I will be giving away copies of my novel 83 In the Shade, (signed by moi) for several readers to kick off their summer reads!  Why, it's literally got a beach on the cover!  

It's really interesting to me to see what people gravitate to when they look at my blogs.  I mean, somebody out there is reading this because there seems to be an "internet footprint."  Apparently, the Renuzit Roommate commercials that I featured in my blog about New York City are one of those gravitation points.  I posted two of the commercials; but there were more.
As you may recall, our nameless, fresh-air obsessed hunk, played by Mr. Craig Stepp, has moved a new roommate into his apartment.  He's stoked because this time, "it's gonna last a long, long time..." between him and his new "roommate."  But in the next commercial, it seems his new roommate is a bit of a slut:

I mean, like, what were they going for here?
It appears as though he's caught his "roommate" in flagrante delicto.  "Don't you ever quit?!!?"  Quit what?  Is his roommate having an affair?  And then he seems kinda turned on by being cuckolded by his air freshener.
Then there was a fourth commercial!

I guess the novelty of being cuckolded by his cute roommate wore off, so he got another one.  And can you blame him?
This campaign must've sold a lot of air freshener because the fine folks at Renuzit were at it again in the 20-tens with this print campaign:

I don't know, I prefer the 80's version.  They managed to make a little mini-series with those four spots.  I would actually watch a show about a man and his relationship with an inanimate object.  I mean, it worked for Tom Hanks!  Who doesn't love Wilson the Volley ball?

And I'm happy to report that Mr. Craig Stepp is alive and well and I assume, smelling sweet.  And giving off a lot of silver daddy hotness.  I'd be his roommate in a heartbeat!

Oh, it's gonna last a long, long time...

CFR 5/27/22

So, yesterday I met the cast of Rumors for the first time at a private home at Smith Mountain Lake.  It was not for the first read-through of the play, as you might expect; but rather for a crash-course in "Improv."  Yes, it was an acting class/improv workshop, taught by a gentleman by the name of Matt Karris (generally, I will not supply last names, to protect people's privacy, however, Mr. Karris is a teacher and actor and more or less a public figure, so I will give you his name, and his pic).  Here he is:

Now, this is the man I met.  He was wearing a ball cap; but I'm 99 and 44/100ths percent sure this is Mr. Karris.  However, when I looked him up on line, I found pictures of him without a beard and he looks like a different person.  I mean, like another person.  Somebody else.

Now, would you think these two men were even related, let alone the same person​?
It really is sort of amazing how much facial hair and hairstyles can completely change how you look.  Also, he's an actor, so I think he just naturally has that "chameleon" thing that so many actors do.  In any event, this was the fellow who was teaching the class.
Now, generally, when I hear the word "improv" I start grinding my teeth and looking for the nearest exit.  Improv, it always seemed to me, attracted the most attention seeking "LOOK AT ME!!!" kind of thespians.  Those that are the most in need of being in the spotlight.  The show-offs, right?  Like that show Whose Line Is It Anyways?  I would rather swallow a handful of thumbtacks than watch that show.  When I lived in Los Angeles people were always ​enthusing over The Groundlings.  "Oh, The Groundlings, this" and "The Groundlings that" and "Oh, have you auditioned for The Groundlings?" "They don't let just anyone in you know!"  The Groundlings could go eat my--shorts, as far as I was concerned.

My thought was, "why the F do I need a school to tell me I have a sense of humor and then pay them for it?"
Needless to say, I was never in an improv class.  Until yesterday that is.  And I didn't want to do it.  Really.  I really didn't.  But I'm glad I did.
And I'll tell you why...
So, I have a bit of a reputation for being late.  I know it's not cool.  I know other actors frown upon it.  "You're being late to rehearsal is a sign of disrespect for everyone else!  You're sending the message that your time is more important..." And so on and so on.  I'm never really more than fifteen minutes late.  And it's not always.  But once I'm there I will rehearse my ass off for you.  I will give you my all.  I will know my lines (by opening night, anyways) and I will work with other actors.  Even actors who think they're better; the ones who may even be openly antagonistic or passive/aggressive.  Those types fascinate me.  They also make me a better actor.  Sometimes you have to act around those people: it's a challenge.  Those people, ironically, bring out my milk of human kindness (ewww). 
So, when I first met the director, Nancy, at her house at the lake, I literally ended up at the lakeside.  The road I was on finally ran out.

