My Trip Down the Pink Carpet Read Online Free PDF Page A

all. He was just going through the motions. He would grunt and stuff his penis into whatever it had to be stuffed into and that was it. There was no passion, no fake groans, nothing. Then the bad 1970s porno music would start and there it was! Just a big slab of meat stuck in some cavernous, hairy, hippie vagina. What was the audience supposed to do then? Clap?
    When I was sitting on the bar stool with Mr. Hogan, I couldn’t get those nasty movies with John Holmes out of my head. I kept hearing that bad porno music. Every time I looked at Hogan I saw naughty pictures, which preyed upon my mind. I envisioned him trying to stuff something into something. It made me terribly tense and out of sorts.
    And it did not help matters that the director kept fussing at me. He wanted a two-shot of us, but Hogan kept hogging the shot. I could have sworn he was elbowing me out of the way. I was certain at the time it was because I was a homo.
    Finally, in desperation, the director took me aside and asked me what the problem was. I told him that Mr. Hogan was hogging the shot. He looked like he didn’t believe me, so I told him to watch closely on the next take. Afterwards he came over and apologized, and said that a two-shot was imperative and I would just have to push my way into the picture. The cameras rolled again, and Hogan mumbled something about shark wrestling. I sat there in character and hung on his every word.
    “Shark wrestling?” I asked, wide-eyed. This was my only line.
    Then it was time for the two-shot. I was supposed to laugh uproariously and lean in to Mr. Hogan as if we were now best friends. Here goes! I threw back my head, laughing like a hyena, and then shoved my way right into the shot. I felt an elbow but that did not stop me. I was a man on a mission. I don’t think Hogan was too happy with my brazen attempts to get into the picture, but such is life!
    Years later, when Hogan became famous, I thought I had the inside track. I knew what made “Crocodile” Dundee so “cocky.”

    I was once hired to play a Ferengi on Star Trek: The Next Generation. Ferengi are extraterrestrial creatures with huge ears (where, supposedly, their erogenous zones are located). I was hired mainly because of my height. The job involved forty separate prosthetic pieces that were glued to my face, as well as fake teeth, contact lenses, and a very uncomfortable costume. I also had to be burned at the stake. I agreed to take the job because I needed the money.
    I hold the distinction of working for the longest time in full prosthetics of any actor who has ever appeared in a Star Trek movie or television series. During the shoot, I was called into the makeup trailer at three o’clock in the morning and was not released until the following morning at two. Forget about overtime, I went into golden time. I was making a full day’s salary every hour! At one point I was so tired I fell asleep, had a nightmare that I was drowning, and was woken up by a screaming makeup person—I had been clawing at my face, trying to pull off the rubber pieces.
    But I soldiered on. The director called “Action!” and I paraded onto the spaceship and heroically delivered my first line.
    “Cut!” yelled the director.
    Huge laughter.
    “This isn’t Deep South Nine!” the director cackled. “Can you please bring that Ferengi a little north of the Mason–Dixon Line?”
    It must have been hilarious to see this creature from outer space yelling with a thick Tennessee accent. It was like Star Trek meets Hee Haw.
    The director was relentless. “Hey, Ferengi, the word ‘feather’ does not have four syllables, even in outer space. Lose the accent!”
    The whole shoot was just torture. When I tried to lose my Tennessee accent, I would, for some unknown reason, lapse into a terrible Cockney impression.
    “Hey, Ferengi! Now you sound like Eliza Doolittle on crack.”
    At one point, I locked myself in the bathroom and had a good cry. Thank God there weren’t