One Little Slip, a whistle blowers story

Playing the Part

From as early as I can remember, my brother Dennis and I were the entertainers in our family. It probably started as a way to get attention, but what stayed with me was the effect—making people laugh, easing the room, changing the temperature of a moment. Even now, I recognize a small void in my life when I’m not sharing that energy with others.

A recent visit with an old friend of my parents reminded me of this. He told me how much he enjoyed my company, how easily laughter followed wherever I went. That ability—to find humor in strange places, to read a room and respond—has always come naturally to me. It’s not something I cultivated intentionally. It’s just how I see the world.

Most of my elementary school teachers would probably agree that I couldn’t sit still. They weren’t wrong. But I found outlets. I played several instruments, eventually settling on piano in my early teens. I never learned to read music properly; I memorized what I played. When my teacher and I stopped clicking, I walked away. Any singing voice I once had I’ve mostly ruined through years of smoking and poor choices, but I still enjoy working with what’s left—usually paired with an acoustic guitar. One day I expect I’ll return to entertaining, not for money, just because it would do me good.

Dennis, my younger brother, took a more formal path. He excelled in musical theater and majored in acting at Oswego, where he also picked up the guitar. I attended Albany Academy, an all-boys school, where I avoided things like vocal clubs or theater auditions—not because of a lack of interest, but because of perception. At that age, labels mattered, and I wasn’t interested in inviting commentary. I was busy with sports anyway.

Ironically, my first real acting role came without auditions or scripts. I became a police officer.

I’ve often said that every day I put on the uniform, I was putting on a costume. Being comfortable speaking to strangers, reacting under pressure, and operating in unpredictable environments came easily to me. Law enforcement gave me endless opportunities to perform—sometimes literally.

In 1992, while working out of the Selkirk substation, I was asked to assist a local gas company with what I assumed was a routine drill. I brought along my ride-along student, Ryan Gill. When we arrived, it turned out they were filming a company safety video. All they needed was for us to block a road and look official.

I tossed Ryan my pocket badge, declared him a detective—he was wearing a tie, after all—and went to work.

What followed was a simulated evacuation with paid actors playing panicked civilians, protesters, and media. No one told them how to react to a cop who didn’t hesitate. I slipped into what I call get the fuck out of here mode and started moving people—forcefully, efficiently, convincingly. The actors followed my lead. A couple pushed back and were corrected immediately.

By the end of the day, I’d made friends at the company. Later I was told that during editing, someone commented that the cop “stole the show.” They were informed that wasn’t an actor—just me. I never felt I missed a calling. I felt my abilities simply made me better at what I was already doing.

That pattern continued.

In 2004, while finishing a medical leave after my second back surgery, I took my son to an open casting call for War of the Worlds. Child labor laws made his involvement unlikely, but casting liked my look and asked if I was available. I was. I became part of a small group of extras—Group Z—used repeatedly and kept comfortable while hundreds of others froze outside.

The first night checked every box: snow falling, chaos scenes, proximity to Spielberg, a brief conversation with Tom Cruise. It was enough. I didn’t plan to return—until production called, offered a union waiver, and increased pay. I went back for four more nights.

That experience taught me how the system actually works—overtime scales, hazard pay, union leverage. My $80 day rate turned into something much closer to $400. More importantly, I learned how to navigate that world without being consumed by it. SAG later invited me to join. I considered it. Briefly.

In 2013, a local news piece on my business—Specialized K9—led to involvement in a public television series on the heroin epidemic. Speaking on camera, delivering unscripted monologues, working with my dogs—it all felt natural. That ease wasn’t accidental. It was earned.

Further opportunities followed. Reality television development. Talent holds. Meetings that went from enthusiastic to nonexistent. I was never disappointed. I had no interest in being followed around or becoming recognizable. I understood what that bargain required, and I wasn’t willing to pay the price.

In 2017, that knowledge paid off.

When production began on Escape at Dannemora, I reached out—not as an actor, but as a professional with K9 expertise. They responded immediately. Within days, I was fitted as a New York State Police canine handler. My dog, Stone, became the first purebred chocolate Lab depicted as an NYSP K9. That mattered to me.

On set, I made an impression early—knowledgeable, direct, unapologetic. I corrected wardrobe choices. I contributed to scene construction. I was consulted, then trusted. I directed my own scene, collaborated with real-life command staff, and was invited behind the monitors to critique authenticity.

I nearly died one day when a stunt vehicle missed its mark and came straight at me and my dog. A veteran stunt coordinator saved us at the last second. Another lesson. Another reminder that realism carries risk.

I didn’t chase screen time. It found me anyway.

When the series aired, friends pointed out my appearances—some planned, some accidental. That was fine. I never needed recognition. What mattered was understanding the mechanics: performance, perception, authority, timing.

That understanding applies everywhere.

I don’t see acting as pretending. I see it as adaptability. Comfort in my own skin. The ability to assess an audience, read intent, and respond appropriately. Those skills were sharpened over decades of knocking on unfamiliar doors and managing unpredictable people.

Too many involve themselves where they shouldn’t and pay for it. Learning to read faces, body language, and energy will never fail you. The only real challenge is remaining humble as you get better.