It Finally Haappened

Finally, I got to see myself on the big screen, in a proper film.  While watching "Green Zone," with Matt Damon, I saw myself, in the background.  There's an old saying, "you wait ages for a bus, then three come along at once."  Well, I saw myself in another film, "The Infidel."  I'm clearer in there and visible several times.  I wonder when the third one will come along?  I did manage to attend the world Premier of "The Infidel," my first premier, but they didn't let me attend the after party.  Shucks!

A Saturday Night Off

This past Sunday, I had to be on location, for a film shoot, at 6:30AM. Because of that, it wasn't possible to do my "Night Waves" radio show, as it finishes at 7AM, and the studio is about 250 miles from the location. After explaining to the Station Manager, he was cool with me taking Saturday night off. After all, I make a hell of a lot more money working on a film, than I do doing radio.
The last time I was "off" on a Saturday, was the Saturday before New Year. Then, my good friends, Tim and Barbara, were visiting, from New York. Even though I was off, I was busy entertaining them, so it wasn't a relaxing time for me. This past Saturday was different. I had nobody to please other than myself. I was up for some fun. I found that Jordan Marsh's band, Blue Shoes, was playing a gig in Essex. I had to hire a car to get to the shoot on Sunday morning, so I picked it up Saturday evening, then set out for Essex. The car hire company gave me a free upgrade, because they were out of the cheap cars, which is what I had reserved. Instead, they gave me a Fiat Bravo and I wasn't complaining. The car was very nice, with a six speed transmission. I tuned in some music on the stereo, then blasted around the M25, to the other side of London.
Jordan was playing at the Eagle and Child, the same pub I had been turned away from, on New Year's Eve. This time, I had no trouble getting in. When I walked in, Jordan had just started his first set. He gave me a nod of acknowledgement, as I walked in. I bought a pint of Strongbow from the bar, then settled to enjoy the show. Jordan plays a nice mix of classic rock, soul, rockabilly, and even takes requests. Women in Essex have quite a reputation and there were several good looking Essex girls, present. In fact, I ended up surrounded. I had two brunettes in front of me and two blondes behind me.
When Jordan finished his second set and started packing up for the night, I walked over for a quick word. He was cordial as ever, even though we were interrupted by one of the brunettes, who was drunk. He told me that he's still not finished the CD he's working on. After saying goodbye, I rejoined the Fiat, out in the car park. With the stereo fired up, I roared back around the M25, to Berkshire and home. It was a fun night out. The only thing that could have made it better is if one of my friends had joined me. If you ever have the chance to see Jordan Marsh perform, grab it. He always gives an entertaining performance. This Saturday, I should be back on the radio, from Midnight, UK time, till 7AM, Sunday. You can listen to me at www.seasideradio.co.uk .

TV Alert: Dawn Porter Gets Her Man

Tomorrow night, March 6th, Dawn porter's latest documentary, "Dawn Porter Gets Her Man," airs on BBC 3 at 9PM. As I participated in this project, I should be seen in the program. Don't miss it!

Pritam's Notice

Pritam, my Nepalese co-worker, has given his notice. He's quitting! For months, he's been saying to me that he wanted to leave, but he never seemed to act on it. I had started thinking this was just talk. Now, he's finally gone and done it. This is his last week at the restaurant where I work as my day job. Most struggling actors have a "day job," which provides us with the means to live, until we get our "big break." I am excited at the prospect of him leaving, because of the two of us, he has the easier, more pleasant work duties. I end up with all the crap jobs. I am hoping, when they hire his replacement, the new person will take my old responsibilities and I will take over Pritam's. There's no more money involved, but I like his work much more. It would reduce the likelihood of having to work late, as well. I'm almost in a good mood, now.

Late Buses

Lately, I have been taking the second bus from Bracknell to Camberley, in the mornings. This bus arrives in Camberley just a few minutes before the bus for the office complex, where the restaurant I work at for my day job is located. For a long time, I was worried that if I took this second bus, I might miss the bus from Camberley to work. The downside of taking the first bus is that I end up waiting half an hour in Camberley. Also, to catch it, I have to leave earlier, which results in less sleep, or getting less done in the morning. That wasted half hour annoyed me.
For a few months, I watched the second bus arrive just before my bus to work. It seemed to make it every day and the driver of my bus to work even thought I was taking it. Finally, a few weeks ago, I was so busy, I failed to make the first bus. I took the second one and it worked out fine. Without consciously intending to, I found myself falling into the routine of taking the second bus. All was well, until one day last week, when the bus was ten minutes late. I missed my connecting bus to work and ended up being late. This morning, it happened again! Should I force myself to start taking the earlier bus and end up spending half an hour sitting around, in Camberley? Or, should I continue taking the second bus and if I miss connect occasionally, so be it?

A Model of Teen Unemployment

This week has been London Fashion Week, again. That's why there have been so many news items about the fashion industry, floating around. The latest is that the British Fashion Council has decided to ban people under 16 from appearing on catwalks. Recently, a 12-year-old model, Maddison Gabriel, caused a stir in Australia, during their Gold Coast Fashion Week. Australian Prime Minister, felt the need to open his gob and complain that "girls" under 16 shouldn't be appearing on catwalks. He described having a girl as young as 12 modeling as "outrageous." At least the models are doing honest work, Mr. Howard, unlike "government officials." It's hard to find work when you're a teen, so those who can should take advantage of the opportunity.
I had my first job, a paper route (or round, as the Brits say). I was 11 when I started. It never did me any harm. I wasn't earning as much as a model would. I think Naomi Campbell sided with those who favor a ban. That's hypocritical, given that she started at 15. I bet the real reason she favours a ban is that she doesn't want the competition from younger models. Let's face it, Campbell isn't getting any younger. When teens don't find work, people criticise them. You can't have it both ways. Someone needs to stand up for these models. I guess it falls to me.

