Jan-Michael Vincent – A Life Wasted In Denial


600full-jan--michael-vincentAs he is often referred to by those who still remember him today, Jan-Michael Vincent was the Brad Pitt of the 70’s and 80’s.  When I was growing up back then, there was no studlier dude ever captured on film.  Nobody even came close.  His Adamesque  looks and sculpted physique made every girl and woman in America swoon, and probably even made a lot of adolescent boys question their sexual orientation.  It was simply impossible for anyone, male or female, gay or straight, to deny after taking even the briefest glance at him that the man was gorgeous.  There was nothing rugged about him.

55250924-1252061907-jan-michael-vincent-sexy-2The story of how his career in films got started is the stuff of Hollywood fairy tales.  In a chance encounter, he caught the eye of a film scout when he was just twenty-two and still in the California Army National Guard.  Almost overnight, he rocketed to success with just a bare modicum of talent and zero acting experience, and was placed in major motion pictures opposite of such giants as Robert Conrad, Rock Hudson, Charles Bronson, John Wayne, Burt Reynolds, and Robert Mitchum– just to name a few.  The truth is, the man hardly ever had to work a day in his life, and I say that with all due respect for anyone who has ever taken up acting as a profession.  What I mean is, he never had to work his way up or pay his dues.  Even worse, he let it all go to his head, and came to believe that he deserved the success that came all to easy for him.  Sadly, he became a living example of the old adage that cautions – anything that is too easily gained can be too easily squandered.

Financially, Vincent hitAirwolf the pinnacle of his career when he was cast opposite of Oscar winning actor Ernest Borgnine in a starring role for Airwolf, a television series that ran between 1984-1987.  At 200-250K per episode, he became the highest paid actor in the history of television up to that time, long before Charlie Sheen claimed that title two decades later.  With easy money flowing in, the actor began squandering it on cocaine as well as liquor, and it was during this time, when he had the world by the tail, that his drinking spiraled out of control for reasons that no one can fathom to this day.  According to Airwolf Assistant Director Warren Gray, it was during the second season that Vincent’s addictions became obvious to everyone on the set.  By the third season, his drinking and drug use had gotten so out of control, he rarely showed up for work sober enough to recite his lines.  Ultimately, the production delays caused by Vincent’s constant state of inebriation put the show’s production behind schedule and seriously over budget, and led directly to its premature demise.  Thanks to one man’s uncontrolled addiction, everyone who worked on the show abruptly found themselves out of work when the third season ended.  The man himself became an unemployable, has-been, B-film actor, almost as quickly as he became an A-list Hollywood star.

After that, not much was seen or heard of JMV until August 26, 1996, when he drove his car into a light pole in Mission Viejo, California, and broke his neck in the collision.  Sure enough, later toxicology reports showed him to be “extremely intoxicated” at the time of the accident, with a blood alcohol content that was twice over the legal limit.  He was found unconscious and not breathing when paramedics showed up, but they quickly managed to get air into his lungs by inserting a breathing tube down his throat and into his trachea.  He otherwise would have most certainly died at the scene.  (As thanks after his recovery, the actor later filed a lawsuit against two paramedics/ firefighters for permanent damage that was done to his vocal chords in the process of saving his life.)

I remember that afternoon well, because I had been practicing my breath hold diving in Lake Mission Viejo, a couple of blocks from my house, when the accident occurred.  The water was crystal clear and warm, and there was a drop-off within swimming distance from the East beach, where I could dive down as deep as 45 feet before finding the bottom.  There were quite a few trout down there, too – the size of small tunas.  It wasn’t the ocean, but it would do on a late Monday afternoon after work, just to help me clear my head.  I must have been underwater to have missed hearing the sirens of the police cars and ambulance.

On the way home, just a quarter mile down the road, I saw a crumpled wreck of a small car left by the side of the road that had not been there just an hour earlier when I drove to the lake after work.  There was nobody around, and it was just sitting there with an orange tow-away sticker.  What really caught my eye, though, was a gorgeous longboard that was sticking straight up out of the back seat, obviously placed there after the crash.  It appeared to be unscathed.

