Festivus, Part XV.

The West Chester Film Festival. It may be 15th in number, but in my heart it’s #8.

By the way, friends and family – this is West Chester, PA, not Westchester County, NY. Apparently, 16 festivals is the minimum requirement for gaining any street cred in my old neighborhood.

I hear West Chester is the Cannes of Eastern PA. Just without the naked beaches and P. Diddy yachts and 6-year-olds sipping chardonnay. And while you don’t fly through gay Parie to get there, Wilmington, Delaware's Newcastle Airport is pretty damn gay.

Like shooting fish in a barrel, Delaware.

Every time The Beneficiary is honored, I like to throw out a tidbit about the film. Today: one of the shooting locations.

Part of Ted the Director’s vision for the movie, whose plot centers on a world in which murder runs rampant, was to keep the locales as gritty as possible. And Ted really ran with it on our first day of shooting, which took place in the most vile home in East L.A.

The place was a boarding house far beyond the wrong side of the tracks. Padlocks were on the outside of the doors of the tenants. The carpets were blood-red and sticky. We shot a scene on a waterbed so full of cooties that at the end of the day I yearned for one of those nuclear-meltdown contaminant showers Meryl Streep took in Silkwood.

I was also quite convinced the bathroom had some sort of toilet-cam in operation. Though for the record, I don’t mind people filming me while I take a whiz – just cut me in on the profits.

Ah, showbiz, with all its pageantry and glamour. And me without my tetanus shot.

Even More Of What You've Learned.

Who could use a good hump-day pickmeup from the readers of Esquire? Eh – I was only asking to be nice. You’re getting ‘em whether you like ‘em or not:

Don't bore people with skydiving stories. They know the ending. --Patrick Rynell, 33, Chicago

You can tell a lot about a place by how well its Wal-Mart is run. --Thomas Root, 23, Enterprise, Alabama

Some of the best eulogies I have ever heard have been about the most miserable people I have ever known. --John Gaccione, 59, Dix Hills, New York

One of the things women claim is most important in a man is a sense of humor. In my years as a comedian, I've learned that they're usually referring to the humor of guys like Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, and Russell Crowe. Apparently, those guys are hilarious. --Jimi McFarland, 43, Denver

Cuban cigars are overrated. --Dan Hernandez, 41, Wenonah, New Jersey

Some people want to do great and interesting things. Others want to have already done them. --Steve Davey, 35, Portland, Maine

If you want to get to know someone, loan him some money. --Rick Franks, 41, Tallmadge, Ohio

Never party with people wearing rented clothes. --Dave Kessler, 66, Richmond, Indiana

Keith Richards has been my Dead-Guy Pool pick since 1974. I've lost more money on that son of a bitch than any stock I've ever owned. --John Carr, 46, Washington, D.C.

I regret the times I resisted telling someone, "Go fuck yourself" a lot more than the times I didn't. --Bob Drake, 58, Loveladies, New Jersey

Ignore The Man Behind The Curtain.

Like many actors, I’m not a huge fan of seeing myself on film. I critique my work to bits while being very aware of the attention of a thousand eyes on me. But I was in a movie premiering the last week, and at least owed it to the director to come out and support. So I put on a good suit – the same cut Reagan wore the day he got shot – and made my way to the theater.

And what a theater. Big room, stadium seating, packed house. My angst rose. Moments like this are gonna give me the stomach lining of a 60-year-old air traffic controller.

Then something interesting happened. My scenes got big laughs. And it felt pretty damn good. Then, at the after-party, a bevy of people approached and congratulated me. It was nauseating-licious.

The next day, a few writer/directors looked me up and contacted me, wanting to work with me in the future. Yes, please.

But again, let me reiterate that I am not the kind of guy that needs attention focused on him. No insecurity here.

Enough said. I’m off to get my eyeballs whitened.

Merci, You Sonofabitches.

How do you get to the Cannes Film Festival? Money. Lots and lots of money.

And the most generous support system a starving actor could possibly have.

My mom offered up an obscenely kind early birthday cash gift for the trip. And my favorite couple, Mark and Michelle, told me on Friday that they'd put a check in the mail, and weren’t taking no for an answer (I tried four NO’s. No dice.) Thanks to my mom and Mark and Michelle, I’ll be able to afford a decent hotel. One with the ice machines on the inside.

