcy and disrepair.

But we won't see change as long as drug companies and politicians see only as far as the next quarter. And the worse conditions get, the more they'll push their snake oils. I wouldn't be surprised if we see the emergence of infomercial style drug ads. Pfizer's own Billy Mays, shouting "Limp dick? I've got your card; Viagra's the pill that gets you hard! Call now and we'll even throw in these edible panties. That's a $20 value, absolutely free!"

Socks in Crocs

Went to the Coldplay concert last night, which was fantastic. We were in the pit, so got a great view of the band. I also got a great view of one of the patrons leaving wearing crocs with socks, which is never a good look. And an excellent view of another gent heaving his guts out 2 feet behind me. Personally, I didn't think the concert was that bad, but I guess people have different tastes.

Speaking of crocs (the chomping kind), you can catch me in killer croc movie Primeval on FX, today at 1pm and 7pm. And I'm in Creepy Gid repeats on CSI:NY on Tuesday at 1pm and 5pm. Without repeats, I'd just be repeating myself, in that I have nothing else to report. Although I did discover a store in Pasadena which sells, amongst other oddities, stone hands, scarab beetles and a stuffed beaver. Quite why you would want one or all of the above is beyond me, but, for the man/woman who has everything, I know a place...

Come to think of it, I have always wanted a stuffed crow. Since I was a kid, I dreamed of owning one. Why stuffed? So it wouldn't fly away, have to be fed or mess on the floor. Perhaps these are commitment issues. Perhaps simply a small window into the mind of a creepy young man who would grow up to play creepy roles on television and film. Perhaps...perhaps.

Just Another Bloody Day at the Office

I was going to call this entry "Michael Jackson Made Me Fat". But that seemed in poor taste, even if it is somewhat accurate. Here's the thing - my gym is on Hollywood Blvd, just on the other side of Mann's Chinese Theatre. In other words, juuust past MJ's star on the Walk of Fame. Which is all fine and dandy, except for the throngs of people both on foot and in vehicles, clogging up the roadways.

It's been nearly impossible to get through them to get to gym for nearly a week. In fact, I've made it through only once. And once a week does not a 6-pack make. I can feel myself getting softer by the hour. It might be insensitive to cut through the masses with a machete, but hey - "I'm tryin' ta work, here!" And casting peeps are looking for fit creeps. I don't go up for creepy slobs or chunky stalkers. It aint me. Nor is this pseudo East Coast accent.

So why the pic? Well, it's from a recent gig and hey, I hadn't posted a pic of me in a while, so there you go. Except for the one with bike - and that pretty much cast me as a background performer. Which I'm not, okay? Okay. Moving on...

What else? I just completed narrating The Atrocity Archives, a rather fun sci-fi novel and am set to voice another video game next week. So things are looking peachy, despite the industry slow-down. Just waiting on that cheeky recurring creep of a role. I know he's out there somewhere...

Miami Heat

It's been a busy patch after a rather dry spell. And, as if to drive hom the point, I have been caught in a number of rain showers. I've been in Miami for the past week or so, working on a TV show. Really humid here, if you don't already know that fact. So humid, in fact, that on my first day of filming, I was close to brain dead by lunch time. Fortunately I got through a rather lengthy scene, chock full of dialogue and am a tad more acclimatized than I was.

This is me in between showers in what I quickly learned, is the rainy season. I traveled with my folding bike for the first time and have had great fun tooling around the hood of Coconut Grove, where I'm stationed. (Note el cheapo plastic bag on the seat for weather protection) Today I stopped for my first ice cream in over a year, which was a ridiculously good Argentine chocolate flavor. Yum.

Have 10 pages to shoot tomorrow, so keeping this brief. Just to let you know I'm still alive and kicking (though somewhat slower in this oppressive heat). Nice role, too. For once in my acting life, I don't come to a grisly end. Will share more details once it's all in the can.

American Accents

For years, I foolishly watched American television. I endured marathon sessions of Airwolf, Golden Girls and Magnum. I purchased my own copy of Gotcha, so as to replay the scenes where Anthony Edwards teaches Linda Fiorentino about Roots Beer floats and Big Macs. I would sit there, blurry-eyed from hours of study, absorbing as much as I possibly could, before passing out and being woken by the dog licking my face. As time went on, and we got satellite TV, I even sat through weeks of the first Iraq war on CNN, just to hear Wolf Blitzer's scholarly tones.

