Once Again, Namedropping.

Yesterday, I boldly went where no man has ever gone before – but a lot of smokin' babes probably have: William Shatner’s private office.

I was there with my friend/super event coordinator Risa to record another voiceover for the upcoming Winter Olympics.

By the way, I realize I shouldn’t be too starstruck with these folks, seeing as I’m going to eventually be working with them, but it’s nice to meet them in pressure-free settings. I’m also in the middle of writing my next film, and the next one, and it certainly doesn’t hurt to feel a connection with some talent.

William was funny and cool, and pretty spry for a 78 year old. He was fascinated by the DAR device we used to record him, and claimed he loved high-tech gadgets but never had any idea how to use them. It was right then that I realized who he reminded me of: my dad.

On the obligatory matter of his hairpiece, I stood right over William and got a good look, and it seemed to me that he’d upgraded to a very well-done hair transplant. TJ Hooker is a stud.

Festivus, Part XXXIX.

It’s a geographical fact: here in SoCal, the natives can’t distinguish Maine from Vermont from New Hampshire. You might as well ask them to single out each non-Alec Baldwin brother – they’re all interchangeable, and one of them’s a bit too religiousy.

Well here’s something noteable about New Hampshire: they’ve got damn good taste in films. The New Hampshire Film Festival is the 39th fest to accept The Beneficiary. Well played, NH.

And for the record, Baldwin-wise, Billy is Alec before Alec got plump, Daniel is Alec after he got plump and Stephen found Jesus when he no longer found acting work. Piece of cake.

Actor Search I Thank God I’m Not Right For.

From actorsaccess.com:

DAVID SPADE SHIRTLESS BODY DOUBLE
Caucasian Male, height 5'6-5'7. We have a wig so you do not have to match hair. Must be physically fit and well-toned, but not huge. Will be shirtless and possible in briefs in scene.

Only 21 Shopping Days.

My everlasting affection can be purchased, for a mere 5500 bucks.

The jersey John Belushi wore while playing for Wheaton Central High School in Illinois is available on eBay.

This is the kind of gift that’ll make me set my alarm clock early so I can go stare at it in the closet. It's gorgeous.

But if you find it too expensive, I understand. You don't have to love me.

A Cautionary Tale.

Most days, scrounging up an idea for my blog is like pulling my dog’s teeth. At 1100 bucks, I don’t know which one of us felt more pain.

Other days, ideas just drop from the heavens, much like the script for Good Will Hunting fell into Matt Damon and Ben Affleck’s conjoined laps.

Allegedly.

Today’s story definitely came from above, delivered via a film crew while I was waiting to record Amy Poehler. And it came to them directly from Noah Wyle of “E.R.”

One day, Noah opened a fan letter and found a feather enclosed. As he read the letter, he tickled his face and neck with the feather, enjoying the nice fan’s words.

Then he flipped the page over.

On the other side was a picture of the fan – a guy, with the feather sticking out of his ass.

And, scene.

Slice Of Death.

There's nothing like changing wardrobe seven times in front of a bunch of dead Jews. I suggest you try it.

While taking new headshots in the gorgeous-yet-kinda-creepy locale of Forever Hollywood Cemetery, I came across Mel Blanc’s grave. How lucky was this guy to have a catch-phrase suitable for a headstone?

I’m gonna start working on one for me: "Time for me to peace out."

Nah, I can do better: "I get to see Tupac before you do."

Best one ever is already taken: "I’m coming, Elizabeth!"

I'll the meantime, no dying until my phrase is catchy, so pardon me while I cover myself in bubble wrap.

Thanksgiving – Round Two.

Ah, the power of the written word. It’ll take you places so fancy you’ll find yourself showering and putting on long pants – two acts I normal associate with kicking and screaming.

I met my friend Duncan after he googled his volleyball team and found a post I had written. Turns out Duncan is as outgoing as he is tall (6’4”ish) and invited me to his parent’s annual day-after-Thanksgiving party: The Gobbler.

Their home is in the fanciest part of Santa Monica, and they open it up to over a hundred friends, including a celebrity or two, and keep the food and drinks coming.

In front of the place was a catering truck making not just made-to-order Mexican food, but Mexican food made-to-order by Koreans. I felt like I was a Kennedy.

If this blog is my ticket into the happening soirees about town, pardon me while I get cracking on that entry about Hugh Hefner and his kickass shuffleboard team.

Thanks, D.