Confessions of a utility actor

I finally landed my first television job, playing a fast-talking schmuck of an agent on a Steven Bochco show called "Murder One." Even I was struck dumb by how good I was in the audition. I don't think I even said "thank you" as I left the room, because I was too busy thinking, "I am a great actor."

Now, there is almost no describing how terrible I was on "Murder One," but here's my best shot: You know that famous "deer in the headlights" look? Well, imagine the same deer about two weeks later. You know, after the stuffing and mounting. That's the kind of taxidermic look of fear that you will see on my face if you ever see this scene, which you will only if they create a show called "TV's Funniest Bloopers and Apparent Brain Hemorrhages."

Here's what you won't see if you ever catch this episode: Bochco, I swear, sitting five feet away from me, with his head in his hands. Seriously. Like, "How did my life come to this?" Like, "How is it possible that all the safeguards we have in place to prevent this kind of disaster from happening could all fail on the same day?"

But I got better. I did some recurring roles on a few shows, and I was a guest star on a bunch of others. I even did another Steven Bochco show, "NYPD Blue," playing a fast-talking schmuck of a stockbroker (hey, wait a minute ), whom Dennis Franz "liked" for a murder, and I started settling into the Los Angeles version of the working actor's life.

Here's what that life is like: Only 5 percent of people who call themselves actors earn enough each year from acting to support themselves. So the number of actors who drive to work in a Porsche, or home through ornate electronic gates, is microscopic. I drive a Honda Hybrid, and I park it on the street in front of my apartment building. I did own a house once, with my ex-wife, but home ownership and marriage are pretty fragile things for people who sometimes wonder if they'll ever work again.

So I learned early that when I'm on a set I should do my best to enjoy myself, which isn't always easy. A Hollywood set is basically a boredom factory; I can't think of a single day job I've had that wasn't more pleasant, in a material sense, than working in television. At least when I waited tables I was in a decorated, well-lit place. There was the smell of fresh food cooking, and sometimes music was playing. It's not like that on a soundstage. A soundstage smells like plywood, heated rubber and Teamsters. It sounds like the inside of a police van on a stakeout, except when it sounds like a house being renovated. So I usually find myself spending a lot of time visiting the "crafts services table" -- the place where all the doughnuts and Twizzlers are kept. Working in television can be as boring as watching television, and it's best dealt with exactly the same way: by taking breaks to go stare at food, and sometimes eat it.

Series regulars, the stars of the shows, all have time killing down to an art. Tyne Daly knits like crazy. George Clooney shoots hoops. On the best days, there's a real foxhole-buddies kind of feeling on the set, and it's pretty easy for me to be seduced into believing I'm on a kind of egalitarian, socialist TV kibbutz, where everyone comes to work in jeans and eats breakfast together. There's a lot more getting along than you might think, and everyone is busy pitching in. The Steadicam guy is trying to walk backward around the actors as they do emergency rhinoplasty, and the props guy is trying to find a scalpel that has suddenly been added to the scene. It's Mickey and Judy with $10 million.

Next page: My big break on "Becker"