Out of Whole Cloth

Last Friday, a report entitled, "Let's Clean Up Fashion," was published, criticizing the high pay that chief executives of some fashion firms receive. The report contrasts these sums with the low wages paid to overseas workers, in poor countries. Two advocacy groups, War on Want and Labour Behind the Label, claim that most well-known clothing companies are not doing enough to make sure that factory workers overseas are lifted out of poverty. They also claim that overseas workers who make the clothes sold in the leading British fashion retailers are not paid a "living wage."
There's one big problem with these claims. The living wage being used as a yardstick is the British living wage. These workers don't live in Britain. The UK is one of the most expensive nations in the world in which to live. Low level wages in the UK are about double what they are in America, for example. However, since just about everything here is twice as expensive as in the States, low level workers, here, aren't any better off.
Then these idiots compare the £3 million fee paid to model Kate Moss for coming out with her own fashion line, for Topshop, with the earnings of the workers in Mauritius who make the clothes. The factory workers, there, take home £64 per month. They also compare the earnings of the CEOs for the largest supermarket chain in Britain, Tesco, and department store chain, Marks and Spencer, with garment workers in Bangladesh and Sri Lanka. Are these advocates idiots, or do they think we are? If you compare the wages of the petrol station attendant, in London, with the CEO of any major oil company, the Company director will, of course, be earning much more.
The workers in these third world countries are happy to get the wages they are getting. If these jobs didn't pay more than the alternatives open to them there, they wouldn't take them. Demanding that companies pay these folks the same as workers in Britain earn will just result in more expensive clothes for the poor in Britain and/or the jobs being eliminated all together. I wonder which is better, £64 per month in Mauritius, or £0 per month? In a free market, real wages rise to the marginal level of productivity. If these meddling twits really want to help the poor abroad, they'd campaign to eliminate barriers to migration and trade. Freeing up the markets will, in time, raise the standards of living for people in poorer countries. Until they wise up, I wish the advocates would "put a sock in it."

Wearing the Real Costume

Yesterday, I worked on the feature film for which I attended the costume fitting last week. I had a 6:30AM call time at Pinewood Studios. Getting there via public transportation would prove tricky. After much research, I decided to take the first bus from Bracknell, towards London, but get off at Langley. The production company was providing a free shuttle bus service from Langley train station to Pinewood. They were expecting people from London to arrive at Langley on the 6:11 from Paddington Station. The bus from Bracknell was due to arrive in Langley at 6:06. The only problem was that the bus stop isn't at the train station. Could I walk to the train station in five minutes?
The answer turned out to be, "no." It wasn't helped by the fact that my bus was a bit late. The train station proved to be quite far. After walking a while, I caught a bus that was going my way. I asked the driver if he stopped at the train station, but he said no. He did get me closer, faster than I could have walked the distance. By the time I arrived at Langley Station, it was 6:25. When I walked to the front of the station, I figured the shuttle to Pinewood would have left already. Maybe I could catch a cab from the station. As the front of the station came into view, I was pleasantly surprised. There were a bunch of men waiting there. The shuttle hadn't come yet.
The mini buses didn't start arriving to pick us up till just past 6:30. Technically, we were late, but as we were all in the same boat, I figured I couldn't get into trouble over it. We had been told to arrive at 6AM, if we wanted breakfast. I was concerned about missing breakfast, as I hadn't brought anything to eat with me. Upon arrival at Pinewood, I was in for my second pleasant surprise of the day. They were still serving breakfast. There were so many background artistes in line for their costumes, that there was plenty of time for me to grab something to eat first.
The only downside to this shoot was that all of the actors for the scene were men. There must have been a couple of hundred of us, but not a single female. The only women around were a couple of production runners, a couple of costume people, and all the makeup department. The makeup ladies were quite old and matronly looking, but the female runners were on the cute side. Oh, one of the assistant directors was female as well, but she wasn't so good looking. Mostly, she kept repeating, "quiet please," so often that towards the end of the day, I felt like pushing her head through a wall. Strangely, I ended up resisting the urge.
Although my agent had originally told me the job was for two days filming, I found out that the production company was going to try to cram it all into the one day. That's why we started so bloody early. Because I had been told it was for two days, I had booked two days off work at the restaurant. If they succeeded in getting all the filming done in one day, I would end up with a day off for nothing. The day was long. They didn't wrap us till just past 7PM. It was then that they finally told us for certain that we would not be needed the next day. By them, there was no one left at the restaurant for me to call and cancel my day off for the next day. Oh well, I resigned myself to spending the next day at home, relaxing. Poor me.

