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[ursula veronica shaw]

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Three o’clock is late for a luncheon. Even seasoned fashion photographer Lisa Attic, longtime veteran of the international haute couture scene, sometimes forgot that in this world, the strange schedules of the rich and famous set her schedule, too. Today, that was fortunate. The caterers had been late. Trouble flying the octopus out of Tsukiji fish market that morning, a summer thunderstorm, delayed takeoff. Don’t I know how that feels, she’d thought. To pass the time, the Museum’s director had offered her a cursory tour of the place, a six-building complex, a strange combination of Napoleonic marble and lean New Age glass sitting on twenty acres of park-like property at LA’s heart. Together she and the Director had walked halls of antiquities that left visiting foreign dignitaries incensed. They’d put her in mind of sacked temples, their treasures reordered in foreign rooms. She had wondered if their gods could find them, out here.

It was Ancient Egypt the photographer was here to see. Past a brief glimpse of Sumeria, the remnants of some god-king’s palace wall like a gateway, they had entered the Egyptian Hall. The rooms were bigger down there, the ceilings higher. It seemed to her that the ancients had created on a different scale. Not for them portraits painted on playing cards and tucked away in lockets; not for them, the kind of cluttered, over-edited horseshit she’d been producing for the past several years. Most of it had appeared, brooding, glossy, in the best magazines, or supersized, emblazoned with brand names, and pasted onto billboards. Her work was towering over the approach to London right now. None of it pleased her.

Attic was here for Egypt. She was here because she hoped it would transform her and the pictures she took, because she hoped it would open its treasures up to her and become her muse. She was exhausted and aching to be reinvigorated. A sound bite on CNN, a few articles read on her phone—three months ago, news of a recent find had promised a return to real inspiration and with it, energy. Her early, formless thoughts of ruins that outdid all Europe’s cathedrals, Elizabeth Taylor in ten pounds of eyeliner, svelte female forms glowing through translucent linen, Lon Chaney in rags were finally coalescing into the beginnings of game-changing ideas. She’d approached the museum about a shoot centered on its upcoming exhibit. A handful of designers were already shipping samples and stylists’ names. All that was left was to choose the shoot’s star model, this time not from cold photographs but from life.

The parts were coming together. She was tired of everything she’d done before now. She wanted to scrap it. She wanted to start fresh. She didn’t want to be Annie Leibovitz, trucking celebrity and crew to the same stretch of Pacific beach and wrecking one designer gown after another; she couldn’t look at Vogue's December issue without cringing. All that silk tissue, drenched in salt water. For what? More shipwrecked waifs doing more nothing. Attic was tired, too, of saucer-eyed wraiths, every one exquisite in identical ways, each with high brows and sculpted bones, bee-stung pouts, pointed chins. Nowadays the colors changed but the template remained unchanged. She remembered the years when the thinnest had come from the Eastern Bloc. Last week a friend’s friend had paraded two-dozen sub-Saharan teenagers down a runway in Milan. These girls arrived so hungry. For everything. But here, they found a kind of wealth that emptied your belly instead.

Now, up in the plush, sunlit conference room set up for this meeting, guests and caterers here at last, Attic surveyed the goddesses arrayed before her. She had had them seated on one side of the long table so that their backs faced a wall of windows and blue sky framed their lovely faces. How beautiful they all were, in their disparate sameness. How powerful she must be, to command their attention. She had placed a few calls and within the week they’d assembled. No wonder. During the last fourteen years she’d built a reputation for turning models into megastars. Multimillion-dollar contracts and movie deals followed her former muses. In the table’s mirror-like sheen the photographer snagged a hasty warped glimpse of herself—thin-lipped, strong-jawed, the jacquard sheen of a Pucci blouse flashing beneath a Herrera shorts suit, her fair hair falling blunt as she was to her shoulders. At her other hand, opposite her potential models, sat the men, sharp in their suits; behind them stood a wall of mullioned green glass that slid open in panels as caterers passed in and out with trays and drinks. They filled coffee cups and glasses, set out baskets of freshly baked pastries, squeezed juice from oranges. Someone poured Attic green tea. Before her on the table lay a pen and pad of paper. She leaned forward over them and reached for a cheese Danish and a packet of sugar. One hand holding her blouse shut at the neck as she did so, she cast a sidelong glance at the last empty place at the table.

