It’s raining again!  The day is dreary, perfect to continue my dogged pursuit of a friendly literary agent and/or publisher to print my “Best Seller” in waiting…

It’s easy to lose sight of my original intent: to preserve stories about our family and the characters and events that drive the narrative.  I haven’t strayed, but I’m determined to get my stuff in print mainly because of the many great comments emails and letters I’ve gotten from friends and readers.

Reviewing the forty-four short stories, memoirs and essays I’ve written so far evokes a tingle and smile of satisfaction.  The same is true of my blog – “ Red Rider’s Ramblings: Rants, Reminiscences, & Repartee from a 77-year-old Rookie Writer,” comprising fifty-four blog entries and counting, some of which appear in my book-to-be.

A little housekeeping is in order here.  Scratch 77-year-old, and make it 80!  Keep the ROOKIE for I little longer till I get my “Rogue’s Road to Retirement” published.

The title of this Rambling – “Red Rider Goes Hollywood!!” – refers to my brief, but colorful acting career, which I dabbled in after I retired from Wall Street but before I found my true calling and picked up the quill.  I was reminded of my days “on the set” recently when I came across a picture of yours truly in the “Sports Illustrated” July 1996 edition, page 33.

My print ad debut for Gatorade!

The excerpt that follows from Chapter 24 of my book, “What Next?  Old Dog, New Tricks,” describes in detail my fling as an actor and flirtation with show biz.

With the help of a very attractive redhead over a pitcher of margaritas at a dock-side bar on Fire Island waiting out a fierce line squall, the idea of acting in commercials was hatched.

She suggested that I give it a try, helped book my head shots and got me a copy of “Ross Reports,” a guide to agents.

Had it not been for a humbling hip operation that broke my ascension to the red carpet, I would have given that other George (Clooney) a run for his money!.

I also won a part in a TV spot for Pepsi.  I auditioned for the part of a bartender and wound up as a polka dancer instead.  You can watch me in action here: http://www.drinkrecipescafe.com/video/Mh0hzLLofaM/Pepsi-Commercial-with-Eddie-Korosa-Jr-the-Boys-from-Illinois.html

Toward the end of the sequence, note the slick moves of the agile redhead spinning his partner toward the back.  Eight weeks after the shoot, I was recuperating from my hip replacement in New York Hospital for Special Surgery.

But perhaps the pinnacle of my career was landing a part in a music video for singer Joan Osborne.  Imagine my kids’ delight and horror when they tuned in to MTV and saw me up on the screen!  I am including the link here for those that dare – and just to clarify, I am not the young stud muffin in his skivvies.  I come in around 3:30 in the video – as a politician on the front page of The Times!!

http://www.myspace.com/joanosborne/videos/video/100004519

The lesson in this all… pursue your dreams, no matter how far out or off the wall they seem.  You never know, you may find yourself hanging out with rock stars or Rockettes, and your kids will certainly think you’re a lot cooler.

Stay well,

George

 

Excerpt from The Rogue’s Guide to Retirement by George S.K. Rider:

My last adventure in acting was a commercial for Pepsi Cola.  The shoot took place in Elizabeth, New Jersey.  I auditioned for the role at a West Side studio in New York, 21st street between 6th and 7th.  The part was a bartender.  Luckily, I’d already done a lot of research for the role.  The usual slating and pictures front and side, this time I was asked to stick around.  They were one male short for the dance sequence audition.  I stayed and was paired with an exquisite Russian lady, a former ballerina.

The phone rang that night.

“George, congratulations.  You got the part.  You’ll get the instructions later.  Oh!  By the way, they want you for the dancer part not the bartender.”  As if on cue, pain radiated through my lower back, and legs.  I was two months short of a hip replacement.  The more I exercised the more intense it became.  The audition had taken place in a small studio.  Two turns and a fast click, click, and I was in agony.  Do I tell them, or suck it up and accept the part?  Oh!  To hell with it, give it a go.