A Real Costume

Yesterday was a really busy day for me. A long one, as well. First, I went to my day job, at the restaurant, arriving at 7:45AM. After working till 11:15, without my usual break at 10:00, I left and rushed over to Pinewood Studios. Traffic was moderate and the drive took 35 minutes. I made my costume fitting, scheduled for Noon, with a few minutes to spare. Walking from the gate to a temporary structure behind the 007 sound stage, a fellow supporting artiste asked me to show him the way. I am usually slightly less enthusiastic about helping guys, as opposed to pretty women, but what the hell. As I was leading the way, my new, talkative companion let slip that his father is a producer. Hello! Major networking opportunity.
Upon arrival at the marquee, we were given payment paperwork and confidentiality agreements to sign. Because of the latter, I can't say which major motion picture it is I will be working on next. The film industry can be so secretive sometimes. Usually, when I have attended a costume fitting for supporting artiste work, the costume ends up being primarily my own clothes. They look over what I have brought, add this, or takeaway that, but I end up wearing my own clothes. What fun is there in that? This time was different. I was given a complete costume, shirts, trousers, even shoes. Finally! This feels more like acting. I will enjoy playing my small part much more, knowing that I am wearing a real costume, not just my own clothes. The only items of my own that I will be wearing will be socks and underpants. Producer's son was going a bit slower and I needed to get back to work. I bade him farewell and scampered off towards the parking lot. Hopefully, I would talk to him more during filming, next week.
Rushing back to work in my rented, Italian car, I got there by 1:05PM, just five minutes later than I had hoped. I was in a great mood, having listened to my favorite Black Eyed Peas song, "Hey Mama," on the radio, in the car, while speeding down the motorway. That was the first song I ever liked by B.E.P. and every time I hear it, I can picture Fergie in the video, shaking her...ass-ets. Back at work, I struggled to catch up on my work, which had piled up while I was gone. There was no time to relax. I needed to get finished as quickly as possible, so I could head to my next project for the day.
I finished at the restaurant by 4:50PM. After a quick break in the lavatory, I raced off to return my rented car. The rental firm dropped me off at Hatton Cross Tube station. As I rushed down the stairs, to the platform, I heard a train pulling out. I reached the platform just in time to see it was an eastbound Piccadilly line train. Just the one I needed. Trains on the Heathrow spur of the Piccadilly line run a bit infrequently, so I sat down to wait for the next one. I was racing to meet my good friend, Mucky Sarah. She was producing some project of her own and needed a male for voiceover work. When she offered it to me, I jumped at the chance.
Catching the next train, I figured out I could change to the District line at Acton Town. The District line would take me to Ravenscourt Park, the nearest station to my destination. From there, I could walk to the studio where we would be recording. Unfortunately, the London Underground system was recovering from a strike, which had just ended in the early hours of Wednesday morning. Even though it was now Wednesday evening, full service had not yet been restored. The District line was running again, but only on a limited service. I ended up with a long wait at Acton Park. Sarah called me on my mobile. She'd beaten me to Ravenscourt Park. I told her to go ahead and I would meet her at the studio. Trying to be helpful, she offered me directions from Ravenscourt Park Tube station, to the studio. Even though I had a map, I took note of Sarah's directions. After all, she'd been there before and was traveling the route at that very moment. I had never been to that part of town before. Surely, her tips would save me valuable time fumbling with my map, printed from the internet.
By this time I had been going for over twelve hours. I guess was tired, or something. That could explain why I totally forgot that Sarah is navigationally challenged, even more so than most women. When driving her car, she's almost completely dependent on her GPS. When her GPS wasn't working for a while, this summer, even with computer generated directions from the internet, she still managed to get lost, twice, while driving us somewhere in northwest London. None of this was in the forefront of my mind when I left Ravenscourt Tube station. I blindly followed Sarah's directions and lived to regret it. Subsequently, it began to dawn on me that I was going the wrong way. Consulting my map and struggling to find a street sign, I eventually figured out that I was on the wrong side of Ravenscourt Park. One of the quirky things about Britain is that many intersections lack street signs. This makes navigating much more of a challenge than it is in the States. I made a right turn and cut through the park, trying to get myself back on course.
I must have gotten slightly disoriented in the park, because I ended up on the east side of it, rather than on the north side. However, I wouldn't figure that out until later. I tried comparing the streets I was seeing to the few that were named on my map. Instead of relying on this crappy Mapquest printout, I should have consulted my trusty, old, London A -Z, but as I said, I was tired. I pressed on in what seemed like the right direction. Sarah called to find out where I was. "I don't know," I said. "Your directions were shit," I informed her. A brief discussion ensued and she admitted that she had given me a wrong turn, sending me left out of the station, when it should have been right. Oopsie! Sarah started making unhelpful suggestions, based on her own habits. This included suggesting that I go back the way I came and start over. That's a well known tactic of hers. I had been walking for half an hour, by then. No way was I going to redo that, then still have the walk to the studio to do. Next, she suggested asking someone. Asking is a stereotypical female, navigational tactic, but I am a man and real men don't ask! Did Christopher Columbus ask? Hell no! She started debating with me, which wasn't helping. In fact, it was distracting. I pretended that I was getting a bad signal on my mobile and couldn't hear her. Then I hung up, saying I would call her back. When I didn't, she called back, a few minutes later. I just let my phone ring and didn't answer.
Having finally found a main road that was on my map, I tried to figure where I was along it. Lack of street signs again caused me to walk along it in the wrong direction. Those street signs I did find didn't correlate with the ones on my map. Reaching a bus stop, I consulted the local map displayed there. Finally, I knew where I was. By reversing direction and walking a bit, I was able to get to the street the studio was on. I finally arrived there, an hour late. I did it my way, as Frank Sinatra would sing. No asking strangers for directions! Male honor was satisfied.
In the studio, I offered Sarah and the sound engineer croissants, but they declined. How cool...I was able to appear generous, but without any of the negative side effects. She gave me a copy of the script I would be reading. We were recording a segment of her book, which is based on her blog. Sarah writes a sex blog, "Naive London Girl." The book is based on her blog and real life sex exploits. The publishing company she is negotiating with want to put it out as a podcast book, as well as traditional print, and wanted a sample. Sarah writes under the pen name, Anjelika Jinxs. You can check out her sex blog at: http://www.naivelondongirl.com . That site also has her podcasts, including a couple with me on them.
Looking over the script, I noticed that the male parts I was doing involved some very sleazy sex talk. This script required me saying all sorts of pathetic, sleazy things that I just wouldn't normally say to a woman. Noticing my distaste, Sarah said, "it's called acting." Sarah and I sat in a studio, together. We did a couple of practice run-throughs of the script. It's funny how Sarah can be so inhibited about so many things in day to day life, like driving without a GPS, or eating vegetables, but the filth that calmly spews forth from that girl's mouth is enough to make a sailor blush. Once we started recording, Sarah did a few bits on her own, then we did some together. Listening to the criticism of the sound engineer, we did a couple of takes of some parts, trying to get it right. Finally, we came to my last part. It was a single line, but it involved me pretending to be having an orgasm. Faking orgasms is what women do. I have no experience with that. It was my turn to feel inhibited. I did it over and over again, but Sarah wasn't satisfied. She kept urging more out of me. The problem is the character is saying things I would never say during an orgasm. Finally, the engineer said to try ad libbing it and saying whatever I was comfortable with. Once I did that a couple of times, he said he was satisfied that he had enough. He will edit parts together to produce what he and Sarah want. Sarah teased me that I don't make noisy enough orgasms. I teased her back that her scriptwriting was crap. My parts finished, I was free to leave.
We had finished a little earlier than I expected. Not wanting to repeat the disaster of my journey there, I caught a bus to Hammersmith Underground station. From there, I walked to the bus stop for the coach to Bracknell. I was happy to get the 9:50PM Coach from Hammersmith. Originally, I had been expecting to end up on the 10:50. Arriving in Bracknell after 11:30PM, I walked home from the town centre, as the local buses had stopped running by then. A Taxi would cost the equivalent of an hour's wages at the restaurant. It only took me half an hour to walk. That's the like doubling my wages. It was after midnight by the time I waked through my doorway. I felt hot and sweaty. I had just endured an 18 hour day. Uncharacteristically, I had a shower and went to bed. Blogging could wait for another day.

