Flattery Will Get You Everywhere With Me

If you've seen me without my make-up on then you'll agree with me when I say that if they made a movie about my life, I would be played by this guy:

Clint Howard, brother of Academy Award winner Ron Howard. Aside from our looks, we have something else in common: Ron Howard won't return either of our calls.

And if Clint isn’t available, I assume they’d go with this guy.

Or this guy.

However, in the past three months I have been told, no less than a dozen times, that I actually look like this guy.

Zachary Levi.

Let me just set the record straight right here and now: This does NOT offend me. In fact, it might be the single most awesome and inaccurate thing anybody has ever said to me. 

The comments vary. I get everything from “DUDE – it is uncanny how much you guys look and act alike!” to somebody saying, “You know who you remind me of? Chuck.” And the person next to them saying, “Huh?…Yeah, I can see that.”

The thing is: While I wish I did, I don’t think I do.

Sure, I'm genuinely flattered that people associate me with this guy. I've watched Chuck, and I think he’s witty and highly entertaining. Other reasons I like that people associate us together: he’s 10 years younger than me, he's a superstar celebrity, and “danger” is his middle name.

But truthfully, besides the fact that we’re both tall, dark, and male, I don’t see the resemblance. Unless you are basing this comparison on Zachary's character on Chuck, where he is perpetually in over his head and completely under-qualified in what he's doing. In that instance, I do find common ground between us.

But these people persist! And they are not even in the same room together. I have one friend who is so convinced that I am Zachary Levi, she wrote her own blog post about it. 

Jump to a completely different circle of people – the teenagers at church! I had a young lady come up and say, “I thought of you during Tangled, because you’re totally like Flynn Ryder.” Voice of Flynn Ryder? Zachary Levi.

Again, I am honored. And I would like to invite Mr. Levi to consider the role of Ken Craig...should that screenplay ever be written, I mean. And if he's too busy to give it a look-see, well, no worries. I've got one more doppelganger I've already been in contact with. Clyde. 

Clyde is the one in the passenger seat. 

So, I'm curious. What celebrity are you told you look like? And do you think you look like them? And do you think Steve Buscemi will hunt me down, roast me over an open fire, and eat my head for mentioning him in my blog? Because he kind of gives me the heebie-jeebies, and I wouldn't put that past him.

Placing My Dignity on the Conveyor Belt

Just a heads up, I am featured today over at Modern Mormon Men. It is evidently the "Manly Mommy Blog."

Click here to head on over and take a gander at my horrifying personal experience in line at the grocery store.

Speaking of Babies

Nope. No baby yet. Yes, we are overdue. Way overdue. If this baby were a library book, it would be carrying a hefty fine.

But since we are on the subject of babies, I thought I would share something with you that will make you so stinkin’ jealous of me; you might find it extremely difficult for us to stay friends.

Ready?

In the arena of “song rhyming” (that’s what I call words that don’t really rhyme, but because they’re masked as lyrics, we kind of forgive them), “Katie” totally rhymes with “Baby.” What? It DOES TOO!

Listen, if Sting says that “cough” rhymes with “Nabokov,” then I’m pretty certain “Katie” rhymes with “baby.”

 

At least Sting was trying. Unlike some “artists” who actually “rhyme” a word with … itself.

“We were trying different things

And we were smoking funny things.”

Really? Mr. Kid Rock, please. You must have been smoking funny things if you thought we wouldn’t pick up on that slice of laziness.

Anynote, the reason you should be jealous of this musical serendipity in my life is this: You know how oftentimes, throughout the day, you will casually serenade your significant other? Right? You know, you pass in the hallways or on your way out the door or when he or she walks into the room – and there either isn’t enough time to have a thoughtful conversation or there are too many ears present at that moment or your mind is in the middle of some project – BUT you want to acknowledge them. You want them to feel that you are aware of them and you noticed them and think it’s pretty great that you get to be together and so you…sing to them…just a line…or two… Anybody else do this? Well, you should.

Well, that’s what I do. And I ask you, what is cooler than singing a song that has “baby” in it, but SWAPPING IT…with KATIE!? Answer: Nothing. Nothing is cooler than that. And you know it. And my gosh, I wish you could see how jealous you look right now!  

Many are the days I stroll into the bathroom while Katie is in the shower and I belt out SmashMouth’s “I Can’t Get Enough of You [Katie]!” Sometimes, to mix it up, I’ll sing The Foundation’s “[Katie]! Now that I found you, I can’t let you go. You’re in the shower and your head is sudsy-o!” I have to admit, that’s pretty fantastic rhyming.

Or if Katie is feeling hard on herself, she’ll be telling me about some way that she let herself down. That’s when I jump in with Chris Isaak’s “[Katie] Did a Bad, Bad Thing.” This has worked every time! If you’re trying to make me smile, that is. If you’re trying to make Katie smile, this has failed miserably. I usually rebound with “Don’t Say Nothin’ Bad About My [Katie].” That helps. It doesn’t really help her feel better, but it distracts her, because she hates that song. So we start talking about how lame that song is. And pretty soon, she’s forgotten about her disappointment.

My favorite is when Katie is leaving the house to go somewhere, because I have a cornucopia of Baby/Katie songs to choose from. Van Morrison’s “[Katie] Please Don’t Go” or Player’s “[Katie] Come Back” or even Franki Valli’s “Bye Bye [Katie], [Katie] Goodybe.”

