Are you having trouble urinating?

Briefly....
I had an audition for an HBO series pilot last week.
I was up for the part of 'Urologist'.
The scene is set in an examination room where 'Urologist' is giving a rectal exam.
The line is, "So, are you having trouble urinating?"

They had me do it three different ways. The line, not the rectal exam. I don't know for sure, but I think there's only the one way to do an actual rectal exam. By a doctor, anyway.

(Do you remember the old joke? "It's bad enough to see the doc put on the rubber gloves. It's really bad when you notice he has both hands on your shoulders...")

Believe it or not, it's hard to audition a scene like that.

There are times when I can do a one line audition and know that I got it in the moment. That I was there and I believed it and I wasn't thinking about it or putting it on.
But for this deal, I had no context.
I didn't have a script prior to the casting.
I had no background on the part, the storyline or even a hint about what the show is about.... (feel free to add your own whiny noises here for a paragraph or so....)

I had a minute and a half to figure it out and do it.
But that should not be a problem for a good actor.

Me?

I sucked.
Right out loud.
In front of God and everybody.

I got to the audition. I auditioned.
Sometimes showing up is as good as it's gonna get.

But there are not enough opportunities to audition for an HBO series that I can afford to suck. That's the dream job right there.
Being involved in an HBO series?
I told my kids early on, that if I dared to dream a happy ending to all this acting stuff, it would be me in an HBO series.

Now, I realize that a future employer is probably not gonna say, "Oh! You were 'Urologist'?? I remember that scene...finger up the guy's butt, right? Dude you were awesome! Very believable."
But for a guy like me, just to have that on my resume, that would have been a very big deal.

So.
I gotta get better.

(Note to self...work on 'getting better' ...)
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I told you about getting cast in "Steam" with Val Kilmer and Eric Roberts, right?

I know I did.

I told everybody I've ever met that I got cast in that movie.

Within 24 hours of being cast, I hired a medium to perform a seance so I could tell my dear departed parents that I got that gig.

Here's what I haven't told you....

48 hours after being told I'd been cast, I got an e-mail from the casting director saying that it was possible that, just maybe, the casting wasn't cast in stone.

Uh...what?

I've spent the last few weeks believing the best and fearing the worst. I got the word that 5 other people who thought they'd been cast were not cast.

Oh alas and woe is me. This sucks so bad. I am generally up for humilty, but at my age, I'm not sure I can take much more humiliation....

Happiest man in America my ass.

I would have to find some place to go where I know no one.
How does one disappear from the face of the earth?
Leave no trace...
No forwarding address.
A slow and lonely death 'neath a railroad trestle, cradling an empty bottle of 20/20, lying in the detritus of broken glass and crushed dreams....

I got a call from the casting director late last week.

The director of the film wanted to meet with me in his suite at the Amway Grand Hotel in Grand Rapids last Saturday.

Oh dude.
Please don't ask me to come all the way to G.R. just to tell me you don't want me in your movie.
That would be cruel.

I really do not have a plan "B".

Nope. He just wanted to take a minute to say hello and to welcome me aboard. Looking forward working with you!

Dude. That was the most stressful three weeks I've ever had.
But I'm laughing.

'Cause, after all...I am The Happiest Man In America!
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"An ounce of behavior is worth a pound of words." Sanford Meisner

It's not about the job...

"You are a baddass. Be the baddass." Yours Truely

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My former father-in-law is a baddass.

He knew what he wanted in life and he worked all day every day to get it.

When he graduated from high school he drove a truck at night and worked at a gas station during the day.

He somehow convinced Ginny Rademacher, the prettiest girl in Westphalia, Michigan to be his bride.

(He'd be the first one to tell you a little bit of luck doesn't hurt in the least).

Early in their marriage he took a job building cars at Oldsmobile and figured out pretty quick that that was not his cup of tea. I think he lasted three days.

He had managed to save up a thousand dollars, and when he quit 'the Olds' and got himself a gig selling pots and pans door to door, he said, "Ginny, when that thousand dollars is gone, I'm gonna have to get a job."