Meanwhile, my friend Jenn added a slash to her roles as lawyer/sounding board/amateur psychiatrist/stylist by offering up airline mileage. She couldn’t possibly rock any harder if she tried.

Having people like this in my life makes me feel not only blessed, but it motivates me to make them proud. I’m packing a suitcase full of DVDs and business cards, and I’m gonna go medieval on Cannes. Then, when I hit it big, you people are all getting flown to my luxury Italian villa, after I make my hero George Clooney an offer he just can’t refuse.

Thank you so much, everyone. I will make you proud.

Enlightening The Goyim.

The recent Passover holiday shone light on a growing oddity among the gentiles in my life. It seems that more and more of them are attending sedars, and profess their love for matzah. Hmm.

Thursday, as I collected the cans after garbage pickup, the remnants of my mom’s care package, a pile of matzah crumbs, sat untouched in my driveway. Meanwhile, ten feet away, flies went to town on Pete’s morning dook.

A billion flies can’t be wrong, people. I’m just saying.

Make Him Pay.

He may have played Shoeless Joe Jackson, but D.B. Sweeney’s baseball acumen begins and ends there. The man has bet me that at the end of the season his Red Sox will have a better record than my Yankees.

The Yanks begin a three-game series at Boston tonight, and I ask that you all pull hard for the Bombers to ensure Clueless Joe will be buying me three pints at Barney’s Beanery come October.

Official 2009 Selection.

After running my mouth for 300+ blog entries, today I’m completely speechless.

My film got in.

Murder. No Longer Legal In California.

In the downtown Los Angeles courthouse for jury duty one day, Phil Spector walked past me on his way to trial, but I wasn’t quick enough on the draw to take a pic with my celly. The kickass-botched-celebrity-murderer-sighting-of-a-lifetime.

As a child, one of the aspects of L.A. that drew me here, besides the sunshine/surfing/movie stars and assorted benefits, was the quirkiness: earthquakes and circus murder trials.

The town turned out to be everything I imagined and more. But with age came a love for justice that outweighed my love for Cali nuttiness, and I'm damn glad to see it finally kick in.

If you feel the need to shut your significant other’s yapper full-time, you’re ten years too late. The California judicial system has atoned for O.J. and Robert Blake by putting Scott Peterson on death row, and now throwing Phil Spector in the clink.

Meanwhile, drunken Andrew Gallo, who plowed into and killed three people, including Angels pitcher Nick Adenhart, won't be getting out of his triple-murder rap. (Check out this fitting shot of Nick taken a month before he died, and note how the “S” is folded out of sight.)

Good to have some normalcy. Watch your ass.

Coming Soon: Indoor Toilets.

My gym finally added flat-screen TVs. Better ten years late than never.

Good to see my 13 bucks a month being put to good use.

Festivus, Part XIV.

The 14th festival for The Beneficiary actually takes place in Connecticut. Hollywood East – get it? Boy those white folks are a real hoot.

Actually, it’s an honor to be accepted. A little shout-out with a nice shot of John when you scroll down here.

I’ll call an audible on this Beneficiary factoid and discuss the yummy food partaken during the shoot. One thing’s for certain, when you’re asking a crew to work for little or no pay, feed them well and they’re yours. I myself will pretty much move your entire bedroom set for a small serving of couscous.

My favorite lunch during filming came from Phillipe's, a 101-year-old, downtown L.A. restaurant famous for their french-dipped sandwiches.

Yes, Los Angeles has original food, and the story about Phillipe's goes as such: one day in 1918, while making a sandwich, Phillipe Mathieu inadvertently dropped a french roll into a roasting pan filled with juice still hot from the oven. The customer, a police officer, said he would take the sandwich anyway and returned the next day with some friends asking for more "dipped sandwiches."

I drop food, I give it to the dog. Phillipe drops food, he gives it to the Americans. Well played, Frenchie, well played.

Kickass Sighting Of The Black Guy With The Smallest Penis In All Of L.A.

Came upon this brother overcompensating/backing into a spot off Sepulveda yesterday.

Click It. Like A Boss.