I rarely go with Amy Grant’s “[Katie] [Katie],” because that’s just overkill. And I equally avoid America’s sweetheart, Justin Bieber, and her hit song “[Katie].”

Finally, when I’m trying to set the stage for romance, I croon with Bon Jovi’s “Born to Be My [Katie]” or Peter Frampton’s “[Katie] I Love Your Way.” Or, if I want to be sure that romance won’t visit my house for weeks, I have two options: Bread’s “[Katie] I’m-A Want You.” I only sing this if I’m-A want to get the cold shoulder for a fortnight or two. And trust me, I’m-A not-A fan of any such thing. Or finally, if I really want to be alone, I lead with Sir Mix A Lot’s “[Katie] Got Back.”  

Welp, I’m off to help my lovely wife cope with the fact that this baby isn’t in a hurry to get here. I’m planning to distract her with the following songs:

Ice Ice [Katie] - Vanilla Ice
Mammas Don't Let Your [Katies] Grow Up to Be Cowboys - Willie Nelson
[Katie] Don't Forget My Number - Milli Vanilli
[Katie]face - U2
Tell Me [Katie] - Red Hot Chili Peppers
Sweet [Katie] James - James Taylor
[Katie] I'm a Star - Prince
[Katie] It's Cold Outside – Dean Martin

Any other ideas? I’m-A needing suggestions. 

A St. Patrick's Day Birthday

My birthday happens to fall on St. Patrick’s Day. However, I have precisely zero point zero zero percent Irish blood in me. Got some Scottish and English, but alas, no Irish. (Though I am a fan of Lucky Charms, U2, and of course, this season’s mistletoe – Not Wearing Green, so I can get pinched liberally on the tush all day. It’s tradition!)

So, with having generally nothing in common with this “national holiday,” other than sharing my birthday with it, I wondered if there was something else that might bond me more emotionally to this month. And then it hit me: Celebrity birthdays. Naturally.

Who do I share my birthday month with? Well, how about this for starters: Jon Bon Jovi, Dr. Suess, Bruce Willis, Glenn Close, Elton John, Albert Einstein, William Shatner, Ed McMahon, Shaquille O’Neal, Chaka Khan, Vincent Van Gogh, and Sharon Stone.

Well, quite frankly, none of this came as a surprise to me. If you put 100 celebrities in a line up I would have scrupulously studied them and personally handpicked this exact eclectic cast of misfits as the celebrities most similar to myself. And logically, it’s because we share the same birthday month. You don’t even have to be a certified Psychic Friends Network enthusiast to pick up on that piece of common sense.

Let’s see, me and…

Jon Bon Jovi. Well, the natural conclusion here is that we both give love a bad name (and more than likely it’s because our love is like bad medicine).

Dr. Suess and myself, we’re from the same city

Solla Sollew, a town without pity.

A town where gallopsnorts are 10 cents a gallon

You can fly there at night, in a horse-driven flallon

Bruce Willis and I – and you’ll be just as flabbergasted as me – but we are almost always up for the same roles! It’s uncanny. Even weirder, I almost beat him out for the part in Knock-Knock, Who Dat? You Dead, the final movie in the Die Hard franchise.

Glenn Close. As women, we are both highly unattractive.

Elton John. Elton and I are in agreement that Saturday Night’s All Right for Fighting. But frankly, I’m the one doing most of the fighting. Elton just kind of slaps some people and calls them names. Uncalled for.

Albert Einstein. We both do a pretty funny German accent.

William Shatner. Neither one of us will ever be invited back to a Star Trek convention, thanks to a little incident that, quite candidly, he started. But I finished. Take THAT, Shatner!

Ed McMahon. Funny thing about Ed and I – neither of us could ever decide what we really wanted to do for a living! He was a TV pitchman, a Johnny Carson sidekick, a co-host – and I’ve been in construction, insurance, public relations. We are TOTALLY cut from the same cloth, that Ed and I!

Shaquille O’Neal. Neither one of us has seen his movie Kazaam.

Chaka Khan. We both enjoy singing “I’m Every Woman.” Chaka, for crowds of people, in a stadium, so people can get their groove on. Me, for Katie, in our living room, when I want to make her laugh.

Vincent Van Gogh. We both know how to woo the women. Me, by singing “I’m Every Woman,” and Vinnie, by cutting off his ear.

Sharon Stone. We both refuse to be filmed wearing ladies underwear.

So thank you for the birthday wishes, everybody. I’m thrilled to be 39. Not as thrilled as I was to be, say, 24. But birthday celebrations are always a good time. And for the rest of you, may you enjoy your day of celebratory tushie-pinching!

The Dangers of YouTube

This last week I was asked to speak to the youth of our stake on the subject of maintaining righteous standards in their choices of entertainment. (In the LDS Church, a “stake” is a grouping of several “wards.” A “ward” is a “congregation.” “Youth” is ages 12 to 18 years old. And “righteous standards” is entertainment that is not salacious, graphic, or starring Mickey Rourke.) You can click here for more information. (On the LDS Church, I mean. I won’t pretend to know where to click to find information on Mickey Rourke. But you could probably Google the word “infection” and find him somewhere in there.)