This Takes the Biscuit

Today, I worked on my first commercial. It was a TV advertisement for a magazine. I am excited about it for two reasons. First, it pays better than the film work I have been doing. About three times as much, so today was the best single day's pay I have ever had. Second, I should be seen in this commercial, given that there are only six of us in the scene, and it will be shown repeatedly, thus maximizing my public exposure.
I arrived early, which is good for me. As I was sitting waiting, a gorgeous actress walked in. She had a beautiful, full head of auburn hair, flowing down over her shoulders. Wearing a business suit, she also had a sizzling hot figure. I later learned her name is Carla and she's a TV presenter on Sky Channel 634. She's also a former dancer, which would explain the figure. For my sins, I got to sit next to her for the entire shoot. What's also impressive about Carla is that she's over thirty, but still looks gorgeous. That's one of the nice things about working in TV and films, you get to work with some stunningly beautiful women, sometimes.
The premise of the ad is that Carla and I, plus four others, are sitting around a table in a meeting room. We are all dressed like lawyers. At the head of the table is an empty chair. It's empty because the boss is not there. Instead of being in the meeting, he's off reading this magazine we are promoting. He can't put it down. We're all bored waiting and doing various things to pass the time. One woman is texting on her mobile phone. Another woman is doing a crossword puzzle, while a male colleague sits next to her, trying to chat her up. Carla is doodling on a pad. Originally, I was supposed to be rolling a biscuit (cookie for American readers) back and forth, across the table with a male colleague, opposite. After a couple of rehearsals, the director decided that instead, my colleague would be sleeping with his head on his hands. That left me and the biscuit. He asked me to play with it in some way. I decided to spin it, on edge, like a top, on the table. The director liked that idea and decided to go with it. Thus began the great biscuit challenge.
The director decided he wanted to end our shot on my spinning biscuit. The problem was to work it so the camera finished tracking back just as I spun the biscuit, but have all the action fit within the time allotted for this part of the commercial. We were shooting for a 30 second commercial and our scene was supposed to take 7 seconds. Coordinating the camera tracking, my spinning, and the 7 seconds, became very difficult. We did take after take. I finally lost count when we hit 40 and that's not counting the numerous rehearsals we did. Little bits and pieces of the scene kept being adjusted and re-adjusted. We had a female cinematographer, which was a first for me. The whole crew were great and a joy to work with. They got us water and fed us breakfast. When we finally wrapped, around 1PM, I was being teased about being typecast, forever more, as a biscuit spinner. Given that my spinning biscuit became such a central part of the scene, I feel fairly confident I will be seen in this commercial. I am looking forward to when I finally see it on TV.
Between takes, I spoke with Carla as much as possible. When I asked her where she lived, I thought she said "northward." So I guessed Honslow. To this, she replied, "northward," or so I thought. I tried Harrow, even Luton. Still, every time she would say, "northward," in an ever more exasperated voice. Then I figured out that she wasn't saying "northward," but "Northwood." I found that funny. Carla looked so good, I thought she should be doing bigger time stuff than this. I pictured her as a leading lady in some film. When I asked her if she wanted to do bigger acting projects, in the future, she replied in the negative. "I'm a better TV presenter than I am an actress," she explained. She just does the acting on the side, on her days off from TV presenting. In any case, she made my day. In what other line of work can you spend a day playing with biscuits and chatting to a gorgeous lady, and get paid for it?

