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essentials are all easily,-and artificially-controlled. You need a little more sun? Flip a switch. You
want rain? Turn a knob. Outside, you're at the mercy of the gods
... and the gawkers.
    Anyone who's ever hung around a movie crew knows that even
the most straightforward shooting requires a veritable mountain of
equipment, and an army of big guys in flannel shirts and work
boots who eat bagels, complain, and schlepp stuff around. Teamsters multiply like rabbits; generators, cables, lights, and cameras
start to appear; and before long, the locals start showing up to
watch-especially in suburbia. "The Invaders" was shot in a little
town called San Pedro, and by the time I showed up, the crowd
was closing in, and getting huge.
    I was, as always, early. I hooked up with the gawkers and passed the time by watching the carpenters swear and whack the set into
shape. I had been watching for about an hour when an assistant
director tapped me on the shoulder and told me it was time to get
ready. I went with her, and I remember hearing the neighborhood
crowd whisper as she led me away, "Who was that?" and "Is he anybody?"

    Were they talking about me?
    I didn't have much time to ponder the question, because it was
time for the effects guys to turn me into an evil space spy. Luckily,
the script called for me to be masquerading as a human, so the
green paint and latex were spared. This alien did, however, carry
an interstellar walkie-talkie, which had to glow and beep and blip
on command. In short (bad pun intended), they had to run wires
through my underwear.
    The wires, batteries, tape, clips, bulbs, and hardware started at
my leg, ran up my pants, through my jockey juniors, up my back,
through my shirt, down my sleeve, and into my little round flashing "communicator." When they got through with me, I could
barely move, and was sure that with all the junk attached to this
thing, it ought to really work. I mean, it looked like I should have
been able to turn the thing on and call up Captain Kirk on the
Enterprise, but all it really did, under all that Vegas-like glitz, was
blink, lamely, on command.
    Finally, the communicator and I were ready ... and as if on cue
it started to rain. Immediately I pictured tomorrow's L.A. Times
headline: CHILD STAR ZAPPED BY MARTIAN RADIO-TESTICLES FRIED.
    The assistant director assured me that I'd be okay (they always
do), but I wasn't happy.
    Adding to my now soaring stress level was the fact that my
scene called for me to ride a bike up a hill, around a corner, and
stop on a pinhead-sized mark. Then I was to pull out my blinky
communicator, lift it into the camera frame, and spew out a halfpage monologue before pedaling back out of frame. That would
be tough under any circumstances, but I was gonna have to do it
in the rain, and, as my pal the assistant director was kind enough
to point out, it had to be done in one take or we'd lose the light
level necessary to shoot (prepping my communicator had taken so
long that now the sun was going down).
    "Wonderful!" I thought. "I have to be perfect, in the rain, or ruin
an entire day's shoot ... and my gonads are going to fry."
    They got set up. I got my instructions from the director, had my
clothes, props, and makeup fixed, and in the process was elevated
to VIP status among the hundred and fifty or so gawkers who were
still standing out in the rain, staring at the goings-on.
    To my great relief, we did nail the scene in one take, my geni tals survived intact, and I was through filming for the day. I left the
set, heading back toward my trailer to change out of my now
waterlogged costume, and was surprised by several people who
came up to me asking for an autograph. With pens and paper ready,
they ran toward me on the set, and I had absolutely no idea what it
was they wanted. Far from being flattered, I was basically scared.

    Finally, I put two and two together and figured the situation
out. Now, I knew what