The General Situation

On Taxi TV!

Now I can go back to turning it off as quickly as possible

I'd Rather Direct Anyway

I received an email today from a friend—all it said was "Dude you are a superstar." I'm assuming it was about the HSBC commercial.

Emails like that—and all sorts of acquaintances bringing up that they saw me on TV (or in the TVs that are in cabs! And even on movie screens!) have softened the blow of the fact that my superstardom is coming to an end. I learned yesterday by calling Talent Partners—the payroll company that administers my residuals—that I have most likely received my last check. "Once it goes to Internet and industrial [cabs, supermarkets, etc.], it's over," said Linda, the Talent Partner representative who kindly broke the news to me with zero sugarcoating. In fact, she explained it to me twice. "I get it," I said. "Thanks."

For a few minutes, I felt like Ben Curtis. 

It was a good ride, though, and while I've done a bit of TV as a "travel expert," there was something about being in a commercial that really impressed people. In some ways, as odd as it seems, I think it's more legitimate than, say, being on CNN. While the money was good—let's just say it was enough to make me forget sweating all day in an unairconditioned Serbian church—the most satisfying thing about the entire experience was hearing people express how shocked they were to be going about their lives and there I'd be, magically appearing, like a leprechaun, helping them become more comfortable with the changes brought by technology.

At some point, I suppose, I had no choice but to realize what everybody already knows: There's only room for one superstar in this family.

My 30 Seconds of Fame

The Reviews Are Coming In...

I have yet to see the commercial that I was in, and it's driving me a little crazy, if only because other people have.

Friday morning, I received an email from Russ with "HSBC" in the subject line. "Exciting stuff! I was just watching NY1 and thought I recognized the voice and then looked up and recognized the face. Thanks to DVR I was able to rewind and confirm I was right. I had no idea you are so prolific! You were great. Congratulations on your new career." Career? No, no, no, that wasn't my goal at all, I thought. Followed by: Then again, I could certainly use a new career.... I asked him what I spoke about—the commercial wasn't scripted—and got no reply. Bad sign?

The next night, Peter emailed me on Facebook. The subject line: "Acting?" He wrote, "Is that you in the HSBC bank TV ad on a soapbox at 23rd and 5th?" Um, yes, I replied, explaining how it came to be. I trust Peter to be honest with me, even though he's in PR, and so I asked if I came off like a moron—and more important, how did I look? "You look good and it's so completely you and not a character. It comes across very real... a little manic, but you. ;)" The mania sounded plausible—I speak quickly when I'm on camera—but I didn't like that wink. I'm glad people don't wink as much in real life as they do in emails.

Today, Laura emailed. "Darrell mentioned that he thought that he saw you in an HSBC commercial the day before. He said you were featured quite prominently, and while Darrell couldn't remember exactly what you said, you sounded really articulate—to the point where he asked me whether you were given talking points. (No! I exclaimed.) Darrell then said that he thought you came across as being quite tall and attractive. Ha! Thought you'd appreciate!" Indeed! I appreciated everything except the "Ha!" following the word "attractive." I forwarded the email to Adam, who remarked how interesting it was that people seemed to think that I was articulate but they couldn't remember what I actually said.

Thanks, babe. I'll wave to you from the Hollywood Hills.

Ten Hours of Anticlimax

My day spent filming a commercial wasn't what I had hoped it would be, but because I signed a confidentiality agreement, I can't describe much of the experience. What I can say—I think—is that it was like jury duty without the satisfaction of doing your civic responsibility or the thrill of deciding someone's fate. In other words, I sat in a room with a bunch of strangers for six hours, waiting. Because the room wasn't air-conditioned and no one would tell us what was going on, it was also like being stuck in a plane delayed on the tarmac with an inconsiderate pilot. At least there was food. (The room was an annex to a Serbian church, with Serbian memorabilia on the walls, so I tried to pretend I was on vacation in Serbia. It didn't work. Luckily, I ended up with a group of fun, smart people, including a beautiful, whipsmart redhead who drank water out of a pint-size bottle with the Georgi vodka label still on it. She's comfortable with attention.) Then we were moved to a tent that blocked the sun but also the breeze, where we waited another few hours. Finally, I got my chance in front of the camera—I was lucky, because not everyone did. "Being 'talent' wasn't as glamorous as you thought it'd be," said Adam, when I returned home soaked through my shirt. No, it wasn't. But at least we were "principles"—the "background" folks don't even get a shot at residuals.