“Who’re we missing?” Attic asked, straightening, tearing open the sugar, and looking to the Museum director. He opened his mouth to speak.

The door slid open; through it came a tall, slender young woman in a white lab coat, tugging latex gloves from her hands and peering around at them through an enormous pair of safety glasses.

“My apologies, all. Good afternoon,” she said. She was trying to shut the door without another loud squeak. It wasn’t working. The director cleared his throat. “Oh, right,” she mumbled, and removed the goggles, their rubber strap snagging for half a moment on the brambling wilds of black hair she wore in a ponytail at the back of her head. Then she pulled them free and stuffed them with the gloves into the bag slung over her shoulder. She had legs up to the North Pole, this one, and a neck like Nefertiti’s. Beneath her lab coat, she wore dress slacks and a button down, little jade bobbles bought in Tibet dangling from her ears. Unmasked, her face was a shield, its features too bold and too plain for conventional beauty or even the short-lived prettiness of youth. Her dark eyes were not large, her eyelashes were not long, all outdone as they were by heavy eyebrows and a prominent, hawk-like nose. All this, though, the brightness of her gaze, her pleasant mouth—all of it, together—struck hard.

“Lisa—and gentlemen, ladies,” said the director, gesturing to the newcomer, “this is Dr. Shaw. She’ll be representing the team installing our new exhibit. Doctor, it’s a privilege.”

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this template by JENN @ CAUTION
header thanks to lovelyindiravarma @ TUMBLR.COM
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[annie jackson]

Annie couldn't tell whether it was excitement or nerves that were causing the electric feeling in her limbs. She resisted the urge to run a hand through the dark curls her stylist had spent so long artfully arranging - although how that would really marr the whole just-got-out-of-bed look was anyone's guess - and told herself to calm down. She had made it on time, after all, which was not an easy feat for someone who believed in watches only as ornamentation for a man's wrist. In truth, it was only her P.A.'s excellent organisation and her chauffeur's impressively swift driving that had gotten her here within the realm of fashionably late, but Annie was inclined to forget small details like that.

It certainly was an impressive affair. The other hopeful models, sitting along the length of the table to either side of Annie, were exceptionally pretty, as models were wont to be, but other than a cursory look over each model culminating in a displeased look at only one wearing Louboutins Annie was sure she had worn at a benefit in London last year, she wasn't interested in them. Of course, she gave each a friendly smile and a sprinkling of polite smalltalk when they addressed her, but most of them were probably professional models, in which case Annie, who had never worked a day in her life, would have little in common with them - therefore she felt little need to bring out her easy charm. Not when surrounded by the sights she saw now.

She had visited Egypt herself only once, and her overriding memory was of the distinctive, pungent smell that seemed to linger around Cairo. It had been too hot, and too dry, but the evenings had been excellent - and the diving in the Red Sea breathtaking. She hadn't bothered with the sights, not when her mother's snide comments about tourist traps had niggled at her long enough. But the artefacts decorating the hall hosting this luncheon were enough to make Annie reconsider - perhaps another trip to hot, odorous Egypt was in order...

With her eyes slightly glazed over, her mind obviously somewhere else as she gazed around the hall, Annie did appear to stand out slightly from the throng of models. She was shorter, for one - a whole head shorter than the six-foot-plus Amazons that made up a selection of the party. She was slim, but without the boyish figure many catwalk models had, and her complexion was paler, too, as a result of living in wet, dreary London for so long, and her reluctance to gain an orange tint to her skin - how could any self-respecting daughter of a rockstar go anywhere in neon fake tan, after all. Annie's big baby blues took centre stage in her finely structured face, and dressed with only a touch of black mascara they had an innocent look to them that could deceive even those who would have seen that mornings papers, with photos of her falling out of a new club in the early hours of the morning splashed across them. Her small hands were prettily manicured, but her fingers tapped absently against the surface of the table as her gaze wandered. All in all, perhaps not the typical vision of dusky Egyptian beauty, but the raw material was there - her eyes would clearly be outstanding framed by dark eyeliner, and her neck would have a graceful look to it were her hair swept up. And that air of regality that she held, unwittingly - the force of personality that those who have been well educated, have charm and good manners, and are generally used to getting their own way seem to have. As if they own the world. And with that, Annie Jackson pulled off her distant expression and absent finger-tapping.