So, I called her and she redirected me and I was about ten minutes late.  Yesterday, I was looking for a neighborhood off of this same road and I ended up at the same dead end.  My phone rang.  It was Nancy.  She asked me why I wasn't at the improv.  I explained that I'd ended up in the same place.  I had driven right by the turn.  I was ten minutes late again.  I was starting to think that Nancy might think I was a blithering idiot.  And who could blame her?  Ever hear of GPS Chris?  But, I like to do things the old fashioned way.  Or the hard way, if you will.
So, when I finally arrived, I was escorted down to the basement of the house.  It was quite a large space and I believe it's going to be where most of the rehearsal are taking place.  Matt was seated on a sofa facing the cast who were seated in a semi-circle.  It was a, shall we say, mature cast, as I had expected it would be.  But then, I'm no Spring chicken.  I'm 56 and most of the rest of the players skewed about ten years older than me.  One person is probably half my age.  Wendy, who is playing my wife in the play is about the same age as me, as is (I'm guessing) Matt.
As I entered and sat down the class was in progress and Matt was going over some of the basic tenets of improv and acting in general.  With a focus on Meisner techniques: e.g. repetition and improvisation.

One of the exercises was an interaction between two actors.  One asks a question of the other and the other responds with another question and so on.  I was partnered with a lady, I'll call her Monica.  So I went first.  The first thing that popped into my head.  So I asked: "Did you see the news today?"  And then she said something like, "What was on the news today?" and then I said, "Do you watch Fox News?" and then she said  something else and then I said "Do you watch Fox News?" with a little more emphasis, which I hadn't intended, perhaps accusatory?  And then I thought, Oh shit, this lady is gonna think I think she's like a MAGA person and I'm being confrontational. I mean, a lot of people around here are total Trumpers, especially rich white people at the lake. I realized that this improv stuff was kind of on the raw side.  Like a little dangerous.  Matt explained "The Cinderella Complex."  That is when people are too polite during these exercises and it keeps them from getting to the nitty-gritty.  He mentioned some of the things people had said to him during "The Blue Shoes" exercise.  The Blue Shoes exercise is when you sit facing someone and then you use a two-word phrase based on some aspect of their person, like, "nice shirt."  Then the other person repeats "nice shirt" as accurately as they heard it.  And back and forth.  But you're supposed to inform the two-word phrase with an opinion or implication or subtext.  When I did it, my partner was an older gentleman with gorgeous brown eyes.  So I said, "brown eyes" and it became clear in the repetition that I liked his brown eyes and he liked them too and liked that I noticed them.  It started to get really intimate, really fast.  This man could've been my Dad. Matt had received some rather personal and insulting two-word phrases.  I suppose when The Cinderella Complex wears off, some actors would be willing to say anything to "get to the truth."  But that's where I draw a line.  Insulting people in the name of art, I think, could never be a good thing.  Unless they work at Fox News.  I'd love to play Blue Shoes with Laura Ingraham.  My two word phrase for her would be: "Dead Eyes."

But, let's not dwell on the negative.
So, we finally moved on to actual, classic improv scenes, where Matt provided the suggestion and then pairs of actors took it from there.  It was fascinating to watch.  Really interesting to see who excelled at it and who sort of had The Cinderella Complex.  One of the suggestions was: "You're the CEO of a TV news station and you're firing your anchor because she slept with your son...and go..."  So, the gentleman playing the CEO was a natural.  He immediately started spinning this elaborate scenario of what happened between his son and the anchorwoman.  It was also hilarious.  During the initial exercises, however, he had been having the most problems and seemed the most closed off.  Which kind of made me think about the idea of teaching acting.  Is it really something that can be taught?  Or do you just either have the talent or you don't?  And things like Meisner and The Method and Improvisation are really just pointers?

