Bradley A Wooten

Mark Metcalf is the Accidental Actor

Mark Metcalf had been supporting himself as an actor for over ten years before he realized that he really was one. “All during that first decade” he says, “I kept thinking I was going back to the West Coast to get my degree in Marine Biology.” Metcalf, a stage, film and television actor, director, film producer, and now also Mequon restaurant owner and morning radio show regular, was born in Ohio in 1946. After moving to New Jersey with his family in 1959, Metcalf returned to the Midwest to pursue a degree in Engineering at the University of Michigan. It was there he discovered acting. At his roommates’ urging, he auditioned for a theater department production. His motives weren’t entirely pure. “I was convinced when they suggested that the girls in the theater department would be a lot, um, friendlier, than the girls in the engineering department.” He laughs. At 58, Mark is distinguished, a veteran of both his profession and parenthood. Tallish and thin, his dark blond hair is a little long and his attire tasteful, favoring earth tones. He quickly assures me that it only took seconds for his motivations to shift entirely. “I fell in love with acting instantly when I walked into the green room and saw all these people together, laughing and fighting and arguing one minute, and making love on the couch the next. All the vital emotions were right there out in the open. It was a world I had been craving and needing, without knowing it.” Mark was hooked. He moved to New York in the early ’70s and performed in both classical and modern theater. He eventually moved out West to work in film. In 1978, he earned a permanent place in pop culture history as crew-cut fraternity jerk Doug Neidermeyer in National Lampoon’s Animal House. I asked him how he dealt with instant celebrity. “I was thinking moment to moment at the time. After the movie was done, I took almost two years off to produce my own film. I know now that had I continued to act through that period when I was the “hottest,” things may have turned out differently as far as my acting career.”  That film was Chilly Scenes of Winter, also released as Head Over Heels. It was a good film, but not a big commercial success. He’s done other directing and producing projects, and continued to act on stage, but the two other roles he’s best known for emanated from the small screen – as The Maestro on Seinfeld and The Master on Buffy The Vampire Slayer. But Mark was unhappy as a television actor. It was a grind, he says, like any day job. Work wasn’t generally awarded on merit, and the professional challenge was, in his words, “less than zero.” When his son was six, he and the boy’s mother, Libby, a Wisconsin native, decided to head back this way. They wanted a healthy place for him to grow up, and knew […]

December 2004

Dear Readers, It seems like this would be the month to recount a touching holiday memory, wish everyone peace in the New Year, mention that it’s my two-year anniversary with Vital Source and be done with it. But in the words of Chuck D., I’ve got so much trouble on my mind. I’ve been trying, hard as I can, to engage in the same liberal/progressive group hug so extensively talked about in this issue. I’m trying to tell myself that given the choice between the ineptitude we knew and the vote of no-confidence we couldn’t trust, it’s not surprising-and maybe even not the worst thing in the world-that we stick with the leadership we have for another four years. But I don’t know if I can continue to tamp down my uneasiness and be a good national citizen in light of some pretty scary shit going on around the country and in our own backyard. I’m kind of freaked out about Weldon Angelos. He’s the 25-year old Utah man convicted for the first time of selling pot while carrying a pistol in his bootstrap and having more guns at home. Granted, it’s no way to raise a family, and I have a low opinion of him for putting his two young sons in harm’s way, not to mention the example he was setting. But U.S. District Judge Paul Cassell was forced to sentence him to 55 years with no probation because of the weapons possession element, which forced the case into federal court. Now before you dismiss me as a sniveling liberal soft on drug crime, hang on for just a second while we place this in its larger context. Judge Cassell himself, described as a brainy, conservative former law professor, surveyed the maximum sentences for other federal crimes, and this is what he found: Hijacking an airplane: 25 years. Terrorist bombing intending to kill a bystander: 20 years. Second-degree murder: 14 years. Kidnapping: 13 years. Rape of a 10-year-old: 11 years. Selling pot while carrying a pistol: 55 years. Needless to say, Cassell is mortified, Angelo’s family is devastated and people everywhere are starting to call for re-examination of mandatory sentences and the possibility that some violate our Eighth Amendment rights under the Constitution. In the meantime, Weldon’s plans are to sit behind bars until he’s 80 years old and his sons are old men themselves. So much for family values. Speaking of which, I have a good friend whose two sons are teenagers in New Berlin. The eldest is a senior, and he’s had his share of troubles. He’s been picked up by New Berlin’s finest for awful crimes like stealing a hood ornament off an abandoned car, leaving campus for lunch and littering in a Taco Bell parking lot (that one earned him four squads and a canine unit). This week, he received a detention for swearing. The naughty nugget? “Jesus Christ.” Yep, that’s what this seventeen year-old boy said, and the fine administration of New Berlin […]