When the director called attention to the arrival of Dr Shaw (another Amazon, one whose strength of character was what gave her face it's appeal, somehow drawing her features together into an intimidating but arresting sight), Annie came back to Earth. An easy smile crossed her glossed lips, and she sat up a little in her chair. They were about to begin. And this time, Annie wasn't here just for the party. No, her invite had been specifically about modelling, and despite the numerous offers she had turned down for similar events in London - too much work, really, when she could attend the final events and still end up photographed looking spectacular - this time she wanted it. She had something to prove, and it lit up her usually easy-going expression. And Annie was used to getting what she wanted.

[David Desmarais]

David Desmarais sat with his back to the doors, facing the window-framed women as if they had the privilege of the sight of him rather than what their job demanded. A clear blue sky that would have folded nearly into the wide, flat ocean had those jagged, teeth-like buildings not erupted from the streets below and dotted those hills like blemishes on a bright, verdant face. The models to be surveyed were mere slips and silhouettes. Only one half of the table reached for the pastries as they were set before them. David raised a pulpy glass of juice to his lips, the stones in his cufflinks flashing in their silver settings.

The light was more direct in this part of the world, the sky bared itself to you in a vulgar, unabashed indigo. It seemed so far from where they sat, stretching unfathomable beyond their little table even in this bright, high room. As one of the museum's key benefactors the luncheon invitation was accepted brusquely on his behalf. David preferred the skies of France, which seemed so close you could grip them and pull yourself into the heavens, or the demure cloak of cloud that England's sky always seemed to wear. Here the angles of his face flared sharp, even the taut curve of his jawline or the natural downward turn of his mouth were made severe in the hot light of Los Angeles. His eyes were large and motionless, as empty as the skies beyond. When he had toured the museum's antiquities himself he had seen his expression mirrored in a dozen marble faces. His skin was nearly as fine; time had seemed to wear away any lines like a stone churned by a century of an ocean's hold. Stilled now, in his seat, his throat wrapped with a cravat and stuck with a pearl, the crisp edges of his bespoke suit aligned perfectly with his form, he did not turn when the door slid open and their final guest entered.

When he did turn, it was as if startled by the second squeal of the hinges. Studying her for a moment, knuckles white as he gripped the chair's back, he stilled again. The woman could have been pulled from antiquity herself, but far removed from the white Roman busts he resembled. He stumbled to stand as the director gave his short introduction, long limbs held tight by his suit catching the edge of his seat. It tipped by the sudden movement. His face remained in its quiet composure as it fell; but where the chair would have clattered its soulless, curve-cut frame to the floor it was stopped by a quick hand that righted it. David settled the chair to the marble tile once again before turning fully to the latecomer.

"Doctor Shaw," he said briskly, quietly, and with a short nod of his head he took his seat.

[chance christopher caine]

Chance was use to meeting important people and being incredibly professional. Even though he was a party boy at heart, his father had incoorperated him into the huge family cooperation that they owned and ran. For that was where they got their money and Chance's father had wanted him to be aware of what he did in hopes that one day, he would take over the company and keep his father's legacy alive.

Though after awhile, his father seemed to lose more and more interest in his only child and instead spent most of his time on the other side of the country in New York City where the headquarters of his company was. Living in a fancy penthouse a few blocks from where he worked, Chance's father paid little mind to the fact that he had a son back home in LA. At first, it had bothered Chance and he would act out to get attention but after awhile he gave up and forgot about his father just like his father had forgotten about him.

Chance had been lucky enough to get a big break in Hollywood when he was asked to play a small part in a movie and had nailed it. It was then that he realized his true talent was acting and modeling. He did both, his physical appearance compared to that of the gods. And that was the reason he was here today. He was one of the top actors/models of the time and was always busy.

Recently, things had been a bit slow for him since he had just wrapped filming his newest action movie that would premier for a couple of months yet so he had a bit of free time and his agent was always making sure to fill up his free time as much as he could. So when his agent had been contacted, asking Chance to come to this luncheon where they would be choosing a model for the newest shoot from the renowned photographer Lisa Attic, Chance had agreed. Attic was a well known photographer and if he landed the gig then it could only up his reputation and give him a more positive image.

He was hoping that his obvious physical attraction would help him land this shoot since he could easily be transformed into looking like a Egyptian god with his muscular body and chiseled face. Plus, his light sky blue eyes really drew one in and were one of his best features.

