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Well, I spent last week as an extra in Spider-Man 3.

Nearly a month ago, Ken noticed an announcement in The Plain Dealer about an open casting call at Tower City. On a beautiful Sunday afternoon, I dragged him and Sally along to the auditions. We waited in line for about two hours with what turned out to be four thousand other hopefuls, roughly divided into three major groups:

1. Acting nerds. About 30% of the turnout came armed with glossy 8x10 headshots and a resume of every community theater production they'd ever appeared in. Each one was determined that this would be his or her ticket out of Cleveland, apparently under the delusion that most Hollywood stars start out as extras. I have nothing but contempt and sympathy for these people.
2. Fan boys. Maybe 50% of the total could be classified as comic book nerds and film geeks, counting on their encycopedic knowledge of Spidey's villains and/or Sam Raimi's early films to give them an edge. A number of these guys (and believe me, they were all male) believed that wearing their kilt or D&D costume would get them noticed, forgetting that the point of being an extra is to not get noticed.
3. Confused thrillseekers. The rest were folks who saw the announcement in the paper and thought the audition itself would be a fun way to spend their time, regardless of whether or not they ended up getting cast. Some of them were just out shopping, saw the line and jumped in, not knowing what was at the end, but confident it would be something to talk about on Monday morning.

I like to consider myself in the third group, but who am I kidding: at best, I'm a cross between all three.

When we finally made it to the head of the line, we discovered that the audition process for this kind of gig consists of filling out a form, stapling your picture to it, and handing it to one of several members of the casting team. The woman who took my form said that I looked young enough to play a teenager; they needed people to play prep school kids, and she put my form in the pile of candidates. I was excited that, for once in my life, this baby face might get me something other than carded.

The studio called me on Thursday evening to let me know I'd been cast; Sally and Ken were left hanging. Why me? It turns out it wasn't my boyish looks. (I should have known it wouldn't give me that much of an edge: at the auditions, adolescent-looking men-children like me greatly outnumbered any other minority of interest, including women.) So was it my incredible acting range? The expressiveness and comely symmetry of my face? I'm sure all of these contributed to the decision, but there are a lot of good-looking, fantastic actors out there (Ken and Sally among them).

Two qualities put me over the top. First and foremost, I wrote on my audition form that I was available for entire the shoot; they didn't end up calling anyone who wasn't free all nine days. Second was my car. It turns out my beige 2005 Corolla is just the right amount of boring to appear in the background of the car chase scene they planned to film downtown. Sally seems a little disappointed that, in all likelihood, you won't be able to see my face or body on screen; but I maintain that careful driving can be one of the most powerful forms of self-expression.

Next time: the thrill of being a $75-a-day movie star . . .