If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B Movie Actor (57 page)

With that, I decided to give the locals a special treat. I leapt from my chair and pointed a finger toward the unassuming couple.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special treat tonight: direct from Hollywood, Kirsten Dunst and Toby McGuire, from
Spider-Man!"

A mob of onlookers engulfed Toby and Kirsten, and I soon lost sight of them. Somewhere near the exit, a quick glimpse of Toby revealed a woman slinging panties above her head and shouting like Xena. Even in all the commotion, Toby managed to wave good-bye. I'm not sure why his middle finger was extended, but it was a nice gesture.

At a Horrorfind convention in Baltimore, I ran into a mind-rattling blast from my past: The Ghoul, aka Ron Swede. I should remind you that when I was a teenager, Ron was the undisputed king of schlock TV in Detroit. Fortunately, before the cancellation gods played a cruel trick on him, I managed to appear in bit roles on several of his shows.

It was an honor to have Ron seek me out to say hello. He was at the convention as well, pushing his own book and a new TV show. Ron appeared exactly as I remembered, and even more shocking, he was wearing the same lab coat from twenty-four years ago. I could tell it was original, because the pocket he blew off with an M-80 during a show had been sewn back in the same willy-nilly fashion.

That same weekend, after a round of e-mails, I arranged to have drinks with romance novelist Margaret Allison. She had just competed her fourth novel, and I wanted to pick her brain about this new thing called publishing. I must confess, I was also curious what this woman, whom I'd known for almost thirty years as Cheryl, was up to these days -- I hadn't seen her since 1987.

Cheryl had been patient enough to act in our super-8 movies, and as a stand-in for various monsters and body parts in
Evil Dead,
including a leg that became possessed. But look at her now -- she's a fancy romance novelist! Congratulations to Cheryl, uh, Margaret...

Hollywood Book and Poster is a great movie paraphernalia place located in the heart of Hollywood proper. About an hour into my signing there, a tall, trashy-looking woman approached the table. She was wearing the largest sunglasses I'd ever seen and her sandy-brown hair fell, in tangles, to her waist.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Campbell," she squawked in a very unpleasant voice. "I'm a
huuuge
fan of yours and I just love
ahhhllll
of your work. I absolutely
luuuuved
the book, too..."

This freakish woman was gushing so badly I thought she was going to hemorrhage.
What the hell is wrong with this broad? I
wondered.
I've seen some Hollywood weirdos, but this chick takes the cake.

That's when my jaw dropped. Lucy Lawless, that stealthy Warrior Princess, fooled me -- hook, line, and sinker. Her
post-Xena
hair had returned to its normal, lighter color and, to be honest, she was the last person I would have expected to meet in Los Angeles, let alone the Northern Hemisphere. Aside from those lame excuses, lest we forget, Lucy Lawless is also a good actress.

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

Signing as many photographs and mementos as I have over a period of twenty years, I have noticed a slow change in given names. The predictable John, Pete, Sarah, and Sally have become Shauna, Tracee, Bradlee, and Amir.

I did my best to combat the back and forth of "how do you spell that?" at signings by encouraging folks to write their own name on a Post-it note and slap it on the book.

A sandy-haired college kid bounced up to the table in Indianapolis and thrust out his hand.

"Name's Sean. How you doing?"

"Is that S-h-a-w-n or S-h-a-u-n?"

Sean gave me that "you're a dumbass" look. "Neither. It's the
original
spelling: S-e-a-n."

"Okay, I'll make a note of that..."

In Louisville, a very meek woman approached the table.

"Hi there," I offered, trying to break the ice. "What's your name?"

"Gladray."

Funky names always catch my attention and I looked up from the book. "Is that two words, Glad and Ray?"

She shook her head no. "Just one."

I scribbled in her book and handed it back. "Your parents were hippies, weren't they?"

Gladray blushed a little bit, gathered up her tie-dyed skirt, and made off.

In this modern age, when individuals tend to migrate more than their forefathers, I just assume that descendants of famous people are scattered across the world. I was suitably shocked then when, over a two-day span, between southern Ohio and Kentucky, I had the pleasure of meeting direct descendants of both Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett at signings.

While Daniel's descendant enjoyed using the same formal family name, Davy Crockett's great-great-great-grandnephew was a little more casual about the whole thing: "Just make it out to 'Dave'," he said with a smile.

In Philadelphia, at a signing frequented by a tough but friendly crowd, a teenage kid shuffled up to the table, shot a quick look of disdain, and tossed my book on the table.