I'm not sure.  Some actors, like Jodie Foster, say they don't believe in acting classes because they don't want to mess with the gift they know they already have.  If it ain't broke, don't fix it, right?  Michelle Pfeiffer was being interviewed by James Lipton and he brought up improv.  She scowled and admitted she hated it.  She prefers to just be given a script, memorize the lines and then go and play the part.  I'm kind of on the fence.  I've been to acting classes and watched people do scenes and then the instructor gives notes and invariably there is improvement.  I think acting classes and improv exercise do help actors to break the ice with one another.  It helps the cast bond.  At the very least, it helps a group of strangers be more comfortable with one another and thus be able to get to more "truth" on the stage.  Whatever that is.  I mean, how much "truth" could there be in a glib Neil Simon comedy?  And I say "glib" because he is.  Neil Simon wants to get laughs and not a lot more.  But is there not a lot of "truth" in what makes us laugh?
So, I was paired with a woman (not "Monica" this time!) and Matt took me aside and whispered the prompt.  "You can't contain you guilt any longer and confess to her that you were the one that stabbed her cat..."
So, I walked over and told her that I'd killed her cat and then she demanded to know why I did it.  And it spiraled out from there.  I hated cats, you see, I was compelled to stab the cat and leave it on the driveway.  She was going to call the police and I told her that she couldn't.  She wanted to know why.  "Because I'm your son!" I cried.  And then I started wondering to myself, being a cat lover, why I would ever stab a cat.  Because they haunt my dreams, you see, like some demon cat from a Poe story. One that keeps meowing and meowing!  That devil cat that must be silenced!!!

So, I really wasn't all that surprised that I took to improv like a cat takes to catnip.

So, I'm playing "Ken Gorman."  He's a lawyer.  He and his wife "Chris" are the first on stage.  They arrive at the home of their friends Charley and Myra for a tenth anniversary dinner.  Myra and the servants are missing and Charley is in the bedroom with a gunshot wound to his earlobe.  Ken orchestrates a cover-up, not wanting news of this attempted suicide(?) to get out.  Of course, when the other guests start arriving, it becomes increasingly difficult to sustain the ruse.  Hilarity (hopefully) will ensue.  The role of Chris Gorman won Christine Baranski a Tony.  My role was originally played by Mark Nelson.

I would say that myself and Mr. Nelson are quite similar types.  Of course, my ears are smaller and my nose is more subtle; but same general ball park.  Online info about him is sparse, but there's no mention of a wife...hmmmm.  He's a Libra.  I get along really well with Libras.
Anyways, I play much of the show not being able to hear anything, so there's a lot of misunderstanding what people are saying bits.  There is also a two-page speech towards the end of the show, which, thankfully, I do not have to deliver.
So, tonight we're blocking the first scene.  I hate blocking right out of the gate.  I have a terrible short term memory.  Oh well.
I'll keep you posted with further developments.
Ciao for now.
CFR 5/25/22

So, I've been posting these posts about people who share my surname of Reidy.  Why?  Why not?  People love lists and people love looking at attractive people; and people who need Reidys are the luckiest people in the world.
Actually, it couldn't be easier to find good looking Reidys and post them here as content for you, dear reader.  And I want to keep you supplied with my own personal Reidy mojo, because you're addicted aren't you?  (Breathy Sharon Stone voice): You like to watch, don't you? 
On a serious note, is this some kind of self-obsession?  Well, probably not.  If it were, it would be all pictures of yours truly.  On a further serious note, I was looking at the pictures I posted of Mr. Jiah Reidy, from down under.  I mentioned that he was an "Aboriginal cadet."  Then I thought, "Why did I highlight that?  I didn't mention anyone else's race; and that's racist, right?"  But then I thought: "But it's really cool too.  And maybe that might generate interest in the Aboriginal Cadetship Program in Western Australia (see, you're already curious!).  So, I decided to leave the signifier there.  And here he is again, the doll!

So, without further ado...
Whether it's the last name, the first name, the middle name or a nickname; if you've got "Reidy" as a name, baby you got game!  Red Hot or merely pleasant to look at or just regular: Reidys rock!

Jessica Reidy.  Writer.  She's Romani and I mention that because it's kind of her thing.  Find her at jessicareidy.com. 

Lachlan Reidy.  Bobsledder from down-under(!) Fourth from the left/first from the right (wait, reverse that!).  Here's a close-up:

Oh. My. God.  Make this Reidy part of the MCU immediately! (He's already got the costume!).

Reidy Everett: Making braces sexy again.  And everything else. Find her at damajority.com.

Liam Reidy, President.  And Daddy.