That thousand dollars has been earning interest since about 1952. (Compound interest. Make no mistake.)

Oh man. That guy could sell.

But don't think for a minute he was only a salesman. (Not that there's anything wrong with that...but there was more to Gib Simon than selling stuff.)

In his spare time, he built a house. (He didn't hire sombody to build a house, he built the damn house.) Then he sold it and built another one. Then he built a couple of more houses and sold those too. About that time some sharp real estate guy talked him into getting his real estate license and Gibber talked a couple of people into letting him sell their houses. It wasn't too long before he got so busy selling houses that he had to quit his job selling pots and pans so he could sell houses all the time. (You know, when he wasn't building houses.)

He got his brokers license and hired some salespeople and opened an office. Then he hired some more salespeople and he developed some land and he kicked him some real estate ass! A bunch of sales people, three or four offices and a very success life in business.

And he loved every minute of it.

And the funniest thing, he made friends the whole time along the way. Lot's of people get to where they are by taking it from some one else. That wasn't ol' Gibbers cup of tea either. (Understand, if there's a dollar bill on the table, you're gonna have to take some time and prove to Gib that it isn't his. But if it isn't, there's never any bad feelings from him about it. He's happy to earn it.)

He was a business man during his working life. Business made sense to him. He understood it. He loved it. He had a passion for it.

He tried for years to get me to understand business, "It's easy, Douger. You got so much coming in and so much going out and what's left is yours!"

I liked Gib so I pretended to get it. It seemed simple enough, but I was lacking that essential business gene. Frankly, I sold a lot of stuff too, but I was never much of a salesman either. I was an actor. I acted like a salesman, (and that will get you down the road a piece), but I lacked that inner drive for the dough. My favorite part about sales was it gave me a steady supply of audience that hadn't heard my jokes. Pathetic. I was always about the love, and I tell you right now, the love's important. But I have found that it doesn't pay the bills. Not on time, anyway.

I could go on for days about Gib Simon: His strong Catholic faith. His undying work ethic. His ill-fated attempts to master golf. His basement workshop and woodworking hobby. His damned stubborn German bull-headedness. Slide-butt gin rummy; dandelion wine; his love for his family....

It's a common mistake for people to measure someone like Gib by the comfortable life he's made and the thickness of his wallet.

The wallet might have been a gift. But he had to fill it himself.

But the thing that's made Gib Gib is that he's had the testicular fortitude to take a risk and to believe that he could do something better. He didn't settle for pumping gas. (Again, nothing wrong with pumping gas. But don't be a gas pumper unless you love pumping gas. Or if it's gonna get you where you're looking to go.) He reached beyond his own grasp. He's conducted himself like a man, man.

So dude, what's the deal? You're writing about your ex father-in-law?? How's your girlfriend feel about that?

I'm not worried about it. I've been divorced a long time, and my girlfriend's a baddass, too.

But ol' Gibber's had some health issues lately. Oh, he's 'sitting up and taking nourishment' as I know he'd say. But he's not well. He might take kindly to a kind thought or a little prayer. (Expecially a good Catholic prayer, if you know one). And before I asked a bunch of people who don't know him to think a good thought for him or say a little prayer for him, (and believe me, he's invested enough prayers for other people over the years), I figured it would help you do that if you knew who he is.

He's a baddass. He's the happiest man in America, Emeritus.

Trust me. It's worth your time....
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I've quoted thus before, but it's good to see it again:

This excerpt from Terry Pratchett's wonderful novel "Moving Pictures", (quoted from Ginger, former milk maid and budding starlet on her desire to be the most famous person in the world)

"...the greatest tragedy in the whole word is all the people who never find out what it is they really want to do or what it is they're really good at. It's all the sons who become blacksmiths because their fathers were blacksmiths. It's all the people who could be really fantastic flute players who grow old and die without ever seeing a musical instrument, so they become bad ploughmen instead. It's all the people with talents who never even find out. Maybe they are never even born in a time when it's even possible to find out....It's all the people who never get to know what it is they can really be. It's all the wasted chances."