So here he was, seated at a long table, men on one side and women on the other. He was dressed in a light grayish white suit that he had altered to fit him perfectly. His hair was neat and professional looking and a smile raised just the corners of his lips as he glanced around at all of the people that were attending the meeting. He was rather eager to get the whole thing underway and learn more about the shoot and the museum but just as it seemed like they were about to start, a woman in a lab coat came strolling in, a bit late.

Raising his brows a bit, he turned his head to look her over before the same smile lifted the corners of his mouth once more but he nodded his head in greeting to her as the rest of the attendees did. Reaching towards his glass of water, he took a drink before his gaze followed the woman for a moment longer and then turned back to Lisa Attic and the director of the exhibit as he waited for them to continue.

[ursula veronica shaw]

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Dr. Shaw made for a seat but was stopped. Startled, she watched Desmarais rise from his chair so quickly he tipped it over. Only a quick hand saved it. Her gaze rose to meet his. With a nod, and her name, he evaded it. “Sir,” she replied. He returned to his seat and she, looking away, took the empty seat beside Chance Caine.

From her own seat at the table’s head, Attic’s eyes swept the newcomer. She wasn’t holding attention long in this crowd—because to them she paled beside models haloed in Los Angeles sunlight, and because she wore nothing worth envying and indeed, unless Stella McCartney was making a lab coat now, no one recognizable. Attic moved on. Sandwiched between two bronzed Brazilians, a dark-haired girl caught her. She snuck a glance at the map of names and agencies she’d made for herself before the meeting. Annie Jackson. Right. A click of her pen and then scrabbling. Attic scratched the initials “AJ” on a corner of her notepad. Beneath it, she drew loose, S-shaped lines, bisected by sharp angles. She was delaying the meeting by seconds, she knew, but for her, they would wait.

The pen clicked again. Raising her head, Attic looked round at them and essayed a smile. “Right,” she said. “I asked you all here today to help me, in the unique ways only you can, in my new endeavor.” She spread her manicured hands, fingers straight except for the thumb that still gripped her pen. “Now, models, I know this is a little unusual for you. This time, I want you under my nose while I’m forming my plans. I hope you’ll indulge me, and—please, have a pastry. I’m told lunch’ll be forthcoming. And, I know the Museum will guide me as I draw inspiration from their upcoming Egyptian exhibit and the ah—” She looked over heaps of coffee cake and croissants to Dr. Shaw, who was withdrawing a stack of papers from her overstuffed bag. Attic noticed the woman’s elegant, long-fingered hands, active now and under the light, were ringed and latticed with henna. “—mummy.”

“Lady Sepuntepet,” said Dr. Shaw, matter-of-fact. She didn’t look up.

An anxious little laugh escaped the Director. “You know best, of course, Ms. Attic. I think I speak for everyone when I say that we at the Museum, and on the board, especially Mr. Desmarais with his generous—very generous—support, are thrilled—thrilled—at the prospect of reaching so many people with a fashion editorial showcasing our newest exhibit.”

The photographer paused. “Uh huh. Anyways, the male and female models I choose will be our canvases on which we’ll bring fashion and art together.” That reminded her. Not every suit was here to drink the orange juice and knock over the furniture. She looked Chance’s way. She racked her ready brains for a reference. A summer action flick’s trailer came back to her. Chance Caine posturing opposite the perky breasts of that moment and the starlet attached to them, erupting through a glass window into the sea, emerging with pectorals glistening from roiling surf. Explosions and roundhouse kicks every ten seconds. Not her kind of movie. But more than star power, she’d been told, her new shoot needed oiled biceps and rippling abdominals. “And of course we are always going to be striving to stay true to the source.”

Now Dr. Shaw did look up. She turned dark eyes on Chance and said, unblinking, unsmiling, unaffected—“Perhaps you could give him the head of an animal.” She shrugged, then, and returned to her papers, muttering, apparently to herself, the words, “Such as a jackal, but not an ibis.”

