stub yer butt

shot a tiny scene with the kid from the mac vs pc ads. here's a secret. he smokes.
enjoy a still i took legally of that scene.
we were in the middle of nowhere south carolina. where it's no secret, everybody smokes. they have a tobacco museum. wanna learn more about tobacco? their current tour is entitled "cowboys and indians". it costs $20 and "is closed out with a visit to the christ prayer chapel".
nothing could be finer, than filming in carolina.

pilot to bombardier

here's a short pilot that randall made. he won funding from turner and we're shooting it over with a full budget (and darker plotline) this wknd. isn't dan t delightful? surprised i didn't get cut from this one either. oh did i mention i was cut from talladega nights? edited clean out. one of these days, alice. straight through your jaw and to the moon.

a wipe is an editing technique

it's a take off on sex and the city. instead of a gossiping bitch talking about loose sex, the lead female is a radio host advocating abstinence for teen-age girls. it's a christian comedy. ignorance is the new education.
i was called upon to provide magically-improvised character work. i bet a brazilian dolores the rewrites will include much of what was improvised by maryk, rp, dan t, t-stolt and jamie m.
our story begins just after sunset at a modest buckhead palace. the casting director and her friend were given use of the screenwriter's home for the audition.
myself, t-stolt and dan t were asked to wait outside on the back deck overlooking the pool and surrounding acreage. this ostensibly kept us from stealing each other's bits.
the view was probably nice. all the lights were off. they couldn't figure out how to turn them on.
so (verb tense change here) we're sitting outside reading our scripts in the dark mosquito-fog. dan t groans over a stummy-ache. he bolts inside to the shitter. i punctuate his exit with a roaring fart. it feels good. it smells bad. t-stolt leans in to take a whiff and pokes my belly. it feels bad. his short jab temporarily stuns my sphincter. without the levee, the new orleans of my pants gets a flood. t-stolt, unaware of his true aim, climbs down the back deck and out. i'm alone. with my li'l squirt.
i touch the back of my pants and my worst nightmare has just become reality. my baby's placenta seeped through my skivvies. a brown blurble is visible on my pants. and now it's on my hand.
one of the first things a smart casting director will do is not shake your hand. they meet filthy actors all day. i can't be certain this is a smart one.
i smell my hand and peer thru the window. with the odor of fresh soil in my nostrils, i count the crucifixes on the livingroom wall. seventeen. yup. i waddle in.
the same octogenarian who can't figure out how to turn on the porch lights shows me to a bathroom and opens the door. dan t quickly brays:
"mattdon'tcomeini'minhere!"
so i go down the hall. this bathroom is filled with bras. hanging on the door, on the sink, over the mirrors, on the floor. these christians know healthy support starts at home. bras-el tov!
macgyver-style, i fashion a maxi pad of toilet paper and slip it in my pants. i try to wash my hands. there is no soap. i check the entire bathroom. every liquid toiletry imaginable. no soap. i shampoo and condition my hands.
during the audition i sit on a white antique chair, hoping i don't leave a ring like a coffee mug. i take on the role of one radio host who suggests abortion, in some cases, is the best action.
afterwards they shake my hand and give me a novelty condom box labeled "just don't do it". as i'm hobbling out i notice my handmade sanitary napkin is gone. and my baby unchristened. won't you please help me by submitting a name to the post-mortem all-star name jam?

try outs

my inbox clogged up with auditions this month. auditions are job interviews. i go on fifty or sixty of these job interviews a year. i shave if it's corporate.
you hear some dumb shit at auditions. and it's the same dumb shit everywhere you go.
"they said you all could go home."
a witty stab at clearing the room out. it only succeeds in begging a few people to scramble for another punch. my favorite snarky response to "forget it guys, i got the part":
"yeah, the one in your hair."
thank you, matt young.
today i had a job interview for an ESPN spot that features cheerleaders. the kid at the sign-in table suggested to the young ladies auditioning that they all stretch out because the script might call for some real moves.
thank you, kid at the sign-in table.
even i limbered up for my subtle portrayal of a bearded coach by cracking my neck bones. it's something i do often since in the 10th grade matt young dropped me on my head. you're right, it does explain a lot. not everything. but a lot.
meanwhile, the kid kept chatting up these perky girls. he asked:
"are you two real cheerleaders?"
smiling at each other, they fake-decided who was going to field it this time:
"used to. we're retired."
she seemed so wise at that moment. or maybe it was her moustache.