I am seriously considering a role.

There is a role that I am seriously considering. I should clarify: I have been OFFERED a role, and I am seriously considering said offer. It could be the role that re-catapults me back to sea level. Back to zero. And I define zero as "not a shadow of his former self who only makes appearances as good-natured barbs at his former stature status whatever four scotches you know". Four. Different. Brands. Of. Scotch. To get me here to this point...typing. Ugh. I started with an 18-year single malt. Then a 12-year. Then a blend. Then a bottle with a dragon clutching a nude lady. To get to the typgin. Typing. But LISTEN! I am seriously considering a role. And it's a meaty role. Opposite quality talent. And directed by A NAME. This is no shabby production, it's Oscar bait. And they want me. I'm tearing up.

I've got the script in front of me. It's resting on my glass coffee table, and I've read most of it. What I HAVE read is superb. Real balls. Were I to take this part, I can already see in which direction I would push myself. Let's say, hypothetically, that I fucking grab this role. That I just MAKE IT MINE. Hypothetically. Here's what I'm thinking:

I lose 92 pounds. Boom. 92. You read that right. That would bring me down to a sturdy 230. I'd look like a whippet!

Buzz cut. Trust me, it would be necessary, SIR! Ha I just gave something away!

Two fake tattoos. One of a heart ringed by barbed wire, and one of...oh I don't know...a dragon clutching a nude lady.

Contacts, not glasses.

A slight limp. Left leg.

A southern accent. Mississippi.

TANGENT! Have you ever fucking stared at the word Mississippi before? Holy shit. Who thought of that one? Oh my.

Yes, it's all coming together now. The limping swagger, the slurring vehemence. I could knock it out of the park. The crowd goes wild. Home fucking run.

du Bouchet makes his big comeback. No longer a joke. No longer a has-been. Like Travolta in Pulp Fiction, or Downey Jr. in Iron Man. This could be my Iron Man. OH EVEN BETTER LIKE HOPKINS IN SILENCE OF THE LAMBS.

Oooh.

TANGENT! When's the last time you saw 'Silence Of The Lambs', eh? Rent it. Buy it, whatever. You will not see a better example of LESS IS FUCKING MORE than Sir Anthony's performance in that film. He's like an icicle strung across two straining moments. Like a paralyzed dog eyeing food. Ah, the Brits. You know what they can do? They can own a moment on screen and still go home with their brains intact. Lovely, professional, sane folk. And terrific drinking partners. I'm like a British person minus all of that stuff but the drinking part.

I will do this role. I will accept this offer. I'm dialing now.

It's a voicemail message. I am waiting...and...

(all of these words in parentheses represent me leaving the voicemail on my agent's voicemail accepting the role aaaaaaaah euphoria!)

Well then. It appears I'm going to be in a rather lovely film.

From here on my couch I can see my seldom-used treadmill. I can sense its doubt. No matter. 92 pounds. And tomorrow down to Melrose for the fake tattoos and haircut.

You may call me Seargent. Oh yes.

You know, I'm a realistic person. I know this could be nothing more than the beginning of nothing. However, were I to try and I will, and were I to get lucky which I often do, this could be huge as in HUGE. And for that merest of possibilities I am more than willing to strain. And. We're. Off.

Time to pour all of this scotch into the hot tub.

FORTH!