I was just getting into surfing back then, and had been looking everywhere for a deal on a good second-hand board.  I pulled over and thought about leaving a note with an offer for it that would cover the bill for towing, but thought better of it when I saw the real condition of the car’s front end and the windshield.  It was obvious that this had been a serious accident, and whoever it was must have been seriously injured, if not killed.  My curiosity was piqued, so I kept an eye on the local news that evening, and didn’t have to wait long before the identity of the surfboard’s owner was revealed.  Imagine my surprise when I learned not only who he was, but also that he lived a stone’s throw from me.  (By the way, that’s not his actual car being shown in the news stories you’ll find online – his was a Mazda Miata convertible.)

In the days that followed, the tabloids and television news were filled with headline stories, first of the accident, and then others about the  disintegration of the actor’s career over the past nine years.  It also came out that Vincent had been in court many times to answer for charges of domestic abuse, drug possession, and driving under the influence.  One damaging story emerged after another as court records revealed that he had stomped a kitten to death after beating up one girlfriend in a drunken rage, and kicked another in the stomach while she was pregnant with his child, causing her to miscarry.  His second ex-wive had filed a restraining order after being repeatedly assaulted by him.  The guy was apparently a mean drunk and not a very nice man, to put it mildly.  More to the point, he had some definite rage issues.

Things quieted down until a year later, after he had fully recovered from the accident.  A flurry of stories and interviews about the actor began to appear on Extra and Entertainment Tonight – all announcing his recovery, rehabilitation, and supposed comeback in a bit role on Nash Bridges.  It was obvious that somebody had hired a PR consultant.  And then, 20/20 ran a much more frank and somber interview, in which he was asked some hard questions about his past and his future that were impossible to dodge:


Anyone who has struggled with alcohol can watch these interviews and immediately discern that JMV’s profession of newfound sobriety was anything but sincere or heartfelt.  It was clear, by his own admission, that he still loved and craved alcohol, and showed very little remorse for his transgressions.  Most heartbreaking of all, however, was the appearance by his daughter, and her expression of hope that her father was finally getting sober and returning to the human race after being estranged from her for most of her life.

Predictably, more arrests for drunken driving and parole violations soon followed, until Jan-Michael Vincent finally disappeared from the public eye for good, for the most part.  Until last week, that is, when I caught a story about him on the front page of the National Enquirer out of the corner of my eye at the grocery store.  The headline reads, “They Cut My Leg Off, But I’m Still Alive!”  I have to admit, my first thought was, Oh Lord – who is he suing now?

Doing some researcEXCLUSIVE: "Airwolf" star Jan-Michael Vincent tells how leg amputation nearly cost him his lifeh, I have found various snippets of reports of the once famous hunk living on the streets and sleeping on park benches, and spending some time in jail before finally relocating to Mississippi.  The following interviews with him have haunted me ever since I saw them.  It is one thing to grow old, but as you watch these and previous interviews in chronological order, you will see the progressive degeneration of the actor’s mind and his memory, owing to the way alcohol kills brain cells – quite literally.


He is now an old man, and the loss of his leg due to an infection is the least of his afflictions.  He seems to barely know who or where he is, and struggles to speak an intelligible sentence.  He hardly remembers having a daughter, much less any real details about her.  In one statement, he denies having any memory of the automobile accident that claimed his voice.




At the age of 70, it truly is too late for this man to ever hope to turn his life around, since he passed the midlife fork in the road long ago.  1996 should have been his wakeup call, but it wasn’t.  It is sadly obvious that he never really was committed to choosing sobriety, and he chose to live his life in denial of his addiction.  He was living a dream that few can even imagine, and he allowed it to be stolen by alcohol.  My hope for anyone who may read this and is struggling with their own addiction, to alcohol or any other intoxicating substance, is that you will ask yourself – how do I want my life to end?  Certainly not like this…












From Lost Boy To Major Dude?