Mr. Michael Reidy, Realtor.  I'd buy the Brooklyn bridge from this Reidy...and he's in San Diego!

Matt Reidy.  Cancer survivor.  Find his story at Cholangiocarcinoma Foundation website. (Those earlobes were made for nibblin'!).

Maureen Reidy.  Hmmmm, should we put her on our list?  Trump associate.  But this is not about politics, it's about being easy on the eyes.  So you go Mo!


​To be continued...

Further of the clan you wanna wham bam (please stop me):

Elias Reidy.  Rock star.  Literally.

Mikaela Reidy, model.

The Late Richard Reidy: Kemetic paganist

Katie Reidy, artist.

Jiah Reidy: "Aboriginal cadet" from Australia.  And apparently a football player.  Get ready to fall in love!

Sean Reidy: Player of whatever this sport is.  Keep a firm grip Mr. Reidy!

Dr. Jacob Reidy, Physical Therapist.  I think I pulled a hamstring and I know who I'm seeing.

University of Notre Dame's Fr. Pat Reidy.  I'll be in the front pew for this Reidy!

Financier, Erin Reidy of San Francisco.

Well, I think one thing's for certain.  The Reidy clan certainly got the eyebrow gene!

More Reidys coming up!

I started to do the first in a series of types of "Bros" and quickly realized that Bros are nothing but trouble.  And I don't want to give them anymore exposure than they already have.  I mean, what has any bro ever done for me except maybe some purple nurples?
Besides, there are actual bros out there who know bros better.  For example these guys:

I'll leave the bros to the bros and just stick with Red Hot Reidys. 
That is all.

More of the clan you'd love to slam...

David Reidy.  He's on Soundcloud.  I don't know what he does there; but does it matter?

James Reidy, musician and red-hot ginger.

Alan Reidy: Ireland's "King of the Gingers."  No words...

Stage name: Reidy.  Hip-hop artist from Minneapolis.  Fashizzle!

Maddie Reidy.  She's on Soundcloud too.

Professor Michael Reidy, Montana State University.  Hella Hot for Teacher!

Andrew "Reidy" Reid: Bondi Beach lifeguard.  Save me!  (Move over Benedict Cumberbatch).

Brian Reidy, Seattle businessman.  Take me now.  Right here on the boardroom table.


So many more to come...

So, I posted a blog about "Red Hot Reidys" and I was looking at it on my phone.  Where Jean Reidy was supposed to be was a picture of a bull-dog from Green Bay, Wisconsin.  Which makes it look like I'm saying Ms. Reidy is unattractive.  She's not.  Here she is:

When this webpage arbitrarily rearranges pictures, I can fix it on the PC/direct internet.  However, it seems to even further arbitrarily change things out on whatever system phones use and I can't correct it.  So, my apologies to Ms. Reidy.

I hope this doesn't come across as narcissisticalistic, but it probably is.  But I don't care.  I don't post a fraction of the selfies a typical teenage girl does.  And I can't not share this news with the world (or whoever is reading this).  Reidys are Hot.  Red hot! Hot and ready!  Ready to scorch your eyeballs with some Irish impishness!

Matt Reidy.  Actor.  Work-out enthusiast.  This Reidy can read my beads anytime!  Oh, wait...I'm married.  And we might be related.  I can look!

Christopher Reidy, head of Bloomingdale's art department.  He can dress my window any day!

Sara Reidy Esq.  Fashion model or lawyer?  Maybe both.  Find her at Stutman, Stutman and Lichtenstein.  

James Reidy, construction honcho.  Go ahead...get lost in those eyes!

Another Chris Reidy.  I think he's a police detective in NYC.  He can pound a beat, baby!

Jean Reidy.  Author and smoke show.  Isn't she lovely!


Check in for more Red Hot Reidys in forthcoming blogs.  Is there a Reidy in your future?

Fade In On:
INT. LAWRY'S PRIME RIB RESTAURANT -NIGHT

Three couples, JANE and BOB, MIKE and CHRISTOPHER and ANGELA and AMANDA are seated in a booth.  A WAITER pushes a large, dome shaped, lidded, stainless-steel serving cart to the adjoining booth.  He opens the lid and begins serving the people at the other table.

