I was at a standstill. A crossroads. An environment that was no longer welcoming me to any of its events, roles, or pleasures: Hollywood. I was a working nobody like Roddy Piper in They Live except with no one to fight. I went vamoose out of Vermont (the real location of the Quibbitses) and made west unto Hollywood. I was met with rejection. Every job. All the way. I. Was. Not. Wanted. But then a breakthrough came: The Flintstones. I shared a scene with Elizabeth Taylor, her final film role. This was 1994, and I was only slightly younger but much wiser, probably still dumb but with enough gumption to ask her what she thought of Identikit and Boom! “Oh, Boom! Is a TERRIBLE movie!” She was very upset with me. The rest of the day didn’t go well. When the movie came out, I was still in it, but no one called. I’d been gray-listed. Maybe it was Taylor’s fault—no, she always loved animals. Even me.
The new movie written by Quentin Tarantino and directed by David Fincher is called The Fireman. Tarantino wrote about it briefly in his novelization of Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, and ever since that book’s publication in 2021, I’ve been curious about seeing some of these Cliff Booth and Rick Dalton movies. I know he’s dead now (Rick Dalton), but they can get someone to play him, like Leonardo DiCaprio. I wanna see Cliff Booth punch someone with his gun and fist. So I auditioned for the movie, I might’ve gotten the part, but I’m already happy because I got to read with all of the principals—cast and crew. This is getting crazy.
Nobody liked my interpretation of a 1970s rooster. Everyone said it was too boisterous and distracting; they even tried to “remind me” that I was a barn animal, simple livestock prop for their movie show when in fact I’m a trained actor and experienced performer of the screen (though not so much the stage because the stage scares me [it’s made of wood]), and I deserve the same respect that a beloved character like George Dzundza or Pat Hingle accrues over a lifetime of supporting roles. Well, I’m a supporting rooster. And so far it’s gotten me ZERO recognition from the human or animal press, and at this point I’m inclined to agree with the skeptics and cynics who say a “chicken” can never make it in this business, at a time when Donald Trump is President and people still eat meat in Los Angeles. It’s hard out here. And dangerous. Have you heard of La Pollo Loco? I don’t want to talk about it…
All of the principals—the people who wrote it and the people who are going to, like, direct it man—said that I had “good energy” and “might someday act like a 1970s rooster,” but, unfortunately, “not today.” I asked the writer what he thought I should sound like. He made a sound, and it disturbed the whole room. Some people left. The director tried without my asking, and he made even more people leave. I had to sing “Mares Eat Does Eat Doats Little Lambs Kidivey” to bring everyone back in the room. It really worked: soon the whole room was going, and the scene was getting spiritual, kind of spooky like this movie, and we were all really feeling it. The audition ended after my performance, everyone was so moved not by it, but by the reaction to it. I had to be in this movie. I would inspire the audience to form their own versions of a 1970s rooster, and I could pick up the slack as comedic relief whenever they need someone to cut to.
Hey, this is going to be fun…