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ImageLike I’ve always said, I am fascinated by the way people are capable of changing, both for the worse and (especially) for the better.  From the sounds of it, Charlie Sheen has been coming around, and discovering the things that are truly important in life.  Good for you, Charlie – this story warms my heart.  You may be on your way to becoming a Major Dude…


Godspeed, Ray


The sequel to the saga of my near ruination, and how I pulled myself back from the edge of a steep cliff has been put on hold.  Today, I must pay homage to the man who first convinced me that I wanted to be a writer, more than anything in the world.  Here is a Major Dude who never lost his way, never lost sight of who he was, and stayed married to one woman, the love of his life, for her entire life.  When she passed on before him, he overcame his unfathomable grief and kept on writing.  His strength of spirit made him unstoppable, right up to the day he finally went to be among the stars and the heavens that he wrote about.

I was first introduced to Ray Bradbury in the third grade by a schoolchum who was himself way ahead of his grade and time.  Mark Frauenfelder, who grew up to help create the ezine Boing Boing and from there was one of the founding editors for Wired Magazine, was one of the strangest kids I went to school with.  So it was natural that he and I became friends.  We seemed to get each other right off the bat, and together, we got Ray.  Ray wrote about such things from his boyhood that we as boys could still relate to back then – such as the magical power of a pair of sneakers that could make you run like a gazelle and leap over buildings.  Ray was still a boy at heart, and he never lost the wonderment and excitement that usually disappears when boys grow into men.

Among the many tattered paperbacks that Mark loaned me with Ray’s name on the spine was my all-time favorite, The Martian Chronicles.  It rocked my world, because I totally got the fact that it was an allegory for many things.  By writing about the future and life on Mars, Ray was able to tell many unpopular and unpalatable truths about our life in this present age, here on Earth.  I was stunned by the power this gave him, and I’ve never forgotten the lesson I learned from Ray about the power of the pen.  Or, in his case, a manual typewriter that he insisted on using for his entire writing career.  Ray had a real disdain for electronic devices – especially computers and the internet.  He never wrote a single word with Word.

Today, some may say that he was not a real science fiction writer, since he never really got into researching the science of his fiction.  They miss the point, however.  Ray was a poet.  He was also a visionary genius, and was once handpicked by none other than Walt Disney himself to conceptualize many of the rides and exhibits you’ll see today at EPCOT center at Disney World in Florida.

Most of all, Ray was one of the kindest and most generous men I’ve ever met, especially among celebrities and superstars.  He was both, but I’ll never forget the time I first met him, aside from the first book signing I ever attended, where I managed to shake his hand among two hundred other people that day.

The time we really met was far more intimate and personal.  I was driving up the 405 from Orange County to Los Angeles, where I was to join my then wife, Diana, at an event she was managing for Spectrum Restaurants.  It was the Bad Hemingway Competition Dinner, being held at none other than Harry’s Bar and Grill in Century City.  It was impressive enough that Charlton Heston was the Master of Ceremonies, but when I learned that Ray was going to be there as one of the judges, judging parodies of Ernest Hemingway’s writing, wild horses couldn’t have kept me away.

Somewhere along the way, I pulled off the freeway to dash into a Barnes and Noble, and emerged with a stack of books, all written by – you guessed it – Ray Bradbury.  I racked up my credit card, since they were all hardcover, with the exception of one softcover, titled:  Zen in the Art Of  Writing.  Ray had written a book on writing?  I had to have it!

By the time I got to Harry’s, my bladder was stretched to its limit after sitting in traffic for nearly three hours.  It hurt to take a full breath.  I was compulsively early, however, and the place was relatively empty with no sign of anyone except Diana, the manager, and the bartender.  Gingerly, I pranced through the front door and kept going, right past Diana with just one thought.  Men’s room, men’s room, men’s room….

I flung open the door and was blinded by the reflection of bright  fluorescent lights, bouncing off the checkered white and black floor.  The walls were bright white, as were the urinals.  The optical illusion it created was like a scene out of a Stanley Kubrick film.

I stopped in my tracks when I saw an elderly gentleman of medium height and build, standing in front of one of the urinals.  He was wearing a badly wrinkled black suit, with a long shock of untrimmed white hair tumbling down over his collar.  While his back was turned to me, I studied him in disbelief and wondered – could this really be him, the master himself?  It could, and it was.  I also realized that there was nobody else in therethe stall was wide open and empty.