If I could distill it down to just one reason why I’m an actor, it’d be that I just don’t like working for a living. This occurred to me at my last day job, during a daily berating by an utterly reprehensible character who didn’t hate me so much as he hated my guts. Please send him my regards, but be sure to address all correspondence to the Eighth Circle of Hell.

Better yet, let’s honor all our “superiors” with a new SNL digital short/Slim Thug parody.

Side note: for anyone who says that “Saturday Night Live” has lost its edge, this should be required viewing.

Employees, hit play, and enjoy.

Smogga, Please.

I have two neighbors. One's a dude that’s just off enough that I’m extra gracious to ensure he doesn’t boil Petey.

The other is a less intimidating gasoline refinery, which means I get cool views of fire spitting into the sky. And approximately five years to live.

Actually, I think that since I’ve moved here, the air quality has become remarkably better, thanks to stringent smog laws. In Cali, if your car is six years or older, the DMV requires that your exhaust gets tested every other year. (Starving actor tip: print this coupon and knock 50% off the $50+ test price.)

I may have been a straight C-minus student in math, science, wood and metal shop, but at least my car passed with flying colors. I breathe a wheezy sigh of relief.

Blogga, Please.

Over the past year-plus, my readership has spread far and wide (shout out, Tikrit!) and I’m very happy about that. Today I'd like to share some of my own favorite modes of procrastination:

Not Fooling Anybody: a hilarious collection of pics of fast-food restaurants sloppily converted into all kinds of odd new restaurants and businesses. Recently, I submitted one from around the corner from me: a bank that was formerly a Burger King. Liz, who runs the site, flipped when she got it, but hasn’t had time to post it yet.
Favorite entry: a KFC turned chiropractic office, still featuring the big bucket out front.

Straight Cash Homey: random sightings of guys wearing jerseys of lousy/over-the-hill athletes. The site-runner writes a genius comment about each one.
Favorite entry: straightcash doesn’t allow for a direct link, but the best was a guy wearing a Penny Hardaway jersey with the line: “Ironically, the jersey cost this guy one cent.”

World Trade Center Logo Preservation Project: afraid they’re going to disappear from the city, a New York photographer is collecting images of logos that include the World Trade Center towers.
Favorite entry: they’re all pretty damn cool.

The Imaginary World: incredibly impressive compilation of packaging of candy, cereal, toys and displays. It’ll bring back your childhood.
Favorite entry: Sugar Pops, back when Kellogg's had the guts to actually call them "Sugar Pops." (And put the Marlboro Man's cousin on the box.)

Rob Weintraub: this isn’t actually a blog, but Rob, one of my best friends since high school, is a very talented sportswriter who contributes to many magazines and sites, most notably slate.com.
Favorite entry: no doubt for me, Rob’s take on the ESPN show “Fish On."

Festivus, Part XIII.

I love Seattle. My friend Rob and I spent a few days there in ‘05, catching a Yankee series at Safeco Field. While the name Safeco is no doubt steeped in baseball tradition, it’s still not the best moniker in all of sports. That honor belongs to Quicken Loans Arena. Take me out to the economic downturn.

I jeté back to the Pacific Northwest, where the Seattle True Independent Film Festival is lucky number 13 for The Beneficiary. And a chance for me to pay tribute to the backbone of my film: director Ted Melfi.

Ted is a Brooklyn-raised, former college baseball player. I’ve always found that college athletes, after years of handling the crushing schedule of classes/practice/fending off coeds, move on to become true vikings in the real world. Ted culled together the stellar cast, and blackmailed the crew into working for little or no pay. When we needed a pawnshop as a location, Ted scouted 13 places all over L.A.

On my way to our first day of filming, I felt a smidge of panic that the actors in my cast wouldn't enjoy working on the movie. When I got to the set, Julie Ann Emery, the lead, pulled me aside and told me that after witnessing the massive crew, including top-notch hair and makeup people and stunt coordinators, she was really happy to be there. Now that Phil Spector is taking the Jew-fro to Chino State, Ted is hands down the hardest working man in showbiz.

Not even a Slam-Dunk Delight from Edible Arrangements would be enough to let Ted know how much I appreciate all he did. So I hope a freebie shout-out on a two-bit blog will suffice.

Sorry, Cindy.

