HOW I ALMOST GOT A LINE IN THE FILM "THE NAKED GUN"
A tale from the late '80s when I did extra work to try and get a line so I could get my union SAG card.
As a general rule big crowd scenes are no fun for extras. My friend Christopher and I were both booked for a scene at Dodger Stadium for the original NAKED GUN movie. The scene is pretty famous now, but at the time--it just felt like a long day sitting in the sun. Someone was trying to kill Queen Elizabeth and actress Jeanette Charles looked like she was doing a great job playing the queen—at least from afar. Of course Leslie Nielsen and Priscilla Presley where there, and Reggie Jackson was one of the players. I don’t remember seeing O.J. Simpson, but no loss. Anyway, there were a ton of us playing fans and we just had to sit and stand and occasionally cheer. Christopher had brought his walk-man and was letting me use it for a while. The music was blasting through the headset, but it didn’t matter, we were so far from the action. All I had to do was stand and cheer when everyone else did. We were all standing when I heard one of my favorite songs come on. I said something way too loud to Christopher. I was shocked when everyone laughed and turned to look at me, including the Zucker brothers who were directing. Apparently everyone had been told to be dead silent as the crowd pretended to be listening to the National Anthem. In the middle of that is when me, a guy wearing a headset, shouted with great passion “God I love this song!” It was a complete accident but very appropriate for NAKED GUN humor. I was told the Zucker brothers thought it was funny, and discussed it for a minute, but decided they didn’t have time to set up cameras to capture that shot. Close call--I almost accidentally got my line.
As a general rule big crowd scenes are no fun for extras. My friend Christopher and I were both booked for a scene at Dodger Stadium for the original NAKED GUN movie. The scene is pretty famous now, but at the time--it just felt like a long day sitting in the sun. Someone was trying to kill Queen Elizabeth and actress Jeanette Charles looked like she was doing a great job playing the queen—at least from afar. Of course Leslie Nielsen and Priscilla Presley where there, and Reggie Jackson was one of the players. I don’t remember seeing O.J. Simpson, but no loss. Anyway, there were a ton of us playing fans and we just had to sit and stand and occasionally cheer. Christopher had brought his walk-man and was letting me use it for a while. The music was blasting through the headset, but it didn’t matter, we were so far from the action. All I had to do was stand and cheer when everyone else did. We were all standing when I heard one of my favorite songs come on. I said something way too loud to Christopher. I was shocked when everyone laughed and turned to look at me, including the Zucker brothers who were directing. Apparently everyone had been told to be dead silent as the crowd pretended to be listening to the National Anthem. In the middle of that is when me, a guy wearing a headset, shouted with great passion “God I love this song!” It was a complete accident but very appropriate for NAKED GUN humor. I was told the Zucker brothers thought it was funny, and discussed it for a minute, but decided they didn’t have time to set up cameras to capture that shot. Close call--I almost accidentally got my line.
THE GENE KELLY STORY!
When I first became a member of the Screen Actors Guild (SAG), their Annual Lifetime Achievement Award ceremonies weren’t televised. It was 1988 and the award was going to iconic movie musical star Gene Kelly. This little gay boy was thrilled—SINGING IN THE RAIN, FOR ME AND MY GAY, THE PIRATE, ON THE TOWN, AN AMERICAN IN PARIS—to name a small fraction of the reasons why I was borderline wetting my pants in anticipation of just being in the same room as him. The ceremony was at the Sheraton Hotel by Universal Studios. I was too poor to pay to park at the hotel, so I parked way down the hill and walked up. If you’re unfamiliar, it’s far and tacky to hike up the hill in nice clothes because everyone can tell you're not going to Universal Studios--you're just cheap. As I was getting close to the front of the hotel a limo pulled up right in front of me and out came Mr. Gene Kelly himself with a giant smile and his hand out to shake. I was in shock—words were coming out of my mouth, but no idea what they were as we walked and talked to the hotel entrance. They gave us a big greeting and we were ushered into the room where the ceremony was happening. I couldn’t believe Gene Kelly was still chatting me up. No one was pulling him away and sending me in the direction towards where the peons sat. No, I was graciously seated right next to Gene Kelly himself for the entire evening. It finally hit me that Mr. Kelly must have thought I was a guy sent to greet him and be his “person” for the night, and the hotel / SAG folk thought that I came in the limo with Mr. Kelly as his guest. Once I figured it out I decided a correction would be embarrassing for all parties involved so… I went with it, and had an unforgettable night hanging with Gene Kelly while he received his Lifetime Achievement Award. Sometimes being cheap pays off.
Teenage Deception & a Boat Load of Celebrities: My Brief but Dazzling "Career" as a "Reporter" for KENLEY PLAYERS
True confession, I was a star-struck kid. And I'm not talking just a little bit, like majorly. For my first 15 years of life, television was my only reliable outlet for this obsession. I was basically a walking TV GUIDE for pretty much the entire 1970s decade. I knew what show was on when and which channel. I luxuriated in classic movies, especially the musicals. I kept a log of which ones I’d seen and who starred in them. I cut out clippings of stars in the newspaper and put them in albums. I had it bad and I embraced it.
Selecting what to watch on TV was torture because there was no VCR, no DVR, no way to record. At times it was a SOPHIE’S CHOICE level of angst as I studied my options each evening. Sometimes I didn’t get to choose, so I’d be stuck watching something like GUNSMOKE, which I liked, hello--Miss Kitty, but still! When the television dial was mine, a well pondered decision was essential. I was actually thankful for reruns because they allowed you to catch another show guilt free. And if you weren’t home--you missed it. I was tortured that my mom always wanted to go out on Friday night... the night THE BRADY BUNCH and THE PARTRIDGE FAMILY was on! Sheer agony.
Then I discovered Kenley Players. I was obsessed. Kenley Players was a theater circuit that went through Columbus and a few other Ohio towns all summer. Each week was a different show starring.... a real life TV or movie star! It was all the brainchild of producer John Kenley who was quite an intriguing character. I later found out he was intersex or, as it was politically incorrectly called, a hermaphrodite. He was John Kenley in Columbus during the summer. In the winter he lived in Palm Springs as Joan. He died at age 103. Someone needs to make a movie about John / Joan.
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I lived in Grove City, which was considered a hillbilly suburb of Columbus at the time (now it’s unrecognizably big and quaint) but it was only 6 or 7 miles from Columbus straight up Interstate 71N. Doable, but a driver was required. Challenge one. Challenge two, I couldn’t afford the shows so I had to be super well behaved, suck up and do whatever necessary to possibly guilt my way to get to go to one or two shows a summer.
Again, I had to pick verrrry wisely. I saw Vincent Price in DAMN YANKEES (with Pia Zadora as Lola). There was Harvey Korman in NORMAN, IS THAT YOU?, Kitty Carlisle and Don Ameche in MAME, Hal Linden and Delores Gray in KISMET, Cab Calloway in BUBBLING BROWN SUGAR! and Paul Lynde in DON’T DRINK THE WATER. But it was Karen Valentine and Rose Marie in BUS STOP that changed my world.
Again, I had to pick verrrry wisely. I saw Vincent Price in DAMN YANKEES (with Pia Zadora as Lola). There was Harvey Korman in NORMAN, IS THAT YOU?, Kitty Carlisle and Don Ameche in MAME, Hal Linden and Delores Gray in KISMET, Cab Calloway in BUBBLING BROWN SUGAR! and Paul Lynde in DON’T DRINK THE WATER. But it was Karen Valentine and Rose Marie in BUS STOP that changed my world.
I had just turned 16 and was the first of my friends to be able to drive, so challenge one was now--how to borrow a car, which was at least easier than getting a driver and a car. I was standing in line after BUS STOP to get Karen and Rose Marie’s autograph, when I overheard some people talking about how they had come to the theater earlier that day and interviewed the stars because they were press. They even got free tickets to the show. WHAT?!!! I subtly pumped them for all the relative information. The seed of my scheme was potted, planted and very quickly took root. Before long I waltzed in the front door of the theater with the rest of the press to interview Ann Miller and Bobby Van in ANYTHING GOES. I brought along my bestie Patrick Barnes. We came armed with a tape recorder and camera because that’s what reporters have, right? We used one of those old clunky cassette tape recorders like teachers had in school--It must have been Pat’s because I know I didn’t have one. But I had my own camera. It was super cheap with a flip flash. It took terrible photos, but it was mine. I told the office worker that we were from a really big high school and that we wanted to write a story about Ann Miller. It was that easy. We were in! We were handed 2 FREE tickets to that night’s show and waited for our turn to interview Ms. Miller. Again, I was 16, Pat was still 15 and we looked like we were 14. We had prepared nothing. We never thought it through that we actually needed to ask these people questions. My memory is Ms. Miller sat at a table on stage all dressed up. She looked flawless except she had tissue stuffed all around the collar of her blouse to keep the thick make-up off it. She never took the tissue out for any of the interviews. Her hair was a massive ravin-black swoop and there was a ton of hairspray involved in its construction. I’m guessing it was a wig but maaaaybe it was hers? Flies kept circling her hair because I think they were attracted to the hairspray. Her hair was massive and most of its bulk was far from her face, so Ms. Miller didn’t seem to notice the flies. I have no memory of what we asked her or what we talked about. It was all I could do to make sound come out of my mouth. But we were so young that she must have taken pity on us and was very elegant and lovely. I just would have ditched the tissue. I remember we also talked to Bobby Van and he was just fun and comfortable. We got through it and for the rest of that glorious summer we were IN!