As he stepped away from the porcelain and zipped up, I pronounced the obvious with unabashed fervor and yes, love.  “You’re Ray Bradbury!” I exclaimed.  With that, I balanced my stack of his books in my left hand, and thrust out my right.  I swear, if he had his tucked into his hip pocket, I would have reached in, pulled it out and shook it anyway.

With a droll chuckle, however, he extended his hand to shake mine, and politely replied in his loud, booming voice, “Yes, yes I am!”  It didn’t bother me in the least that I felt a warm dewdrop, transferred from his hand to mine, and I was in no hurry to wash it off.  The funny thing is, anyone who knows me understands what a germaphobe I normally am.  If it had been anyone else, I would have immediately soaked my hand in alcohol.  This was completely different, of course – I would take any type of annointing I could get in hopes of tapping into Ray’s fire and brilliance, and his muse.

I can’t tell you exactly what I said to him after that.  I was babbling incoherently, I’m sure, about the many books of his I’d read, and how profoundly his work had touched my life.  Seeing my stack of books, he tactfully suggested, “Would you like me to sign one of those for you?”  I nodded, slack jawed as I tried to figure out how to explain that my real plan was for him to sign all of them.

He took the one on top, though, and whipped out his pen.  To my delight, it was the title that I had not read, Zen in the Art of Writing.  Dazed, I took it back from him and waited as he washed up and cheerily exited out the door.  I stood there for a few seconds, unable to feel my toes much less my previously aching bladder, and slowly opened it to see what he had written in his signature scrawl.  It was the perfect memento of that moment that I will cherish and keep forever:


A few days later, I wrote to Ray, at first to just write a quick note of apology for accosting him in a restroom.  Then, I couldn’t help myself as I went on to spill my guts some more about how profoundly he had touched my life.  It didn’t even occur to me that he would ever write back – it was just something I needed to share with him.  I had been reading his books nearly my entire life.

Several weeks had passed when I was having a particularly bad day at work, handling complaints as the manager of the customer service department for a large, well known scuba equipment manufacturer.  Buried in the large stack of of mail was a letter that practically jumped out at me.  The envelope seemed to beam with goodwill and friendship, and my heart raced when I saw the name on the return address.  To my astonishment, when I opened it, I saw that Ray had sent me an early Christmas greeting, with his own personal message to me typed around it.

I got to speak with Ray again several times over the next few years, and he was always a gentleman.  Cantankerous, funny, and eccentric, but always a truly gentle man.  There has never been anyone like him, and never will be again.  He was inimitable and unstoppable.  His imagination and his spirit knew no bounds.  Most of all, his love and enthusiasm for writing was infectious.  While other authors gripe and complain about the drudgery and misery of the creative process, Ray delighted in bounding out of bed each morning to write.  He was living proof that writing, most of all, could be – and should be – fun.

Godspeed, Ray.  I imagine you have already had the chance to sample the golden apples of the Sun, on your way to Mars…

Godspeed, Mr. Jobs

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This is a wonderful video http://youtu.be/UF8uR6Z6KLc that captures Steve’s thoughts about a single decision that transformed his life,  and ultimately, the lives of billions of people around the world.  He also speaks about his highs and lows, and moments of tremendous self doubt.  I have listened to this speech many times, and his words always ring true – particularly about the importance of loving what you do, and doing what you love for a living.  My note to all you Dudes out there:  It is never too late, but don’t forget – time is precious!

Tonight, most people are thinking of their iPhones and Pixar movies  as they pay tribute to this true genius of our century – born of the same ilk as Ben Franklin, Alexander Bell and Thomas Edison. He was a true light-bearer, and I am proud to call myself an “early adopter” of his newfangled technology. My career was transformed and took a quantum leap when my office mate – a guy named Peter Radsliff – persuaded me to buy myself a Macintosh SE20, on which I wrote and helped with the “desktop-publishing” of the original service & repair manuals for the Oceanic line of diving products, way back in 1989.

It’s hard to believe I spent more than $3K on a unit that was nearly the size of R2-D2, weighed about 35 lbs, with a 9 inch b&w screen, 1MB RAM and 20MB hard drive. You could make a very large pot of coffee in the time it took to boot up!  In retrospect, though, I’d call it the bargain of a lifetime. That wonderful, but now antiquated tool unlocked and liberated my own talents, and has since led to much bigger and better things.  I would never be where I am today without the Mac, and I owe an unpayable debt to Steve Jobs, Steve Wozniak, and the team they led and inspired at Apple.

