The Naked Guy
By Katherine Luck

“Will you just write the word already? It’s not dirty, it’s just a body part. Every guy’s got one—nobody’s gonna care what you call it!”
I took the director off of speaker phone five minutes ago. People were starting to come up from the costume shop to stare into my cubicle and snicker.
“No way! I refuse to write anything about the…y’know. The unit. No girth or length or whatever. We can’t even call it ‘the unit!’ It’s probably an obscenity or something, and the theater’ll get fined.”
I’m on the phone with the director of our theatre’s upcoming production of The Naked Guy. I’m three days late placing the casting call for the lead character on the online callboard. I need to find a good-looking guy in his twenties who’s comfortable with full frontal male nudity for the entirety of ninety minutes. For the play.

I have a very special love for the oddballs and misfits of the world. And yes, before you think it -- I do consider myself one of them. Proudly.

Perhaps that's why I joined the carnival world of show business so early. Because of my work, I've known my share of musicians, actors, directors, clowns, and even writers. And I cherish all their oddities.

So I want to comment on the world of Lana Clarkson and Phil Spector. I did not know Ms. Clarkson, but can feel for her nonetheless.

Actors, by the very nature of their work, are emotional people. Also part of the magic of working in the industry in LA is that sudden turns in a career are possible. Up as well as down. So for an actress to express depression does not even suggest that suicide will follow.

As for Mr. Spector, I met him a few times at the height of his career. Even then, the site of a tiny man with ruffled cuffs speaking in a simpering voice was a bit creepy.