The day of the shoot, I joined one of the female dancers and several worse-for-wear band members at the Meridian Hotel in Manhattan for an 8AM bus trip to the Elks Lodge in Elizabeth, New Jersey.  Apparently, the Russian ballerina hadn’t made the cut.   Impossible!

More “talent” signs, more patting down in wardrobe, and a longer session in make-up.  I didn’t mind.  The make-up woman was a 10 – a buxom, blue eyed, Swede.

The choreographer, Natasha, on loan from Arthur Murray’s Studio in New York, assembled the cast in the downstairs cafeteria for a walk-through, after matching up the couples by height.  We were going to Polka.  Polka?

“Places everyone, places.  Any questions?”

This was my last chance.  The dull pain had started.  I had only danced the polka twice in my life, both times in the 50’s, once at a wedding after many Schnapps and once in Halifax at a reception thrown for our Destroyer on a visit after a Naval exercise.  I was about to make an ass of myself.  I raised my hand.

“Natasha, can I have a word with you?” I couched my confession.  “I’m a little rusty.”

Without hesitation she told the rest of the cast to take a coffee break.  She led me to the furnace room, cassette player in hand.  Ten minutes later we emerged.  I had mastered the basic steps.  I neglected to mention my humming hip.

“Places.”

We walked through the dance sequence.  My partner was a whining, know-it-all Dancing with the Stars wannabe.  Her whole life was weekend dance competitions at home or traveling.  Her best dance was the polka.  I didn’t stand a chance.

“Got it?  Now we’ll try it with the music.”

Natasha turned the cassette on.  Suddenly we were twirling to the music in a large circle moving clockwise, all the while Natasha coaching and making suggestions.  We finished and rested.  My partner never shut up.  She liked me about as much as I liked her.

A bell rang.  Over the loud speaker, “Cast Call.”

We all moved up the stairs to the main meeting room, now empty for the shoot, except for a few chairs around the outside.  The pain was still there, dull and throbbing.

This was no fly by night production.  The director, a large, linebacker of a guy with a big smile, was flown in from Hollywood.  The band was flown in from Chicago and had been featured in the movie “Home Alone.”

The director was standing in front of a mike in the middle of a stage at the far end of the room, surrounded by the band.  The stage was decorated with bright, multicolored bunting.  The musicians began warming up.  He grabbed the mike and gave us more instructions.  Then, “Places!”

I was sitting on a fold down chair, as far away from little-miss-know-it-all as I could get.

We approached each other on command.   The cameras started to roll, the boom mikes were in place.

“Action!”

The band began to play a very lively rendition of “Ex-pi-al-i-do-cious.”  It crossed my mind: George, What the hell are you doing here?  I can hardly walk.  I’m in a very professional setting, and I have three left feet.  My partner never shuts up and insists on leading.  No air-conditioning.  August in Elizabeth, N.J.  My right knee and ankle are beginning to swell.  Pain was beginning to radiate to my left hip, and I was sweating like a pig.

Take One took about four minutes.  Once I got going, the pain eased a little. I was concentrating on “twirling.”

There would be 22 more takes.

I began to improvise to ease the pressure.  I spun little-miss-know-it-all out and around, in my best jitter-bug move.

“Stop that.  That’s not how you polka.”  My grumpy partner growled.

“Zip it, I’m leading now,” and so it went.  Finally, “That’s it.  It’s a wrap.”  Thank God.

Before we parted, she kicked me, and I ground the heel of my right shoe into her left ankle.  She left without a word or backward glance.

Ten days later, the Pepsi-Polka Commercial began to run in New York on Channel 11. The first time I saw it, I jumped up in the den and pumped my fist in the air.  “Yes!”  As I landed on my left leg, the pain shot through my hip.  Of the five couples, we were the most photographed.  A close-up of my spin move was featured twice.  I may not be Nureyev, but she was no Syd Charise!

[…Lots more to come when I find a publisher!!!  So please dust off your Rolodex and call your literary agent friends!]