The "Principal" of it All . . .

Well I had a pretty damn good last week.

It's been a rather good year getting paid doing the thing I really like doing. And it all came to a very sweet moment.

Two weeks ago, I receive an email from a casting director that (to the best of my knowledge) I never met. She wanted me to come in to audition for a small role on cable. I arrive on Friday and knock out the audition. It turns out that she was given my name from a another casting associate for whom I auditioned for at an EPA years ago. I didn't get the role, but I got a future hook-up. She remembered me and she told the casting director, who then called me for the part, in which I nailed, that led to me getting my first OFFICIAL, PRINCIPAL, SPEAKING ROLE on a major cable programme (that I'm not 100% sure I'm allowed to mention . . . oh, what the hell: It's "Crashing" - Judd Apatow’s project that got greenlit by HBO. Should be out in 2017).

Last Wednesday I went in on the set at my appointed time. After being used to signing in at "Holding" for years, that's the first place I went to go. Since I've been really active getting some semi-regular paychecks working in background this year, I've seen a lot of familiar faces in the production crew: Quite a few of the same production assistants that I've worked with before, they get the "Hey man: What's going on?" pleasantries. When I sign in, at first, they couldn't find my name nor my number on the call sheet. And for good reason. Since I went to Holding, naturally my P.A. Pal (who, by the way I worked with on two "Madam Secretary" episodes) thought I was on the same section of the call sheet that I had been for the past five-and-a-half months: The background casting section. He checks the sheet again. Now he realises that he has to look higher up the sheet, in the other section, the not-background casting section.

"Ahhh . . .," says my P.A. Pal, "'Principal'. No wonder. You're not really supposed to be here. You actually sign in at 'Homebase'. But since this is dinner break, go grab some food and we'll have someone take you to 'Base'." He gets on the radio to let them know that I'm here, on location, and on time.

Whew. Now that's cleared up, I grab some excellent chow (as always!). Yet even at this small level, I did notice a slight difference in treatment one gets once as a principal from an extra. Yeah it's different. Yeah, it's better. Despite all I had was just two little lines, like a secret password at a speakeasy, I got to taste of some of the sweet perks all of us thespians talked about, dreamed about and seen the big stars get all the time. Now I was at the bottom of this perk totem pole, but I was on the pole nonetheless.

For starters, you have a P.A. assigned to you. He or she walks you to and from homebase, to and from the set. Basically this is your shadow, your "gofer". Your "do as I say" guy. He or she knows that you're someone significant to the shoot and that, this liege better treat his lord with the upmost respect no matter how small the lord's role is (again two lines), or else the gates of hell will be thrown down onto him rendering him mentally and career-wise, disemboweled by the higher-ups in production.

After dinner, I meet "Kent" (not his real name), the P.A. who's been assigned to me. With an invisible leash, he walks me back to Sixth Avenue and West 3rd to home base where all the trailers are set up for "Wardrobe," Make Up," and props. Then there's the trailer for the principal actors.

Yeah, you see where I'm going with this . . .

One sure sign of reaching a degree of success in this crazy business is when you get your own private dressing. No matter how small it is, be it a friggin' hole-in-the-wall, whatever: If you get your own little private Idaho, you cherish that little cubicle forever. Because that room is for you and no one else.

As we reached base, Ken shows me to the actor's trailer where a piece of tape is stuck on the door with the name of my character. "This is where you'll be staying, Mr. Williams, " Ken informs me. "This is your trailer."

That's one small step for Man - One giant leap for me, damnit!

YES.

And it counts! 15 or so many years later, I have my own little portable dressing room. I have a trailer. It's small, but cozy, well lit, perhaps a bit too well lit, but with the lights out, it's pitch black and great for napping. There's a folding sofa, comfy, but a bit narrow in the seat, but doable, nonetheless. On the table is a radio with a built-in adapter for your iPhone (which I do not have, thereby rendering it useless, but that's OK: I have a radio!). On the opposite end of the table is a manila folder with my name printed out on an attached sheet, containing all of my necessary paperwork: My contract and tax forms. I've seen these things before: I've been a gofer quite a few time and I know the drill. I know what you're supposed to do and not supposed to do. Still it's a little amazing and a tad bit awesome to finally not only get to see the goodies, but actually get the goodies.

Still, I remember that this is a gig and I always have a job to do. That's why I'm here - Gotta get it done. Get on the set, know my line(s), hit my mark, get into my character, get any last-minute directions from the director, "Rolling-Rolling . . . ACTION!" I do my thing. "CUT!" Do it all over again. Action. Cut. Check the gate. Looks good. Move on . . .

Well now that I've popped my principal cherry, I guess I can now look forward to making further inroads in this business with the rank of "thespian whore" being the ultimate goal of success and all the perks, the money, the accolades, the gift bags, the all that stuff . . .

Yes, well, I suppose that is what dreaming is for . . .

Time to split: Gotta hustle for that next gig. That's how it is . . .