Like A Sharp Stick In The Eye.

There’s regular disappointment, then there’s major disappointment. Like hearing your favorite athlete’s book is the Bible.

But nothing tops the heartbreak regularly caused by the petty skunks of the advertising business. You might remember them from blog entries regarding my cable company audition. Or the hot sauce debacle.

Well, the hat trick is now complete. A couple of months ago, my friend Wade, a creative director for an ad agency back east, was in LA, casting and shooting commercials for 1-800-CONTACTS. He called me the first day he was here, and told me to rush over to the casting studio to audition for a role as a Tom Cruise Top Gun character in one of the commercials. Wade asked me to keep it on the down low – just enter the room and act as if I didn’t know him. Not a problem. I went in, did my best Maverick, took direction, did it again and left.

I didn’t get the part.

Last night, on the eve of the commercial airing, Wade called me and apologized. He said I had blown away my competition, nailing exactly what he was looking for. But because I wasn’t listed on the regular casting sheet, Wade’s partner and the pair of directors they hired wanted to know who I was. When Wade fessed up that we were buddies, they ganged up on him and I was out, just because. And a lesser actor got the job.

My immediate response was pleasant – I understand the politics and pettiness of the douchiest assholes that dominate the ad biz, and I was thrilled that I had done my job and was the best guy that came in. But then Wade pointed out that I’d lost out on a big payday, including massive residuals, and I almost lost my shit.

Just as I was about to launch into a longer, more furious diatribe on my blog about what happened, one of my heroes, Newark Mayor Cory Booker, tweeted a great quote. I ask that we all read it and go into this weekend with a happy heart:

“The only people with whom you should try to get even are those who have helped you.”
–John E. Southard

Amen.

Dinners And A Show.

Was there anything sadder than me, Monday night, eating only potatoes and ice cream for dinner? Yes. Tuesday night I ate only leftovers.

But yesterday things picked up: improv class, followed by a cagematch improv show with my classmates at the Upright Citizens Brigade. Yes, we brought canned beer into the theater. Yes, we are completely klassy.

Another Example Of The Man Keeping Us Polacks Down.

The highlight of this past weekend’s NFL draft: when league commissioner Roger Goodell hit the podium to announce the Steelers’ first-round pick, and the crowd at Radio City Music Hall gave a shout-out to QB/serial-rapist Ben Roethlisberger, chanting “She said no!”

Okay, sometimes I love New York.

Definite lowlight: when ESPN analyst Matt Millen popped up on screen apologizing to Polish people, after he jokingly called fellow commentator Ron Jaworski a “Polack.”

This is the same Matt Millen that, as Lions GM, once offered post-game congratulations to opposing wide receiver Johnnie Morton. When Morton blew him off, Millen shouted at him, “You faggot! Yeah, you heard me. You faggot!”

Let’s face it – Matt Millen has so much baggage, he's paying at least 120 bucks every time he flies American Airlines. And his most egregious blunder is a flat-out lack of creativity. A Polish joke? Really? Weren’t they all the rage in like 1972?

Where’s Jessie Jackson when my fellow Poles need him most? I figured he would have shown up at ESPN by now and shaken them down for some cash.

I guess we gotta nominate our own Jessie. I hereby nominate myself.

As Polish Jessie Jackson, my first order of business is to render judgment on my new favorite lunkhead. So here goes: I’m not really good with analogies, but Matt Millen’s a lot like an asshole.

Set Your TiVo.

Watching The Deer Hunter the other day, I came to a conclusion: if you ever see a Vietnamese guy in a business suit, smoking, with an eye patch, some bad shit is going down.

I also saw a promo for a Funny or Die short on HBO called The Carpet Brothers. It looked amazing. It’s the kind of stuff I want to make. It airs tomorrow morning at 4:10 a.m. In the meantime, click above for a promo. (Facebook people click here.)

Possibly?

I have fond memories from my school years. Like my crush on Julie Donovan. She was always so organized. In German class, Mr. Krueger always choose her to sort the students. He was eventually arrested by Israeli commandos.

Okay, educationally, the New York public schools were sketchy at best, and this was reinforced last week as I nearly broke out in flopsweat at the production offices of “Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader?”

Let me scroll back a bit. My mentor, Stuart Robinson, always preaches to his acting students to get themselves on game shows. “They’re just giving away money,” Stuart pleads. “Get on, win as much as you can and use it to finance a film.”

My friend Avis, an actress here in LA, did just that. A couple years ago, every time I called her, she was studying every subject imaginable for her upcoming shot on “Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?”

Avis won $180,000.

The questions Avis handled were impossibly difficult – hardly the stuff I remember from crappy New York fifth grade. But when the show came calling my way last week, offering my own chance at up to a quarter of a million bucks, I hightailed it over there for a tryout.

They put me on camera and asked me a dozen questions. I got the first ten right, then was stonewalled by #11: Who was the first American to win a Nobel Prize? (Teddy Roosevelt), and #12: What is the lightest gas? (Helium – though an argument could be made for my answer: hydrogen.)

Did anyone else know the answers to these types of questions when they were in fifth grade? If so, get your butt over to my place if they wind up wanting me on the show. I’m gonna need access to that oversized brain of yours, Doogie.

The Doctor Is On.

With networks already airing reruns, TV has gotten so bad that I’ve become inspired by the Real Housewives of Atlanta – to marry WNBA players and spend all my time planning poorly-attended charity events.

But wait. Anyone as excited as I am to see Pacino play Jack Kevorkian on HBO tonight?

Here’s hoping Al playing a dude his actual age is the fluffer he’s been needing, because, let’s face it – 88 Minutes was pretty much career assisted suicide.

Fingers crossed.

Trivia Time.

When will the owner of this house in Silver Lake take down his Christmas decorations?

A) After Crazy Eddie’s Christmas in August sale.
B) When his neighbors make a 9mm “suggestion.”
C) The cops will, after they investigate that funky smell.