Another bishop in the stake spoke with me, and in an effort to hold the youth’s attention and earn some street cred, we made a short video for YouTube. (It held their attention; but let's be honest, there was never a chance for any “street cred.”)

We showed the YouTube video during the program and set it up as “you never know what kind of outrageous, shocking video you could come across on the Interwebs…”

CLICK HERE TO WATCH!

No Comment

If you have just recently stumbled across this little blog o’ mine, then welcome. Please make yourself at home. Look around. Pick things up, put them back down wherever. I don’t care. Look through my underwear drawers, I’ve nothing to hide. You don’t need a coaster for your beverage. Don’t look too close at the corners, though, they may be dusty. I don’t have time to clean everything, you know!

Anyway, eventually you’ll probably notice something. I don’t have my “Comments” button on. I actually haven’t for years.

I don’t remember precisely when I turned them off, but I didn’t really think much of it at the time. People have occasionally asked why I don’t have them on, but I just change the subject or throw something at them and then run away while they are distracted and/or hurt. But really, I suppose I avoid the subject because I don’t have one clear answer why. I’ll try, though.

I started keeping a blog as really, just a place to practice writing and story telling. I absolutely love to read or hear people’s personal stories. Life-altering, intriguing, surprising, and of course hilarious – I love to listen and swap stories. I also occasionally enjoy writing a story satirically or even in a different voice than my own. With that in mind, I started writing this blog. And folks would leave comments, and it was all fun.

And then I felt I was too distracted by the comments. What could I write about that would solicit comments? Should I not post anything new until people have had enough opportunity to comment? What if people leave a negative comment and hurt my tender feelings? I just wanted to not worry about comments anymore.

Please know I absolutely love that people read my blog.  And when I visit with friends, I love that they’ll give me feedback or encourage me or whatever. But I enjoy the freedom of not being distracted by comments each time I write.

However, recently I have been threatened by a few folks if I don’t turn the comments back on. I mean, not since I was a teenager and convinced my dad to take our entire family to see Joe Versus the Volcano (starring two-time Academy Award Winner, Tom Hanks) have I been subjected to such harassment.

And so now I am reconsidering. And I ask, should I turn my comments on? Should I give it a trial run? Will you be offended if you make a compelling argument, but in the end I decide to still leave my comments off? While I have been writing sans comments for quite some time now, I am curious as to what kind of spirit of community might be fostered by folks leaving comments. Perhaps new friendships will be formed. Perhaps the “comments room” in my little blog home will become a safe place to rest from the weariness of life. A place to encourage others to share their personal, albeit brief, stories. A place where Joe Versus the Volcano will be showing in a constant loop on the television. (Because I stand by my conviction that that movie was funny. He should be three-time Academy Award winner, Tom Hanks!)

So, please leave a comment, and tell me what you think. Rock the vote! Cast your ballot! And let me know how you’re doing. I miss our chats and haven’t heard an update from you in a while, quite frankly. 

The Inside Scoop

So I was recently checking my email In Box, as I am wont to do from time to time, and was surprised to find a deliciously salacious email from a certain editor at a certain gossip rag. There were also certain legal terms at the bottom of the email, indicating that if I were ever to forward, copy, Etch-a-Sketch, or skywrite the contents of this email for others to read, I would be publicly flogged with a wet noodle, forced to go on Maury and discuss my odd fascination with cryptozoology, and court ordered to spend up to 18 months in jail with nothing to read but Nicholas Sparks’ books. So as you can imagine, I’m treading lightly here. I’m going to speak in code.

The email was from Shmali Shmpuliti, and the magazine was Shmus Shmweekly.

Turns out, Shmali had tracked down my very own Katie, who went to school with (are you sitting down?) JON GOSSELIN! I know!! They went to the same high school! Could you just DIE?! And since I can’t give you the direct quote, I’ll just tell you that Shmali was doggedly earning her paycheck by hunting down any sordid, juicy tidbits about our Jon, the main character of TLC’s Jon & Kate Plus 8. She boldly came right out and said she was looking for details about “everyone’s favorite reality father.”

Now, you should know that even though I have never watched a single episode of this show, I am as equally offended as you are. What kind of integrity do you have to have to come right out and assume that Jon is everyone’s favorite reality father?! Sincerely! Everyone’s favorite?! What about Ozzy Osbourne? Hm? What about Project Runway’s Tim Gunn (the Father of Fashion – I just made that up)? Or even what about Stanley, from the reality TV show, The Office? “Everyone’s favorite,” indeed. I mock your favoritenessocity, Shmali!

I immediately sat Katie down and demanded to know why she had never shared this information with me before. We’ve been married almost 14 years and she has never once – not once! – brought up the fact that she went to the same high school as Mr. Jon & Katie Plus 8. She claimed she didn’t know who he was then and barely knows who he is now. But I don’t know how I’m supposed to believe her, since she failed to ever bring it up prior to Shmali’s email! I’m no fool!

