The General Situation

Absolutely

Andrea: I brought you a gift. [Pulls two boxes from a bag.] It's shaving cream and after-shave.

Me: Oh, good. When I saw Ab Crew, I was afraid it was for my non-existent six-pack.

Andrea: No, it stands for "abnormal."

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.

BREAKING NEWS: I'M IN

 

BREAKING NEWS

A lovely woman from the casting agency just called to see if I would still be available on Thursday in the event I was chosen. I'm in like Wilmer Valderrama, I thought. "This isn't a confirmation," she said, sensing that I might be reading between the lines. After pausing to act as if I were checking my calendar, I informed her that I am indeed still available. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go do my exercises (well, that and a radio interview with a program in Kansas City that claims to be aiming at the "hipster meets the fart-joke demographic").

Public Enemy No. 197,059,724

Several people have inquired as to whether I have officially been cast in that commercial yet. The answer is no—leading me to realize once again why other people don't always share their hopes and dreams with others. That way, you never have to acknowledge your disappointment. Not that I care that much, of course. As nice as it would be to have something fresh and new to talk (and blog) about, I can certainly get by without being in a commercial for a bank. My life is highly satisfying, every single day. So, now that I have established how ambivalent I truly am about this commercial, let me explain what I've been thinking about the last two days: What on earth could the casting agency have unearthed in my criminal check that would offset my star power? I've made a list of all the times I've broken the law or had interactions with law enforcement, leaving aside matters relating to sex and drugs, because it's not as if either of those can possibly be considered a roadblock to success in advertising or Hollywood, hello.

• When I was a child, maybe around seven years old, I stole gum from the supermarket checkout aisle, and when I got home, I ran to the backyard and chewed the entire pack at once. My mom discovered me, and we had to return to the supermarket so I could apologize. That's just one of many instances when I stole as a child—I'm also remembering taking a fancy-looking (and fake, it turned out) coin of some kind from my grandmother and trying to pass it off as something I had found on the street—but since I was a minor I don't think those instances count. If you didn't steal as a child you lacked both initiative and moral flexibility.

• Sometime around 12 years old, my friend Greg and I were bored while sitting in my family's motorhome at 4 a.m., waiting for my parents to come out of the casino in Henderson, Nev., so we walked to the 7-Eleven. (My family wasn't as classless as that sentence implies.) Because Henderson has a curfew, we got picked up by the police. That was the only time I've been in a squad car, so if you were hoping for high drama, go read TMZ. Wait, that's not true: A dozen or so years ago I was with an acquaintance when he got into a fight with a drunk gay basher. The basher's friend looked at me as if he and I were going to mix it up, too, and I said, "I'm not fighting," which settled that. Anyway, a cop drove my acquaintance and me around the neighborhood looking for the perp, to no avail.

• I received speeding tickets while driving my tomato-red 1977 Camaro in Oklahoma and Connecticut. Because I was going 21 miles over the speed limit, Connecticut considered it reckless driving, and the fine was huge, $200-ish. I vowed never to set foot in the state again (he typed, while sitting on the porch of a house in Kent, Conn. What can I say? I'm a forgiver).

• Late one night during my high-school years, my friend Beth and I, having drunk nothing stronger than a Slurpee, decided that it was a shame that we had never played in those vats filled with multicolored plastic balls, so we hopped the fence at a Fun Zone or Chuck E. Cheese or McDonald's—I don't recall—and "splashed" around for a while. We didn't get caught, which is good, if only because the cops would never have believed we were sober.

• I went through an anti-establishment phase in my senior year of college. I had rented a house with some friends, and we were always on the hunt for furniture. Well, I used to park near the divinity school, and as I walked through the divinity school to the undergrad part of campus, I developed a crush on some chrome-and-ultrasuede benches the school had a ton of. They were very Studio 54, I thought. So one day, my friend/roommate Alyce and I drove over to the divinity school, grabbed a bench, schlepped it out to her car, and hauled it back to our house. We returned it at the end of the year.

• In hindsight, Alyce may have been a bad influence.... We had one roommate who we didn't get along with so well, and when the roommate's boyfriend came to town unannounced and brought a friend who crashed on the living room sofa, we used our pique as an excuse to borrow the friend's credit card, drive to the gas station, and buy a 12-pack of beer while he lay passed out in the living room. I felt terrible later when the guy said, "You guys like Molson, too?" I'm happy to say I don't steal anymore, except for when I'm pushed to the very limit at a badly run bakery or faced with something truly irresistible that can't be purchased, such as an ash tray from the Four Seasons restaurant.

• One Christmas, while visiting my parents in my hometown of Huntington Beach, Calif., I took a walk to the beach. I jaywalked across Pacific Coast Highway because it was Christmas Day and there was no one for miles—except, evidently, a cop, who pulled me over, if such a thing is possible when you're walking. I explained that I was from New York. "That was the last guy's excuse!" said one of the cops. It worked, though.

A Star Ascendant

I'm currently doing radio and TV interviews on behalf of TripAdvisor.com, and I had an interview scheduled with a Philadelphia radio station at 11 a.m., so I called in at 10:57. The phone rang and rang, until finally I went straight to being on hold, listening to wailing music. I thought it was a live interview, so I grew nervous as 11 a.m. approached. Then my cell phone rang: It was a 646 area code, which is New York City, so it probably wasn't the radio station—then again, if I lived in Philly I might get a NYC area code. I answered it with my other hand. As I was saying "Hello," a woman came on the radio station's line. I didn't know who to talk to. I figured I better go with the radio station, since we could be on air. Then, the woman at the radio station asked if I could hold—so I quickly asked the other line if I could call him back. "Sure," he said, so I asked who it was. He said he was with the casting agency that I had spoken to yesterday. Shit! Then the radio woman came back on, so I quickly said to the casting agent, "Call me back in 15 minutes! Radio interview!" and hung up. The interview was fabulous—Patty Jackson, the "on-air personality," took pleasure in talking about beach and pool etiquette. (I don't know about her, but "urinating in the water" is not a phrase I thought I'd ever say on the radio.) I spent the next ten minutes wondering if the casting agent would call back, and he did. I apologized and explained, and he said to fax in the background-check form they had handed me yesterday in the event that they were interested in me.