Lightburn Designs

Catherine McGarry Miller

November 2004

Dear Readers, Years from now, I hope to re-read this particular blog and laugh, picturing myself propped up on pillows trying to balance my keyboard on my lap, cursing over not breaking down and getting the laptop which would come in so handy now as I try to type without throwing my back into another painful spasm. I have restricted myself to ibuprofen until this column is finished, but my head is nevertheless filled with fog from the pain in my back and leg. I shift again. I cannot get comfortable. I should see a doctor. Maybe I can wait until tomorrow… It seemed like a good idea at the time. I awoke before everyone else and, as is my wont, began thinking about how I could maximize a few stolen moments of “alone time” before the demands of breakfast and soccer and an all-day production marathon took over the rest of my waking hours. I was feeling a little toxic after a long week of work, and decided a nice bike ride to my local coffee shop on North Ave. would be just the thing. I’d pick up donuts and be back before anyone even knew I was gone. It had been raining earlier, but it was fairly warm, just a little misty. I live on the east side of Wauwatosa. The residential streets in my neighborhood are quiet and mostly level, perfect for an easy ride. I took Meinecke west about three blocks past Cranky Al’s, then headed back east on North, riding in the bike lane. As the lane came to an end, I tapped the brakes. I remember my wheels locking up on the wet pavement, then the quick realization that yes, I was actually going down, then a full spin in the middle of the normally busy street, my body twisting most unnaturally. My right cheek kissed the pavement as my bike landed on top of me. I lay there for a second. A nice older lady was standing over me, trying to lift my bike and urging me to get out of the street. At first I thought the cuts and bruises on my leg were the worst of it, but as the minutes wore on, it grew increasingly difficult to breathe. Every inhale brought a stab of pain and not enough oxygen. A steel band formed quickly around my torso. I had seriously messed up my back. Like an idiot, I still stopped at Al’s for donuts, refusing rides home from several of the good neighbors there, insisting that I could make it on my own. Stupid. By the time I stumbled in to my house, I could barely stand. Eight hours later, I am sitting up for the first time. Call it instant karma. Three days ago, my art director, Tony, flipped his truck on the same off-ramp he takes every day. He’d realized too late as he took a tight turn that he hadn’t compensated enough for the wet road conditions. […]

John Shivers

Peter Hart

October 2004

Dear Readers, An oft-discussed but little understood theory of Albert Einstein’s is that of length contraction, in which a decrease in length is experienced by objects traveling at a substantial fraction of the speed of light (at least 10� but only in the direction in which the object is traveling. Extended, this theory applies to time itself. Simply stated (and possibly somewhat misstated, so I’ll ask advance forgiveness from mathematicians and physicists here): if something is moving fast enough in a certain direction, it actually moves faster than time. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately because, like almost everyone I know, I am overwhelmed by how quickly time passes. It truly does feel like the more we’re in motion, the faster time moves. The more we try to do, the more we are faced with decisions we must make that affect both our present and our future, the less time we seem to have to think about what we’re doing. Even though the physics of this phenomenon are beyond my understanding, I can identify with the thought that the faster we move, the faster time does indeed pass. I wish there was a scientific way to physically measure the speed of change as it pertains to both personal and global events and situations. If that were possible, we might find that we are indeed hurtling along at 1/10 the speed of light, the point at which time does indeed start to contract, and things are really happening more and more quickly. The next step would be to see if there was any way at all to slow the world down a bit, to give each of us more time to consider the implications of our decisions and actions. In practical terms, we could more thoroughly evaluate how our two major parties have switched identities in twenty short years. Mysteriously, the Republican party claims banner rights as guardian and gatekeeper of corporate interests and the moral well-being of all Americans, while the Democrats represent balanced budgets, global relations, smaller government and, most interestingly to me, personal choice and autonomy. Does anyone yet remember that the Republican party was founded 150 years ago, right here in Ripon, Wisconsin, by socialists pissed off at ineffectual Democrats and Whigs, both of which had become parties of complacent conservatism, content with the enslavement of blacks and the congenital economic and social structure slavery fostered? Abraham Lincoln was their leader. Trust buster Teddy Roosevelt was a Republican, too. My, how times have changed. And so quickly! Think about that on your way to the polls. Something else to think about this election season is the considerable influence of third parties on our two party political system. When we think about third parties, we think of their most colorful characters – Ross Perot, Jesse Ventura, Ralph Nader. But while no independent party has yet succeeded in gaining legal and financial status that would make it competitive with either the Democrats or the Republicans, some of […]

Megan Furcolow

December 2003

Dear Readers, This is such an emotionally charged time of year. Colder weather, increased contact with family, insane schedules, and the pressures of our consumer economy settle themselves like a weight onto the shoulders of many. Depending on who you are, and/or where you are in your life, you might be heading towards a rush of anticipation, reflection, hope, stress, financial worry, love, antipathy or dread as the holidays approach. Or maybe all of them together. This is the season when I most wish I was a kid again. I grew up three decades ago in a small town in Iowa. Most of the year, we were the least conventional family in town. My mom was a divorced woman who owned her home, which she bought herself, even though it meant she made most of our clothes and doomed us to subsidized hot lunch at school. True to our activist roots, we were part of the “underground railroad” for objectors fleeing to Canada to avoid going to Viet Nam. Behind the water heater in the basement was a cot with a trunk next to it, on which sat a small lamp and an alarm clock. It wasn’t unusual for me as a five year old to enter the kitchen in the morning to find a tired-looking young man I’d never seen gulping coffee and eggs, on his way to the next place. The neighbors thought horrible things about my mom and her cavalcade of “male friends.” But what could she say in her own defense? It was from her example that I learned to keep secrets. At Christmas time, however, you’d have thought we sprang straight from a Rockwell postcard. Some of my dearest childhood memories are of painting wooden ornaments for our tree, making paper chains and listening to holiday music before bed, curled up on the couch with a cup of eggnog, the room illuminated only by the lights on the tree. I remember the thrill of opening the door to carolers, neighbors come to call. Despite their year-long suspicion of us, they didn’t skip our house, and we invited them in for chocolate and cookies, with something stronger for the grownups. Even as a kid, I could sense something about people getting along because of the holiday. I hope I can pass that on to my son, not just at the holidays, but all the time. In truth, people have more in common than in difference. And while I try to live and work according to my beliefs, I am not a friend of meaningless divisiveness. It’s such a waste of energy, and you miss out on the caroling. Speaking of memories, we all got to yakking at a recent staff meeting, and ended up spinning our own holiday/family yarns for each other. We ended up deciding to share them with everyone in this issue, and we hope you like them. On the other hand, you can skip over that piece if it’s not your cup of […]

Rob McCuen