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Vancouver. Nine days. Guest spot on the show Reaper for the CW. Working. Working? Yeah, right. Work's for jerks. Tell ya what: Look at these pictures and you tell me how much of it looks like work.
This was where I was staying. For nine days. The Fairmont Hotel, downtown Vancouver, where they always called me "Mister Champagne." For nine days. I knew the party was over when I got back home and no one was calling me "Mister Champagne" anymore. But cool digs, right?
Because being in all of four scenes on a TV show is—lemme tell ya—grueling work. Oh, the emoting! The commitment! The torturous dedication to one's craft that goes into acting!
Look at the excruciating expression of agony and creative pressure on my face as I prepare to go, once more, unto the breach and act in a scene for network television under an AFTRA contract. Can you see the artistic strain and pledge of solemnity wrought in that bespectacled visage?
Neither can I. That's a dude on vacation.
My view of the outside of my hotel. That's right, my hotel.
My view of the inside of my hotel. That's right, my hotel. (And that is not coffee. That is hot chocolate. Don't like coffee. Still tastes like a grown-up drink to me.)
The lobby of my hotel. Where Christmas was invented.
This is either Mavis or Beau. The hotel had two dogs that I thought would help carry my luggage. They didn't. They just lounged around and made you wanna pet them. One of them just turned four. No party. Just a sign saying: "Beau turns four today!" Or maybe it was Mavis' birthday. Can't remember. The dog in this photo looks pretty content, but you know it hopes one day to work valet.
Came unprepared. Had to get one of these. At Winners. Thrifty me. Talked to this girl in line, told her my name, she said: "Ooo. I've had bad luck with Matts." Sort of a dis. Her name was Angel. I should've said that I had bad luck with Angels, because even though she was the first Angel I'd ever met, I was clearly having bad luck with her.
Now that is a walk signal. Canadians do this much better than we do. Look at the posture, the stance, the stride, the gait. This man is walking. Moving with a purpose. And, though having no hands, is clearly wearing a suit. Look at those shoulders. You can't see it because it's a silhouette of course, but that's tailoring, people. Get into it.
Snowing. Mini-skirts. McDonald's. The classy ladies of Vancouver. Just do it.
Snow. High altitudes. Coniferous. The classy trees of British Columbia.
Work. That's right. Work. "In-between shots," as people in the business like to say. And I may not be one of those people anymore. Some day. Maybe. I can't believe I get paid for this stuff. And you know what? For all I know, I won't be anymore. SAG will be devoured by not only its enemies but also its own members, especially those who have more in common with the studios than they do in their own union. So I have to start thinking: What if I have to quit acting? What if this cushy trip to Vancouver I just got back from turns out to be my last hurrah as a working actor? It certainly felt like a vacation. I may have to get into another line of work. But until I have to, by all means, keep giving me these undeserving per diems and putting me up in these five-star hotels to alleviate the admitted ease of playing the same kind of part I've been playing my whole life: a tense, uptight, judgmental dude with a penchant for vengeance.
Happy Holidays, kids. At least to those who are left on MySpace. Isn't it dying? This post is as wintry as I can get.
I remain
Champagne
10:02 PM
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