Little did I know that there was another, quicker and more effective way to learn an american accent; indeed, any American accent. The solution? Furniture. But not any kind of furniture. Oh no. You can't sit your ass down on a pine dining chair and expect a transformation. There's only one kind of material to help master an American accent. And that's wicker, my friends. Good old, time-trusted wicker. Like a good neighbor, wicker is there. Or maybe that's State Farm.

Anyways, I thought about getting an armchair and then I thought "Why not get the whiole dinette set, too?" So I did. Well, I tried to. Fact is, it's not furniture they're advertising, but paint. Spray paint. No matter. I bought a couple cans, but after a month spraying my throat with "ocean blue" and "matte black", I sound no more American than when I brought it home. Though I am sounding a little more hoarse. And the nausea's killing me.

But maybe that's how it starts! The transformation might already have begun. This will be handy at my next audition - I can just throw a can in my bag and have a quick pfffft before I go in! Gonna sign off and go spray again. I just wish I had a can of "pearl white". I could give myself a movie star smile at the same time!

Klingons and Corpses

There are many strange and interesting sights on offer in a town such as Hollywood. Today, I offer you a glimpse of but two. Strolling to my local coffee shop, I passed this gentleman, lying sprawled on the sidewalk. Still recovering from a heavy night of drinking, no doubt. Returning home an hour or so later, the man was still prone and passed out. Or possibly dead. He did fit the very stereotype of a chalk-outlined corpse. And in that, I took some solace. If he was really expired, I am sure his position would have been far more ghastly.

The following day, en route to watch a certain film, I was accosted by 3 peculiarly dressed thugs. They were speaking in foreign tongue and brandishing weapons. As I passed by, they became aware of my presense. (Although, I suspect they were aware of me all along) I surreptitiously snapped this photo, before moving on. Only in the comfort of my home, hours later, did it hit me. These men were undoubtedly responsible for the sprawled man's demise!

Phew. Another lucky escape. You gotta watch Hollywood, people. Turn your back for a second and it'll stab you with a spork.

Men Who Wear Masks (and other tales)

As I left my apartment building this afternoon, I was greeted in the lobby by a man cutting a woman's hair. There are 2 things I find disturbing about this encounter. The first is obvious: giving a haircut in a public thoroughfare is, well, creepy. The second thing that irked me was the blase greeting: "Hey there, how you doing?" As if this was the most normal sight in the world.

Now I don't know about you, but if you're going to have someone cut your hair, professional or otherwise, do it in a salon. If you don't have access to a salon, do it in a private room. Away from prying eyes. And people who might be perturbed by strangers' follicles falling to the very stretch of floor you have to cross to get from the front door to the elevator. Note that there was no special mat or assistant sweeping up the brown locks; they were landing in delicate abandon on the bare floor.

I thought at first there must be a shoot going on. One of those "ambush make-overs" they have for breakfast TV, but, alas, no camera crew in sight. I was further disappointed by the fact I had an appointment to get to and thus could not engage the "stylist" in the health implications of such an event and who the heck was gonna clean up this hairy mess?! It won't be my fellow tenants, who see fit on occasion to walk their barking dogs after midnight and stomp out cigarettes in the passages.

With my own private GFR (Gideon Freakout Rating) reaching code red, I breathed deeply and headed for the car. Safely straddling the 101, I felt a little calmer, until it became apparent that the car behind me contained a robber. The driver had a mask on to conceal their identity. Easing off the gas (to afford myself a closer view), I realized that the driver was a man and his mask was of the surgical variety. I thought immediately of the dreaded Swine Flu and looked for other passengers in the car. None. Unless his girlfriend was in the terminal stage and curled up in the footwell, Masky was travelling solo. (He was also driving a Honda S2000, so had no backseat for a hidden person to lie on)

So why the mask? Surely if he did have flu, he would only need the mask around other people. Then I figured that perhaps he'd just had some kind of facial surgery. Rhinoplasty or a particularly aggressive Restylane session. But then he'd simply have a surgical dressing, wouldn't he? Maybe, like me, he simply prefers his dressing on the side. In the current pandemic pandemonium, a surgical mask tells people you're cautious, sensible, with a family to protect. As opposed to vain and insecure, with a desperate need to alter your appearance. Or maybe it's the latest fashion trend and I've been left behind. Yet again.

Maybe...