My little brother has a great theory about how you can tell what year a guy’s life peaked by the way he dresses on casual Friday. Acid-wash jeans and a rugby shirt? You rocked in '87, big guy.

I’m proud of the fact that my life has never reached its peak. In fact, I can’t name the greatest day I’ve ever had. But I know that there are a bunch of great days ahead – like when I book a role on a major sitcom. My friend Cindy Drummond did, playing Ryan’s mom on “The Office.” Unfortunately, if you tuned in, all you saw was the above, non-spoken scene, of Cindy picking up Ryan after work. Her lines were edited out.

We know as actors this is unavoidable, but it sucks donkey nonetheless. Cindy was mostly bummed that her nephew told his entire dormitory to watch, and she didn’t make it on.

I tried to give her the good pep-talk, urging her to realize she still beat out hundreds of actresses to land this role on a hit TV show, and she understands that. But while it looks good on a resumé, it still feels like ass. Hang in there, C.

Amen.

Jesus, Moses, plagues, resurrections, sedars… it’s all Dungeons & Dragons to me.

But I ain’t passing up on the chow.

My mom sent her semi-annual care package, loaded with a bevy of holiday yumminess. Yes, I had a horrendous upbringing, but chocolate-covered matzah may just fill the hole in my heart.

Anatomy Of An Audition: Part Three.

So I didn’t get the role. But it’s not like I need a Sham Wow to soak up all my tears. It happens. It’ll happen a thousand times. Truth told, I learned a lot:

1) Workshops work. It’s not exactly a kegger driving 55 miles, five days a week to cold-read scenes for casting directors. But my audition came from a CD whose workshop I attended over a year ago. She remembered me.

2) Don’t judge yourself. I looked up my notes from that workshop from last year, and I'd written down that I really sucked ass that day. The casting director apparently disagreed.

3) Do your homework. Downloading all the sides from the show helped me understand my scene, and gave me the confidence I needed walking in to that office. Sometimes the porntube has got to take a back seat.

4) You’re not auditioning for this show; you’re auditioning for the next one. This philosophy comes from my favorite TV exec-producer Jonathan Prince, who preaches that you assume the role for which you’re auditioning is going to a producer’s nephew, and not you. But you can make an impression on the casting director and be brought back in the future. I’ll be back. And yes, Jenn, I’ll take you to lunch that day.

I now return you to your regularly-scheduled Good Friday. Happy Easter. Again, sorry we killed your lord.

Anatomy Of An Audition: Part Two.

When we left off, I was in the lobby, waiting to audition for Cedric’s pilot, and you were reading about it, in essence stealing from your company during work hours. Way to stick it to The Man.

Often, there isn’t anything too showbizzy about audition locations. This was no exception. Even though it was a Disney-owned building, it was a very typical, gray and white office setting, save for worker nameplates shaped like mouse ears.

My turn arrived, and I entered the casting director’s office, where she sat on a couch with her associate. This was what’s called a “pre-read” – a simple, quick, first-round audition before the casting director sends her choice of actors on to round two for directors or producers.

I handed over my headshot, sat down and the audition began. The casting associate fed me the setup line, and I delivered back mine. It got a huge laugh from both women. They gave me a slight redirect on the scene and I delivered it again, this time receiving an even bigger laugh. I assume they liked my takes, but their response was so huge that it may been more courteous than genuine.

Forive me, I’m an actor. I’m broken. I question all who praise.

Actually, I felt good about my work. I didn’t get the role, but hey – I did my homework, made a choice about the scene and delivered. People have been elected governor of Minnesota for less.

Tomorrow, Part 3: What I Learned.

Anatomy Of An Audition: Part One.

I pride myself on being pretty up-front when it comes to this blog. So I’ll begin with the ending of this story: I had an audition last week for a TV pilot called “The Law” – a cop sitcom starring Cedric the Entertainer and Donald Faison. I didn’t get the role.

For the next few days, I’ll break down the audition to both enlighten non-actors about the process, and maybe help new actors learn a thing or three.

It all began with an email from my agent that I had an audition the next day, and could download the sides from a website called Showfax. “Sides” are industry slang for the audition scenes. It’s an old term from the 1930s, short for “your side of the story.”