The Hudson Brothers
Wounded McLean Stevenson
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Carol Lawrence
Ed Ames
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Hottie Peter Strauss
Friend Inge Combs, Patrick Barnes
Nanette Fabray & me |
We interviewed everyone that hit town that 1977 Kenley Players season. There was the Hudson Brothers (Mark, Bill & Brett) in GODSPELL. I just remember they sat in a row in the theater and we talked to all three of them at once. They were groovy. Carol Lawrence was in SWEET CHARITY. She was super gracious and friendly. Peter Strauss in HEAVEN CAN WAIT was hot off of doing RICH MAN, POOR MAN on TV and this little gay boy had a crush on him. We interviewed him in his dressing room. Again, I don’t know what we said, it was probably as lame as “I really liked you in RICH MAN, POOR MAN” but he was charming. I have a vague memory that he talked about gardening or am I just thinking of a Miracle Gro commercial he did later? We interviewed McLean Stevenson from M.A.S.H. who was in MAKE A MILLION and I remember he was thirsty. There was a soda machine somewhere backstage, so we bought him a “pop” as we call it in Ohio. He cut his hand when he opened the can--on one of those old metal tabs you had to pull off. He sat in his dressing room and bled as we talked to him, but he couldn’t have been nicer either. Ed Ames was in FIDDLER ON THE ROOF--a sweetheart. Plus there was Tom Bosley and Nanette Fabray in NEVER TOO LATE--Hello?! Mr. Cummingham in HAPPY DAYS and a real life MGM musical star--sheer bliss. (A pre-NEWHART Julia Duffy was in that one too).
The biggest movie star that season was Rock Hudson in CAMELOT! For some reason Pat wasn’t with me for a couple interviews--he went to Germany on an exchange trip or for choir or something, so I was doing Rock Hudson solo. Or so I thought. Mr. Hudson didn’t do individual interviews. He sat in a chair and we all had to ask him questions like a true press conference. I noticed he had a hot young guy with him. Now I was naive and hadn’t heard even a peep of a rumor that Rock Hudson was gay, but I was gay and well, I think I’ve proven to the world that I have gaydar (anyone want to buy a Gaydar Gun?). I watched that young guy and how he and Rock sometimes would sneak a look at each other and it hit me---oh my God---Rock Hudson is gay! While he was sitting for a real Columbus TV interview with a fancy camera and everything, I thought I’d whip out my flip flash camera and take myself a little photo of Rock Hudson. I had no idea that the flash would ruin the camera shot. I snapped the photo and immediately Mr. Hudson screamed--”Who took that flash picture?! Who took it?!!”. By some miracle no one was looking my direction, so no one saw me do it. I hid my Instamatic real fast... but I have the picture (see above) and I left armed with the news scoop that heart throb Rock Hudson was gay! Of course I couldn’t tell anyone because then I’d be outing myself, but I loved knowing just the same.
Linda Kaye Henning, Me & Cloris Leachman
I had to wait to the end of the season to meet the person I was most looking forward to, the deliciously funny and fantastic Cloris Leachman, who was starring in WONDERFUL TOWN. Linda Kaye Henning from PETTICOAT JUNCTION was in it to. I was still flying solo and got to interview Linda at the theater--she was lovely to me, but Cloris asked to do her interviews the next day at the hotel where she was staying. So I got to see the show that night and afterwards Linda made sure I got a photo with Cloris which really heightened my excitement to meet her for real in the morning. I could hardly sleep.
They gave me the earliest time--probably because they just wanted to get me over with and out of the way. I so looooved Cloris on THE MARY TYLER MOORE SHOW. It was my favorite show and I didn’t bestow that award lightly. When I got to her hotel room the door was ajar. I could hear Cloris talking but no one else. I didn’t know what to do. I waited for a little bit but it was my time for the interview so I thought, maybe I’m suppose to knock, so I did. She just yelled “Come in”. She was on the phone and kept on talking. I sat on a sofa and proceeded to stare a hole through her. She was still in bed... talking to Dinah. I’m thinking, “Oh my God! I’m in Cloris Leachman’s hotel room and she’s talking to Dinah Shore!” Cloris looked at me. Apparently I was so star-struck that my jaw was resting on top of my shoes. She said “Dinah, hang on a minute” (she’s making Dinah Shore wait!) and then she said to me “Honey, I’m just a person”. I hoisted my jaw back up and tried to look cool. After a while she was off the phone and got out of bed in her night gown that had a slit nearly up to her waist on each side. I tried not to, but sometimes I could see her butt. She was oblivious to the flashing as she flitted about the room to different drawers and suitcases trying to figure out what to wear. I’m thinking “I’m in Cloris Leachman’s hotel room, she’s talking to me like I belong here and I keep seeing her butt!!" I could die fulfilled.
Other people with interview times started knocking on the door, which Cloris closed and said she wasn’t ready. She needed more time. Picking out clothes, doing the make-up and chit-chatting with me was taking forever, but she wasn’t a bit worried or rushed about it. After a while her handsome son Bryan came in with a tray of breakfast for them both. Cloris said, “What about Terry?” They each split up their breakfast to give me a third of everything and we ate and laughed. I was in heaven. (Bryan was very sweet. He died tragically young in 1986.)
By now it’s been a couple hours and all the real, actual, legitimate reporters were crowded in the hallway and fuming. They knew the kid was in there hogging up their time. Finally Cloris was ready. She said they could all come in and interview her at once, which none of them were any too pleased about knowing I’d been alone with her for two hours. The TV shows set up their cameras and Cloris told them she’d be sitting on the sofa... next to Terry. Knife sharp reporter eyes were stabbing me from across the room. Cloris did the interview with her arm wrapped around my shoulder so they couldn’t cut me out of the shot.
By now it’s been a couple hours and all the real, actual, legitimate reporters were crowded in the hallway and fuming. They knew the kid was in there hogging up their time. Finally Cloris was ready. She said they could all come in and interview her at once, which none of them were any too pleased about knowing I’d been alone with her for two hours. The TV shows set up their cameras and Cloris told them she’d be sitting on the sofa... next to Terry. Knife sharp reporter eyes were stabbing me from across the room. Cloris did the interview with her arm wrapped around my shoulder so they couldn’t cut me out of the shot.
That concluded my interviewing career at Kenley Players--the reporters said I spoiled their time with Cloris. I was out. No more celeb chats, no more free tickets, but it was a great ride with a spectacular finish. I stayed behind with Cloris for a little while after the reporters left. As I was about to leave, Cloris came over and pulled my shoulders back and told me not to slouch--to be proud of my height. I later learned that Dinah wasn’t Dinah Shore, it was Cloris’ daughter, Dinah. I was living in LA and doing a play with an actress that was one of Dinah’s best friends. When I met Dinah I told her my story about meeting her mother. She came back to the play again and told me that her mother remembered me. I’d see Cloris out and about sometimes and now armed with knowing that she had remembered me 20 years later, I summoned up the nerve to tell her who I was--she was lovely. Cloris was always wild, but that was one of my favorite things about her. I got to go to her house once and she did a Gaydar Gun video with me. I asked her to kiss her Oscar’s butt and I filmed her doing that. She’d always ask me to tell her the interview story because she loved that I got to meet her son Bryan, and that he was part of the tale. She’d light up and say “tell me about Bryan again”. The last time I ran into her was the first time she seemed old to me. Not that she didn’t have every right to feel old. She was about 90 and she was probably just tired. I told her who I was but I think she was faking it--I sensed she didn’t remember me anymore. But that’s okay. I’ll always remember her.
For 40 plus years I’ve felt guilty that I never wrote a single story about any of my Kenley Players interviews. I’m hoping this will slightly make up for it.
For 40 plus years I’ve felt guilty that I never wrote a single story about any of my Kenley Players interviews. I’m hoping this will slightly make up for it.
Me and a Certain Star on the HOLLYWOOD WALK OF FAME
Today I celebrated my 30th anniversary in Hollywood. I know, I gave this town my hair. Here’s a quick bit of background. 30 years ago, when I was driving across the US to move to Los Angeles, I got stuck in a giant blizzard--I’ll tell that story later. But while stranded in New Mexico I met children’s author Fran Lantz and her husband, doctor John Landsberg. They were driving across country to move to Santa Barbara. After we survived the blizzard, they sort of adopted me and we drove the rest of the way to California together (and became great friends). As we got near the west coast they decided to take a detour and come to Hollywood with me and escort me to Musso & Franks (the oldest restaurant in Hollywood--an institution since 1919) just because they wanted to see my face when I experienced Hollywood for the first time (I’d never been west of Arkansas until the move). I was thrilled and followed them down the 101 freeway and then onto Hollywood Blvd. At that time you could park right in front of the restaurant. I miraculously found a space near the restaurant and realized I was right along side the stars on the Walk of Fame. As I got out of my car this naive little actor boy thought to himself, "I’m going to be as famous as whoever is on the first star I step on". I walked to the nearest star and looked down in eager anticipation. The name read “Dorothy Sebastian”. I was like, "Who’s Dorothy Sebastian?" I asked my friends--no one had heard of her. We went into Musso & Franks, had their New York cheese cake--and that was my very first moment in Hollywood.
But I never forgot Dorothy Sebastian and my little secret challenge to myself to “beat” her. She was born in 1903 and started out in silent films. She did several films that I’d never heard of in the 1920s and 30s. One I thing I had sort of heard of was THE ARIZONA KID with Roy Rogers. The other films I had heard of on her resume were small, uncredited roles. She played a salewoman in 1939’s classic THE WOMEN, had a bit role in Cecil B. DeMille’s 1942 REAP THE WILD WIND with John Wayne, and her last film was in 1948, uncredited again in THE MIRACLE OF THE BELLS with Frank Sinatra.