"It Don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing". Duke Ellington

dA

As close to porn as I'm likely to get...

I'm supposed to act like I would like to have sex with Kim Cattrell.

OK. I can do that.

I was called to audition for the part last Friday, and I worked on it all weekend. (Hey! I had to memorize both lines...)

The casting was yesterday in Southfield at Specs Howard.

(This process is so bizzare....)

The role was for an over-the-hill biker guy. Well, one of two over-the-hill biker guys. And I was ready for either one. Oh yeah...acting! (A thank you!!)

I got to the audition 5 minutes early. (Yes!) I took my number and I waited to get called. After an hour, I go in, hand in my head-shot and resume and the casting director says,

"Which part are you reading for?"

I say, (with confidence and the slightest hint of Ugly Guy attitude), "Ugly Guy 1 and Ugly Guy 2." (Because I got range, my friend!)

(A beat)

She says,"Um. Well." (A glance in my direction.) (Another beat.) "That's not gonna work."

(Deep breath.... It's cool, baby.... Stay the course...)

(Be the biker dude. Ommmm.)

I say, "Why not??" (Don't whine.), "I combed my hair funny and didn't shave or shower for four days to prepare for this part!" (Sell it, bro!) "Plus I memorized the lines! And I can say 'em really good, too! Both of 'em!"

{The audition scene takes place in a sleazy motel room where a porn video is about to be shot. The players in this particular scene include: The hero of the story, (a 19 year old kid who is in love with this porn star);

The Star herself;

The porn "director" and "crew";

and these two Biker Dudes. (The Biker Dudes are wearing underpants.)

(God, that's a funny word to use in conjunction with biker dudes. Underpants! Hah!)

They're preparing to shoot the scene. The 19 year old takes off his pants and he's wearing a sparkly thong. He removes the thong, and my lines are:

Ugly Guy 1: "Woo-hoo! Are you sure this ain't a gay video??"

Ugly Guy 2: "Put a wig on him. I'll do him, too!"

(Swear to god, I got those lines down!)}

(And please note: This part I'm auditioning for is for a full budget SAG film. We're not screwing around here.... Well, we are. But not for fun! It's a real, legit movie.)

I'm ready, but the casting director says, "I don't want to waste your time. You're just not ugly."

Well, that's just swell. A compliment, I suppose. Something I can add to my resume. But still, I have to confess, I am a bit dissapointed.

Not being ugly: IT DON'T PUT FOOD ON THE COT-DANGED TABLE! (To use the vernacular.)
This is the third time in two weeks I have been sent on an audition that isn't gonna work. (Bitch and moan, bitch and moan...)

Undaunted, I asked to read the parts anyway. (Because you just don't know, do you?)

The casting director acquiesced.

Naturally, I was awesome.

She said, "Nice. Real nice." (The proverbial beat..) "Too bad you're not uglier."

Yes. Yes it is....

Hey. Not the right role. I guess we've all had that experience in life....

Don't get me wrong, I apprectiate getting the call. ("I'm just happy to have been nominated...") I really am glad that they're thinking of me and keeping my picture near the top of the pile. And I mean that.

With some luck, next time they'll be looking for a handsome, (or at least a 'not ugly') 50-ish Irish man with a sense of humor and destiny a-waiting!

Hey, a man can dream, can't he?

What?? It could happen!!

Now here goes me, The Happiest Man In America, keeping the faith 'till next time!

Better days ahead!!

dA

Doug's (don't call me) Chicken Chili

What happened to my summer? I turned on the TV the other night and what the hell was that?

Football?

This in the first week of August?

We should be humming 'Boat-Floatin' songs or listening to the Tigers on the radio while we put sliced ring-bologna, Vidalia onion and Pinconning cheese on saltines, crack open ice cold Little Kings from the cooler and bob along on Lake Louise with a fishing line trailing out the back of the pontoon boat.