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[annie jackson]

Annie's attention was pulled from the woman in the lab coat - Dr Shaw - by a sudden movement from the gentleman sitting at the end of the long table opposite. It appeared that he had stood up so suddenly that he had almost sent his chair clattering backwards onto the floor. Annie tried to refrain from giggling, but the expression on the young man's face instead had Annie snorting with repressed amusement. She quickly raised a napkin to her face, and let out a few fake coughs in an attempt to not only disguise her amusement, but to give herself a moment to regain composure. When she felt the urge to laugh recede, she lowered the napkin, and relaxed back in her chair, her cheeks tinged pink from the effort.

It was then that her big blue eye caught sight of Chance Cain across the room. To be perfectly honest, she was a little surprised she hadn't spotted him earlier, the way he generally held the attention of the room - but it was enough that she had noticed him now. Her pretty, delicate-featured face lit up, and a cheeky grin flickered across her mouth. She and Chance went way back - you didn't attend the number of benefits and galas and general soirees that they did without meeting the same people more than a few times. And Chance was one of the ones she liked: not only was he a very nice piece of eye candy, but he was great fun to flirt with, and always made her laugh. If Chance was going to be involved with this fashion editorial, then it would definitely be fun. She shot him a cheeky wink before her attention was called back to the photographer. Pay attention, AJ, she told herself with a spark of frustration. It might be fun, but it was also important, and she could have much more fun once she managed to impress Lisa Attic.

She listened intently - up until the moment Lisa mentioned food. Unlike most of the models at the table, Annie very much enjoyed her food, and had forgotten quite how little she'd actually eaten that day. She'd only had a small breakfast that morning, feeling slightly fragile from the night before, and elevenses seemed like a very long time ago. Annie reached out for one of the pastries that bedecked the tabletop so temptingly, and took a large bite. It was very sweet, and slightly moist, and somehow neither the flavour not the texture were exactly what Annie craved right at that moment - but it would do until lunch arrived. She worked away at her pastry whilst photographer, director and Egyptologist discussed the setup.

She was just licking the last of the sugary crumbs from her fingertips when she heard Dr Shaw's line about Chance. Her eyes shot straight to him, and picturing the excellent specimen that Chance was with a jackal's head made her grin. Seriously, she would never let him forget it if they dressed him up as Anubis. Her gaze went back to Dr Shaw. Annie decided that she definitely liked her style - if not perhaps her style of dress, but that could be overlooked for the moment.




[Sorry it's not that great today - and hope it's ok that I went with our plot idea for Chance and Annie and wrote that they knew each other?]

[David Desmarais]

He nodded, a small gesture to the museum’s director, and straightened. “I am very pleased with this – innovative – union. When I endowed the museum it was to invest and expand its holdings. To bring Ms. Attic to this table – yes, we are very pleased to have her here with us, to have this opportunity.” Still, it was hard for him to picture these waifish girls as Egyptians. Could a dynasty be captured in a few geometric designs and an artful arrangement of limbs? Even the hues of this room were wrong, dull, faint; there the sun seared hard color into all it touched but here it cured things white. His eyes settled, for a moment, upon the woman who had garishly raised a napkin to her wide mouth to hide a laugh. Childish. “It is a chance to bring culture to this city.” Now his light eyes swept down the table where he could catch the row of profiles; he did not know them by their faces. When he looked to Chance he only saw the snarling head of a jackal, and a smile turned up one corner of his mouth. Otherwise he did not know him. Any glimmer of recognition would draw blank. Their livelihoods, he knew, came from their faces. The city was entirely foreign to him. “We may learn much from antiquities.” He said this quietly, his gaze dropping as his curious eyes came down the row again to Dr. Shaw. She was here to help them learn, he knew. He pulled a fat croissant towards him but only managed to pull it apart with his fingers, again staring out at the late afternoon sky of Los Angeles.

[chance christopher caine]

Chance took the time that Lisa Attics was taking to stall and used it to look up and down at the table, examining the competition and looking for a familiar face. And there were a few. One in particular that stuck out to him was Annie Jackson who he had come to know quite well over the years. Since they ran in the same high circle, they had run into each other a few times. Especially with their parents being in the money. He had to admit, he was rather fond of AJ. She was amusing, fun to flirt with and definitely made boring banquets and benefits a lot more fun.

When she flashed him a smile, he raised his brows a bit before letting his gaze shift to Dr. Shaw who had suggested they put an animal head on him for the shoot. He let a slow smile make its way across his face before he shrugged a bit and spoke.