Today on my 30th anniversary in Hollywood, I decided I wanted to commemorate the occasion by going back to Musso & Franks for another slice of that cheese cake. I enlisted my good buddy, Jerry Taylor to come along. But first we looked up Dorothy Sebastian on imdb. If you’re not familiar with that, it’s the Internet Movie Data Base and it lists every actor’s credits and ranks them by their popularity. #1 is the most popular actor in Hollywood and it goes to the millions--counting everyone who’s ever had a credit in the movies or on television. My number usually bounces around, but today I had Ms. Sebastian beat by over 10,000. On top of that, yesterday was my birthday and it made me one year older than her when she died. So for today, sorry Dorothy, but I beat you. I'm not ruling out the possibility that she was looking down and took an intentional dive in popularity to give me that thrill. If so, I appreciate it. AND it’s a good thing I didn’t step on the star next to her’s first--that’s Alan Hale, Jr.--the Skipper from GILLIGAN’S ISLAND. He’s a lot tougher competition, but I am working with Dawn Wells (Mary Ann from his show), I'm thinking that at least makes us sort of peers--kind of. So anyway, it’s been a slow crawl--but I’m still crawling. The waiter at Musso & Franks said to come back in another 30 years. I think I will. See ya then Dorothy--and it’s game on, girlfriend!
But I never forgot Dorothy Sebastian and my little secret challenge to myself to “beat” her. She was born in 1903 and started out in silent films. She did several films that I’d never heard of in the 1920s and 30s. One I thing I had sort of heard of was THE ARIZONA KID with Roy Rogers. The other films I had heard of on her resume were small, uncredited roles. She played a salewoman in 1939’s classic THE WOMEN, had a bit role in Cecil B. DeMille’s 1942 REAP THE WILD WIND with John Wayne, and her last film was in 1948, uncredited again in THE MIRACLE OF THE BELLS with Frank Sinatra.
Today on my 30th anniversary in Hollywood, I decided I wanted to commemorate the occasion by going back to Musso & Franks for another slice of that cheese cake. I enlisted my good buddy, Jerry Taylor to come along. But first we looked up Dorothy Sebastian on imdb. If you’re not familiar with that, it’s the Internet Movie Data Base and it lists every actor’s credits and ranks them by their popularity. #1 is the most popular actor in Hollywood and it goes to the millions--counting everyone who’s ever had a credit in the movies or on television. My number usually bounces around, but today I had Ms. Sebastian beat by over 10,000. On top of that, yesterday was my birthday and it made me one year older than her when she died. So for today, sorry Dorothy, but I beat you. I'm not ruling out the possibility that she was looking down and took an intentional dive in popularity to give me that thrill. If so, I appreciate it. AND it’s a good thing I didn’t step on the star next to her’s first--that’s Alan Hale, Jr.--the Skipper from GILLIGAN’S ISLAND. He’s a lot tougher competition, but I am working with Dawn Wells (Mary Ann from his show), I'm thinking that at least makes us sort of peers--kind of. So anyway, it’s been a slow crawl--but I’m still crawling. The waiter at Musso & Franks said to come back in another 30 years. I think I will. See ya then Dorothy--and it’s game on, girlfriend!
MY GLAMOROUS MOVIE ROLE AS A FROG GUARD
HELL COMES TO FROGTOWN was voted one of the worst films ever made--and oh, yeah, I’m totally proud to say I was in it. It’s about these mutant frogs that rule the Earth after WWIII. The only humans left are dominated by a matriarchal society because men are impotent---well, expect for the male lead of course, former wrestler Rowdy Roddy Piper. But the women have to keep his junk padlocked so he doesn’t waste it on infertile ladies. See--it’s quality stuff, and old time film star Rory Calhoun was in it and he worked with Marilyn Monroe so I was in heaven. I played a Frog Guard--and I had a line, at least in the script. In reality I was given a frog head that didn’t have a functioning mouth so “my” line happened when the back of my frog head was toward the camera and the words were plugged in later by someone else in a recording studio.
Oh, well--it’s not like anyone could possibly tell which frog was me anyways, the only part of “me” that showed was my eyes. The mask was torture and once it went on it stayed on. They tried to time it to when you’d go in front of the camera but they missed my time by several hours. I had to sit around suffocating in that thing forever waiting for my big close-up. It only had a tiny little hole for breathing. When the time for my big moment came near I was super excited... for about half a second, and all of a sudden I had to go to the bathroom. I mean it was critical. I mean it was urgent. I mean it was most definitely non-negotiable!
Let me back-up for a minute. We were filming in an old abandoned factory that looked like it had been bombed in WWIII. There was twisted metal everywhere. I was wearing the frog head thing and couldn’t look down or sideways because I couldn’t move my head--it was like I didn’t have a neck. All I could do was see straight head. My frog shoes were actually real costume shoes from THE PLANET OF THE APES films. They had big ape toes that were solid and stuck out and super easy to trip on. The worst part were the inside “thumbs”. I was always knocking them together and stumbling over them. My trailer, with a tiny bathroom inside, was on the far far side of the factory--maybe 150 yards away through a jungle of twisted metal.
Now remember, I was completely desperado and had no idea if I could make it to a bathroom without a frog costume, much less fully suited up, and my close-up was just 5 minutes away. No time to lose. I told someone I’d be right back. As I scurried along I managed to get my frog gloves off so I at least could use my hands. Every second counted. I was sweating, couldn’t breath in that hateful mask and was near panicked as I finally stepped into the tiny trailer bathroom. I lifted up robes, pulled down underwear and....I made it! Thank goodness. What a relief! Until...I got up and realized the entire back of my costume had been in the toilet. I had pooped on my WWIII Frog Guard rag robe costume! Plus, my 5 minutes were up. I couldn’t even look down to see the damage. Don’t know if I can describe how tiny the sinks are in those little trailer bathrooms and how slight the water pressure is. I had to wash the robes out best I could by twisting them around. I got them pretty wet but wet was better than pooh. I raced the obstacle course back to the set. My mask was so damp and yucky on the inside from fogging up from my heavy breathing I felt like I was drowning.
As I approached, the Assistant Director was calling my name and looking for me. The wardrobe lady grabbed me and said my robes were all twisted and then “They’re all wet!”. I apologized and said I spilt 7-UP on them. Why 7-UP--no idea, that’s what came out.. She actually bought it and said not to worry--the back of my robes wouldn’t show in the close-up anyway. Then I was in front of the cameras for my big moment.
That’s my HELL COMES TO FROGTOWN story. Check out how calm and collected that Frog Guard is in the photo--well, my eyes anyway, the rest of my frog face didn’t move. DANG! Just realized you can't even see my eyes is this pic! You're gonna have to trust me on this--I was totally projecting serious frog guard. Well, serious frog guard sitting on something wet.
Oh, well--it’s not like anyone could possibly tell which frog was me anyways, the only part of “me” that showed was my eyes. The mask was torture and once it went on it stayed on. They tried to time it to when you’d go in front of the camera but they missed my time by several hours. I had to sit around suffocating in that thing forever waiting for my big close-up. It only had a tiny little hole for breathing. When the time for my big moment came near I was super excited... for about half a second, and all of a sudden I had to go to the bathroom. I mean it was critical. I mean it was urgent. I mean it was most definitely non-negotiable!
Let me back-up for a minute. We were filming in an old abandoned factory that looked like it had been bombed in WWIII. There was twisted metal everywhere. I was wearing the frog head thing and couldn’t look down or sideways because I couldn’t move my head--it was like I didn’t have a neck. All I could do was see straight head. My frog shoes were actually real costume shoes from THE PLANET OF THE APES films. They had big ape toes that were solid and stuck out and super easy to trip on. The worst part were the inside “thumbs”. I was always knocking them together and stumbling over them. My trailer, with a tiny bathroom inside, was on the far far side of the factory--maybe 150 yards away through a jungle of twisted metal.
Now remember, I was completely desperado and had no idea if I could make it to a bathroom without a frog costume, much less fully suited up, and my close-up was just 5 minutes away. No time to lose. I told someone I’d be right back. As I scurried along I managed to get my frog gloves off so I at least could use my hands. Every second counted. I was sweating, couldn’t breath in that hateful mask and was near panicked as I finally stepped into the tiny trailer bathroom. I lifted up robes, pulled down underwear and....I made it! Thank goodness. What a relief! Until...I got up and realized the entire back of my costume had been in the toilet. I had pooped on my WWIII Frog Guard rag robe costume! Plus, my 5 minutes were up. I couldn’t even look down to see the damage. Don’t know if I can describe how tiny the sinks are in those little trailer bathrooms and how slight the water pressure is. I had to wash the robes out best I could by twisting them around. I got them pretty wet but wet was better than pooh. I raced the obstacle course back to the set. My mask was so damp and yucky on the inside from fogging up from my heavy breathing I felt like I was drowning.
As I approached, the Assistant Director was calling my name and looking for me. The wardrobe lady grabbed me and said my robes were all twisted and then “They’re all wet!”. I apologized and said I spilt 7-UP on them. Why 7-UP--no idea, that’s what came out.. She actually bought it and said not to worry--the back of my robes wouldn’t show in the close-up anyway. Then I was in front of the cameras for my big moment.
That’s my HELL COMES TO FROGTOWN story. Check out how calm and collected that Frog Guard is in the photo--well, my eyes anyway, the rest of my frog face didn’t move. DANG! Just realized you can't even see my eyes is this pic! You're gonna have to trust me on this--I was totally projecting serious frog guard. Well, serious frog guard sitting on something wet.
My First Time on the EMMYS Red Carpet (it keeps me humble)
I think it was around 2005, the first time I got to go to the EMMY AWARDS. I was pretty dang excited and my pal Susan L. Jones flew all the way from Greensboro, NC to come with me and amp up the hysteria. (I took Susan to the Screen Actors Awards once too, so now she’s spoiled and only visits if there’s a red carpet on the agenda--she’s soooo Hollywood).
