I was standing there, as stand-ins tend to do, pretending to be Chris Evans, running lines and blocking with a woman pretending to be Scarlett Johansson.  The cameraman trained his lens to our positioning; The Nanny Diaries lighting crew adjusted bulbs and shades from every conceivable angle.  While pantomiming an exchange of roses, the assistant director called out over his walkie, "Let's get Dave some stunt flowers." 

Stunt flowers.  You know the union situation is out of control when even the flowers have stand-ins.  Who, incidentally, do their own stunts.  You know, in case the script calls for the flowers to narrowly avoid a missile attack, catch on fire, jump from fifteen story building, land in a hotel pool, and then emerge from the water to flight a horde of sword-swinging ninjas and their combat trained shibu inus.

On a side note, for those of you who secretly desire the chance to woo Scarlett: based on the one song that she sang over and over and over, I have a sneaking suspicion that she likes piña coladas and getting caught in the rain.  Or maybe she just likes to sing.  The same song.  Over and over and over.  Poor girl's iPod must have gotten stuck on repeat.

The background cast of The Sopranos looked exactly as one might expect.  Primarily men, the group was composed of everything from elderly ex-cons to novice thugs, all of whom looked like they knew how break kneecaps with baseball bats.  Crooked noses and misshapen eye sockets made a few extras look like they knew the broad side of a baseball bat all too well.  One of the stand-ins resembled Joe Pesci, and one guy simply looked like a serial killer.  Not one of those suave, dark-haired, charming serial killers; more like Ted Kaczynski after a good shave - he was even costumed in an orange jumpsuit.

Robert and I, both hired to play US Marshals, stood out from the crowd.  Rather than looking the part of blue-collar bad-asses, we gave the impression of middle-class suburbanite dads.  The kind of chaps who would never find themselves in a maximum-security prison, but who get a verbal beat-down every time they forget to grab a tub of Country Crock from the grocery store.

Everyone confused Robert for me and me for Robert.  A woman in wardrobe gave Robert my blazer and gave me Robert’s pants.  An extra, for whom I grabbed some snacks when he was asked to skip lunch, continuously thanked Robert for the altruistic deed.  Even the cameraman adamantly swapped Robert and I after the director, Steve Buscemi, made an executive decision on where to place us. 

I concluded that The Sopranos cast and crew are simply prejudiced.  To them, it doesn’t matter who you are: all middle-class suburbanites look the same.

Robert: I’m truly sorry if someone reads this blog and decides that you went too far, joked too much, and deserve to lose a finger.  Just remember that if they make you choose one finger, the pinky is the least useful.  That’s what I would choose if I were you: the littlest piggy.

First, I must warn you: at the time, I was single.  My wife laughs (rolling her eyes) at any story I preface with, "when I was single," or, "during my player days."  I know her inner woman would like to deliver a swift kick to my family jewels.  However, such a statement is necessary.  I should not be held fully culpable for certain things I've done under the influence of hormones.

Second, I would like to establish for legal purposes: I had no idea they were high school girls.

Though you will not find me in any scene of The Manchurian Candidate, even if you slow-mo through every frame (including the DVD extras), I promise you: I was on set.  And while on set, I was dressed as a soldier.  An army soldier.  With a beret.  And before you start poking fun, wearing a beret is only prissy if you're a French painter with a small, wiry mustache.  I was a soldier.  Wearing combat boots.  Big, manly, combat boots.

All of our scenes were shot in and around major DC tourist attractions; during a lunch break at the Lincoln Memorial, four attractive members of the opposite sex (female) grabbed me and three other soldiers... asked us if we would take a picture with them.  While remarking about "men in uniform," coyly pressing hands against our camouflaged chests, the girls handed their cameras to a middle-aged man.  After the gentleman took our picture, one girl laughed, "thanks, Dad."

Dad looked at the girls, looked at us, and then caught sight of the camera crew choosing angles.  He suggested that the girls go take some pictures of the Memorial.

"You guys aren't really soldiers, are you?"

"Those girls aren't really college students, are they?"

There's a special room in Hell for me.  I know it.  You know it.  Dad knows it.  And my wife is personally decorating it for me.

An incredible thing occurs when an everyday, nine-to-five working, American citizen gets a chance to stand on set of a major movie or television project:  they see a famous actor, their eyes go wide, and they become as unpredictable as Donald Trump's hair. 

Let me set the stage: filming started at sunrise.  It's now 2 AM.  Joaquin Phoenix stands alone on the set of Ladder 49, possibly getting into character as final lighting adjustments are calculated.  Chatter fades to silence; the director calls action; Joaquin opens the door of the Baltimore church and enters the Christmas Mass scene.

The actor spots his on-screen wife, Jacinda Barrett.  He begins to follow the Steadicam operator walking backwards in front of him.  He stops.  The camera pans.  SMACK.  Cut.  What the?  An extra bursts from the pews.  She snaps a pic; hands Joaquin her cell phone; tells the actor to say hello to her best friend, "because, like oh my God, you are like so hot."

Joaquin took the interruption in style; flashed a kind smile and handed back the phone.  Needless to say, the director was not so merciful.  The teen or twenty-something brain cell was immediately escorted off the set.  I could almost hear her saying "So, like, when do I get to meet John Travolta?"  I could almost hear the production assistant replying, "For your own good: stop huffing glue."