Category: WWdN in Exile

LEVERAGE: day zero

Posted on By Wil

Greetings from Portland! I'm here for the next few days to work on an episode of Leverage, playing a character who I have a few things in common with, as evidenced by something that happened earlier today during my costume fitting.

The costume designer is an incredibly kind and easy going woman. She was talking with me about who this character is, what he's like, and how those things would influence his decisions when it comes to his clothes. I was glad to have the discussion, because the clothes I wear for a show are very important to
me. I always work hard to find something that is appropriate for
the character, but that I'll also feel comfortable wearing.

She pulled a bunch of different shirts and things off the racks, and said, "So we thought we'd dress you like a nerd." She didn't say it unkindly, it was just matter of fact, the way you'd say, "You know, I think fish would be nice tonight."

I looked at the clothes she had in her hands: straight-legged jeans, slip-on Vans, a short-sleeved shirt with a collar and buttons.

"So, kind of like what I'm already wearing," I said.

We had a good laugh about that, and for the next few minutes I tried on a bunch of different costumes, all of which could have come out of my own wardrobe.

When my fitting was over, I got to visit with John Rogers and Dean Devlin for a little bit. I should probably get their permission before I blog about our conversation, but I think it's okay to say this: I haven't seen Dean since we played hockey together about 17 years ago, and it's pretty awesome to finally be working together on something.

They had to go do producer-y things, so I walked into the stage to meet with the prop department. On my way in, I stopped and introduced myself to Christian Kane (Spencer) and Aldis Hodge (Hardison), who were hanging out just inside the stage door.

Um, I need to just get this out of the way now: Leverage is the first non-animated show I've worked on in years where I'm such a huge fan, I've already watched every episode and know all the characters. It was a challenge, but I did a good job of not losing my shit while I talked with them, just like I did when I met Beth Riesgraf (Parker) right before I went into the wardrobe fitting. We only talked for a few minutes before I had to get out of the stage and do some prop stuff, but I liked them right away. I left the stage feeling pretty confident that I'm going to have a great time while I'm here.

Now I'm going to go learn my lines and prepare for filming tomorrow.

… I'm not going to lie to you, Marge: I love this.

an all too familiar scene

Posted on By Wil

Sitting in my office, my brain is in that weird writer’s fugue where time blurs and I take -10 to all my passive perception checks. I realize that my dog, who has spent much of the day at my feet, doing everything she can to capture my attention, isn’t there. I’m not sure how long it’s been since I last saw her; it could be a minute, it could be thirty minutes.

I push back from my desk and walk out the open doorway into the hall.

“Ferris?” I call out.

I listen. Nothing.

“Ferris?” I walk to the end of the hallway. From out in the yard, I hear the familiar jingle of her tag against her collar.

I walk across the house and toward the patio. Just before I get to the door that goes into the back yard, I see Riley. She’s lying down as low as she can, watching me. The tip of her tail barely wags. I’ve seen this before; it’s what she does when she is establishing an alibi. If she could talk, she would say, “Just so you know, I’ve been here all along.”

I quicken my pace and into the back yard. “Ferris!” The jingling stops, but I still don’t see my dog.

I’m pretty much speed walking at this point as I cross the back yard. I know she’s gotten into something, but what? We’ve had a lot of construction recently, and though I do my best to make sure anything that kills dogs isn’t in a place where she can get it, I remain paranoid.

I make it across the yard. As I pass the Chinese elm, my brain reminds me that I need to have it trimmed – it’s weird, the things your brain spits out at you in times of potential crisis – and around the corner of the house.

I see her before she sees me. She’s dragged a huge black trash bag off the tops of our cans and taken it to that spot in the yard where she takes everything she wants to chew on. Over the years, it’s been a graveyard for shoes, toys, loaves of bread we didn’t put far enough back on the counter.

I take a breath and use my deepest, growliest, angriest, you-are-in-so-much-fucking-trouble Dad Voice: “FERRIS!”

She flinches, drops the bag, and slinks toward me, head down, submissive.

“Dammit, Ferris. This is not for you.” I walk past her and pick up the bag. It’s full of rags and rolled up plastic. It smells like paint. I’m glad I caught her before she could really tear into it.

I find the top of the bag and cinch it closed, making sure I don’t get paint on my hands.

“Really? Paint? I can understand disgusting old food, cat shit, and all the kleenex and Q-tips you drag out of the trash cans, but paint?”

She looks at me, slowly lifting her head up, perking up her ears as I talk. By the time I finish and pick up the bag, she’s wagging her tail and smiling at me.

I walk past her with the bag, on my way to stuff it inside the trash cans that she can not open. Yet.

She trots alongside me, and sniffs at the bag. She looks at me, expectantly, tail wagging faster and faster as we get closer to the trash cans.

If she could talk, she would say, “Hey, can I have that? It looks like it would be fun to tear apart.”

I shake my head and stuff it into the can.

“No, Ferris. No you can not.”

LA Daily: A Gamer’s Arcade Memories

Posted on By Wil

This Week's LA Daily was knocked out of my brain by 8 bits of sound this weekend:

My son is home from college, visiting briefly before he goes back
for his summer session, so I've been making a concerted effort to cram
as much writing as I can into limited working hours each day, so my
evenings are free to spend with him and the rest of our family. This
weekend, my wife and I took him out to dinner, where I found myself in
front of a Centipede arcade machine, drawn there by the unmistakable
sound of the player earning an extra guy.

Something caught in the mental driftnet, and I began to reel it in.
"I have to play this," I said, doing my best not to be as manic as
Richard Dreyfuss behind a pile of mashed potatoes.

They looked at each other, warily. "Okay…" my wife said.

I dropped a quarter into the slot, felt the trackball fit
comfortably beneath my right hand, and began to play. By the time the
first flea dropped, I'd retrieved a childhood memory from the early
'80s.

You can read the whole thing at the LA Weekly.