Anyway, we got all dolled up and the moment had finally arrived for us to join the red carpet parade. That year the famous folk walked about 3/4 of the carpet alone, but for the last 1/4 the commoners in the bad seats (that was us), got to join in.
The second I stepped out onto the red carpet camera flashes started exploding and a wall of photographers looking straight at ME started screaming “Terry! Terry!! Over here, Terry!!!” I stood frozen in my tracks. I’d definitely dreamed of this moment, but it couldn’t actually be happening for me, right? While I stood puzzling the cameras kept right on exploding in front of my face as the photographers bombarded me with frantic shouts of “TERRY!!!!”. I was seconds from going along and flipping my paralyzed lips upside down into a cautious smile... maybe even throw in a semi regal wave when Teri Hatcher stepped around from behind me. They were screaming “Teri” not “Terry”. Oh, well. But later that night, in the restroom, I did feel pretty celebrity-ish. I was standing at the urinals in a row of famous Kevins...Kevin Nealon, Kevin James--and there I was, just one pee of separation from Kevin Bacon!
Anyway, we got all dolled up and the moment had finally arrived for us to join the red carpet parade. That year the famous folk walked about 3/4 of the carpet alone, but for the last 1/4 the commoners in the bad seats (that was us), got to join in.
The second I stepped out onto the red carpet camera flashes started exploding and a wall of photographers looking straight at ME started screaming “Terry! Terry!! Over here, Terry!!!” I stood frozen in my tracks. I’d definitely dreamed of this moment, but it couldn’t actually be happening for me, right? While I stood puzzling the cameras kept right on exploding in front of my face as the photographers bombarded me with frantic shouts of “TERRY!!!!”. I was seconds from going along and flipping my paralyzed lips upside down into a cautious smile... maybe even throw in a semi regal wave when Teri Hatcher stepped around from behind me. They were screaming “Teri” not “Terry”. Oh, well. But later that night, in the restroom, I did feel pretty celebrity-ish. I was standing at the urinals in a row of famous Kevins...Kevin Nealon, Kevin James--and there I was, just one pee of separation from Kevin Bacon!
Yes, I Was Sexually Molested by a Squirrel
One time I had this temp job right across the street from the La Brea tar pits. If you’re unfamiliar with the tar pits they are exactly what they sound like--pits of tar oozing out of the ground. For ages mastodons and saber tooth tigers and other LA natives (we’re talking old Hollywood) would walk along and step in a pit, get caught and eventually turn into a gooey jumble of bones. So anyway, thousands of years later the tar is still oozing and the bones are still there, but now the tar pits are a delightful museum and park. For months that’s where I’d go every day to eat my sack lunch. (a little aside, to this day when I smell tar I crave a peanut better and jelly sandwich.)
So one day I was sitting on a bench near some bubbling tar, minding my on business reading a magazine. Lunch was done. There were no tempting scraps around, the P&J sandwich was history and the bag was in the trash, when suddenly this squirrel jumps right up on top of the bench’s back rest and sits about 2 inches from my head. I look at him of course and well... let’s just say it was easy to tell it was a boy squirrel because his thingy was out. The little pink tip was giving me the full salute and tiny little gnat things were circling it. Evidently he was proud of his manhood (squirrelhood?) as he stared intently at my face, his legs spread apart. I was more than a bit concerned that he was going to bite me or jump on my head or a combination of the two, but I was also afraid to make any sudden movements. I opted to talk to him, "hey, there big guy" etc. and slowly leaned forward to get some distance. After a bit he moved on, jumped down and believe me, I watched him until he completely disappeared into some bushes. Back to my magazine.
A few minutes later I felt a tap on my shoulder. The squirrel was back, but this time his front legs were on my shoulder and his back legs were on the top of the bench and his thingy...was out! Now this was getting serious. Either he was going to jump completely on me in which case I was going to majorly freak out and scream like a 10 year-old girl or he was going to have to commit to going back on the bench. I started to very s-l-o-w-l-y lean forward and hoped for the best. He balanced between his two options as long as he could but thankfully he jumped back to the bench. Did I mention his thingy was out...and there were gnats circling?
So this time I watched him go back to the bushes and I kept right on watching. After several minutes with no sign of him,I finally go back to my magazine. Now I need to say that this was the early 90s and I was wearing suede shoes--stylish for their time. After a while I felt a slight pressure on my foot. I looked down and that squirrel, with his nasty gnat infested thingy, has humping my suede shoe. It didn’t last more than 2 or 3 seconds. It was over at about the time I realized what was happening and when he was done he left behind a little stain of squirrel spunk on my shoe. Wham, bam but no thank you ma’am.
As a victim of an interspecies sexual assault I felt used, yes. But at the same time I have to admit that I felt oddly flattered. That squirrel could have humped anyone or anything, but he picked me. I’d like to think it was because I have animal magnetism--I find that more empowering than "victim". (One more aside, I could never get that squirrel spooge stain out of my suede shoe.)
So one day I was sitting on a bench near some bubbling tar, minding my on business reading a magazine. Lunch was done. There were no tempting scraps around, the P&J sandwich was history and the bag was in the trash, when suddenly this squirrel jumps right up on top of the bench’s back rest and sits about 2 inches from my head. I look at him of course and well... let’s just say it was easy to tell it was a boy squirrel because his thingy was out. The little pink tip was giving me the full salute and tiny little gnat things were circling it. Evidently he was proud of his manhood (squirrelhood?) as he stared intently at my face, his legs spread apart. I was more than a bit concerned that he was going to bite me or jump on my head or a combination of the two, but I was also afraid to make any sudden movements. I opted to talk to him, "hey, there big guy" etc. and slowly leaned forward to get some distance. After a bit he moved on, jumped down and believe me, I watched him until he completely disappeared into some bushes. Back to my magazine.
A few minutes later I felt a tap on my shoulder. The squirrel was back, but this time his front legs were on my shoulder and his back legs were on the top of the bench and his thingy...was out! Now this was getting serious. Either he was going to jump completely on me in which case I was going to majorly freak out and scream like a 10 year-old girl or he was going to have to commit to going back on the bench. I started to very s-l-o-w-l-y lean forward and hoped for the best. He balanced between his two options as long as he could but thankfully he jumped back to the bench. Did I mention his thingy was out...and there were gnats circling?
So this time I watched him go back to the bushes and I kept right on watching. After several minutes with no sign of him,I finally go back to my magazine. Now I need to say that this was the early 90s and I was wearing suede shoes--stylish for their time. After a while I felt a slight pressure on my foot. I looked down and that squirrel, with his nasty gnat infested thingy, has humping my suede shoe. It didn’t last more than 2 or 3 seconds. It was over at about the time I realized what was happening and when he was done he left behind a little stain of squirrel spunk on my shoe. Wham, bam but no thank you ma’am.
As a victim of an interspecies sexual assault I felt used, yes. But at the same time I have to admit that I felt oddly flattered. That squirrel could have humped anyone or anything, but he picked me. I’d like to think it was because I have animal magnetism--I find that more empowering than "victim". (One more aside, I could never get that squirrel spooge stain out of my suede shoe.)
I Was the Secretary to a Dog Until... HE FIRED ME!
In the early 90s I survived by doing temp work. One time I got a one day job in Beverly Hills to work for an interior designer. I’ll call her Linda. Her husband was once part of a rock band famous for a very iconic song, but that’s all the clues I dare give. So anyway, Linda was a very large woman... like so big that her stomach extended out further than her arms could reach. She kind of had to pick things up sideways. For example, we went to lunch twice that day (not counting a morning snack). She reached to her side to pick up her plate, and then rested it atop her “ample” bosoms, and ate that way. Now Linda had a little terrier dog, Gabby by her side at all times. Back at the office Gabby even had his own desk, which I thought was fun. During our second lunch, Linda said “Gabby likes you. He doesn’t like strangers, but he likes you”. I said, “Well, I like him too”! Linda pressed on, “Gabby wants to hire you as his assistant”. I was flattered and only slightly weirded out by her habit of talking for Gabby. I just told her that I was a temp because I was an actor and couldn’t take a permanent job. Linda said “Oh, that’s okay. Gabby likes actors. David Hasselhoff used to be Gabby’s assistant and he worked around David’s schedule”. In my brain I was trying to do the math--KNIGHT RIDER was like 10-ish years old at that time. Hasselhoff wasn’t really famous before that was he? Gabby was about 11 or 12 years old--it wasn’t impossible for her statement to be true, but I was inwardly skeptical. Regardless, after “Gabby” offered me more money than I was getting as a temp, AND was willing to work around any auditions, I thought why not?!
Now office life with Gabby and Linda was interesting. They had an arsenal of tricks. Linda always wore long dresses custom made for her--all out of the same pattern, but in different colors and materials. Sometimes Gabby would clamp on to the hem of her dress with his mouth and Linda would spin around. Linda made quite a twirling axis so this game would lift Gabby completely off the ground. He loved it and always made a skillful dismount. One day Linda told me that Gabby could count. (I knew he was scary smart, but count? Come on.) She told me to hold up some fingers. I held up 7. She said, “Ask Gabby how many fingers you have”. I did and he barked 7 times. He never got it wrong.
When we’d drive around Beverly Hills grabbing our multiple lunches etc., one of my jobs was to tell Gabby stories. They all had to be about farmers and ducks. “Once there was this farmer”... Gabby would bark and look out the window for the farmer. “And he had a pet duck”... Gabby would freak out barking as he scanned for any sign of a duck. I have to admit, story time was sort of fun. Sometimes Linda’s husband would eat with us as well. Now he was a very fit and attractive man, but sometimes she was pretty dang sassy with him. I thought she must have some serious dirt on that man for Mr. Handsome Rock Star to put up with her snippy moods, but every once in a while they’d be sweet to each other and he’d start talking all frisky. Remember, this was all in front of me. It was a LOT to process.