The pic above is the scene. It’s only one line, in which Cedric’s female cop partner flirts with my character in traffic. It seems apparent that the joke is that her gaydar is out of whack because my character isn’t straight, but I did a very wise thing to confirm this: I downloaded all the sides available for all the characters in the pilot. Because I did that, I saw that just before this scene, Cedric flirted with some women, so the joke was also about the contrast of his female partner’s flirting backfiring. I was set.

The next morning, I put on a t-shirt a size or two too tight (gay guys, forgive me for assuming this is your uniform), allowed enough time to drive to Burbank for the audition, signed in and waited in a lobby full of competitors.

Before I ramble any more than I already have, I’ll pull out prematurely and save part two for tomorrow. You people who work for a living really should get back to it. Enjoy.

Why Does Everything I Love Have To Die?

It’s a simple rule of parenthood: whatever you deny your kids will become their addiction later in life. My genius mom and dad prohibited TV, and now television is my crack (apparently they majorly denied me Cadbury eggs and Internet porn as well.)

I love TV night and day, even though lately the medium has been crushing my heart. "Arrested Development" and "Studio 60" were yanked off the air. NBC moved Leno to 10 p.m. And now, my favorite soap will be no more, as “Guiding Light” is being cancelled.

Including its original radio version, GL has been on for the air for 72 years. I chose it over other soaps back in college because it had the most fabulous chicks on afternoon TV.

Today, for me as an actor, the cancellation doesn’t bode well as more and more jobs disappear. “Guiding Light” produced some big stars, including James Earl Jones, Calista Flockhart, Hayden Panettiere, Kevin Bacon and Taye Diggs.

The show’s final episode airs September 18th. The Jets had better have won their opener that week, or I’m climbing into a clock tower with a bolt-action rifle and picking off pedestrians.

Festivus, Part XII.

The Beneficiary has gone international. Actually, 81 miles north of the border, to Toronto. (Make that 130 kilometers – which is way more international than an IHOP.)

The ReelHeART International Film Festival makes it a dozen festival selections. Pardon me while I strain my rotator cuff patting myself on the back, then ice it down while I type today’s Beneficiary factoid entirely with my left hand:

The music for my film was composed by one of my best friends: John Hunter. John was a very successful composer in Dallas, creating music for big commercials after partnering up with a friend with whom he attended Berklee College of Music in Boston. They own a great place called Juniper Music & Soundesign.

After conquering advertising, John set his sights on Hollywood, aspiring to compose films. It’s extremely tough to crowbar your way into the biz, so John figured a bold move was in order. He bought a video iPod, downloaded his music reel onto it, and sent it to the top composer agent in L.A.

A couple weeks later, the agent’s assistant called John, told him the agent had viewed the reel and wanted to know where to return the iPod. John told her it was a gift, to which she asked John if he was going to be in L.A. any time soon. He wasn’t, but his plan was in motion, and it was time for bold move #2: lying.

John told her he was meeting with a big composer in Hollywood the next week. He actually wasn’t, but he rolled the dice, flew out here, had a meeting with the agent, and soon began getting work.

Cut to a few years later, and John is out here with his wife and kids, renting a house while he’s kicking butt daily (I referenced the house last July.) His wife, Sonia, is super supportive and cool. May all we aspiring creatives have someone in our corner like her.

John’s composed several films, including the newly-released Big Stan, starring Rob Schneider. Rob and his brother John, a big producer, adore John Hunter. And great works begets more great work – right now John is composing a big action film based on a huge video game. The music is so amped, it’s guaranteed to get me a speeding ticket if I crank it in my car. Be on the lookout, pigs.

The iPod has now been elevated to a Bose Wave Radio as John’s means of seduction. I look forward to the day he drops off an Aston Martin in Spielberg’s driveway with his reel downloaded onto the dashboard flat screen. Keep it, Steve – let’s talk Schindler 2.

Kickin’ Off The Weekend.

“It’s Friday night in Hollywood. Where else would you rather be than right here, right now?”

That’s my official toast whenever friends and I are hoisting beers. Well, they hoist beers. I hoist a Fresca.

And last night was a great Friday in Hollywood. I went to a live broadcast of “Real Time” with Bill Maher, followed by a special taping in which Bill separately interviewed Gore Vidal and Ron Howard for an upcoming broadcast.