"I'm up for anything." he replied, giving Dr. Shaw a bit of a wink before turning his gaze back to Lisa as he waited for her to pull the attention of the room back to her.

[ursula veronica shaw]

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Chance Caine looked her way, a smile easing across his mouth. He winked. She stared. “No you aren’t.” A lick of black hair strayed from her ponytail and, absently, she pushed it back. Her hand falling, now, to tug at something she wore on a thin gold chain around her neck, she peered closely at him and finally said, “You are not a convincing facsimile of a proper Egyptian.”

“I’m sorry?” Attic asked, from the far end of the table.

The Director released another nervous trill of laughter. “Dr. Shaw, I’m sure Ms. Attic isn’t looking for anything ¬too literal. This isn’t a movie.” He glanced Attic’s way. “Not yet, anyways.”

Around them, the catering staff was gathering up heaps of untouched croissants and emptied coffee cups. They hadn’t reached the first course and already she was beginning to doubt her own plan. She’d spent days with stylists and advisors hunting down the face of her shoot, poring over portfolios and music videos. Wait. Pause it. Go back. Replay. All of it muted. This, though, was going nowhere. She had a row of pouting vixens, a few intriguing faces, trust-fund babies, an over eager museum Director—she looked to David Desmarais, suited, gorgeous, so single, and so European. How could she forget? Monsieur Bruce Wayne was footing the bill. Were she just ten years younger—she pushed on. Anyways, those jewel-like eyes of his were swiveling, again and again, toward the giggling Annie Jackson and shying from any glimpse of Dr. Shaw. At last, the caterers set down the beginnings of their luncheon, what seemed to her an uncomfortable fusion of Asian and Middle Eastern flavors. She watched half a dozen models eye a salad of watermelon, feta, and mint with suspicion. Why would anyone cook for this crowd? And she watched Shaw toy aimlessly at the thing at her throat. A little nautilus shell, she realized, when the scientist released it. Once more, she reached for her pen, but Shaw’s next move stopped her.

“Look.” Leaning across the narrow space that separated her from Chance, Shaw took hold of his jaw between her thumb and index finger. She fixed her unblinking eyes on his face, her own arresting in its intensity. “Your obvious Caucasian features aside—the breadth of your frontal and parietal bones, combined with the short distances between your nose, lips, and chin, all make for an effeminate effect completely at odds with what we know of typical Egyptians.” She gave him a look of sympathy and then released him.

“Right. Um. Right.” Attic lowered her pen.

“Furthermore,” Shaw continued. The photographer realized with a start that there was no anger in Shaw’s voice. Unless she was missing some much-talked-about English sarcasm behind that accent, she seemed earnest. Did she just want to help? “Furthermore, your selection of female models looks nothing like Lady Sepuntepet.” She pointed over her plate at Annie. “She is sufficiently small, but Lady Sepuntepet was black.”

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[chance christopher caine]

Chance listened to what Dr. Shaw had to saw about him before Miss. Attics spoke up a bit and then the director cut in before Dr. Shaw could go to far with what she was saying. It was clear that the director of the museum wanted this whole thing to be a success and Chance could tell that Dr. Shaw's outspoken and matter of fact personality was making the director nervous that something being said would offend someone important to getting this exhibit and his museum on the map and draw big attention to it.

Turning his head back towards Dr. Shaw, he was a bit surprised when she leaned towards his and grabbed a hold of his face before examining it very closely. A slight smile began to make it's way across his face as his light blue eyes looked into her darker ones as she spoke of him not looking Egyptian and looking to Caucasin. When she finally released him, his smile grew a bit more before he spoke.

"I've never had a woman complain about my features before." he replied softly with a smile as he let his gaze rest on Dr. Shaw for a moment longer before pulling his attention from her to look over at Lisa Attics. This whole thing was her project to run and in the end, she would be the one making the decisions. Turning to look at Miss. Attics, he waited interested to see what she would have to say about all of this.

He was definitely hoping that the whole photo shoot wasn't going to be exactly like the exhibit was. After all if the shoot was exactly like the exhibit and the models looked like real life Egyptians then no one would even need to see the exhibit if they could just look at the photos from the shoot instead. Chance had been guessing that the shoot was more to put a modern spin on what the exhibit had to offer and to make people interested to see more and actually come to the exhibit as soon as it opened. But what did he know of museums and shit like that. He was an actor after all.