Anyway, all was fine until Linda needed to take a trip to San Francisco, and she wanted Gabby and I to go along. Gabby flew in this environment thing that went under the plane. Linda had purchased only two tickets for us. I hadn’t thought about the fact that there was no way she could fit in just one seat. While we were waiting to board, an airline employee pulled me aside and said something about Linda only purchasing one seat for herself. I told her I was just the dog’s assistant and had no idea what to do. (Linda never mentioned her size, so I sure didn’t want to be the one to bring it up first.) They offered me an empty seat in the very back so I just went on the plane in front of Linda, lifted up the arm rest between our two seats and told her I was afraid to fly and needed to sit in the back. Linda was behind me. Her seats were only in the 2nd row, but when I looked back I saw that she had gotten stuck in the aisle between the two rows of seats. Thankfully she squeezed through before I had to do any pushing or pulling, but we later found out she actually cracked a rib in the process. When we got to San Francisco she was in too much pain to try to return, so she stayed in San Fran to heal.
Gabby and I flew back to LA by ourselves and this began several weeks of paradise. Just Gabby and I hanging out and talking about farmers and ducks. We were pretty tight. Lunch went down to a once a day activity, but we did an extended version. All was easy breezy until Linda called and wanted us to fly back up to San Francisco. She missed Gabby. So I got his air travel environment and we flew up. But when I got off the plane--no Gabby! NO GABBY!! After much hysterical panicking on my part, Gabby was finally located...in Vancouver! CANADA!! I couldn’t tell Linda that Gabby was in a foreign country for fear that she would stroke out. I decided to fib and say we got bumped from our flight in LA and were having trouble getting another one. In the meantime , I was practically on my hands and knees begging to get Gabby back asap.
The airline did the best they could, but of course it was still hours and hours of waiting and trying to placate Linda. Finally Gabby’s flight arrived. I was super happy and relieved to see him, but he wouldn’t even look at me. That dog was ticked off about his day and he was putting on the blame completely on me. It wasn’t pretty. All I could do was rent a car and drive him to Linda. The entire way I’m talking about farmers and ducks. Nothing. Gabby just dished out attitude in the form of a stone cold, straight ahead stare. If I tried to pet him he literally recoiled. Once we arrived and I parked the car, he wouldn’t walk. I carried him to see Linda. She spotted us coming and hurried outside to meet us. As soon as Gabby knew that Linda was watching, that rascal peed all over me. It was totally, 100% on purpose. Linda gasped and said “Gabby has fired you!”. And it’s true. He had! I was left standing in the middle of the street in a pee soaked shirt with no plane ticket back to LA. Gabby even stiffed me on my last pay check.
Years later I was at an event with David Hasselhoff and I couldn’t resist. I went up to him and asked if he knew a dog named Gabby. He didn’t say yes or no, he just asked why. I tried to give him a super short version of the story, but he stopped me and insisted I go into full detail, sometimes asking questions along the way. He was with a friend and when I was done, he looked at his pal then said to me, “I wasn’t Gabby’s assistant”. But he said it in such an odd way, I wasn’t sure if that was the truth or he just didn’t want to admit it in front of his friend. Well, I admit it. I was secretary to a dog... until he fired me.
Now office life with Gabby and Linda was interesting. They had an arsenal of tricks. Linda always wore long dresses custom made for her--all out of the same pattern, but in different colors and materials. Sometimes Gabby would clamp on to the hem of her dress with his mouth and Linda would spin around. Linda made quite a twirling axis so this game would lift Gabby completely off the ground. He loved it and always made a skillful dismount. One day Linda told me that Gabby could count. (I knew he was scary smart, but count? Come on.) She told me to hold up some fingers. I held up 7. She said, “Ask Gabby how many fingers you have”. I did and he barked 7 times. He never got it wrong.
When we’d drive around Beverly Hills grabbing our multiple lunches etc., one of my jobs was to tell Gabby stories. They all had to be about farmers and ducks. “Once there was this farmer”... Gabby would bark and look out the window for the farmer. “And he had a pet duck”... Gabby would freak out barking as he scanned for any sign of a duck. I have to admit, story time was sort of fun. Sometimes Linda’s husband would eat with us as well. Now he was a very fit and attractive man, but sometimes she was pretty dang sassy with him. I thought she must have some serious dirt on that man for Mr. Handsome Rock Star to put up with her snippy moods, but every once in a while they’d be sweet to each other and he’d start talking all frisky. Remember, this was all in front of me. It was a LOT to process.
Anyway, all was fine until Linda needed to take a trip to San Francisco, and she wanted Gabby and I to go along. Gabby flew in this environment thing that went under the plane. Linda had purchased only two tickets for us. I hadn’t thought about the fact that there was no way she could fit in just one seat. While we were waiting to board, an airline employee pulled me aside and said something about Linda only purchasing one seat for herself. I told her I was just the dog’s assistant and had no idea what to do. (Linda never mentioned her size, so I sure didn’t want to be the one to bring it up first.) They offered me an empty seat in the very back so I just went on the plane in front of Linda, lifted up the arm rest between our two seats and told her I was afraid to fly and needed to sit in the back. Linda was behind me. Her seats were only in the 2nd row, but when I looked back I saw that she had gotten stuck in the aisle between the two rows of seats. Thankfully she squeezed through before I had to do any pushing or pulling, but we later found out she actually cracked a rib in the process. When we got to San Francisco she was in too much pain to try to return, so she stayed in San Fran to heal.
Gabby and I flew back to LA by ourselves and this began several weeks of paradise. Just Gabby and I hanging out and talking about farmers and ducks. We were pretty tight. Lunch went down to a once a day activity, but we did an extended version. All was easy breezy until Linda called and wanted us to fly back up to San Francisco. She missed Gabby. So I got his air travel environment and we flew up. But when I got off the plane--no Gabby! NO GABBY!! After much hysterical panicking on my part, Gabby was finally located...in Vancouver! CANADA!! I couldn’t tell Linda that Gabby was in a foreign country for fear that she would stroke out. I decided to fib and say we got bumped from our flight in LA and were having trouble getting another one. In the meantime , I was practically on my hands and knees begging to get Gabby back asap.
The airline did the best they could, but of course it was still hours and hours of waiting and trying to placate Linda. Finally Gabby’s flight arrived. I was super happy and relieved to see him, but he wouldn’t even look at me. That dog was ticked off about his day and he was putting on the blame completely on me. It wasn’t pretty. All I could do was rent a car and drive him to Linda. The entire way I’m talking about farmers and ducks. Nothing. Gabby just dished out attitude in the form of a stone cold, straight ahead stare. If I tried to pet him he literally recoiled. Once we arrived and I parked the car, he wouldn’t walk. I carried him to see Linda. She spotted us coming and hurried outside to meet us. As soon as Gabby knew that Linda was watching, that rascal peed all over me. It was totally, 100% on purpose. Linda gasped and said “Gabby has fired you!”. And it’s true. He had! I was left standing in the middle of the street in a pee soaked shirt with no plane ticket back to LA. Gabby even stiffed me on my last pay check.
Years later I was at an event with David Hasselhoff and I couldn’t resist. I went up to him and asked if he knew a dog named Gabby. He didn’t say yes or no, he just asked why. I tried to give him a super short version of the story, but he stopped me and insisted I go into full detail, sometimes asking questions along the way. He was with a friend and when I was done, he looked at his pal then said to me, “I wasn’t Gabby’s assistant”. But he said it in such an odd way, I wasn’t sure if that was the truth or he just didn’t want to admit it in front of his friend. Well, I admit it. I was secretary to a dog... until he fired me.
TORTURE, STARVATION, PROSTITUTION - My First Film Role!
Not too long after I moved to LA, I was super excited to get an audition through my brand new first agent for an actual paying film role! It was a Viet Nam vet movie with prisoner of war flashbacks called NIGHT WARS. And even though it was non-union it actually starred someone I’d heard of, Dan Haggerty from the TV series GRIZZLY ADAMS. In my book, this was absolutely BIG time! I was auditioning for the role of a P.O.W. The casting director said the role included a line which I would be told about later. For audition he didn’t seem exactly concerned with my acting abilities, he only asked me to take my shirt off so he could see if my rib cage showed. This is not a role I could readily score today, but in the late 80s, living on a budget of $20 a week, malnutrition was in my method acting repertoire. I got the role!
The film shot “on location”, well... Riverside, but that was far enough away that they were going to put me in a hotel for the night between my 2 days of filming. Cool, right?! Well, more about that later. First off I reported to the location where they had built a replica of a Viet Nam prisoner of war camp. The set was in the woods. We gathered in a nearby parking lot where the costumer told me to take my clothes off. So I did. I stood in the parking lot in my underwear for quite a while before she got back to me (it was winter which, even in Southern California, is chilly for just underwear in the early morning). Eventually she fished out a soldier’s uniform for me from her trunk. I happily put that on, but then she told me she had to “distress it.” Now I want to make sure I’m clear, while I was WEARING the uniform she took a board she’d found in the parking lot with rusty nails sticking out of it, and proceeded to shred my costume, as well as more than a few parts of me. At least she said “sorry, honey” when she drew blood. When she finished I was basically back to being half naked and freezing, but heck--it was a real movie and I was super excited!
Now, on to make-up. The make-up gal took a quart of motor oil and poured it over my head. She didn’t really do a great job of informing me of her intent before she did it, so I swallowed some of the oil. She thought that was funny. Once I was covered in drippy oil she told me to roll around in the dirt. I did because... I was making a movie!