A late dinner afterward and I was one happy Angeleno.

Honestly, comparing life in L.A. to anywhere else is like pitting the USC Trojans against the Pasadena Polytechnic junior varsity squad. It's just a slaughter.

Thanks For The Saturday Off, Creep.

I created this blog to give insight into the good, bad and vile side of the road to showbiz.

Presenting: the vile.

One of the first casting workshops I ever attended featured a very cool, young casting director from a hit network drama. He was a teddy-bear-type of father with young kids, and such a great sense of humor that it was surprising he chose to stay behind the camera.

To protect the guilty, let’s call him Mr. X.

Actors loved this guy, and spoke highly of him, until one day he was fired by the very respected casting company for which he’d worked for ten years. The rumor was that he’d made an inappropriate proposition to an actress after a workshop, and she’d reported it to his office.

I didn’t believe the accusation for a second. This was obviously some crazy, diva actress who got her signals crossed. Then it came out that this wasn't his first complaint. And then I realized that this MFer had focused his attention on a cute woman in my workshop. At the time, I figured he asked her to stay afterward to work more on her scene meant he had a role on his show that week that was perfect for her, and he was going to coach her. I’m a naïve idiot.

In all the workshops Mr. X ever attended, not once did he ask a male actor to stay after and work on a scene. The guy is a total P-hound, and got deservedly S-canned.

Mr. X is now scrambling to teach classes and cast low-rent indie films – anything to make money. Tomorrow, he’s returning to the workshop I attend, and, since I have a penis, I figure my day is better spent hiking in Malibu. Should be nice: sunny, 67°, letch-free.

Appreciate you not keeping it in your pants, big guy.

More Of "What You've Learned."

I’m gonna play hooky today, and once again turn the reins over to the fine readers of Esquire:

The sound of laughter coming from a room does not necessarily mean everyone is having a good time. Same is true of group photos, where everyone is smiling. --John Gaccione, 62, Dix Hills, N. Y.

There is no bad place to sleep when you're drunk. --Dino Tripodis, 47, Columbus, Ohio

Delivered with the proper grace and respect, a cold Gatorade in July can get you as far with your trash guys as a fifty at Christmas. --John Memoli, 41, Alexandria, Virginia

Get the one with the sunroof. --Eric Gabriel, 36, Durham, North Carolina

The best thing about being an artist is that you never go to bed wishing you were an energy trader. Energy traders do, however, lie awake some nights wishing they hadn’t given up the piano. --Barry Friedman, 51, Tulsa

Put your blue socks on the opposite side of the drawer from your black socks. --Joe Cassidy, 38, East Aurora, New York

Never date a woman who’s just broken up with an ex-Navy Seal. --Chris Rogers, 37, Los Angeles

Never let people roll down hills inside of things. --Hugh Ross, 43, Los Angeles

Never drive behind an old man wearing a hat. --Dave Rodgerson, 48, Hamilton, Ontario

Most Greeks have never visited the Parthenon. Most French people rarely look at the Eiffel Tower. How many New Yorkers have actually visited the Statue of Liberty? Everyone wants to enter someone else's monument. That's why men will never stop cheating on their wives. --Kostas Farmakis, 32, Athens, Greece

I’m Back, Baby.

Feel free to bungee jump, flip your ‘Vette, run with scissors or all of the above. Have I got some blood for you.

Kickass, AB+ universal-donor blood.

That’s me, above, yesterday morning at the Red Cross. Where the blood flows like free apple juice. My body’s back to normal, and it was damn good to be there.

As a struggling actor, I don’t have the cash or the time to give back to society as much as I’d like to. So I give blood as often as legally/physically possible: every 60 days.

It all started years ago, when my dad was scheduled to have an aortic valve replacement. The hospital in New York recommended we have friends donate blood just in case it would be needed during the surgery. My big brother worked at an ad agency in NYC at the time, mentioned it at his office, and many of his coworkers took time out of their days to donate. I was overwhelmed.

I’m not going to ask that you join me in donating. Actually, yes I am. It’s quick, it’s convenient and it’s very much in demand. The Red Cross staff is friendly and the snacks are yummy. You might save a life. You might save a thousand lives. You might save your own life. You rock.