I briefly mentioned in the Introduction of the book, how blessed I was to have the opportunity to star in a CBS series with the legendary George C. Scott. Our friendship was one that many people easily responded to by saying, “What the hell would these two even have in common? I guess, George can talk about his Oscar and Dan can talk about…George's Oscar, too.” The truth is, we had a helluva lot more in common than you'd think, although our evolution to get to that realization was not your typical one.

The series we starred in was called Traps, a one-hour cop drama shot in beautiful Vancouver, B.C. For those of you who don't know, the working hours on a one-hour series can be extremely long and demanding. Because of that, George had it in his contract that due to his age, health, and the fact that he was an Academy Award winner, he would work only eight hours a day and not one second more…literally.

As soon as the director would call action on the first shot of the day, George would reach down to his old-school Casio digital watch and start an eight-hour timer. It didn't matter if he was in the middle of the greatest take in Hollywood history, when that watch chirped to alert him the eight hours had passed, he would immediately, yet politely excuse himself with a “Goodnight, everybody.”

That was a great perk for George and deservedly so, he had earned it. It was not so much a perk for me on the other hand, especially since we were in almost every scene together. Because of it, we would only shoot master shots and George's coverage for every scene scheduled for the day. Once he left, we'd then have to go back to each scene and shoot my coverage. Therefore, I was constantly working overtime, 12- to 14-hour days, five days a week on Traps while still traveling to and from Vancouver on the weekends to squeeze in episodes of MTV Sports around the globe. This did wonders for my bank account, not so much for the inflatable-raft-sized bags under my eyes or my well being.

The longest span I went was 39 days without a day off. It became sort of a badge of honor for me, and quite frankly, I think it endeared me to George as well. He appreciated the fact that I appreciated and respected him and his body of work enough not to be an ass about it and/or to rock the eight-hour boat.

Honestly, I was never upset about it, I'd wake up every morning and think “Holy shit, I get to work with George C. Scott today.” It still blows my mind to think that I'd be on set and get the occasional morning knock on my trailer door, only to find George standing there saying, “You want to run lines, Serpico?”

At the end of that 39-day stretch, day 40 was a rainy Sunday in the 'Couv and rather than sleep, I chose to go to the hotel bar, eat pizza, drink some beers, and watch football. It was a dark, mid-afternoon, and the only people there were myself and the bartender, so I decided to call my friend. To this day, I'm not sure what really compelled me to do so, probably the higher alcohol content in those damn Canadian beers. But truthfully, I didn't know anyone else in town and I was a bit lonely.

The bartender handed me the house phone and asked who I was calling, I responded with “A buddy of mine who I work with.” I dialed George's room and as the line was ringing, I remember thinking, “Maybe this isn't the best idea, we've never hung out other than at work. What if he's asleep? What if I piss him off?” You know, lame excuse kind of stuff like that. As my mind was racing, he answered the phone:

“Yeah?”

“Hey George, it's Dan.”

“Yeah?”

“I was just calling to see what you're up to?”

“I'm on the can, Darling!”

“Oh damn, I'm sorry! I'm just down at the bar and wanted to see if you wanted to have a drink? But, if you're busy…”

(I waited for him to interrupt with a response, but to no avail. Then after a long pause that almost prompted me to say “hello?” he replied.)

“I'll be down when I'm finished.”

“Okay great…so about how long?”

(To this day still not sure why I asked that. Probably my nerves trying to fill the silence.)

“Could be two minutes, could be two hours, whenever I'm finished!”

(George hangs up.)

Cut to 20 minutes later. I was considering leaving, thinking he wasn't going to show, but I was afraid to just in case he did make an appearance and I wasn't there. So basically, I knew I had to hunker down at the bar for good and wait it out one way or the other.

A few minutes later, the afternoon changed. From my vantage point at the end of the bar, I could see out the entrance, across the entire lobby and to the hotel elevator doors. Then almost as if in slow motion, the elevator doors opened and standing there alone was George C. Scott, looking as badass as you could possibly look in a hotel elevator.

