Halsted's entry about the SAG commercial actors' strike reminds me of an incident from my past that used to be part of my memoir but is one of those bits that has ended up on the cutting-room floornot because it was a bad bit of writing, but just because it turned out not to fit. I thought I'd rescue that bit from eternal obscurity and reuse it here:
I have a close friend in Utah named Scott. He's a writer and an actor, and for the past several years he's supplemented his sometimes lean income with guest appearances in television series and made-for-cable movies. He's also a devout Mormon, and more clear-headed about it than just about anyone I know.
One Sunday in 1994, Scott had asked me to drive him the forty miles to Salt Lake so he could attend the callbacks on a movie role he was auditioning for. His car had given up the ghost again, as it did every full moon or so. I readily agreed.
That summer was the last time I attended church on anything like a regular basis. It was my last-ditch effortor so I thoughtto get my life together and back on the right track. I was attending a student ward at BYUa congregation made of entirely of eighteen- to thirty-year-olds, not all of them college students, but all looking for that certain special someone, that magic mate, that bright twin spirit from our premortal existence whose eyes you would meet with a shock of recognition, and you both would know you had found your foreordained eternal companion at last.