JANE: Oh, Bob honey, look!  They serve the prime rib out of those push-carts!
BOB: They sure do!
CHRISTOPHER: It's like a wheel-barrow full of meat...
MIKE: Well, you picked this place...
CHRISTOPHER: How was I to know the only thing on the menu is prime rib.
MIKE: I might've thought the name of the restaurant being "The Prime Rib" would've given you a clue.
CHRISTOPHER: Who's ever heard of a restaurant that has only one entree on its menu!??!
AMANDA: Guys, no arguing.  Tonight is Angela's birthday and she's going to have whatever her little heart desires!
ANGELA:  All they have is prime rib...I'm a vegan...
JANE: They have a shrimp cocktail...
ANGELA: I'm a vegan.  I don't eat shrimp.
JANE: You can have the salad Ange...this place is famous for it's "spinning" salad!
CHRISTOPHER: What the hell is a spinning salad?
BOB: I've heard it's really neat-o!
JANE: The wait-person comes to the table with a big bowl of salad greens on top of a bigger bowl of ice.  And then they spin it!  Spin it!  Really fast too!  I mean, that's what Brenda told me.  Bob and I have never been here before.
AMANDA: Why do they spin it though?
MIKE: Yeah.  Why do they spin it?
CHRISTOPHER: You say they literally spin it, like a top?
JANE: Yes!  Just order it.  You'll see!
CHRISTOPHER: Who's Brenda?

Before he can get a response, a waitress in an old timey outfit approaches the table.  Somewhere in her 60's, with a heavy brogue that could be Scottish or Welsh or The Channel Islands?  She's sometimes not easy to understand (what she's saying).  Her nametag says "Mrs. Featherstone."  Right behind her, towering over her, is a second waitress.  Her nametag says "Nona."  Nona seems very ill-at-ease and nervous.
(Nona should ideally be played by a very large actor in drag; but are we still doing that?  Is that not funny anymore? Probably not...).

MRS. FEATHERSTONE: Hello folks, I'll be your server tonight.  I'm Mrs. Featherstone and welcome to the Prime Rib...
MIKE: (Stage whisper): What did she say?
AMANDA: It sounded like "mersus very stoney"
CHRISTOPHER: She said "Mrs. Featherstone"!  I detect a bit of an accent Mrs. Featherstone.  Where are you from?
MIKE: Do you always have to chat up the help?
MRS. FEATHERSTONE: I'm from up in the North Sea.  The Isle of Rockenrrarrgh, don't you know.
BOB: Where is that?  I've never heard of that--
MRS. FEATHERSTONE: (Moving on): As I was saying: this wee lass is Nona and she's a new to the Rib.  She'll be training with me tonight, don't you know? If, that is, it's copacetic with you folks?
MIKE: Well, actually--
MRS. FEATHERSTONE: Wonderful!  Saint Seamus be praised.  I see you've procured your libations.  Will you be ordering then?
MIKE: Sure.  We're ready.  I'll have...the prime rib.  (He side-eyes Christopher).
BOB: I guess we'll all be having the prime rib--
ANGELA: Except for me!
BOB: Except for her...
JANE: Order the salad Angela!
ANGELA: I guess I'll have the salad.
JANE: The spinning salad!
ANGELA: The spinning salad.  Do you have a non-spinning salad?
MRS. FEATHERSTONE: (Laughs) Oh no dearie!  All the salads spin at The Rib!
ANGELA: What if I get dizzy?  I suffer from vertigo.
MRS. FEATHERSTONE: (Laughs even harder) Stuff and nonsense!  We'll spin it out of you!
AMANDA: (Whispering) What does that mean?
CHRISTOPHER: I'll have the spinning salad too!
MIKE: Of course you will...

MRS. FEATEHRSTONE: Oh, not to worry pets!  Everyone gets the spinning salad; which includes a frozen fork!
JANE: A frozen fork?!!?  But how!???
MRS. FEATHERSTONE: (Displaying forks on a bed of ice): The mysteries of science by crackie!
MIKE: Cool!
CHRISTOPHER: What?  She laid the forks on a bed of ice cubes!
MRS. FEATHERSTONE: Only after plunging them in a bath of liquid nitrogen!!!  (She picks up one of the forks and hits it on the table, where it proceeds to shatter)

CHRISTOPHER: Oh, okay.  I stand corrected. My apologies...
MRS. FEATHERSTONE: And now, Miss Nona is going to take the reins and do her first spin for you all!  That is, if it's all right with you folks?
MIKE: Actually--
MRS. FEATHERSTONE:  Fine!  I'll leave you with Nona while I retrieve the accoutrements!