"Sign it."

Sensing some hostility, I immediately engaged in small talk. "Sure, buddy, what's your name?"

"Name's Ash."

I smiled. I had heard that tired gag dozens of times, but the kid's delivery was good. "That's pretty funny," I said. "Seriously, what's your name?"

The kid looked at me like I was the biggest asshole he'd ever met. "Seriously, it's Ash," he shot back. "My parents named me after your stupid character...

Ash was pissed that plenty of perfectly good names were overlooked in favor of a lame-ass, girly name, but he calmed down considerably after getting it off his chest. Perhaps saying it to my face was a cathartic experience -- maybe now, Ash could, just like the character, purge himself of the
Evil Dead
curse.

"Well, spelling your name won't be a problem," I said, hoping he'd see the humor in it.

Ash was not amused.

Parents can be so cruel sometimes...

ODD JOB

To quote my buddy, Rob Tapert, "It takes all kinds to fill the freeways." After getting a presidential candidate's view of this country, all I have to say to that is, "Brother, ain't that the truth!"

Sometimes, I feel uncomfortable telling people what I do for a living. It usually prompts such a long-winded question-and-answer session that I tend to offer vague explanations like, "I'm self-employed," or "I'm an entrepreneur."

The
Chins
tour connected me with people from all walks of life, and now I don't feel as odd about being an actor. I could always foam-inject tampon applicators like Maurice in Albany, manufacture hemorrhoid surgery equipment like Stan in Dayton, or monitor space junk like George in Boston:

"So, George, how does that work?" I asked, truly interested.

George smiled and explained as simply as he could: "Well, deep within a computer vault, I track space trash, asteroids, satellites, rocket bodies -- basically anything that hangs around the earth or could hit it. If something dangerous is headed toward, say, a satellite, I notify them."

"Dangerous -- like what?"

"Like a fleck of paint. One of the shuttles got hit with a tiny fleck -- scared the hell out of them. It doesn't seem like much, but it's going six times faster than a speeding bullet."

"Gads. Sounds like a mess up there."

"It is. The launches in the sixties were awfully dirty in that respect, and we're paying the price for it now."

"Well, thanks for keeping our satellites safe," I wished George as he left. "I'd hate to miss an NBA game because of a lousy flake of Dutch Boy."

I played Monopoly like a fiend when I was a kid. I spent entire summer days battling through four and five consecutive games, while Elton John's
Yellow Brick Road
kept us company. To this day, I never get tired of playing that game -- it's like putting on a worn-in pair of TV slippers.

In Providence, Rhode Island, I had the honor of shaking the hand of a young man who made Monopoly pieces. It was nice to put a face to the man who made my favorite piece -- the shoe. Just so you know, the Orange and the Light Blue properties will never steer you wrong, and it wouldn't kill you to own a few Railroads.

Philadelphia is one of my favorite old cities, simply because it oozes history. I did a book signing at the Grand Course in the Bourse (say that ten times), a converted factory -- otherwise known as Independence Mall. There, I had the pleasure to meet the self-proclaimed Smut Queen of Philadelphia. Barbara places Adult Service ads in the paper.

"That must be an interesting life," I replied.

"Oh, yeah," she said, nodding. "You meet all kinds."

I leaned toward Barbara and lowered my voice. "So, tell me, what percentage of your 'clients' actually match their descriptions?"

Barbara smiled knowingly, and summed it up this way: "Well, honey, we are ultimately talking about a fantasy situation here. You might know something about that."

"I just might," I said, smiling back.

"Still, I love 'em to death," Barbara said. "Some of my best friends are transvestites."

Pittsburgh has a crumbling infrastructure, a fading steel industry, and rampant unemployment, but I love it because it reminds me of Detroit. While at a signing in the Chartiers Valley Shopping Center I connected, in a secondhand way, with an American icon. As a master of ceremonies, I'd introduce him this way:
He's the clown without a frown, because he hates to see you down -- the one, the only: Ronald McDonald!

Granted, I didn't meet Ronald himself, but his assistant stopped by to grab a book and say "hello."

"Wow, so your boss must be, like, Ronald the fifteenth," I guessed. "How many of those guys have there been?"

"There's only one," he stated flatly.

"At... a... time, right?"

"There's only one," he repeated again, as if he'd heard this stupid reasoning a thousand times from nine-year-olds. I decided to change tact.

"So, what is that like, to be Ronnie's assistant?"

"Well, as you might expect, he's a very busy guy."