What parallel universe have I stumbled into? Is this a place where they trick-or-treat on the Fourth of July? Is Santa making his way down from the North Pole to put presents around the Labor Day Tree? Is someone going to put Saran Wrap on my toilet seat, jump out of a closet and yell "August Fool's Day!"?

I know ... I'm going a little overboard. No need to get all girly and hysterical.

Fact is, it was just pre-season football. And, when I think about it, it's only a few weeks sooner than I would've normally anticipated its arrival.

And it was the Detroit Lions, (who just barely count as a football team ....)

Understand, I love football. You know I watched the game. It was football, after a fashion, and I'm still just a testosterone-powered boy from the midwest deep down. In fact the only thing I don't like about the coming of football season is that it's a painful sign that summer's about to breathe it's last and another northern winter is a-comin' hard on it's heels, compete with 5 months of sub-freezing temps and 6 measley hours of grey-shrouded daylight days.

But I'm from Michigan. When I watch football I don't expect to peek out the window and see a sun-burnt-brown lawn and unfinished yard projects!

And Hootchie Mama! Right now it's dog-days hot! It's air-conditioning-on-full-all-night-long hot in my part of the state!

It's not like I live in Arizona where it's always hot! Talk to me about Arizona after Christmas when God meant for you to be somewhere hot! You know, like for a bowl game!

Football is the only sign my poor friends in Florida get that the season has changed out of summer and into fall. Well, that and the rise in hotel prices in anticipation of the arrival of the migratory Snowbirds.

{In truth, Florida and Michigan's Upper Peninsula are quite similar in this respect: they both have only two actual seasons;

In Florida you have your Summer Season, (also known as your Hurricane Season), which runs from June through about the middle of October and is celebrated in many small Florida towns by the traditional frying-of-the-egg-on-the-sidewalk bit, (which is still a crack-up no matter how many times you've seen it). Then you have your Tourist Season, which comes on around mid-October, builds up a full head of steam about a week before Christmas and hurtles head-long into the sub-season of Spring Break, (which is the begining-of-the-end and the absolute how-we-gonna-get-outta-here damned acme-peak of Tourist Season). The end of Spring Break in mid-May is observed in many ocean-front communities by the traditional 'clean up the beach and empty the jails of those damn college kids' celebration and parade. Very quaint.

By contrast, (and as the old joke goes), Michigan's Upper Peninsula's two seasons are known as Winter and about two weeks in August known as Bad Snowmobiling.

By even further contrast, in John McCain's home state of Arizona, they have three seasons: The Hot Season; the Damn! It's Hot Season and The I'll Be Go To Hell I believe I'm Fixing to Fry Out Here Season. (In case you're scoring at home).}

(And once again I digress... my apologies.)

One of the things I love most about regular football season (aside from my buddy Jay's 50 yard-line seats at Spartan Stadium) is the slow fade of summer heat into crisp, clear fall weather and the natural and healthy desire to cook up enough of something to feed 10 or 20 of your closest friends so they have something to wash down with their favorite libations prior to, during and after the big game.

And that's the reason I called: To begin the football-tailgate-recipe series!

Up this week: Doug's (Don't Call Me) Chicken Chili! You'll find it posted on the right hand side of this blog page, thanks to my eldest daughter, Miss Tia Leah, (ain't she cute?), who cut and pasted it over there off an e-mail I sent her, along with my other recipes.

('Cause I don't know how to do it myself yet. Don't laugh at me...she's gonna send directions....)

But first, this reminder to ask that you click on the latest 'Google Ads' you'll also find on the right side of the page, or peruse a book or song choice from one of the many slide shows you'll find on the blog site. It costs you nothing to click unless you buy something cool, (if that should suit your fancy).