Long live Steve Jobs! Long live the Mac!

– G-Dude

A True Major Dude

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Among all the stories in the press today that are decrying our lack of leadership in Washington, I found this resurrected link to a months-old story about a presidency that many find themselves wishing had never ended:  http://www.foxnews.com/politics/2011/02/06/conservatives-celebrate-reagan-birthday-centennial-renewed-vigor/

Someday, I’d like to put together a Major Dude Hall of Fame – a list of men we can all look up to and take inspiration from.  Right now, though, I’ll name the Gipper himself my numero uno Major Dude of all time. Yep – President Ronald Wilson Reagan.

I don’t care what your politics are, you’ve got to admire this man for what he did with his life. When Jane Wyman dumped him because of his strong political views (she thought he was boorish), what did he do? Did he waffle and forget about politics so as not to turn off the next woman who would come along?

No sir. He stuck to his guns and found himself – found strength in who he was. Went on to become the Governor of the greatest state in the country (at that time), and then was elected POTUS – one of the greatest we’ve ever had. Really, just think about it. He went from being brokenhearted and devastated by his divorce to becoming the most powerful man in the world.

Now, you may be thinking to yourself that it’s different for celebrities and Hollywood actors when they go through a divorce – their lives are much easier than yours and mine. They’ve got money. Dude, just read this: During an interview actress Patricia Neal was quoted regarding the divorce: “It was, you know, just terrible because he was very unhappy. He was in an apartment by himself. … He was heartbroken. He really was, because he didn’t want a divorce from her. But Jane wanted it.” One report indicates Wyman felt her husband was “indifferent” to her acting work, focusing his attention on his involvement with the Screen Actors Guide.

Just think about that the next time you find yourself getting really down. The Gipper, alone in his apartment, crying his heart out. Can you imagine?

Politics aside, he was a great man and deeply principled. Unfortunately, normalcy eluded him in family life, as it does all public figures, but he remained very much a part of his daughter Maureen’s and adopted son Michael’s life. A Major Dude doesn’t walk away from his kids under any circumstances – biological or adopted.

His divorce had a profound affect on him that he carried with him for the rest of his life. Back in those days, you usually had to get down and dirty in order to file for – and get – a divorce. You had to truly villify the other person and drag them through the mud. He and Jane handled it with class, the best they could, but it tore him up pretty badly. So one of his first acts as Governor was to pass California’s no-fault divorce law. Years later, he was somewhat repentant about doing so and wondered whether he’d done the right thing after seeing how the divorce rate shot up as a result. He certainly didn’t intend to encourage people to get divorced. He never for a moment took his divorce lightly.

Last, but not least, the Gipper got it right the second time around. He found his soulmate in Nancy and loved her with all his heart, as she did him. There is no doubt about it, he couldn’t have become POTUS without her.

There is so much I could go on to say, but it’s mostly already been said. If anyone can think of a greater Major Dude than RWR, please let me know.

After The Shaggin’…

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  Ahh… the wisdom of aging rock stars.  They have so much advice to share with the rest of us whenever they wax philosophical and truthful about the mistakes they’ve made in life.  If only Rod Stewart could have been born twenty years sooner, I might have learned from his recent epiphany, which he explains in this article.  Apparently, the secret to wedded bliss is to postpone marriage until you’ve gotten all of your shagging out of your system.   I assume this means sometime after erectile dysfunction (impotence) has set in, but before tooth and hair loss is complete.  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/03/31/rod-stewart-divorce_n_843288.html

Charlie Sheen, Live – And Out Of His Tree


Like everyone else who owns a television or a computer and has paid their electric bill lately, I have found it impossible to avert my gaze from the wreckage of Charlie Sheen’s personal and professional life as it melts down before our eyes.  The spectacle is impossible to avoid seeing on nearly every channel and website of the information superhighway, and can only be ignored by the most stalwart devotees of Rubberneckers Anonymous.