The Bourne Ultimatum

Today, "The Bourne Ultimatum," the third film in the Bourne series, opened into general release, here in the UK. I felt a very strong desire to see the film immediately. Why? Because I worked on the film, as an extra, and I wanted to see if I could be seen in any of the scenes I was involved with. Additionally, I liked the previous two films in the series and I haven't been to the cinema in over a month. When I got home from work, I checked the show times at the local cinema, here in Bracknell. There was a show starting in twenty-five minutes. The one after that was at 8PM. I preferred the earlier time, but it would be a close thing if I could make it, without a car.
Although I wanted to have a shower and change clothes, I quickly decided that I didn't have the time. Putting my work shirt back on, I changed shoes and socks, grabbed my wallet, and jacket, then raced out the door. It felt exciting. I was a man with a mission, just like Jason Bourne, in the film. Checking the bus schedule at my local bus stop, I discovered there was only one before the film started. It was due at 6:06PM. The film was due to start at 6:15. It would be close. Suppose the bus was late? On the other hand, the cinemas in Britain show about ten minutes of advertisements, then several minutes of trailers, before the feature, so that would give me a cushion of time. I decided to walk to the next stop, which is on the main road into Bracknell. Two more bus routes use that stop, so I would increase my chances of catching one earlier.
Cutting across the sports centre field, I thought about all the things I had in common with the character, Jason Bourne, played by Matt Damon. I was alone, in a foreign land, using public transportation. I even have the same initials! The coincidences are too much to contemplate. "The Bourne Ultimatum" is a significant film for me. I worked on it for eight days, the longest stint I have done on any film, so far. I played three different people in as many different scenes, so the odds of being seen were the highest for any big budget feature I have worked on, to date. For me, being seen is one of the rewards of doing extra work. The work is dull and you don't get a credit, so being seen is an added bonus. One scene I did on "Ultimatum," I walked down a corridor, passing Joan Allen, one of the principals in the film. Joan plays Pamela Landry. As it's just me and Joan in that corridor, I figured the odds of me being recognizable on screen were good. IF they used the shot.
Waiting at the next stop, I hoped someone I know would see me, as he or she drove into town. Maybe I would be offered a ride. At one point, a car drove by and honked, but it passed so quickly, I didn't recognize any of the people in it. The car pulled into the petrol station, further up the road. Should I go there and see who it is? If I did, I would risk missing the bus. I decided to play it safe and wait for the bus. The reviews of "Ultimatum," which I have read, so far, are very positive. I am tempted to say, "glowing." The Bourne films have been described as "intelligent thriller" and are thought to have raised the bar for the whole genre of espionage thrillers. Many see that influence on the latest Bond film, "Casion Royale," which seemed to be trying to imitate the Bourne style. Larushka Ivan-Zadeh (boy, I hate hyphenated names), in today's Metro newspaper, gives "Ultimatum" four out of five stars, indicating a "very good."
Thankfully, the bus was not late. I reached the last stop, in Bracknell town centre, with six minutes till show time. I walked, purposefully, toward the Odeon Cinema, taking advantage of a pedestrian short-cut. Approaching the cinema complex, I walked fast in order to get ahead of a slow moving group of young women. I managed to beat them to the escalator. Riding the escalator up to the box office, I wondered if there would be a long queue. Two minutes till show time. I hoped that the start time was early enough that a lot of people won't have managed to get home from work and get themselves together for an evening out, yet. As I reached the top of the escalator, looking ahead, I saw there was no one in the queue for the box office. Yes! Now, just let the show not be sold out.
Some UK cinemas still offer reserved seating. Tonight, the Odeon was in reserve seat mode. For Americans, it's a strange experience, as in America, all cinemas are open seating. As a former cinema manager, I think it's daft. Reserve seating makes buying a ticket a longer process, as the customer has to choose where he wants to sit. Also, you need an usher or two, at the auditorium, to seat people. I thought most cinemas, here, had abandoned it. I haven't run across reserved seating for a few years. The cashier, sadly a male, asked me if I wanted to purchase Premium Seating. I have never heard of that before. The Bracknell cinema used to be part of the UCI chain and never offered "Premium Seating." "What, exactly, is Premium seating?" I asked. Did I have time for this? As soon as he mentioned that the premium seats are at the back of the auditorium, I cut him off. "No thanks." I prefer sitting in front. I won't pay extra to sit in the back. Realizing that the screening was reserve seating, I told him I wanted to sit in front, adding, "as far front as you can get me," to make sure he understood. He was surprised, because, for some strange reason, most people seem to shun sitting in the front row. So much so that Odeon management have chosen to start selling seats in the back, for a premium. I have always preferred sitting in front. I get unlimited leg room and I can lose myself into the film. No distractions of people's heads in front. As everyone else is behind, I don't hear them talking as much. To me, it seems strange that people pay extra to sit in the front row at a concert, or at a play, but avoid it at the cinema. People, are strange.
Inside, a cute, female usher was taking the tickets. She smiled sweetly at me and I said, "gee, you seem happy," as I walked up to her. I don't remember her response. I didn't have time to flirt with her, I needed to get in to see my film. All that mattered to me was that she said, "screen five," and indicated the direction I should go. I rushed past the concession counter. No over-priced treats for me. I could do with saving the calories and the money. At the door to the auditorium, there was a sign posted, reading, "please wait to be seated." Oh for Pete's sake! It was the reserve seating again. No one was visible. I waited impatiently for the usher. Finally, he strolled into view. He walked me to my seat while the adverts were playing. I am perfectly capable of walking myself to my seat, thank you. The room was only about a quarter full. As I guessed, it was a bit early. I suspect the next showing, at 8PM, was much busier. I was seated all on my own, in the front row, dead center. That suited me fine. I made myself comfortable. At least I didn't miss the trailers. I like to see what's coming to the cinemas. I saw a trailer for "The Kingdom," which looks good, but mostly I was impatient for the feature to start. I wanted gratification and I wanted it right away.
The good news is that "The Bourne Ultimatum" is good. If I have any complaints, it's that the story is simple and there could have been more fight and chase sequences. At 115 minutes, the film bucks the trend of going over two hours. All of the character development is centered on Jason Bourne. Although some of the peripheral characters seem interesting, we don't get to know much about them. Scott Glenn, who plays Ezra Kramer, Director of the CIA, is shown so little, we hardly see him. I had heard a rumor that one of the scenes I did, with Scott Glenn, was dropped from the film and that's true. Julia Stiles is back, reprising her role as Nicky Parsons and thee is a hint of a "history" between her and Bourne, but that's all we get, a hint. Also, director Paul Greengrass, might have overused his trademark, handheld, jumbly camera shots. The most involved hand to hand fight sequence in the film is hard to follow, because the image jumps around on the screen so much. The same is true of the police car chase sequence. Greengrass also directed the previous Bourne film, "The Bourne Supremacy," (as well as "United 93") but I don't remember the camera jumping around so much in that one. It would be interesting to watch them both again and compare.
The bad news is that you can't see me in any of the film. As I mentioned above, gone is the scene I did with Scott Glenn. The Waterloo station scenes are so crowded and between the jumpy, hand-held camera, and the flashing editing, I can't find myself. Finally, my big scene with Joan Allen, which comes towards the end of the film, was cut so that it starts on screen after I have passed her. After all the rushing, I felt defeated. Still, I earned more money on that film than any other show business project I have worked on. It also got me filming at Shepperton and Pinewood studios, for the first time. While other reviewers have rated it the best Bourne film so far, I think I still prefer the first one (sorry Paul). In any case, it's a good thriller and worth seeing. I think it's better than "Casino Royale."

What a Treasure

Last Saturday, I worked on a new film. It was only extra work, but I was grateful for the opportunity to earn some extra money, to put toward my car fund. I was pleased to discover that I was working on "National Treasure 2." The day's filming was at Pinewood Studios, on the back lot. I was playing a cowboy walking along the sidewalk in a town in one of the Dakotas (North, South...one of them). The costume department outfitted me with a black cowboy hat. How cool was that? The scene involved one of the principals, Ed Harris. I walk past as he comes out of a store. At a couple of points during the afternoon, he and I were as close as I am to this computer screen, right here on my desk. We passed each other like two ships in the night, only it was day and ships don't usually pass each other on the sidewalk. All this and we were served steak for lunch. Man, the movie business is great, isn't it?