“Think, Katie!” I said. “It doesn’t matter if you knew him or not – what does Shmus Shmweekly want to know! Here is our chance to get OUR story out there! We should tell Shmali, ‘You know, I do remember Jon. Why, I remember even back then he used to love old episodes of The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family. Also the A-Team. I know there were no large families on that show, but I bring it up as an interesting detail. I don’t know how I didn’t see it then – the man wanted a big family! Scandalamity! Sometimes he also kicked small animals, said the word “crap” a lot, and on more than one occasion I caught him picking his nose in the school parking lot. I’m surprised the TV cameras haven’t picked up more of that stuff on film.’”

Once the word is out on what a reliable and cooperative source of information we are, it will only be a matter of time before we’re approached by the remaining class of sophisticated and refined publications such as Shmpeople,  Shmenquireror, or even  ShmGQ. But don’t look for us in Shmplayboy. That’s not the direction we’re heading. (Even if you just read it for the shmarticles.)

George Clooney, Where Art Thou?

Well, we have a new winner for “My Most Favorite Website in the Whole World Ever.” The website has magic powers, I tell you. My self-esteem shot up 1,000 awesomeness degrees in one … short … sitting. Why? How could a single website do this? Because, my suspicious friend, this website told me that I am a dead ringer for none other than People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive” for 1997 and 2007 and star of the critically acclaimed Ocean’s 11 & 13 films (I didn’t care so much for 12) … George Clooney!

Well, you can imagine the hubbub this has caused around the Craig Household. Usually when one of our kids does something adorable then Katie quips to me “You’ve got cute kids.” And then I retort, “Because you’re their mom.” But now, when Katie tells me I’ve got cute kids, I respond, “Are you kidding?! Of course I do! Just look at them – attractive, witty, charismatic – like a throwback to old Hollywood! At once both quirky and charming! Why, they could get a table at any restaurant in the valley!” Then Katie kind of looks at me warily and shrugs. I think secretly she wishes I’d never found this website; but she doesn’t admit it, because she knows that later, she’ll be snuggling up with a George Clooney impersonator to watch Seinfeld reruns.

I know it sounds like a glamorous life, being a George Clooney stand-in. But there is actually a lot to consider. For example, while Ken Craig may be prone to leaving used dental floss on the bathroom counter, George Clooney would never dream of such pedestrian behavior. I’ve also had to say goodbye to eating ice cream out of the container and wearing brown shoes with black slacks – like I’m some sort of animal! And finally, I have stopped singing along with the B-52s in my car. (But if you see the real George doing this, please let me know. I really miss belting out “jump in my Chrysler, it’s as big as a whale and it’s about to set SAIL!” And if he’s doing it, then it’s fair game for me. What’s good for the George is good for the gander, as they say in showbiz.) (And if you do see George doing it, please make sure it’s the real George, and not me, his unsanctioned look-a-like. I imagine this is going to be a common occurrence.) 

I should probably come clean at this point and confess that according to this website, I am actually only a 71% match for George Clooney. (The bright side is that leaves 29% wiggle room for some questionable “un-George-like behavior.” Like, I will probably continue to read books in the bathroom. Would George do that? I don’t know; but, my 29% guarantees that I will.)

In addition to being 71% Mr. Clooney, I am also 75% Matthew Perry, 72% Julio Iglesias, and 70% Christopher Reeve. I’m no mathematician, but if I’ve got my numbers correct, I am apparently a 288% witty, Spanish, leading man who can fly and confidently wear red and blue tights in public.

I am also a 74% twin of … Mira Sorvino. You are probably thinking the same thing I did when I saw this; that is, would George Clooney even date Mira Sorvino? Are they the same caliber celebrity? I say probably not; but that is the complexity and dichotomy of being a celebrity melting pot like myself.

If you have any questions, I’ll be at the local Hollywood Video signing DVDs of Ocean’s 11 and 13. (Let's pretend I was never involved in 12.)

Ingredients for Success

I would love to have been a fly on the wall at that auspicious network meeting when they were brainstorming for the brilliant small screen phenomenon known to the American public as Magnum PI.

VP of CBS Development (Played in my mind by Charlton Heston): Gentlemen, we need a show for the 8 o’clock time slot. Something that will appeal to men who spend gobs of money and happen to currently be stuck in arrested development. Bruce, what’ve you got?

Bruce: Yeah, how about a private investigator?

VP: Nice. All men wish they could be dangerous. What else? Hal?

Hal: Well, we could film it in Hawaii?

VP: Perfect. Every man wishes he lived in Hawaii. Nick?

Nick: How is a private investigator going to afford living in Hawaii?

Hal: We could have him live for free on an estate. That way he has no real adult responsibilities. Not even a mortgage.

VP: I likey. Nick, you’re fired, unless you get with the program.

Nick: We could have the owner of the estate give him a Ferrari to use at his leisure?

VP: Nick, you’re a beautiful man. That’s genius. Now I want a Ferrari.

Hal: Also, he should have a mini-fridge that is endlessly full of cold beer.

Bruce: Also, this guy is going to be able to get any woman he wants. A new one every week, since he won’t ever really be involved in any kind of relationship that requires maturity, sacrifice, compromise, or formal wear.

VP: Of course he is. He’s got an estate, a Ferrari, the coolest job…and what else?

Nick: A mustache?

VP: Bingo. I smell a hit, gentlemen. Nick, go pick me out a Ferrari.

Don't Believe the Great White Hype

During this time of great political unrest and in an era where American citizens take offense when no offense is intended, I hesitate to bring up any hot topics. But I will, because if you aren’t standing for something, you stand for nothing.