Now, my “costume” did not consist of shoes, so I had to walk to the set (in the real woods) barefoot. When I got there I was taken to a tree in the middle of the set. I was told enthusiastically that my role was no longer just a P.OW.---I could tell people I was the P.O.W. “tied to a tree.” That sounded like a bump up the ladder to me so I beamed a little as I was literally tied my arms around the back of the tree and then added a second rope that tie my neck to the tree. I couldn’t move. It was cold and I was shivering. Anytime they shot my direction the super sympathetic make-up gal would squirt me with water to look like I was sweating--which just made me shiver more. I overheard her tell some crew guys that she thought my shivering was cool because it looked like I had a fever.
Also there were big fuzzy caterpillars in the tree and they started to crawl across my basically naked chest. One time a crew guy knocked them off of me, but most of the time I was just set decoration in the background with no one to ask for help. Hours passed. No one untied me, gave me water or checked on me. For a while it was really quiet. I thought maybe they were filming something out of my range of vision. Nope. They’d gone to lunch and forgotten about me. When they returned I told them that. I remember someone saying they felt bad and that they would bring me something to eat, but not until later because they had to shoot a scene I was in. No one brought food and I was tied to the tree by my neck and arms while standing barefoot for about 11 hours. No bathroom break. Not a bite to eat. So, I’m learning that making movies is hard work. But tomorrow I get my line! How exciting is that?!
Back at the hotel I had to share the room with one of the lead actors. At first I thought that would be cool, we could talk about acting and stuff, until he told me that he’d hired a prostitute and did I want to pitch in? I did not. I spent the evening staring at the wall and wishing there was a way to switch off my ability to hear.
The next day I was back in my chilly, gross uniform, closed my mouth when they poured oil over my head and once more became one with my tree. Finally it was time for my big moment. The director approached and told me my line. Let me set up the scene for you. The lead actors are now playing escaping P.O.W. soldiers (but apparently better fed than me). They are blowing away the enemy prison guards and come right by me. This is the moment in the provided blurry photo--I’m tied to the tree on the right.
Gosh, my character was so selfless. I didn’t say, “Hey guys, since you’re right here and all, could I bother one of you to untie me?” No! This P.O.W. Prisoner (the one tied to a tree) did not care about himself. He only uttered the line “Run!”. Now a less experienced actor might call that a “word” and not a “line”...technically speaking it’s both.
NIGHT WARS was my first professional paying movie job! Only, the paycheck never came. They stiffed me... but I like to pretend th still counts.
The film shot “on location”, well... Riverside, but that was far enough away that they were going to put me in a hotel for the night between my 2 days of filming. Cool, right?! Well, more about that later. First off I reported to the location where they had built a replica of a Viet Nam prisoner of war camp. The set was in the woods. We gathered in a nearby parking lot where the costumer told me to take my clothes off. So I did. I stood in the parking lot in my underwear for quite a while before she got back to me (it was winter which, even in Southern California, is chilly for just underwear in the early morning). Eventually she fished out a soldier’s uniform for me from her trunk. I happily put that on, but then she told me she had to “distress it.” Now I want to make sure I’m clear, while I was WEARING the uniform she took a board she’d found in the parking lot with rusty nails sticking out of it, and proceeded to shred my costume, as well as more than a few parts of me. At least she said “sorry, honey” when she drew blood. When she finished I was basically back to being half naked and freezing, but heck--it was a real movie and I was super excited!
Now, on to make-up. The make-up gal took a quart of motor oil and poured it over my head. She didn’t really do a great job of informing me of her intent before she did it, so I swallowed some of the oil. She thought that was funny. Once I was covered in drippy oil she told me to roll around in the dirt. I did because... I was making a movie!
Now, my “costume” did not consist of shoes, so I had to walk to the set (in the real woods) barefoot. When I got there I was taken to a tree in the middle of the set. I was told enthusiastically that my role was no longer just a P.OW.---I could tell people I was the P.O.W. “tied to a tree.” That sounded like a bump up the ladder to me so I beamed a little as I was literally tied my arms around the back of the tree and then added a second rope that tie my neck to the tree. I couldn’t move. It was cold and I was shivering. Anytime they shot my direction the super sympathetic make-up gal would squirt me with water to look like I was sweating--which just made me shiver more. I overheard her tell some crew guys that she thought my shivering was cool because it looked like I had a fever.
Also there were big fuzzy caterpillars in the tree and they started to crawl across my basically naked chest. One time a crew guy knocked them off of me, but most of the time I was just set decoration in the background with no one to ask for help. Hours passed. No one untied me, gave me water or checked on me. For a while it was really quiet. I thought maybe they were filming something out of my range of vision. Nope. They’d gone to lunch and forgotten about me. When they returned I told them that. I remember someone saying they felt bad and that they would bring me something to eat, but not until later because they had to shoot a scene I was in. No one brought food and I was tied to the tree by my neck and arms while standing barefoot for about 11 hours. No bathroom break. Not a bite to eat. So, I’m learning that making movies is hard work. But tomorrow I get my line! How exciting is that?!
Back at the hotel I had to share the room with one of the lead actors. At first I thought that would be cool, we could talk about acting and stuff, until he told me that he’d hired a prostitute and did I want to pitch in? I did not. I spent the evening staring at the wall and wishing there was a way to switch off my ability to hear.
The next day I was back in my chilly, gross uniform, closed my mouth when they poured oil over my head and once more became one with my tree. Finally it was time for my big moment. The director approached and told me my line. Let me set up the scene for you. The lead actors are now playing escaping P.O.W. soldiers (but apparently better fed than me). They are blowing away the enemy prison guards and come right by me. This is the moment in the provided blurry photo--I’m tied to the tree on the right.
Gosh, my character was so selfless. I didn’t say, “Hey guys, since you’re right here and all, could I bother one of you to untie me?” No! This P.O.W. Prisoner (the one tied to a tree) did not care about himself. He only uttered the line “Run!”. Now a less experienced actor might call that a “word” and not a “line”...technically speaking it’s both.
NIGHT WARS was my first professional paying movie job! Only, the paycheck never came. They stiffed me... but I like to pretend th still counts.
My Hideous DANCE BELT Incident!
If you’re not familiar with the term “dance belt” it’s what male ballet dancers must wear to keep their “male parts” from basically appearing in X-Rated 3-D detail underneath those unforgiving tights. A dance belt is not optional, nor is it comfortable. I refer to it as butt floss--as per photo. I’ve had to wear dance belts as an actor from time to time for various costumes--like when I played a pterodactyl for years in Children’s Theater. You cannot have a bulgy pterodactyl at a child’s eye level.
But I digress. In my last semester of my senior year of college I was required to take a ballet class (theater major--you had to do everything) and my ballet teacher was an absolute dictator. If you were a fraction of a second late she counted you absent. Once I was racing through the doorway of the classroom as the bell sounded, but because I wasn’t in position at the dance bar she counted me absent. This was just a pass or fail class and even though I was never actually absent (other than a few seconds late), if I was “absent” in her eyes just one more time I would fail and therefore--not graduate. I tried numerous times to explain that the class before hers was my advanced acting class on the absolute opposite side of a vary large campus, and sometimes we had scenes with costumes and props etc. and then I had to race across campus to the locker room, take off all my clothes, throw on the ballet tights and get to the bar. To do ALL of that I had exactly ten minutes. Her understanding response was “one more absence and you don’t pass”.
Well, at least I knew the rules. Anyway, there were just a couple classes left and I was like a well planned rocket launch. As soon as acting class was over I projectiled myself across campus and in route mentally rehearsed every move to get my clothes changed as quickly as humanly possible. I threw that stuff on and made it to the dance bar with 20 to 30 seconds to spare. But on one of those occasions, as we started to do our dance exercises, things felt wrong...very very wrong. I couldn’t figure out what was going on with my tights situation, but there was definitely an issue. I tried to pull my T-Shirt down as far as I could, but it didn’t cover a whole lot and there were mirrors catching me from every angle painfully illustrating a whole lot of wonkiness going on down below.
Now I was not what one would call a “gifted” student of the art of ballet and the teacher would often correct me in front of everyone. This was not the day I wanted everyone’s eyes on me, so I tried with every awkward dance-challenged fiber of my body to get the moves the very best I could--which sort of required me to not focus on pulling my T-Shirt down and avoiding bad angles in the mirror. Well of course I couldn’t keep the charade of competent ballet dancer guy up. Sure enough the teacher came over and started correcting my body positions... until I saw her look at me in a way that caught her off guard. Her face soured in disapproval for a second, then she quickly moved on to the next person and left me alone for the rest of the class.
I still had no idea what was going on down south until I got back to the locker room and took off my tights. I had put the dance belt on backwards. That butt floss string was making all kinds of hideous and bizarre bulges in the front and then with the pouch now in the back, it basically looked like I’d crapped my tights. There’s no doubt everyone in class saw it. I passed ballet--but I’ve avoided class reunions.
But I digress. In my last semester of my senior year of college I was required to take a ballet class (theater major--you had to do everything) and my ballet teacher was an absolute dictator. If you were a fraction of a second late she counted you absent. Once I was racing through the doorway of the classroom as the bell sounded, but because I wasn’t in position at the dance bar she counted me absent. This was just a pass or fail class and even though I was never actually absent (other than a few seconds late), if I was “absent” in her eyes just one more time I would fail and therefore--not graduate. I tried numerous times to explain that the class before hers was my advanced acting class on the absolute opposite side of a vary large campus, and sometimes we had scenes with costumes and props etc. and then I had to race across campus to the locker room, take off all my clothes, throw on the ballet tights and get to the bar. To do ALL of that I had exactly ten minutes. Her understanding response was “one more absence and you don’t pass”.