I thank you, my many children and grandchildren thank you, my girlfriend thanks you and of course my ex-wife thanks you, too.
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For the record: I can do a German accent. Unfortunately, it's mostly reminiscent of Sgt. Schultz from "Hogan's Hero's" and not what you would call 'believable'. So when I got a call earlier this past week to audition for the principle role of "German Obstetrician" for the soon-to-be-made-for-TNT-true-story-movie about world famous neuro-surgeon Dr. Ben Carson (starring Cuba Gooding, Jr!), I called the referring agent and asked if they were looking for someone who could actually do a believable German accent.

"Nope. They asked for you specifically. I assume it's because you look kind of German".

Oh. Really. Well, who am I to argue? (Or should I say, "Ja volt, Herr Commandant!"?)

The first question I asked the casting agent when I got in to the audition was, "So you don't need a German accent for this role, huh?"

"Yeah you do. He's German." (She didn't call me 'dumb-ass', but I could see it in her eyes...)

Well hell. I was already there, right? I wasn't going to make that 130 mile round trip and not read! I gave it the old college try, with predictable results. (I know nothing! Nothing!!)

If they reprise Hogan's Hero's, though, I got a shot.

I was seriously steamed at my agent for just making stuff up. But the Casting Director was great. All was not lost. She, (Carrie Ray by the way. What a peach!), found another role for me to read for and really went out of her way to get me on tape for the producer. And it may work out yet. I got an e-mail from her this afternoon to let me know she thought it went very well and she sent it out to the producer Friday.

So be cool, fool. You don't know what can happen if you give it a shot. 80% of life is just showing up. (The other 30% is math)....
dA

Reality Bites

"Can you take me to the store
and then the bank?
I've got five dollars we can put in the tank.
I got a court date comin' in June.
I'll be drivin' soon....
Passenger side.
Passenger si-hide.
I don't like ridin'
on the passenger side."
(From the song "Passenger Side" by Wilco, from their A.M. album.)
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I was enjoying a quiet time with my girlfriend Tracy a few evenings ago.
I was reading a book at the end of a long day of yard work and house puttering: Lawn mowed in the early August sun; A long walk with our greyhound, Candy; Linguine Alchini, successfully prepared and enjoyed by all. I may have even sipped a glass of California Chardonnay with supper....

OK. At least a glass. You know as well as I know that wine only ages well before it's uncorked.
I'm not even sure if you can re-chill a nice California Chardonnay, (never having had the opportunity). Besides, I don't want to know if you can re-chill wine, because even if you can, I'm not sure you should....

The point is, I was relaxed....

Very relaxed....

It was that time of the evening when the eyelids begin to succumb to gravity...
...breath slow and even...
...thoughts drowsy and content...
...moving inexorably towards the Land of Nod....

And then, from Tracys side of the bed:

"So. What's your five-year plan?"

(Damn. Quiet now. Don't move. Don't think. Don't react.)

A beat.

(That's good. Breathe steady. Eyes closed. "I'm sleeping. See? See how still I am?)

(Oh Christ! Don't BLINK you idiot!)

A beat.

Another beat....

From Tracys side again, "Okay. How about your two year plan?"

(Was that sarcasm? Did I hear just the slightest hint of ridicule in that question?!?)

"Can you even tell me what you're doing tomorrow?"

(Oh yeah. Definitely sarcasm.)

Sigh...

Like most men, I believe a relationship works best when I'm being admired for my brilliance, adored for my wisdom, and appreciated for my strength of character, superior sense of humor and unmatched ability to win friends and influence people.

I like to rest secure in the sure knowledge and confident that, against all evidence to the contrary, that's who she believes I am.

A man, man.

It never fails to come as a shock to find out: she's on to me.

From time to time a woman has to call you out. (Right out loud). (But, if you're lucky, not in front of God and everybody.)

For the most part, Tracy, like most women, feels she's done well if she can go a day without her man embarrassing her in public.

(It's not that women have low standards. It's just that...well... experience speaks boldly and refuses to shut the hell up. And, fortunately for most of us men, their options are limited.)

(How do you think Laura Bush handles it? She must go to bed every night thinking, "Well, at least he's not Dick Cheney.")