I am vehemently opposed to sharks. Hate them. I loooooathe sharks. I don’t have one good thing to say about them. If I were stood before a shark, handed a baseball bat, and told by a judge that if I beat that shark’s face in then I would be sentenced to death, I would say, “For my final meal, your honor, I want to eat this very shark.” And then I would begin whacking that sucker until it was dead ten times over.

If the above paragraph offends you, you may not want to read any further. You should probably also remove my contact information from your e-database, my family’s name from your Christmas card list, and my birthday reminder (March 17th) from your Yahoo Birthday Calendar Reminder thingee. You’ll have no need for these things anymore since you are dead to me, you communist, liberal, shark-sympathizer.


I suppose my hatred for these evil predators all started when, as a child, I realized my precious, innocent life would one day end in a violent shark attack. Some people want to blame this on several viewings of Jaws before I was nine years old; but I implore you, look at the facts. I was neither afraid of dying by the hands of Lex Luther nor toxic beer, though I watched both Superman and Strange Brew on multiple occasions.

My morbid fascination with these horrid beasts has pushed me to the limits of watching Discovery Channel’s Shark Week from under the covers and between my fingers. I am especially appalled by these video segments that try to paint sharks as the victims of the world. PUH-lease. “A shark’s worst enemy is actually mankind.” Bullsugar. A shark’s worse enemy is…a larger shark! I’m not even a marine biologist, and I’m calling that one.

Have you seen the segments where they have these local tour guides in South Africa actually lean out of the boat and pet the stomachs of Great Whites that come up to the boat? Pet their stomachs! This kind of propaganda is worse than any snuff film. I mean, to actually encourage people to pet a Great White! “The most misunderstood animal,” indeed. People, wake up! That shark is no dummy. It is mugging for the camera, knowing the thousands of Midwesterners watching will think, “Jeepers, I had them all wrong. Honey, pack a lunch. We’re heading to the coast to pet a Great White.” Honestly, do you want the terrorist to win? (And by “terrorists,” I mean “sharks.”) Stay away from sharks, folks; and for that matter, stay away from South Africans that pet them. I think they may be getting kickbacks or something.

If you want to know how sharks really behave, rent the documentaries Deep Blue Sea (starring Samuel L. Jackson and LL Cool J – also not fans of South Africa), and Jaws IV: This Time It’s Personal. These are true stories, documenting that sharks have personal vendettas against humans. And they will hunt us down, if we do not act first. Don't consider this a political agenda. Consider it a call to arms!

Last Year, When I Acted With My Wife

You'll have to excuse my nostalgia, but Katie and I were just discussing how much fun we had a year ago when we were in a play together.

So, you remember the part where I am not an actor, right? Yes, I was part of an improv troupe in college. Yes, I have been in plays. Yes, I enjoy being, how they say in the biz, "silly" in front of people. But to actually act? No. I can't do it. But about a year ago, Katie forgot that. So, when our friend Dawnie stopped by and asked Katie if I would audition for the new Signature Productions’ play Ten Little Indians, Katie assured her I would love to do it.

I’m not trying to be humble when I say I’m not a great actor. I’m not even being truthful, really, because the truth would be I am a horrific actor. I like to think my acting makes everyone watching uncomfortable. Like when you watch Keanu Reeves in anything besides Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure. (The Academy still owes you an apology for snubbing you on that one, Keanu.) So you can imagine my reluctance to even drive by a theater where auditions are being held; what with the warrant out for my arrest and the Wanted posters still hanging up from my performance in Ordinary People, back in college.

And I know I should have immediately taken comfort in knowing that this was community theater, but that actually made it worse. To be a self-proclaimed bad actor is one thing, to have the director of a community theater play tell you that you “just aren’t what we’re looking for” is more than pouring salt on the wound, it’s hooking up an IV directly to a gaping wound and pumping pure salt directly in.

But I went. I went because Katie, my darling wife, is so dang cute, I can’t tell her “no.” Unless it involves owning a pet or substituting tofu for beef. I went because somewhere inside me…I missed the creative energy of being in front of a live audience. And this seemed like a harmless opportunity to do just that. The auditions were being held at the Summerlin Library. There is actually a decent-sized theater attached to the library, and productions are put on here fairly regularly.

I walked into the theater and saw some of the mucky-mucks hobnobbing and brou-ha-ha-ing down by the stage. There were a number of chairs up on the stage, making a half-circle and facing the audience. Several people were already seated on stage. Dawnie, our friend and neighbor who started this whole situation, saw me and came over to chat. She has been in a few Signature Productions plays and had been asked to help out as a production assistant on Ten Little Indians. She gave me the low-down. They had most of the cast selected, but were still auditioning for the two leads. The female lead had come down to two women, both there and ready for their second audition, and the leading male was … still unfound. Apparently they had auditions the day before, and one of the men came close, but in the end he “wasn’t what they had in mind.” So they offered him one of the other roles and were still looking for a leading man. Which is why Dawnie had asked Katie to force me, at gunpoint, if necessary, to audition. And here I was.

I took a seat on stage, next to the young, blonde woman who turned out to be one of the two women auditioning for the female lead. I started looking over the script for my first time and tried to get a handle on what was supposed to be going on.