I’ve never been to a RNA meeting, since A) it is a non-existent organization with a zero percent success rate, B) I am special (newsflash), and C) I’ll therefore never be one of “them.”  Using just the power of my mind, I can exercise superhuman restraint to avoid rubbernecking as I drive past even the most horrific multi-car pileups on the freeway.  Even when the tires are still spinning, still-twitching limbs litter the side of the road, and blood splatters are all over the windshields inside the mangled automobiles.  Don’t ask me how I do it, because your mind is not evolved enough to process it if I were to tell you.  Suffice it to say that I just close my eyes, tell myself not to look, and then I make it so. (http://insidetv.ew.com/2011/02/24/charlie-sheen-slams-men/)

Except in this case.  I can’t help watching – gawking, in fact – because I have a deep and abiding fascination with how people can and do change, both for the better and the worse.  And I can’t get over how a certain Carlos Irwin Estévez (yeah, that’s Charlie’s real name) has changed since I first saw him way back in 1986, when he was barely still a boy.  For the record, he seemed perfectly normal back then – for a Hollywood brat who had grown up in an alternate universe known as Malibu, that is.  At least, I didn’t come away with the impression that he had any tiger blood in his veins, but of course, this was before he hit California’s drinking age.  I do recall hearing about his excitement, however, when he learned that the local bars in Arizona would serve anyone age 19 or older.

We were high up in Tucson’s Sabino Canyon, on the set of The Wraith – a ridiculously awful film that Charlie made just before shipping off to star in his break out role in Oliver Stone’s Platoon.  For a couple of bucks more than minimum wage, I was working (if that’s what you can call it) as an extra for a local casting agency every chance I got, in addition to managing a SCUBA shop and a charter boat operation down in Mexico.  Up to that time, I had spent a couple of hundred billable hours on various film sets.  I had even been sent to makeup and wardrobe a few times, but I never received the coveted SAG (Screen Actor’s Guild) card – or the pay rate that went with it – that you are automatically awarded when given just a single word or sentence to speak on camera.  I obviously never had a director’s chair with my name embroidered in the back, a dressing room, or any handlers following me around.  When lunchtime rolled around, I got in line for my grub from the roach coach just like anyone else on the set – besides the principal actors and the director, of course.

So I was a little surprised when, on my first day on the set, I unwittingly found myself eating lunch with the film’s leading star.  I had just sat down at the only empty picnic table I could find when a director’s assistant walked up briskly and set down a plate of food.  Before turning around, she tersely informed me, “Charlie Sheen is going to be sitting here.”

It took me a few seconds to figure out who she was referring to, since nobody told me much about the film or who was in it when the agency called the night before.  I took the hint straight away, though, and was hastily scooping up my things when she returned with a kid in tow, wearing a bathrobe.  I heard him say to her in a soft voice, “no, it’s okay,” and she motioned vigorously to me to sit back down.  She caught my eye then, and shot me a daggers look that let me know I was not to speak unless spoken to.  I wasn’t, and I didn’t.  He nodded at me to acknowledge my presence as he sat down, and then I immediately became invisible.

As we ate our lunches in grim silence, I was barely able to stifle a chuckle as I checked out his attire, since it seemed at first that he was impersonating either Hugh Hefner, or one of those stone-age movie stars out of the Flintstone’s – Rock Quarry or Gary Granite.  He just needed a scarf, a pipe, and dark sunglasses to make the caricature complete.  Charlie never cracked a smile, though, and his eyes never met mine, although I was less than three feet away, sitting directly across from him.  I was trying to decide if he was shy, nervous, or just taking himself way too seriously when the table was swarmed by a makeup artist, production assistant, and finally, the director himself.  He had the script in hand, and he sat down to discuss the “really intense” semi-nude love scene that they were preparing to shoot with Charlie and his co-star, Sherilyn Fenn.  (That explained the bathrobe.)

I couldn’t hear much of what they were saying as a helicopter flew overhead, transporting cameras and lighting equipment to a natural pool further up the canyon where the scene was going to be shot.  After it passed, he put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder, and I heard him ask very quietly, “are you okay – are you ready for this?”  Charlie nodded, solemnly and tightlipped, as though he was getting in character to go clear a Viet Cong minefield, rather than make out with a naked vixen.

