I work in a silly, silly business. With a lot of silly people who do silly things. These silly people come up with a clever but silly idea they will handle and entire function of a process. Perhaps the silliest of these ideas: the casting director.

This job blows. It blows like no other job blows in my silly little business. It's tedious, time-consuming, redundant, frustrating, and from what I understand not the highest paying sector of my workforce. Their power has one of the thickest glass ceilings recorded by the scientific types. They weave their magical spells throughout the city, seducing actors old and young to come to their offices while at the same time stifled by a far more stronger magic themselves. And while casting directors have all the magical prowess of a Harry Potter novel, Producers wield a far greater power. It's the dark art of finance, of what sells, of who looks better, of they-have-more-pull. And like that fellow with the big, red, flaming eye who lives in his gothic-style high-rise apartment in a rather smoggy part of Middle Earth, everyone's scared of them and afraid to have the final say.

I love my casting directors. Don't get me wrong. I dated and lived with one for four years. They have a wicked sense of humor, know more about plays than most actors do, and have some of the most romantic sensibilities regarding theatre I know. It's this absurd duality I write about this morning. How a profession filled with so many inspired people work at job that seems to eliminate any inspiration at all. And they choose to do it still. Quite admirable, I think. Quite admirable, indeed.

I still think Hobie the Dog would be really good at it.