By the strangest coincidence, I had seen the original 1930-something version of Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians. It was a dark and stormy night, August of 1988…almost 16 years ago to the day. Our family had just moved to the tiny island of Molokai, Hawaii. We were staying in the house of a friend of my dad’s. He rented it out to tourists and used it occasionally when he visited the island, and since it was unoccupied at the time, he invited us to stay in it. He didn’t have cable, and his video library consisted of one … single … video. Ten Little Indians. One night, out of complete and sheer boredom, my brother and I popped it in. I recognized it immediately as a useless and inept rip off of the superior Clue and Murder by Death. Since that time, I have learned to respect it as the original “murder mystery” where strangers are brought together and one by one die and/or disappear.

So I understood the premise, but not what was happening in the scene we were about to utilize as my auditioning piece. I read over it as they had the first woman audition for the female lead. She sounded fine to me, but when she finished the director said, “Now…can you do it again…with the English accent?” Oh, good crap. An English accent!? If there is a way to make me look even worse as an actor, it’s to have me attempt an accent. I was about to wet my pants, so nervous was I. I was about to wonder – out loud – what I was doing there, when the blonde next to me spoke up.

“Has anyone told you that you look exactly like Jude Law?”

(Looking behind me, then in the general area, and finally back at her) “Are you talking to me?”

“Of course! Has anyone told you you look completely like Jude Law?” (Sidebar, Jude Law was at that time on the cover of People Magazine’s 50 Most Beautiful Men Alive…starring Jude Law as the most beautiful man alive.)

“Uh…no.”

“Well, you do.”

“You mean a middle-aged, chubby Jude Law?”

“Oh…you.” And then she started singing. Loudly. Then she turned to me and asked if I’ve listened to the cd from the new musical Avenue Q, from which she was loudly singing this song that she apparently loved.

Is she flirting with me? I asked myself. She couldn’t be. I must be 10 years older than her, not to mention the wedding band I was proudly sporting. Who is this girl and why would she show up drunk at an audition?

Sensing that he had lost control of the room, the director, Victor, asked me to stand up and run the scene with the first girl who is auditioning for the lead. This girl seemed nice, but even more nervous than I. The scene felt really stiff. Then Victor asked Blondie to trade places with the first girl and we did the scene again. I have to admit, I felt better. Blondie had a great English accent, which seemed to help mine. She was really comfortable and projected well and it just seemed like a better scene, especially since she didn’t start singing the soundtrack to Avenue Q in the middle of our scene.

Now, here is the hilarious part. I’ve done the scene twice, right? Victor then asks the first girl to walk with him, and as they head towards the door, he is obviously letting her know “she wasn’t what they were looking for.” He then comes back and tells Blondie that she gets the part. Then…he turns to me…and with a big smile says, “Congratulations…you are our Captain Lombard!”

At that moment, I simultaneously realized how desperate they were and how doomed the play was. Sure, it was their ship I was going to sink, but I was the Captain.

Victor seemed so pleased to have me. So proud. One of the ladies on the Board chimed in, “The moment you walked in the room…I knew we had our Captain Lombard.” Dawnie, a true friend, assured me the other guy was worse than me. And that is pretty much the truest definition of this success story.

So, then the first play practice. Initially the practices were held in the ballet theater behind the library. So we could pirouette as we run lines. I found the room where we would be practicing – because most of the cast was standing outside the room, chatting. Apparently a number of them know each other from previous plays and whatnot. I recognized only Blondie, from the audition, so I took a place in the social circle, standing next to Blondie. When somebody asked who I was, she answered, “He’s my Love Monkey.” This made me nervous. So I stood by a guy I didn’t know, but whom I was fairly confident would not refer to me as his Love Monkey.

During the first practice we just read through the play, and much to my surprise and horror…I did not have the worst English accent in the group. There were a few cast members who even asked if their characters could be visiting from America, so as to avoid the use of an accent all together. They didn't get much of an argument from anybody.

The next day, before practice, we are all chit-chatting when out of the blue, the Blondie to whom I am a Love Monkey announced that she just got married. That afternoon. About three hours before practice. Some guy that she had dated for years, they broke up, recently got back together. They’re young, crazy, and in love. She is ecstatic and we are all happy for her. My impression is that even before this episode she was fairly confident that the world revolved around her…but now she even had something to point to to prove it. As the night progressed she became more and more uncertain about being able to commit to the play. What, with her being the only one married and all. Oh, that’s right, almost all of us in the play are married. At any rate, she all but backed out of it by the end of the night. And that was fine by me. I don’t know if it was her flirtatious nature, my being married for nine years, or me not being used to acting since…ever…but I was struggling in our scenes together. I’m supposed to be coming on to her, stroking her skin, playing with her hair, touching her face, making eye contact. At the end of the play we would even kiss. I was hoping I was supposed to poop my pants after that, because I was pretty sure that’s what wass going to happen. But suddenly there’s was no need to get comfortable being romantic with Blondie. She dropped out. We needed a new female lead, and in my heart of hearts, I knew Katie would be fabulous. And she was.

Truth be known, I couldn't have imagined doing the play without her. We both knew it would be crazy-insane on our lives…but we knew how much fun we would have performing together. While we were talking about it tonight we both agreed it was a good thing we took the opportunity when we did...because we don't know how we would do it now. Especially with Katie being nine months pregnant. But what a great sequel! Nine Little Indians & One Pregnant Sqaw.