So. Goals. Plans. Ambitions.

Goals have to be measurable and realistic enough to be attainable.
I spent thirty years in sales. I understand the concept.
What scares me a little is trying to apply the concept to acting for money.

Being a man and having chosen to go into the acting profession rather late in life, deep down I want to say, "My goal is to be the next Tom Hanks. All I have to do is go on x auditions a week!"

Man, I'll audition for anything they'll let me audition for. Unfortunately, they're willing to go get the actual Tom Hanks for those roles.

(So, you'd audition to play Adolf Hitler in a production for the Hitler Youth??
UH, YEAH. And I'd kill that mother.)

(I mean, not for not for community theatre. I gotta get paid, dude.)

Generally speaking, I just want to find somebody who will pay me to take my picture.

Inside I believe I am an artist.

I occasionally confess it out loud.

I will boldly say that I am doing what I believe I am meant to do.
I am pursuing not just a dream, but my life calling, such as it is.

How do you measure that?

When do you know you've attained that?

All you can do is what you can do.

And how do you answer that question of planning from someone you love without revealing how inept and unprepared and un...worthy you feel deep down inside?

"Well as a part of my plan, I expect to be an "A" list Hollywood actor within five years. Here then are my action steps..."

I feigned sleep successfully for a night. But I have to tell you, I've not really been sleeping well since then.

Because she's right.

(God I hate that).

For two plus years I've done the best I can with what I have. And I am not ashamed of what I've been able to accomplish so far.

When I started I didn't know how to get an acting job. I had no idea how to even find an agent.

I had a sort of a plan that included keeping the job I had and working into this whole thing slowly...figure it out...save some dough and simplify my lifestyle.

One, two, three, JUMP!

So much for that idea.

For a variety of reasons I had to jump on 'one...' or not at all.

And 'not at all' was not an option.

So now I need to revisit goals.

I will tell you this, I have no goals that do not start with being a full-time professional actor.
That's it for me.

That being said, I have now gotten enough experience (and I am now broke enough) to understand that I need to find ways to supplement my income.

Get a car that works. (And keep it working)
Pay my share for the food I eat and the resources I consume.
Put myself in a position to wish my children and grandchildren Happy Birthday and Merry Christmas with a gift instead of just a phone call.
Get your hair cut when it gets too long, go to the dentist when your teeth need cleaning, replace your clothes when they wear out and don't whine like a little bitc... don't whine about the process.

I was talking to a friend of mine about all this a few days ago.
I mentioned the kindness and concern of friends who have offered support and my reluctance to take them up on their generosity.
I keep thinking that I'm doing what I have been created to do. I'll do the acting and God will take care of the rest.

My friend told me an old story you may have heard, but it hit home in a different way for me that day.

It seems there was a guy who got caught in a flood and he climbed up on his roof for safety.
He was a religious guy and he prayed to God to save him.
Just then a neighbor came by in a row boat and said, "Hey man! Hop in."
And the guy said, "No, I'll be okay. God will take care of me."

And the water got higher.

Then the National Guard came by with a helicopter and they lowered a line and he shouted up to them,
"No thanks! I'll be okay! God'll take care of me!"

Then he fell off the roof and drowned.

And God looked at him and said, "Dude," (God's got a sense of humor about religion), "I sent you a boat. I sent you a helicopter. What's your problem?"

No problem dude.

I'm gettin' there.

And I couldn't be happier about it.

Happiest damn man in America, muchacho.

So don't get in my way....
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By the way. I have been informed that I can make a little walking-around money whenever you visit the site if you take a moment and "click" on the Google ads you'll find on the right side of the page, below my acting resume and the recipes. And don't forget, you can also buy books (off the slide-show at the bottom of the page) and music (mp3 downloads and actual CD's and vinyl, even) from the slide shows by the Google ads. So come on. Do it. You know you want to. And remember, by clicking and buying, you're supporting the artist, if not actually the arts.....dA