So it's Sunday night and there's really not much else to do and you've been hearing these teasers on the radio for the last three days about a chance to be right up there on the silver screen with no less than Gilda Radner and Bob Newhart and Madeline Kahn, in a movie called "The First Family," directed by none other than Buck Henry, for the bastion of estertainment, Warner Bros., and all you have to do is show up at Scandal's that delicious little den of punk culture right in the heart of decidedly non-punk Georgetown, U.S.A., and -- who knows -- your visage may be flashed around the world in a parade scene that's set to be shot right here in the Nation's Capital next Monday -- or Tuesday, if your big debut gets rained on.
After all, this show business. You appear between 6 and 8 p.m., part of a cast of 1,000, because who really cares if the Phillies win or lose, and the road to Gollywood must be paved with tinsel, and God knows there's enough tinsel at Scandal's which is ensconced right next to Tramp's, both of them owned by Mr. Disco Mike O'Harro himself, who in fact at about 7 p.m. is strolling through the door in very classy cowboy duds and encouraging a woman sitting by the phone in a black dress slit up to her eyes.
"You're great looking," says the Disco Cowboy, scanning her body in 1.2 milliseconds, "and you ought to go back into Scandal's, come on, and GET IN THE MOVIE!!!"
Here's what happens:
You wait on line, a line that is stretching around the corner, right past the stinking garbage in the Dempster Dumpster, and maybe you'll walk up to the bar and order a drink because somehow it looks very COAST to be holding an Amaretto and cream on the rocks in one hand and a Marlboro in the other, and you may check yourself out 15 times in the mirror because this could be your big break and when you get back into the dance room, where nobody is dancing, you get seated and spoken to over the PA:
"Please don't call Central Casting," says Dagmar Whittmer, one of the two women who owns the agency at 1000 Connecticut Ave. NW Suite 804. "That is one way we'll never use you. The film business is booming right now. We have one coming every month for the next several months so if we don't use you this time . . . You'll be paid $30 for the whole day. We'll feed you lunch. We'll bus you around. It'll be a lot of fun. You won't get rich but you may get famous. Names don't mean anything to us. Please send us a picture if you don't have one with you."
Of course, many have brought pictures. They know that names mean nothing. "I have some new contact sheets at home," says Ron. He'll bring one by. Girls naked. Girls with their mothers at Christmas. Guys in very skimpy bathing suits. Noreen Ryan tears out page 126 of the November Playboy, where she apears in very short pants. Marc Simpson hands in his laminated ID from London. "I won't be back before August, so I don't need it," he says. "It's not so thick that it's gonna break your stapler, is it?" Susanna Crane, 18, hands in a glossy 8x10 of her and her senator dad, standing before the Capitol. She's circled her face. "We know which one you are," says Carol Ness, the other half of Central Casting, DC version.
You have 10 seconds to sell yourself:
"I was told to tell you I'm a friend of Michael's," says a girl in Spandex pants and shoes sharp enough to maim.
"Your hair was so much longer then," Whittmer says to Roy, 18.
"I'll grow it back, I'll grow it back," he says, only to have her say, "We want short hair now in the movies. It's the '80s. We already did the casting for 'Hair.'"
"That was, well, I was in a magic, show," says a veiled woman, explaining the sequined charm of her photo.
"You have to look all-American," says Ness. "No makeup, or maybe just a little bit of makeup."
"You ought to be a male model," say Whittmer.
"You're married already and that young," she exclaims to another man.
"This is not a very good likeness of me," a guy says."By the way, I'm a friend of Denise Lewis's. No, you don't know her? Anita Dashiell?"
"DON'T CALL US," says Whittmer again, over the PA.
Few seem discouraged.