My Name Is Ken. But My Friends Call Me Robert.

So, it’s 9:00 p.m., and I’m in the Express Lane at our friendly neighborhood Albertsons. (Albertsons' Motto: If we can’t win you over with our high prices, we’ll make ourselves so stinking convenient, you’d have to be a real weenie to drive by us on your way to another grocer.) I wasn’t planning to be out, so I’m dressed quite casually. Quite casually. Very, extremely casually. To be honest, if I were dressed any less, I’d be in the shower. (Or in the YMCA locker room, but I digress.)

I have my 10 Items or Less on the conveyer belt, and I’m waiting my turn, when I hear voices and glance over my shoulder to see who’s behind me. Lo and behold, it’s Brother Dustin Hoffman* and his little daughter. (*Name has been changed.) Brother Hoffman is in the bishopric of a neighboring ward in our stake, and I’ve known him, more as an acquaintance than anything, really, for about three years. Katie and I spoke at a fireside in his ward a couple of years back, and afterwards he invited us to go to dinner with him and his wife sometime. (P.S. We never went.) And since I’ve been in our bishopric, I’ve seen him at various and sundry meetings where we’ve chatted casually from time to time; so, while I wouldn’t call us “friends,” I’d say we are definitely “friendly.”

But not tonight.

First, I’m very self conscious because I’m dressed like I’ve wandered from my bed to the bathroom, and second, well, Brother Hoffman has caught me – ME, a fellow bishopric member – engaged in the reading of an intriguing article out of the cheap and tawdry publication known as People. (Nick and Jessica. I just really thought those two kids were going to make it. And my heart aches when I think of the strain that Dukes of Hazzard has had on their relationship.)

“Oh, hey!” I nervously call over my shoulder to Brother Hoffman, as I fumble with the magazine and try to hide it behind a copy of Newsweek. (Why a single copy of Newsweek was on the “impulse buy” rack – the same rack as People – is beyond me, and my only explanation is that blessings come in all shapes and sizes.)

Brother Hoffman pipes up, and in full confidence says, “Hey Robert! I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Now, for those of you keeping score at home…there’s a good reason Brother Hoffman almost didn’t recognize me. My name is not Robert. Never has been. But I’m not really in a chit-chatty mood, don’t have any real reason to correct him, and now I don’t have to worry about being judged for my recreational reading as an added bonus. So I don’t say anything. I just wave and turn back to face the cashier, who is helping the person in front of me. But Brother Hoffman can’t leave good enough alone.

“I didn’t know you lived on this side of town?” he says.

Ah, nuts. I’m stuck in line and I’m being dragged into chitchat. And I’m at a slight disadvantage, because I’m suddenly a fictional character with a background that only Brother Hoffman knows.

“Yeah…yeah. Live over off Sasparilla. How about you? You still in the Elkhorn Springs Second Ward?”

Brother Hoffman cocks his head back, and while his smile stays intact, there’s suddenly a question behind it. “Yes…” he slowly answers. And it occurs to me that Robert is most likely not LDS and wouldn’t know that Brother Hoffman is in a “ward.”

“Oh,” I say. “Great.” And now I’ve got to quickly strike up conversation to distract him before he says, “You aren’t Robert are you? Why didn’t you say so? What’s wrong with ya, boy?”

So I say, “Yep, we just moved, actually, and now we live just one street over from your sister, Destiny Child*.” (*Name has been changed.)

Strike Two. Apparently Robert doesn’t know Destiny, and may not even know that Brother Hoffman has a sister. He is just staring at me now. Just a long, quiet, blank stare. I’m starting to panic. I feel like he’s about to point at me and say, “That’s him, officer, that’s him. I’m positive. That’s the impostor that was reading People in the Express Lane at Albertsons!”

The longer the moment lasts, the more I anticipate him calling my bluff. I start to do a character sketch in my mind. Who is this Robert? Would he buy gum? Should I put some on the conveyer belt? Would he be reading celebrity gossip? Should I ask Brother Hoffman his feelings about the Pitt/Anniston split? Is that something Robert would do? Does Robert swear? Probably not in front of little girls, so that option is out. I’ve got to think! The tension is so thick; you could cut it up and sell it in the Albertsons bakery at $8 a slice.

Finally, when my face is about to burst through my forehead, the cashier speaks up. “Sir,” she says to Brother Hoffman. “Sir, would you mind tying that cord up behind you, you’ll be my last customer and I’m closing the lane.”

“Oh, sure,” he says. “That’s easier than having to tell the person behind me that you’re closed and won’t help them.”

“Yeah,” I chime in, “the last thing you want is to be trapped in an uncomfortable situation.” Inside I think I am the funniest man alive, but my face is stone cold, as if there is no irony in my comment.

Finally it is my turn at the register. I am almost home free. The cashier asks for my special “Albertsons Card” that gives me fabulous discounts and incredible cash savings, which I gladly hand over. Once the card is in her hand, however, I recall that their canned response whenever they swipe my card is “Thank you, Kenneth.” NO! Their polite, new age customer service mumbo-jumbo is going to completely foul up my escape!

