I’d like to get serious today – even though I know that’ll really disappoint my key demographic of drunken eleven-year-olds.My friend Jeff left a nice comment on my blog yesterday, after I recapped the Texas Pete incident: “Sorry dude,” he said. “I'm sure you handled it with grace?”
I think so, Jeff. The second after the ad people let me know I was finished, I changed out of my wardrobe, and quietly grabbed my things and split.
I was bummed. But I have two stages of grief: depression, and revenge. And the revenge came in a positive form yesterday morning. I jumped out of bed and called the commercial’s production company, and told the assistant producer that I found the experience to be extremely unprofessional. And I didn’t appreciate driving all over town on Friday night looking for and spending my money on a pair of boots that the director wanted me to wear for the shoot.
Two minutes after I hung up, her boss called me, and he was very apologetic about what happened, and told me the casting director he often uses loved me, and will bring me in for many auditions in the future. Plus, he insisted I send him the receipt for the boots so that I could be reimbursed. Bing bang boom.
It was an interesting experience the other day. In a room full of amateurs, I was the only pro. I watched a bunch of pussy ad people terrified by their client, a guy whose butt cheeks were clenched so tight that I could’ve shoved a lump of coal between them and watched him crap out a diamond.
Guys like me go to Cannes. Followers like them go nowhere.
Moving on.