Well, at least I knew the rules. Anyway, there were just a couple classes left and I was like a well planned rocket launch. As soon as acting class was over I projectiled myself across campus and in route mentally rehearsed every move to get my clothes changed as quickly as humanly possible. I threw that stuff on and made it to the dance bar with 20 to 30 seconds to spare. But on one of those occasions, as we started to do our dance exercises, things felt wrong...very very wrong. I couldn’t figure out what was going on with my tights situation, but there was definitely an issue. I tried to pull my T-Shirt down as far as I could, but it didn’t cover a whole lot and there were mirrors catching me from every angle painfully illustrating a whole lot of wonkiness going on down below.
Now I was not what one would call a “gifted” student of the art of ballet and the teacher would often correct me in front of everyone. This was not the day I wanted everyone’s eyes on me, so I tried with every awkward dance-challenged fiber of my body to get the moves the very best I could--which sort of required me to not focus on pulling my T-Shirt down and avoiding bad angles in the mirror. Well of course I couldn’t keep the charade of competent ballet dancer guy up. Sure enough the teacher came over and started correcting my body positions... until I saw her look at me in a way that caught her off guard. Her face soured in disapproval for a second, then she quickly moved on to the next person and left me alone for the rest of the class.
I still had no idea what was going on down south until I got back to the locker room and took off my tights. I had put the dance belt on backwards. That butt floss string was making all kinds of hideous and bizarre bulges in the front and then with the pouch now in the back, it basically looked like I’d crapped my tights. There’s no doubt everyone in class saw it. I passed ballet--but I’ve avoided class reunions.
My Near Death Experience at THE PLAYBOY MANSION
My good pal Larry got invited to a big honking party at the Playboy Mansion. His partner Mark couldn’t go so I jumped all over a fabulous sloppy seconds invitation. When I told my brother I was going he said “that’s so not fair, the Playboy Mansion is wasted on you”! He was sorta right, but whatever. I was still excited to go!
It was a big event with tons of people, so it was outside in a giant tent and also spilled out around the pool. No one was allowed inside the house...so technically it was Playboy Mansion adjacent, but close enough. We soon scrapped the crowded tent and decided to explore the pool area--specifically the famous cave grotto that people swim into, though no one was in the water that night (not that kind of a party). To be honest, the grotto seemed like it would have been super cool in 1968... but sort of hadn’t been updated much since then. I remember a giant console that held a phone receiver on one side—in the middle were big white, square buttons that lit up (don’t know what they were about) and a rotary dial for the phone on the far side. I didn’t really want to touch anything because the whole place reminded of me of a story I’d seen on 60 MINUTES--where they show the nasty hotel bedspreads under ultra violet light. You really don’t want to see the pillow fabrics of the infamous grotto under black light conditions.
Further investigation outside revealed a pathway with stairs to the top of the grotto which we thought might be a great vantage point to really scope out who was at the party. The entire grotto was probably around 15 to 20 feet tall--a nice spot to people watch, so that’s where we headed. We spied Hugh Hefner with some blonde triplets (everyone was an unnatural shade of blonde and sort of all looked alike--but the triplets did that act better than the rest). After a little while I suggested we head back down for a closer look.
Now this whole grotto island complex consisted of giant stones but of course was man made. There were holes in the rocks and cement for the roots of plants to grow in. When I took my first step off the top and back down onto the stairs, Larry was on the inside and I was on the side closest to the pool. He was chatting and slightly ahead of me when my foot went into a huge hole in the rock where a plant should have been but wasn’t. The rest seemed like it was in slow motion—I tilted over the edge of the path but thought “I’m not going to fall”. However, when I realized I really was tipping over I dropped my cocktail (okay, it was 7-UP but it was in a real glass) and tried to balance, but I was on my way down. I didn’t tumble too far at first and thought I was done falling but then my head when into a bush and my left hand went into something wet and sticky. I slowed a bit and thought that was it, but, nope I rolled over some more rocks and plants until there was a vertical drop—probably about 10 feet. At the bottom there were a couple possible landings options—I could have gone in the pool with all my clothes on (remember, it wasn’t that kind of a party but this would have been the time to make an acception as that would have likely been the least painful option), or I could have fallen flat on my back on the cement beside the pool (ouchie), or, unbeknownst to me at the time---the playmates had several inflatable pool toys that were stacked near by and I landed perfectly on top of a giant beach ball.
A couple guys rushed over when I hit the bottom to see if I was okay. I’d hit a bunch of rocks and my leg was really hurting. I thought it might be broken, but when I jumped up out of shear embarrassment, my leg worked, so I told everyone I was fine. Larry was still chatting to me (he thought I was right behind him the entire time) until he saw me standing in front of him and realized that I’d fallen off the grotto.
With Larry’s help I assessed the damage. My palms were bleeding, my best pants were torn, there was goo on my head and I was generally beaten up, but everything was working. Larry was worried, but I told him I was fine. He got me some cocktail napkins so that I could hold them and stop the bleeding from my hands. Then we set off to stare at Hefner, just to say we did. After we squeezed through the crowd and got a good look--I said “AFTER”, right? That’s when Larry plucked off a big leaf that had been stuck to the top of my head. This is a clear illustration of why sometimes it might be handy to have a friend taller than oneself, as he claimed to not have noticed the giant leaf stuck to the top of my head until then.
When I felt like I’d had a sufficient Hef experience I thought I’d best deal with the blood thing. I told a security guard that I fell down and needed some band-aids or something, but he just looked at me and said he didn’t know where I could find one. I tried to explain again that I fell off the grotto because there was a hole in the stairs (a subtle attempt to highlight that it wasn’t so much my fault) but he remained silent. I said, “maybe you don’t where I should go to get help, but perhaps there is someone you can point me to that might know.” Finally he pointed us toward the bathrooms for the pool changing area. They were like little bungalows with sinks and mirrors. Each one had a scary looking bimba camped in front of the mirror layering on make-up. They looked like the kind of girls that were past the point where they got invited inside the mansion to put on their faces. I just needed to get to a sink to wash off the blood, but none of the girls looked like they were going to budge any time soon, so I went up to one and said, “I’m sorry, I fell and I’m bleeding. I just need to wash my hands real quick”. She stared straight in the mirror without missing a beat of mascara layering and said in a Marilyn Monroe gone very bad voice “Shit happens”. She didn’t budge. Then she threw in “Betcha looked good doing it”. I turned to Larry and repeated her “Shit happens” line. He didn’t stop laughing the rest of the night. In hindsight, I should have sued.
It was a big event with tons of people, so it was outside in a giant tent and also spilled out around the pool. No one was allowed inside the house...so technically it was Playboy Mansion adjacent, but close enough. We soon scrapped the crowded tent and decided to explore the pool area--specifically the famous cave grotto that people swim into, though no one was in the water that night (not that kind of a party). To be honest, the grotto seemed like it would have been super cool in 1968... but sort of hadn’t been updated much since then. I remember a giant console that held a phone receiver on one side—in the middle were big white, square buttons that lit up (don’t know what they were about) and a rotary dial for the phone on the far side. I didn’t really want to touch anything because the whole place reminded of me of a story I’d seen on 60 MINUTES--where they show the nasty hotel bedspreads under ultra violet light. You really don’t want to see the pillow fabrics of the infamous grotto under black light conditions.
Further investigation outside revealed a pathway with stairs to the top of the grotto which we thought might be a great vantage point to really scope out who was at the party. The entire grotto was probably around 15 to 20 feet tall--a nice spot to people watch, so that’s where we headed. We spied Hugh Hefner with some blonde triplets (everyone was an unnatural shade of blonde and sort of all looked alike--but the triplets did that act better than the rest). After a little while I suggested we head back down for a closer look.
Now this whole grotto island complex consisted of giant stones but of course was man made. There were holes in the rocks and cement for the roots of plants to grow in. When I took my first step off the top and back down onto the stairs, Larry was on the inside and I was on the side closest to the pool. He was chatting and slightly ahead of me when my foot went into a huge hole in the rock where a plant should have been but wasn’t. The rest seemed like it was in slow motion—I tilted over the edge of the path but thought “I’m not going to fall”. However, when I realized I really was tipping over I dropped my cocktail (okay, it was 7-UP but it was in a real glass) and tried to balance, but I was on my way down. I didn’t tumble too far at first and thought I was done falling but then my head when into a bush and my left hand went into something wet and sticky. I slowed a bit and thought that was it, but, nope I rolled over some more rocks and plants until there was a vertical drop—probably about 10 feet. At the bottom there were a couple possible landings options—I could have gone in the pool with all my clothes on (remember, it wasn’t that kind of a party but this would have been the time to make an acception as that would have likely been the least painful option), or I could have fallen flat on my back on the cement beside the pool (ouchie), or, unbeknownst to me at the time---the playmates had several inflatable pool toys that were stacked near by and I landed perfectly on top of a giant beach ball.
A couple guys rushed over when I hit the bottom to see if I was okay. I’d hit a bunch of rocks and my leg was really hurting. I thought it might be broken, but when I jumped up out of shear embarrassment, my leg worked, so I told everyone I was fine. Larry was still chatting to me (he thought I was right behind him the entire time) until he saw me standing in front of him and realized that I’d fallen off the grotto.
With Larry’s help I assessed the damage. My palms were bleeding, my best pants were torn, there was goo on my head and I was generally beaten up, but everything was working. Larry was worried, but I told him I was fine. He got me some cocktail napkins so that I could hold them and stop the bleeding from my hands. Then we set off to stare at Hefner, just to say we did. After we squeezed through the crowd and got a good look--I said “AFTER”, right? That’s when Larry plucked off a big leaf that had been stuck to the top of my head. This is a clear illustration of why sometimes it might be handy to have a friend taller than oneself, as he claimed to not have noticed the giant leaf stuck to the top of my head until then.
