One seventy-six-year-old grandmother at a table in the back had the nerve to tell the cops, 'I don't think he was wearing anything under those tight white pants.' I'm not lying. Any cop knows that if you ask six people for a description, you get six different stories. Later, half a dozen people would describe me down to the shoes I was wearing: white suede Bruno Magli loafers. Customers looked up from their plates and lowered their voices when I walked into Roscoe's. moved here hoping to refine the art of being noticed, with no cost too high. Being noticed has always been an important part of my work - hell, half the people in L.A. You must be somebody, what's-his-name on TV, or Whozit, from that movie that just came out. When I walk into a room, strangers' eyes fix on me like a calculus problem they can't solve: I know you from somewhere. A certain walk, the right clothes, a strategic combination of aloofness and familiarity. A few lucky ones have it naturally and some, like me, have worked on it over time. Whatever you call it, I walked in by accident.Īs anybody in this town knows, some people give off a magnetic field. Maybe it was because it was ten-forty-five on a Monday morning - too late for breakfast and too early for lunch - but the sidewalk outside Roscoe's was empty, so I pulled over to grab some food.Ĭhance. Lines are an occupational hazard for actors looking for work, so I seriously hate lines on my days off.

I love Roscoe's, but what did I just say? I hate lines. But it's the truth.Īny other day, if I had swung by Roscoe's Chicken N' Waffles on Gower and Sunset, there would have been customers waiting in the plastic chairs lining the sidewalk, hoping for a table inside, out of the sun's reach. I would explain this to the guys from Robbery-Homicide, not that LAPD ever believes a word I say.

That's the only reason I stopped by Roscoe's that day. Here's what you need to know: I hate lines.

Casanegra by Blair Underwood