Best Laid Plans

After purchasing a ticket to travel by coach, within England, this weekend, I received a call, today, from my agent. This time, it was Emma on the phone. She asked me if I was available to work on a film shoot this Saturday and Sunday? In a flash, I recalled that I was due to leave Friday, after work, and return on Sunday evening. Without hesitation, I told Emma that I was available. She said she'd call back tomorrow and confirm things. I don't like to say no to my agent, as I have heard they don't offer clients as much work if they find you to be routinely unavailable. Besides, I need the money. After I got home, I called the friend I was supposed to visit and broke the news. We decided to keep our plans open until things were confirmed with the agency. The last time they told me I had work, they ended up telling me it was cancelled before the day.

Program Reminder: Urban Legends

Don't forget...those of you in the UK and Ireland, who have Sky, or access to FX Channel via cable...tonight at midnight, my episode of "Urban Legends" will be re-shown. Sky Channel 165. American and Canadian residents, the series is supposed to be airing, eventually, in your neck of the woods. Check local listings.

Look Alike

When I went to work yesterday, I found that the Sou Chef was off for the day. a temp chef was booked from an agency. When I saw the temp chef, I was shocked (the British have a colorful term for it...gobsmacked). The temp was a woman. Although unusual, that fact alone was not unprecedented. What shocked me was that she looked so much like my first fiancee, Kelly Lucas. This girl was obviously too young to be Kelly. When Kelly and I got engaged, back in 1986, this girl was only four years old. Still, the resemblance was uncanny.
The temp chef was called Charley (or Charlie? How the heck should I know how she spells it? Ironically, my mother used to use a perfume called, "Charlie"). Looking at Charley was strange. Talking with her was strange. It was like I was back in time, 21 years ago. I felt odd. I am still in love with Kelly, although I haven't seen her since 1987. Every time I saw Charley, I felt oddly uncomfortable. When I told Charley that she looked like my ex-fiancee (of course I told her...you know me, I tell everything), she laughed. In fact, she seemed to laugh at almost everything I said. Then, of course, I do try to be a bit comic during the course of my day. Charley had her hair tucked up under a chef's hat, throughout the day. When she changed out of her chef's uniform, she revealed a head full of long, brown hair. It suddenly felt very warm in the kitchen. After she had her time sheet signed by management, she strode out of the door and back out of my life, just as suddenly as she plopped into it. What a strange experience.

Urban Legends

Last night, I finally saw my episode of "Urban Legends" on TV. Because the TV listings don't indicate which episode it is in advance, I didn't know it was going to be on. I have been just trying to catch every episode looking for it, but have missed a few. A close, personal friend of mine told me, over the weekend, that she'd seen the episode I was supposed to be in a couple of weeks ago, but hadn't seen me. I panicked. Had I ended up on the cutting room floor? As I watched last night, there I was in the middle segment. In each episode of "Urban Legends," there are three stories. Two of the stories are false, or are "urban legends." The third one is true. I acted in one of the stories, playing office manager, Elliot Wakiaski. My segment involves a guy who dies at his desk, while working in an office, and isn't discovered for a week.
I was really excited to see the episode, finally. We filmed it last summer. I have a speaking part, which was scripted, although we did some takes with me ad libbing some lines. I was thrilled to see that two of my ad libs made it into the finally cut. If you didn't happen to see last night's episode, don't fret. It will be re-broadcast this Friday night, at midnight (going into Saturday morning). In the UK and Ireland, it's on the FX Channel, Sky 165 (and again an hour later on +1, channel 166). The series is also supposed to air in America and Canada, although I don't know when, or on what channels. Check your local listings if you live in the USA or Canada.

Hospitalized! (Part 2 of the Hospital Saga)

In our last episode, I was sitting in the waiting room for the hospital A & E, Tuesday morning, leaking red liquid from my proboscis. Without too much delay, some medical looking person came out and called my name. Responding, I followed her in, through some doors, to the inner regions of the A & E ward. Now we were getting somewhere! I was in the belly of the beast; the inner workings of Britain's National Health Service (NHS), or, in other words, socialized medicine. This is where poor people like me turn, in the UK, when we are leaking red fluids and can't afford private health care. As a struggling actor/writer, with hardly two sticks to rub together, I can't afford to pay for both the taxes that fund the NHS and private health insurance, at the same time. Given that one is mandatory, guess which one I do without?
I was directed to a gurney, in a curtained off space, separating it from other gurney parking areas. A nurse was waiting there and, together with the nurse who walked me in, they directed me to sit on the gurney, then lie back on it. I struggled maneuvering myself, as I only had the use of one hand. The other one was clutching a bloody tissue to my face, trying to staunch the flow of whatever essential fluids my body had left, at that point. They spoke to me with that overly patient tone of voice, which sounds patronizing and annoying. Once I was in position, one of them started asking me more questions. Did I take this, or that? Did I have this condition or that condition? "Who is your next of kin?" There's a pleasant thought.
I was labelled, with a plastic wristband, complete with my name, age, date if birth, gender, post code, and bar code. I'm a product! The nurse who seemed to be running the show instructed me to try holding my nose for a half hour. She admitted that I had probably tried applying pressure, at home, but wanted me to undertake this exercise anyway. What the hell, in for a penny, in for a Pound, I gave it a try. When I applied pressure to my nose, the blood just pooled up behind the pressure, until it started spilling down the back of my throat. Tiring of that, they tied a cotton bolster across my nostrils and waited for the doctor to see me. They started sticking tubes in my arms and taking my blood pressure, as well as a blood sample. The doctor who turned up was a short, blond man, who over-used sun beds, or fake tan. One of the nurses consulted with him. They seemed bothered by something. Oh no, maybe they had discovered that I am a Cylon. The doctor ordered a saline drip. After a time, I started feeling warm. Then I started sweating a lot. I felt more and more uncomfortable. One of the nurses assured me that my reaction wasn't unusual. The doctor instructed the nurses to take the saline drip our of my right arm and attach it to my left. Eventually, the discomfort subsided.
Once I started feeling better, the doctor advised me that he was going to try "packing" my nose. The execution seemed a lot worse than the description. First, the doctor shoved a tubular device up my right nostril. That alone was very uncomfortable. Then he inflated it, so that it put pressure on the whole inside of the nostril. Leaving me to contemplate my situation, the doctor returned, later, saying he wanted an Ear, Nose and Throat (ENT) specialist to look me over. When she finally came around, she was gorgeous and Indian. While she may have looked great, her behavior made up for it, by being awkward. She said I had lost a lot of blood and she wanted to admit me to the hospital, for a least 24 hours. What? I didn't expect that. I had an audition to attend, that night. I tried reasoning with her, but she was adamant. I gave in and her minions wheeled me upstairs. I was going to be spending the night in the hospital.
To be continued...