(I imagine Nona with one of those goofy, high-pitched voices of the sort that Vicki Lawrence used to do on The Carol Burnett Show...)

Nona stands quietly, looking at the ceiling, her shoes etc.
CHRISTOPHER: So, Nona...how's training going?
NONA: Excuse me?
CHRISTOPHER: How...when...uhhh...where do you hail from?
NONA: Venice Beach...
ANGELA: I love Venice Beach!
JANE: How do you like working here?
NONA: I'm nervous...
BOB: Oh, you don't have to be nervous around us!
MIKE: We don't bite!
AMANDA: What do you do in Venice?
NONA: I work out a lot on the boardwalk.  I'm a semi-professional lady body-builder...
JANE: Oh, isn't that nice?
NONA: It doesn't pay a lot, so, like, you know, that's why I got this job...
JANE: Well, I'm sure you're going to do just fine!
NONA: Well--
Mrs. Featherstone returns with a pushcart, upon which is the aforementioned double-spinning salad bowls, etc.

MRS. FEATHERSTONE: Alrighty, dearies, let's all bear with Ms. Nona as her life is about to change.  Her first official spin!
NONA: I don't know if I'm ready...
MRS. FEATHERSTONE: Now no, no, Ms. Nona, that's nonsense...you got a C plus in salad spinning class, you know you're ready!
CHRISTOPHER: Wait?  A C plus?  Maybe--
MRS. FEATHERSTONE (Moving on)  Okay, so, we have our mother bowl, which contains the ice cubes.  The salad bowl goes on top.  Then our plate of frozen forks.  The plates.  The all important tossers: two of them there are!  And of course, the little dressing boat.  All right Nona...you're on your own...

Nona tentatively picks up the "tossers"; two sort of spatula like devices.

MRS. FEATHERSTONE:  No dear, put those down.  You spin first, then dress, then spin again!

Nona puts them down and then spins the salad bowl with her hands.  ALL at the table start chanting "Nona! Nona! Nona!"
Nona picks up the dressing and pours it into the spinning bowl from the top of her reach.  She then picks up the tossers and begins to spin the salad even more.  A hush falls over the table.  Everyone is mesmerized.

NONA:  I'm doing it!
MRS. FEATHERSTONE: Isn't it glorious!

Nona starts to get into it with more intensity.  Maybe a little too much.  The bowl starts spinning faster and faster...

MRS. FEATHERSTONE: Slow down Nona!
NONA: I can't!
MRS. FEATHERSTONE: Stand down Nona!
NONA: I can't!  I can't stop it!
MRS. FEATHERSTONE: NO NONA NO!
NONA: It's out of control!
MRS. FEATHERSTONE: NO NONA NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

The salad bowl starts wobbling and rocking; perhaps even hovering in the air.  The contents of the bowl begin to fly out, directly into the faces of our dinner goers.  They soon find themselves covered in sopping lettuce leaves and soggy salad fixin's.  There is much SCREAMING and PANIC.  Mrs. Featherstone finally pushes Nona away and throws herself on the salad bowl cart.  She and it go crashing to the floor.

MRS. FEATHERSTON: (Regaining some kind of composure): It's all right.  It's fine.  Things happen.  Nona, go fetch the prime rib cart while I help these folks clean up--
MIKE: Do you really think we're going to stay after this?
MRS. FEATHERSTONE: The meal is on me.  I take spinning personally.
ANGELA: (Removes a lettuce leaf from her face and nibbles on it): Hey guys, this really is good!  Ya gotta try it!

Everyone grudgingly eats some face salad and find it delightful.  Nona returns, pushing a meat cart that looks more like an atom bomb than the cart we saw earlier.

MRS. FEATHERSTONE: No Nona, No, don't open that!  It's a propane tank!
But it's too late.  Nona is already in the process of opening it...
MIKE: Next time, I pick the--

This sketch could easily end after the point where Angela tries the salad: for time (or subtlety).

CFR 5/10/22