He was wearing a robe and slippers, but not Sutton Place Hotels finest. He was wearing his own worn-for-years-probably-got-them-for-Christmas comfy plaid swag from home. People were double taking as he strolled across the lobby with his hands in his robe's front pockets and head held high.

I couldn't help but think, “He's the coolest son of a bitch on the planet,” while simultaneously shitting my pants not knowing what to do once he sat down. Even the bartender was like, “Wait, that's your friend, eh?” Once George entered the bar I got up, hugged him, and offered him the seat next to mine. He smiled, looked at the accessories I happened to be wearing, and as he sat down and said, “Take those goddamn earrings out of your head, Nancy.” And just like that, the ice was broken.

So what goes better with some broken ice than some cocktails. The bartender nervously inquired about George's order, to which he simply responded, “Glass of vodka, beer chaser.” The rest of the volley went as follows:

“On the rocks?”

“No.”

“Chilled?”

“No.”

The bartender then filled what looked to be a double shot glass with Stoli and slid it in front of George, to which he responded with a look that led me to believe a “Patton slap” was going to make an appearance in the near future.

George then smiled and very poignantly again said, “I want a glass of vodka, beer chaser” at this point I felt the need to jump in and go all Wild West saloon and say, “Just leave the bottle and put it on my tab.” Which the bartender promptly did, and our afternoon was off and running, as was my bartab. Holy alcohol markup, Batman!

My fears of potential awkwardness between us were all but gone after a few sips of Russia's finest and some genuine laughs. The rest of our afternoon turned into quite an unexpected, heartfelt, conversation, not just about work but about life. More often than not, on all of our journeys, it's those impromptu moments when there are no expectations of what will occur that turn into some of the most appreciated, memorable times of our lives.

As the afternoon turned into a rain-soaked evening, his unparalleled candor was on full display. When I asked him why he refused to accept his Academy Award, George chose to honestly answer the question that he'd answered a thousand times prior, as opposed to slapping my Nancy-assed earrings out of my head.

He took a swig, raised his voice a bit, then with the slightest hint of a laugh he said, “Because it's acting, Danny, it's not the Olympics. I didn't jump higher than everyone else or win a goddamn race, so why should I get an award for doing my job to the best of my ability?” He was chastised by many in the media for this opinion and for declining to accept the award. But whether people agreed with it or not, you had to respect the balls it took for him to tell Hollywood that about their most prized possession. Plus, I've always felt, those who most vehemently opposed his view did so because deep down inside, they knew he was right. Acting is an art, and the beauty of art differs in every set of eyes that view it. So how can you truly say that some art is better than others? To do so is to state an opinion, not state a fact.

There was one thing from that day that made a huge impact on my life, and it's something that I will always embrace. It was the fact that of all the people on the planet, the first one to professionally appreciate me as an actor, above anything else, was George C. Scott. He didn't see me as the MTV guy or the Burger King guy, or any other guy, for that matter. He didn't care about any of that, he simply told me, “I appreciate you for what you are. A helluva good actor.”

Now, while many of you may feel that I'm mentioning that to shine some positive light on my career, feel free to do so, but you'll be wrong. Because when I said George was the first person to appreciate me as an actor, I was including myself with those who didn't necessarily view me in that way. Hearing him say those words was the obvious kick in the ass that I needed to see myself in that same light. I needed to accept that it was okay for me to be proud of all the hard work I'd put in and that it was good for me to appreciate me. As I referenced in the very beginning of the book, if you don't like the narrative of your story, become the narrator. That seed was planted in my conversation with George that day.

As he began gathering himself to leave, he got up from his seat and tightened the belt on his robe. George said, “Don't ever give a damn what anyone else thinks, Danny. Because when you get caught up in all of that other bullshit, you lose sight of who you are.”

With that, George downed the last bit of Stoli in his glass, then turned, and as he started to walk out of the bar, he yelled back without looking, “I'm going to sleep now, Darling. Don't call me anymore tonight.” And just like that, George C. Scott walked out of the bar, across the lobby, and entered the elevator in the same manner as when he arrived an hour earlier. Head held high and not giving a damn what anyone else thought.