Going to the Hospital

I'm sorry for not posting a new blog article, yesterday, but I went to the hospital. I was laying in my bed, in the early hours of Tuesday morning, when I suddenly snapped awake. I felt this trickle of liquid in my right nostril. Touching my finger to my nose, I pulled it back and saw the end dark, with blood. My nose was bleeding. What a pain in the ass! Okay, so not so much in the ass, as in the nose. And it wasn't exactly a pain, more of an inconvenience. Alright, what an inconvenience in the nose!
I got a roll of toilet paper and stood in front of the sink. I tried to put pressure on the point of bleeding, to stop it, but that didn't work. The blood just backed up in the nostril until it came running out the other nostril, as well as into my mouth. I'm not sure what time it was, because I didn't look at my clock when I first got out of bed. It was before my alarm went off, which was set for 6:30AM. I would estimate that it was around 5:30. I needed to be at work by 7:30. Valiantly, I worked to staunch the blood flow, but to no avail. The warm, red liquid continued to pulse out of my rather cute nose. The deep red droplets spattering the white sink. For a time, it seemed to slow to almost a stop. I went back in my room and lay back down, on the bed. After a few minutes, the blood flow would pick up again. Back to the sink I went.
Soon, it was getting late...late enough that I was definitely going to be late for work. Still, I tried. Once it reached 7:20, I needed to call my boss, to let him know about the situation. I hesitated. What would I tell him? Would I just be late, or would I not make it in at all? Apprehension at facing that decision stalled me a couple of minutes. Finally, at 7:25, I held some toilet paper to my right nostril and walked to the phone. When the Restaurant Manager answered, I informed him of the situation. I so wanted him to tell me not to come in at all, but instead he told me he was short-handed, which means he wanted me to come in. At that moment, I wouldn't be of much use to him. I couldn't even drive in the condition I was in. How do you predict how soon your nose would stop bleeding? It had been a couple of hours already. Not knowing what else to say, I suggested I would try to be in by 8:30. That gave me an hour. Less, really, because I needed time to travel to work. The bleeding slowed again and I hoped for the best.
Unfortunately, it started flowing profusely, again. Twenty-five minuets after I called my boss, he called back to ask how I was getting on. I told him it was still bleeding and cautioned him that if it didn't stop, I would need to go to the hospital. He told me to keep in touch. 8:30 came and went, but still the bleeding continued. I began to worry about the amount of blood I was losing. At some point, I could pass out, if I lost enough blood. I had a growing apprehension that I would have to give in and go to the hospital. How would I get there? It was Nando's day off and I hated to wake him. For new readers, Nando's my racist, Italian housemate. I contemplated calling an ambulance, but why tie up an ambulance, when Nando could drive me? At this point, I was still naked. I would need to put some clothes on before executing either option. I kept hoping Nando would wake up on his own, so I could ask him for help. At about 8:48, I decided. I was going to the hospital. I called work and let the Manager know. Then, holding paper to my nose, I managed to pull on some clothes. I slipped my feet into flip-flops, because I didn't think I could manage putting on shoes. Hesitating a few minutes more, I finally knocked on Nando's door. No answer. I knocked again. Still, no answer. I tired yet again. This time, a groggy Italian voice made some noise.
When Nando opened his bedroom door, I quickly appraised him of the situation and asked him to drive me to the hospital, in the nearby town of Reading. He immediately agreed. Nando may be a racist, but he's a nice guy. However, Nando is not the quickest guy to get going in the morning. He went and sat on the toilet for a while. Then he went downstairs for something. Then he came back upstairs and spoke to me at the bathroom sink. By that time, he was still only dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. "Come on Nando!" I thought. I started worrying that I was feeling light-headed from blood loss, although I couldn't be sure if it was that, or my anxiety. Eventually, Nando managed to get himself together and we were on our way. Nando drives slower than I do and I felt impatient with every traffic light he caught. After what seemed like ages, we arrived and I walked into Accident and Emergency (A & E), the equivalent of an American Emergency Room (ER). Impatiently, I waited to speak to one of the women milling around behind the reception glass barrier. Some twat in front of me was taking ages. "Hey! I'm a bleeder. Move your ass," I thought to myself. I am often very impatient in my thoughts. One of the hospital staff told us to move to another window. Arrrrgh! Once they got twatface on his way, it was my turn. In no apparent rush, the receptionist asked me a lot of mundane questions. Name? I felt like saying, "the man who's bleeding all over your waiting area, that's my name." Have I visited that hospital before? Address. Postcode. The name of my doctor. What was worse is that she ended up asking me all of these questions a second time. It's good I wasn't in a hurry...bleeding, or something. Oh yeah, I was! Then I was directed to sit and wait. After all, there were a number of non-bleeding people who had been there, waiting, ahead of me. I sat as far away from the others as I could. Not long after I sat down, a woman brought in a girl of about ten. I overheard the woman say her daughter had a nosebleed. What was this, an epidemic? I didn't see any evidence of any bleeding, on the child. Her mother told the receptionist that her daughter had bled for half an hour and it had stopped. Now, she wanted the girl checked. Half an hour? I had been bleeding over four hours and was still going. After they went through the questions, her mother pulled her over and they sat one seat away from me. I guess I didn't look scary enough. I overheard the mother tell her daughter, "that man has the same as you," referring to me. Would this torture never end?
To be continued...