The director got up to leave, and it was only then that my cloaking spell wore off.  He fixed his gaze on me with surprise and open disdain, as though he had noticed me sitting there for the first time.  I had heard of chance moments such as this, when ordinary folk were “discovered” simply by wandering through the director’s line of vision, and went on to become big stars.  (It’s actually what most extras dream about.)  This was clearly not my big day, however, so I gathered up my things once again and did my best to once again disappear.

By any normal standard, The Wraith would have been labeled a B movie if it weren’t for the unusual lineup of three young Hollywood progenies in its cast.  In addition to Charlie (the firstborn son of Martin Sheen), there was Griffin O’Neal (from the loins of Ryan), and Nick Cassavetes – who alone out of the three would eventually transcend his father’s talent and brilliance; actor/director John Cassavetes.

Nick was the cock of the walk on that set.  He was tall, brash, and not friendly – but not rude.  Perhaps he was just trying to stay in character as the film’s villain.  Most of all, I could see that he was restless and going out of his mind with boredom as one camera failure after another created hours, into days of delays in shooting.  He seemed to want to get the film wrapped so he could get on with his life.  All these years later, I see that he has – as the director of a few masterpieces that include The Notebook and My Sister’s Keeper.  Actors comment nowadays on what a warm and sensitive man he is to work with.

Chris Nash was the only star on that set whose face was more familiar to me than his name, since I had just seen him in a silly but entertaining coming of age story called Mischief, co-starring Doug McKeon and Kelly Preston (who, coincidentally, would become Charlie’s fiancé a few years later). It was set in the 50’s, and a bit reminiscent of American Graffiti.  Chris’ performance as a rebel-without-a cause character earned rave reviews, but it hadn’t gone to his head as it much as it probably should have.  He was affable and talkative – and he had no problem with being seen by his peers making conversation with a local hick like me to pass the time.  We hit it off, and I really enjoyed getting to know him.

A few days before shooting finally wrapped on the Tucson set, Chris asked if I’d be interested in accompanying him and a few others to show them the town that evening –including Charlie and his younger brother, Emilio Esteban or somebody, who was flying in from L.A.  Of course I said yes, but I was on tenterhooks at the prospect of being the emissary of fun for the second most boring town in the Southwest, next to Albuquerque.  The most exciting attraction I could think of was a huge cowboy bar that held a pretty close candle to Gilley’s in Pasadena, TX, of Urban Cowboy fame.  Somehow, though, my gut was telling me that sawdust covered floors and a mechanical bull were not going to be up these guys’ alley.  Plan B, then, was to take them to the strip clubs and other tawdry establishments of the neon-lit Miracle Mile, just outside downtown.

Chris caught up with me right before I left the set, and said that they were going to call me from their hotel as soon as Emilio checked in.  Thank God, though, that my phone never rang that night.  Knowing now what I didn’t know then, I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t have gone square dancing.  I’d hate to be sitting here all these years later, wondering if I had played any part in leading poor Charlie onto the road to perdition by introducing him to the fleshly pleasures of lap dances and agave juice.  Instead, it is with a clear conscience that I can speculate on where he found his addictions.

The Wraith was the last film I worked in, since it permanently curtailed my interest in working in the film industry, in front of the camera, at least.  Unlike stage acting, the life of a film or television actor is comprised mainly of cooling one’s heels in the down time between scenes and takes that can drag on for hours.  The actors have no choice but to stand by like lifeless puppets, but be ready at a moment’s notice when the director’s assistant finally calls their names.  I decided then and there that I no longer wanted to be a puppet, and I wasn’t enthused about being a director (puppet master), either.  If I was ever to make my way in show business, I wanted to be a writer – a maker of puppets.  Someone like Chuck Lorre, I guess.

My convictions were reinforced just the other day, when I read in the news that Larry Hagman was interviewed about his reprisal of J.R. Ewing’s character for the upcoming Dallas redux.  He openly discussed the way in which boredom on the set of Dallas led to his alcoholism over several years of working on the original series.  “It was boredom that drove me to drink, the tedium during those long waits between takes while the next shot was being set up.  Now I’ve learned to fill those breaks with friends, with charity work, with phone calls, so it’s not so bad.”

