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"Open call for unusual-looking extras. This is your chance to be in a Fellini-esque, Lynchian-type art film. If you look different, bizarre or strange, please come to the parking lot at 10125 W. Washington Blvd. for auditions. $40.00 a day."

Talk about misleading. Little does anyone know, this "art" film is to be directed by a guy who probably still wears a retainer. Howie finally gets me a list of extra "types": "20 tall & thin people who can juggle; two wizened Chinamen; a bouncer (big, but not cut); a very frail doorman; three homeless women; several women barflies who are nicer looking than the homeless women; 13 vagabonds; two Latino busboys; one limo driver; a cleaning woman; two manicurists; three barbers; six garbagemen; a tap dancer; a cocktail waitress; 10 blond boys and 10 blond girls."

I am told in no uncertain terms that none of these people, except for the 10 boys and 10 girls, are to be young. The older the better, the uglier the better, the more odious and odiferous, the better. I am sweaty with fear. I ask Howie if I can call some of the local extras casting agencies, but he forbids me, explaining that the lo-budge budget won't allow it.

It is 90 degrees and I am melting into the asphalt as I wait at my casting table in the parking lot. By some miracle, two dapper, elderly gents show up. One wears an ascot and a frayed blue blazer; the other an eye patch. They are sweet and I am saddened because they've taken the bus all the way from the Fairfax district and it is obvious that they are not here because they want to meet famous actors or harbor dreams of being discovered, but because they need the $40. They aren't particularly unusual looking, but they are undeniably old and I Polaroid them and give them forms to fill out with humiliatingly cheerful questions like: "Do you have any distinguishing features or marks?"

At home that night I think of a number of friends and acquaintances with strange and quirky personalities, but none with any particularly odd physical attributes. I call everyone in my Filofax, putting out the weirdo alert. The next day there are several messages on my machine from friends who know people who know crippled drag queens; Milanese artists with prodigiously aquiline noses; exotic dancers; tattooed 10-year olds; a guy with a peg leg; a 90-year-old bongo player ...

The next day I am out at my table in the parking lot and by midday a stream of people have sauntered through -- mostly young men with too much time on their hands. One guy wears his hair in an Alfalfa point, speaks with an Appalachian twang and on the questionnaire under "distinguishing features" writes, "Hair Dews" and "Little Baby Jesus." His name is Luther and he sends me a couple of very scary stalker letters signed "Mr. Luke" and "Crocker Kang." I Polaroid everyone just in case, and although I am amassing a huge file of photos, no one quite fits the bill. Principal photography has already begun and I am in a mighty heap o' trouble. I plead with Howie to let me talk to Adam. Just for five minutes. Howie glares at me through his Spielbergian spectacles. "Maybe you don't understand what Adam wants. So I'll try to explain it to you again," he says in an exasperated tone, leaning in close so no one else can hear. "He wants freaks. Go get him freaks."

One night, after a couple of beers in the production office, I am filled with a fleeting sense of courage and follow Adam and Harley out to her Harley. (Adam doesn't drive.) I shove the pile of Polaroids at him. He quickly flips through them while a disinterested Harley consults her diver's watch and yawns through brilliantly white teeth. "This isn't what I want. Don't you know anything? I want crippled people. I want amputees. I want people dripping with oozing sores. I want shriveled-up old men. I want freaks!!"

Freak you. I am out every night now, hunting down victims. I case the geriatric coffee shop at Kmart, the Pan Pacific Park, the retirement home on Melrose. I find the crippled drag queen in the bar on Santa Monica Boulevard, but I don't speak to her. I spot an eccentric-looking gent in a wicker wheelchair, but I walk on by. I see an elderly couple who look like they've been through unspeakable horrors, but I retreat back to my car. Could these people use $40 a day? Probably, but I don't have the heart to ask.

Week 3

We are shooting interiors on a dark, musty soundstage, and the Fairfax gentlemen are set to play patrons in a bar scene. They are a snappy bunch, long in the tooth and eager for companionship. Thankfully, they bring along some women friends who are ready to work. There is 72-year-old Bobbie Ann, with a self-described collection of "80 fantastic costumes and 30 fabulous wigs." According to her résumé, she was a model, clown, belly dancer, nudist and artist. We use her throughout the shoot and one day, during a slow spell, she deftly draws my portrait on the back of a call sheet, making me look like an old-time movie star. There's Junie Brown, who boasts the questionable ability to mimic Phyllis Diller, Marlon Brando and Ronald Reagan. Some of her special skills include exotic dancing and playing the harmonica. She's been on "The Gong Show" and has performed at the Holiday Inn No. 2 during the L.A. county fair. And we mustn't forget the very versatile Barbara Marx, a former showgirl who can play a dumb blond or a sophisticated lady. According to her 8-by-10 glossy, she's modeled mink on a Regal Fur commercial, has appeared in the film "Ma and Pa Kettle Go to Mars" and starred in the stage play "Pajama Tops."

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