May Day

Today is May Day, the first of May. Traditionally, it has been a holiday celebrated by socialists and communists, also known as "International Workers Day." So, I guess it is fitting that today is also the tenth anniversary of the Labour Party coming to power, under Tony Blair. The Labour Party is, after all, a self-proclaimed, socialist party. I guess it is also fitting that "Mayday" is the international distress call. Ten years ago, today, I was traveling from Wales to England, during a visit to the UK to see D---a, who went on to become my evil ex-wife, the Black Queen. As May Day is associated with the international labour movement, I suppose it is fitting that today I returned to work, at the restaurant. The day seemed to pass quietly, here. I didn't hear about any anti-capitalist rallies. The weather was beautiful. Because May first fell on a Tuesday this year, next Monday will be a bank holiday. I hope the day is as beautiful, weather wise. Then I can enjoy being off from work. That is the aspect of labour people seem to enjoy most. Avoiding it.

Busy Weekend

Last Thursday, I received an invitation to the opening of a new club in London. The invitation advised that I could bring a friend. It was good for either Friday night, or Saturday night, but I had to RSVP by noon on either day, in order to be put on the guest list. Reviewing who might be available, I decided to invite my friend, Tom. As he's done so much for me in the past, I like to involve him in as many freebies as possible. That reminds me of something that happened the last time I visited Tom.
Tom gave me an old watch of his. My watch broke, last year, and I have been doing without for many months, relying instead on the clock on my mobile phone. Suddenly, Tom presented me with this old, digital watch of his. It was a cheap, no-name brand, but it worked and the price was affordable. I was very grateful. Somehow, this led him to start showing me a couple of old Rolex watches he has. They were a bit dated looking, but he likes them. He asked me between the two Rolexes he showed me and the cheap digital, which one did I think he'd give me? Me being me, I suggested one of the Rolexes. He made it clear that wasn't going to happen. I was joking anyway. I don't want a watch so expensive that I would worry about someone stealing it, or about me damaging or losing it. Tom then made some joke about when I get rich and famous, I can give him a £12,000 Rolex watch. I looked at him deadpan and said, "what? Are you kidding? You can have a fruit basket." Tom didn't seem to find my response as funny as I did. I sure hope he was kidding.
Back to my invite. As it was too late at night when I received the invitation, via Myspace, to call, I sent Tom a message, informing him of the situation. I wanted to go Friday night, as I would be half way to London anyway, working at Shepperton Studios on Friday. Also, I'd be dressed well from work, so it would be easy to just continue on to the club. I asked Tom to send me a text before noon, to let me know if he was interested. Of course he didn't, so when noon came and went, I resigned myself to not going. Later Friday afternoon, one of the production staff at the sound stage, where I was working, asked my fellow background artists and I if we would be available to work Saturday. I was pleased about this because if I worked Saturday, it would be just as easy to go to the club Saturday night. This gave me more time to get in touch with Tom.
Before we wrapped on Friday evening, the Third AD informed us we wouldn't actually be needed Saturday, after all. I was disappointed, but the idea of going to a club had put its hook in me. I haven't been clubbing in over a year, so the idea appealed to me. I decided to call Tom anyway and see if he wanted to go. When I called his house, I got no answer. I left a voicemail message and went back to watching TV. It got later and later on Friday night, but still no call back from Tom. After finishing with TV, I went upstairs and signed on the internet. When I don't have to get up early the next day, I often stay up until the wee hours of the morning messing about on the internet. Tom didn't show up as online, either. Eventually, I went to sleep.
On Saturday morning, I slept in late. When I woke up, I checked online, but still no response from Tom. I reviewed alternative people to go with. I even asked Nando, my racist, Italian housemate, but he said he had to work Saturday and Sunday, so he wasn't up for it. Noon came and went, with no RSVP from me. I resigned myself to staying in Saturday night. It was cheaper and money is tight. As much as I wanted to go clubbing, I didn't feel like going by myself. Spike Lee's film, "The Inside Man," was premiering on Sky, so I watched that with Nando, after he got home from work. I thought it was a good film. Nando, of course, didn't like it.
Sunday morning came and I slept in again. It's always so nice being off work. Suddenly, my mobile rings. No, it's not Tom, it's my agent calling. The woman who was handling my recent film work was on the phone. She said I was needed back at Shepperton on Monday and possibly all week. After I got off the phone, I contemplated my predicament. I had no way to get in touch with the new manager, at the restaurant, where I work between acting gigs. Earlier in the week, I had asked him for his mobile number, in case I needed to get in touch with him out of office hours. He refused to give it to me, making some quip about not wanting me to call him at all hours. I guess he doesn't yet realize how cheap I am. There is no way I would pay to call his mobile (calling mobiles is more expensive in the UK than calling regular landlines), unless it was business related. He told me that if I had to let him know anything, to just leave a voicemail on his office phone, if it was out of hours. The previous manager had given me his mobile number, but I ended up never needing it. If I could get in touch with the manager that day, he could call the temp agency and order a temp to cover me. If he didn't find out until Monday morning, when he got to the office, he'd end up without cover for a couple of hours, or even worse, the temp agency might not be able to find anyone at all. Our new Head Chef had said he would give me his mobile number, on Thursday, but he didn't remember to. I puzzled over this conundrum for a bit. This wasn't a pleasant conundrum, like a sudoku puzzle.
I tried calling Chef Anthony, the only Chef I had a number for. When he answered, I explained my dilemma and asked if he had the Head Chef's number. If I could get in touch with the Head Chef, he might be able to contact the manager, or even have the authority to order a temp, himself. Anthony said he was out, but he would text me the Head Chef's number in about an hour. As a back up, I tried calling the old Head Chef, who's mobile number I still had. He didn't answer, so I left him a voicemail. He might have the new Head Chef's number, or even the manager's. Four hours later, neither of them had called me back and Anthony hadn't sent me a text. I called Anthony again, but he explained that it had turned out that he didn't have the new Head's number. With a heavy heart, I did the only thing I could do and phoned the office number for the manager. I left him a voicemail advising him of the situation.
Many people would have just left the message straight off and not worried anymore about it. I'm not like that. I think about other people and I try to make things as easy as possible on my employers. The management at the restaurant have been great to me, letting me have time off to pursue my acting career. I always act in a conscientious manner, where ever I work, never knowing if it's even noted, or appreciated. On Monday, I sat in the studio sound stage, with my feet up, sipping a hot chocolate, wondering if they were getting along without me at the restaurant.