When I felt like I’d had a sufficient Hef experience I thought I’d best deal with the blood thing. I told a security guard that I fell down and needed some band-aids or something, but he just looked at me and said he didn’t know where I could find one. I tried to explain again that I fell off the grotto because there was a hole in the stairs (a subtle attempt to highlight that it wasn’t so much my fault) but he remained silent. I said, “maybe you don’t where I should go to get help, but perhaps there is someone you can point me to that might know.” Finally he pointed us toward the bathrooms for the pool changing area. They were like little bungalows with sinks and mirrors. Each one had a scary looking bimba camped in front of the mirror layering on make-up. They looked like the kind of girls that were past the point where they got invited inside the mansion to put on their faces. I just needed to get to a sink to wash off the blood, but none of the girls looked like they were going to budge any time soon, so I went up to one and said, “I’m sorry, I fell and I’m bleeding. I just need to wash my hands real quick”. She stared straight in the mirror without missing a beat of mascara layering and said in a Marilyn Monroe gone very bad voice “Shit happens”. She didn’t budge. Then she threw in “Betcha looked good doing it”. I turned to Larry and repeated her “Shit happens” line. He didn’t stop laughing the rest of the night. In hindsight, I should have sued.
KING JUAN CARLOS of Spain and
My International Bathroom EMERGENCY!
When I was 16 years old I got to go on a school trip to Spain. I was in my second year of Spanish class and thought I could actually communicate, until I finally got there and was soon humbled by the fact that I couldn’t even get a sales clerk to understand my pronunciation of “Madrid” when I was IN Madrid. I was with my teacher, Mrs. Curtis and several older girls, but our accommodation rate was only for rooms with more than one person. So this meant the girls all stayed together and I was constantly put in a room with male strangers. One time I was led to my room and there were two guys in the bed and another guy on a cot. There wasn’t even a free spot on the floor. I asked where I was suppose to sleep and the hotel guy pulled out a drawer from a dresser that had a little pad and pillow. I slept in a drawer! But I didn’t care---I was in SPAIN!!!
Full disclosure, when I travel to foreign countries I often have “stomach issues” which is a delicate way of saying... crapping my pants is a possibility. One day we go on a tour of this fabulous palace called El Escorial where the Kings of Spain used to live and I think the current King sometimes stays for special events. Anyway, I’m feeling funky down below and make sure I always know where the nearest bathroom is located. It’s right by the gate where we came in. So we’re touring the awesome palatial rooms when my internal alarm went off. It’s time to find a bathroom.
I told Mrs. Curtis and quickly but calmly headed back towards where we came in. When I got there, everyone was gone and the gate was closed--with the bathroom on the wrong side of it. Apparently we were the last tour of the day. This was bad, very, very bad as I had not factored in time for a bathroom search and hideous things were going to happen quite soon. So I very quickly and not calmly at all, headed backed to find my tour group so I could get help from the guide. But as I’m hustling through the palace, I’m not recognizing anything. The red velvet ropes are gone and I’m lost. I’m just racing through a palace all alone. Then I run into a room and stop right in the doorway. This room was different. It was a bedroom with an actual comfortable looking bed and a telephone. Next thing I know, two guards grab me. I’m telling them in English, with I imagine a great deal of desperation in my voice, that I’m trying to find a bathroom. I’m pleading that it’s a real emergency as I’m about to have an international incident right there in the royal palace. Suddenly the phone rings. One guard immediately answers it and to my great relief I’m lead into a huge bathroom right off the bedroom.
As I was sitting on the toilet (thankfully in time) I’m noticing the seat is warm and there’s a telephone in the bathroom and closed doors leading off different ways. When I go back into the bedroom the guards had my teacher with them and were chatting with her (my teacher actually spoke Spanish, which was handy). So what happened is, Juan Carlos, the KING OF SPAIN, was in the bathroom when I first rushed into the bedroom. He heard my panicked pleas to the guards, called them and told them to let me use his bathroom while he slipped out the other way. I had been sitting on the porcelain throne warmed by the King’s royal bottom! I love me some King Juan Carlos!
Full disclosure, when I travel to foreign countries I often have “stomach issues” which is a delicate way of saying... crapping my pants is a possibility. One day we go on a tour of this fabulous palace called El Escorial where the Kings of Spain used to live and I think the current King sometimes stays for special events. Anyway, I’m feeling funky down below and make sure I always know where the nearest bathroom is located. It’s right by the gate where we came in. So we’re touring the awesome palatial rooms when my internal alarm went off. It’s time to find a bathroom.
I told Mrs. Curtis and quickly but calmly headed back towards where we came in. When I got there, everyone was gone and the gate was closed--with the bathroom on the wrong side of it. Apparently we were the last tour of the day. This was bad, very, very bad as I had not factored in time for a bathroom search and hideous things were going to happen quite soon. So I very quickly and not calmly at all, headed backed to find my tour group so I could get help from the guide. But as I’m hustling through the palace, I’m not recognizing anything. The red velvet ropes are gone and I’m lost. I’m just racing through a palace all alone. Then I run into a room and stop right in the doorway. This room was different. It was a bedroom with an actual comfortable looking bed and a telephone. Next thing I know, two guards grab me. I’m telling them in English, with I imagine a great deal of desperation in my voice, that I’m trying to find a bathroom. I’m pleading that it’s a real emergency as I’m about to have an international incident right there in the royal palace. Suddenly the phone rings. One guard immediately answers it and to my great relief I’m lead into a huge bathroom right off the bedroom.
As I was sitting on the toilet (thankfully in time) I’m noticing the seat is warm and there’s a telephone in the bathroom and closed doors leading off different ways. When I go back into the bedroom the guards had my teacher with them and were chatting with her (my teacher actually spoke Spanish, which was handy). So what happened is, Juan Carlos, the KING OF SPAIN, was in the bathroom when I first rushed into the bedroom. He heard my panicked pleas to the guards, called them and told them to let me use his bathroom while he slipped out the other way. I had been sitting on the porcelain throne warmed by the King’s royal bottom! I love me some King Juan Carlos!
MY ROOMMATE WAS A VAMPIRE
I once lived with a person who believed he was a vampire. My reaction to whether or not there are such things as vampires is--well...you are what you eat.
During the 84' - 85' theatrical season (that's how we stage actors keep track of time), I found myself employed at as a lowly intern for a theatre company in Memphis, Tennessee, which of course was home to a different sort of "undead" named Elvis, but no time to get into that now.
The theatre eventually housed about nine of us in an old pre-Civil War mansion that I'm sure hadn't seen a repairman since indoor plumbing and electricity were introduced sometime during Calvin Coolidge's Presidential administration. But, beneath the creaking floorboards and flaking paint you could tell it was once a beautiful place with a huge winding staircase just like the one Miss Scarlet flitted up and down in Gone With The Wind.
I had a two room suite. Well, actually all the good bedrooms had been taken so I opted for an upstairs room that had probably been used as a solarium once upon a time. It was connected by French doors to a space just big enough for a bed (that was the suite part). I liked the sunshine and that made up for an occasional missing pane of glass that let in a teensie bit of a draft on a cold winter's night.
In the attic lived an army vet named Michael J. He was a real nice guy who occasionally did odd jobs at the theatre. Unfortunately Michael J. was haunted by flashbacks of his time in Viet Nam. You could hear him up in his room most nights shouting to his fellow soldiers and fighting old battles over and over.
Above the attic was a much smaller, rectangular space visible from the outside of the building It had windows but they were covered by dark drawn curtains. None of us had been up there because to do so would mean going through Michael J.'s room. He always said he'd come downstairs to visit us, but didn't want us to go up to his room to see him.
A few weeks after moving in Michael J. told us that a friend of his was staying in the little room above the attic. He said his friend use to be an actor on the old TV show Dark Shadows, but hadn't worked in a very long time. Then Michael J. asked us not to tell anyone else at the theatre about his friend staying in the house because "he only leaves his room late at night and is very quiet". Then after a quick look up to the ceiling he whispered "he thinks he's a vampire". In perfect unison we said "okay", rolled our eyes and cursed the war. We felt quite sure Michael J.'s friend was the little imaginary kind and months went by without a sighting or even a sound, though Michael J. frequently spoke of our vampire.
Very late one night I awoke with a powerful thirst. I truly didn't want to get out of my warm bed for a hike all the way down to the kitchen for a drink of water, but it was one of those times when you know you'll lose more sleep thinking about it than doing it--so I got up. I hadn't turned any lights on so I was pretty slow starting down our once grand staircase. I'd gone just a few steps when I noticed someone standing at the bottom of the stairs in a great pool of moonlight that poured through two large windows on either side of the front door. With nine roommates I was used to seeing people around, but each step convinced me a little more that this was not someone I recalled living with. He was pale with shiny, raven black hair, and I should add he was wearing a quite nice tuxedo with tails. Two-thirds down the staircase and I had the feeling that I had just walked into a movie. I could almost feel music underscoring my every move--maybe a cross between Bohemian Rhapsody and the theme to Jaws. Finally, a little light twinkled in the back of my mind and then burst into a giant neon marquee blazing the words VAMPIRE ROOMMATE FROM ABOVE THE ATTIC!
I froze. He was calm. His eyes pierced me. I stared back. A quick reality check convinced me I wasn't dreaming and a glass of water was no longer my priority. I did an about-face, raced to my suite and slammed the French doors behind me.
From deep beneath my blankets I wondered if anyone was going to believe me. Michael J. did. Later, further research revealed my vampire roomie to indeed be an actor from DARK SHADOWS. The troubled star Don Briscoe.