Of course, alcohol can greatly enhance an actor’s performance if the character they are playing is drunk, as Charlie’s own dad also proved in the famous hotel room scene of Apocalypse Now.  It can otherwise be extremely career limiting to show up slurring one’s lines.  Alcohol is typically not an actor’s drug of choice – not on the job, at least.

Not long before I worked in The Wraith, I spent a few weeks on the set of Stir Crazy, the hit comedy starring Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor, directed by Sidney Poitier.  To my amazement, I watched as Pryor passed the time by sneaking furtively (but in plain sight of everyone) into his non-air conditioned dressing trailer several times throughout each day.  Each time, he reappeared behaving more oddly and agitated than before, and soon everyone was whispering about his antics.  Less than two weeks after the shooting of Stir Crazy wrapped, it was all over the news that Richard Pryor was clinging to life in a L.A. hospital after a terrible accident had left him with third degree burns on his face and much of his body.  Reports later emerged that he had been freebasing cocaine, using highly flammable ether, although Pryor himself denied this and named rum as the ignition source.  Whatever the truth may be, the incident prompted the insanely talented comedian to mend his ways and get right with God and his fellow man.  In short, he found the motivation to make changes within himself – profoundly, and for the better.

At the root of Charlie’s vices is a far more dangerous and deadly addiction that he shares with Hagman, Pryor, and a litany of other entertainers we’ve known who lost their sobriety and sanity in the pursuit of their profession.  Almost by definition, all successful entertainers are addicts, since they are hooked on the most powerful buzz known to man, called fame.  Thanks to the machinery of Hollywood and the music industry, mere mortals can now enjoy the glorification and idolization that the public once held reserved only for God and Caesar.  Just as Robert Downey Jr. credits his father with giving him his first joint, Charlie was introduced to this potent drug at a tender young age when his dad Martin invited him onto the sets of The Execution of Private Slovik and Apocalypse Now.

In the years since, Charlie Sheen has spent his entire life trying to avoid boredom.  In his own words, he unabashedly declares that alcohol, drugs, and sex bring the only relief he has ever known from being “bored out of his tree.”  Rather than show any repentance or remorse, he has repeatedly proclaimed that his only reason for seeking sobriety now is because getting high has finally gotten boring, too.  Right now, he says that he is enjoying the rush of “a drug called Charlie Sheen,” but what he’s really referring to is the excitement – and constant attention – of being at war with the world.  Anything for a fix of more fame.

Now that the gauntlet of news reporters outside his gated driveway has dwindled, the man with “Adonis DNA” is apparently desperate to get his next fix – this time without waiting around for any cameras to roll.  The Charlie Sheen Live: My Violent Torpedo of Truth Tour has bookings scheduled for Detroit, Chicago, Hartford, and now New York’s Radio City Music Hall.  Throngs of shameless rubberneckers have already bought up the tickets like hotcakes, with ticket prices ranging as high as $519.  Little is known about the content or length of his monologue, other than the promise of shock value and uncensored vitriol.  It matters little, however, since nobody signing up for this has any interest in Charlie’s “art.”  These curious onlookers have paid gladly for the chance to gawk and peer like spectators at a freak show, with only one question burning in their minds.  Is the man truly as insane as he has seemed lately?  (http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1367383/Charlie-Sheen-sells-New-Yorks-Radio-City-Music-Hall-just-30-minutes.html)

In a sane world, however, the rantings of an unemployed sitcom actor would hold little interest or relevance for anyone, when a far more serious meltdown is occurring across the Pacific Ocean.  An unspeakable catastrophe is unfolding in the wake of Japan’s tsunami, and those cost of admission donations to Charlie’s “cause” could be put to much better use giving destitute people the basic necessities of food, clothing, and shelter.

In the event that Charlie’s tour comes to your city, don’t be a rubbernecker, and don’t drink the tiger blood koolaid.  Remember, you can use the power of your mind to just close your wallet, tell yourself not to look, and then make a check out to the people of Japan.  They’ll be a heck of a lot more grateful, believe me.