I start to weigh my options. One, I can correct the cashier, “Oh, it’s ‘Robert Kenneth,’ actually. But the ‘Robert’ is silent.” Or, “Oh, that’s funny, I have my twin brother’s Albertsons card. Hmm – this happens all the time. Do you know my twin? He’s in the Elk Ridge bishopric. I think he spoke at a fireside in your ward once with his wife.” One thing is for sure; I will quickly sell this cashier down the river before letting Brother Hoffman know that I am not Robert.

Then I start to panic double as I realize that at any second, somebody I know could enter the store and call me by name. What then? Do I deny who I am? If my neighbor walks in and says, “Hey Ken!” do I snub them? Do I look at Brother Hoffman and say, “I think he’s talking to you.”

I turn and focus on the cashier. I’ve got to deal with her first, and once I’m done, I can bolt for the door and run out into the night.

She starts, “Thank you, Ke—”

“No, thank YOU!” I interrupt, grabbing the receipt out of her hand, hoisting my groceries in my other hand, and heading for the door. For the sake of keeping up with appearances, I turned back once more to Brother Hoffman and said, “Have a good night.”

“We’ll see you later,” he said, still looking puzzled. He’s not going to let this go away. I can tell right now. I’m just curious if our next meeting will be at Albertsons or at a meeting at church. In the meantime, I am going to have to do some serious research on this Robert guy.

Your 80s Station

Here in Las Vegas we actually have a radio station designed and programmed to feed us southern Nevadans a solid, albeit unbalanced diet of 80s music. I say unbalanced because they have an entire decade of tunes to choose from, yet they have a vast library of exactly eight songs that they play in rotation. In fact, in its conceptual stage, I believe they were going to call it "The Madonna and Men at Work Station." Test audiences didn’t like it, so they went with “Star: Your 80s Station.”

Here’s why they are not MY 80s station:

First, I was a teenager in the 80s. With no real responsibilities, any cash I had went directly to purchasing cds. Any odd jobs I did for neighbors I would say “Just make my check out to The Wherehouse.” Essentially, any 80s song I want to hear now, I already own. Some 80s songs that I never want to hear again…I already own. (Debby Gibson, I’m looking in your direction.)

Second, I’m annoyed with the DJs who are introducing these 80s bands as if they had more than one hit, and they are teasing us with which possible song could be coming up next. “Coming up next, it’s Dexy’s Midnight Runners.” Hmm. Gee. What could that song BE? Could it be…'Come On Eileen?' Oh, wait…what was their other big song? Oh, right. There wasn’t one. “Coming up next, Dexy’s Midnight Runners doing a medley of their hit…”

Finally, these program directors are retarded. Just because these songs are from the same decade, doesn’t mean they should be in the same line up. Any teenager from the 80s will tell you about the natural segregation that existed then – you had hard rock, rap, punk, techno pop, top 40, alternative, R&B, reggae, and George Michael. There was no such station that played all of these songs together. But now there is. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Las Vegas’ own Star 102.7.

The DJs will actually give teasers like this: “Coming up next, it’s Duran Duran, The Cure, and The Pointer Sisters!” Huh? “Stay tuned! Coming right up we’ve got Van Halen, Guns n’ Roses, and Richard Marx!” Really? These guys are peers? I mean, could you even fathom the wedgie that Axl Rose would give Richard Marx if they met? Mr. Marx would just now be finding his underwear, in 2005. And then he would write a top 40 hit about his underwear and how he’d been right there waiting for them.

Now, here’s my favorite, and this is an actual, real-life example I heard whilst driving one day. “Right after these commercials we’ve got The Pet Shop Boys, Tiffany, and of course, Pink Floyd. So stay tuned!” OF COURSE, Pink Floyd! “OF COURSE?!” Does that sound like a natural progression? That’s like saying “For dinner we’re having pizza, breadsticks, and of course, orange juice.” “For bedtime kids, we’ll be reading The Little Engine that Could, Goodnight Moon, and of course, Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood.” “My professional goals include getting a promotion, becoming top salesman, and of course, getting sued for embezzlement.”

A suggestion might be “Coming up next, Paul Simon, Tom Petty, and OF COURSE, Pink Floyd.” See, you could imagine these guys hanging out, having a conversation. Of course, that conversation would begin and end with:

“Dude, are there anymore special brownies?”
“No.”
“Any Cheetos left?”
“No.”
“Bummer.”
“Yeah.”

Or another possibility – “Coming up next, Bon Jovi, Def Leppard, and of course, White Snake.” And you could imagine what topic would be first on their list to discuss. Right, hair products.

Despite a conversation I once had with my friend Chris Clark regarding 80s music, wherein, at the end of the conversation we concluded, “Oh, WHY did we ever have to have the 80s?” I am actually a fan of the 80s music scene. (In our defense, we had just finished singing the ‘a-buh-ba-ba-ba-buh, buh-buh-buh-buh’ part of Paula Abdul’s “Straight Up.”) Some of the stuff I like strictly for nostalgic purposes, some it’s fun to make fun while simultaneously being ashamed of knowing all the words, and some I genuinely think is outstanding music. (U2, I salute you.) Besides, if it weren’t for the 80s, we wouldn’t have the likes of Run DMC, the Beastie Boys, and of course, Hall & Oats.