P.S.S.S.

By Ray Abruzzo on 05/09/2008

I have trouble sleeping at night. I have no trouble falling asleep during the day. There is a constant pain between my shoulder blades. At times, the pain feels the need to travel north to my neck only to return to its home, nestled between the blades with more conviction than before. My nerves are shot. I snap viciously at loved ones with little (but believe me, some) provocation. I wander around, lost, not knowing where I should go or what I should be doing. My appetite changes from not being able to find satisfaction in anything I eat (including Chocolate Haagen Daz) to having no appetite at all. Here's the deal, I am suffering from a brand new illness. It is unique and rare indeed. There is no known cure. I really don't think it is contagious. Actually, I am quite sure it is not contagious. Perhaps only 100 people worldwide could possibly be infected with this specific malady (although I suspect a milder form may exist out there as well.) But mine is the real deal, the initial strain, if you will. I am suffering from P.S.S.S. ---Post Sopranos Stress Syndrome.

Now, I know some of you are saying you are "depressed" that the groundbreaking HBO series is over. Oh poor you! What will you do on those 13 Sunday nights every year or two? Big Fuckin deal! Let me tell you something: that is NOT Post Sopranos Stress Syndrome. I have it. You don't. You can't. I can and I do.

Other people are still walking around "depressed" because they found no satisfaction with David Chase's creative ending of the series. They are still reeling from the 15 seconds when they thought their cable went out. GET OVER IT! Some are angry that the "Member's Only" guy didn't come out of the bathroom and splatter Tony's brains all over Carmela's onion rings. These people may be dissatisfied but THEY DO NOT HAVE P.S.S.S! I DO! They do not. They are just spoiled brats that wanted to be spoon-fed a nice, neat ending. They needed "closure" all wrapped up nicely in a mellifluous box. Tough shit! I'm in pain here!!! Real pain. Physical, emotional and spiritual pain. You can always watch the DVD's or HBO ON DEMAND, (I highly recommend the brilliant special bonus feature THE MAKING OF CLEAVER, very clever and well acted). Watching the sanitized episodes on A&E will help with your withdrawal symptoms, like a nicotine patch or Methadone, not the real thing but it helps the cravings. But what do I do? I'm in real trouble here.

Ok, I guess at this point I should explain. I played Little Carmine Lupertazzi in seasons 4, 5, 6 and 6B (which should have been called season 7 but that's another story). So, yes, I was Little Carmine. Hence the "mellifluous" box reference in previous paragraph and the self serving recommendation of THE MAKING OF CLEAVER (if you haven't seen it, you really should, it's really funny, self promotion notwithstanding). WOW, for a moment there the pain between my shoulder blades disappeared...it's back!

I was hesitant to write a blog about this subject thinking it may no longer be topical or current enough. But alas, last Sunday HBO re-aired the final episode and at least four people since have approached me again complaining about the ending or asking my interpretation. I also got an email from Rob Scheafer , a childhood friends saying, "Ray, been a while, how are you doing post Sopranos". So, I guess it's still worth venting about.

Whenever a long running show ends there is post production let down, a postpartum depression, or the "I'll never work again" Blues. I am sure the cast of Seinfeld suffered their own version of P.S.S.S. (their final episode really was disappointing, depressed the hell out of me). But those guys are all millionaires. They are all set for life. Millions of dollars in the bank tends to ease the severity of the symptoms of P.S.S.S.. That's why it is me writing this and not James Gandolfini. I think he's okay. Don't worry about him. I don't.
To be honest, I have no idea how Jim or Edie or Michael or Lorraine are handling this. I do know how a handful of lesser players feel. You know their faces; maybe you know their character names, maybe even their real names.

Little Paulie, Patsy, Bennie, et al. We are the ones NOT in the group photos on billboards or Vanity Fair or Cigar Aficionado Magazine. We are the ones listed as "...and other cast members" at the Premiers and EMMY parties etc. I am sure Carl and Danny and Max are suffering from Post Sopranos Stress Syndrome as I am. How could they not be? What are the chances we will ever be part of such an iconic project like this again? It's hard enough to get any acting job no less one that becomes part of the fabric of society as The Sopranos had. Look, we are all grateful for the time and memories. We are grateful for the work, for the paychecks. We are grateful for the individual moments to shine each of us received like a gift from very gifted writers. We appreciate the acknowledgements from fans walking down the streets of NY, or the nod of recognition from other actors when we walk into a waiting room for an audition. But what NOW?

For the last 5 years I was "that guy on the Sopranos". I had the answer for the question that actors dread most; "you working?" I was able to answer, with forced modesty "Oh, yeah, I'm working on a TV series, it's (pause) ... Cable", then watch the inquisitors face fight the urge to react when I answer their "oh yeah, which one?" " The Sopranos". I liked saying "I'm on The Sopranos". I really, really, really liked it! I loved it! Fuck, my neck hurts!

There is some consolation in all of this. I know if I should ever get arrested for DUI or shoplifting or jaywalking or littering, I will make the newspapers and gossip rags. The headlines will read: SOPRANO ACTOR BUSTED; ART IMITATES LIFE OR THE OTHER WAY AROUND? The problem is, I don't really drink or shoplift. I am too conscious of the environment to litter...maybe I'll jaywalk, but you only get a ticket for that in Beverly Hills, in NY it's the way you get to the other side. I would do the drug rehab thing but it seems so ...uh, um...common; more for young female pop stars than ex mob bosses. (Although I am popping Advil like M&Ms for my shoulder. Did I mention the piercing pain between my shoulder blades?) Plus Mel Gibson and Michael Richards along with that young girl, what's her name, Britney-Lindsey Hilton, have raised the bar for headline-getting escapades. Let's face it, if I get out of my PRIUS without wearing any pants, believe me no one is waiting to get the photo.

So what do I do? Creative people at times like these-- create. I would love to get lost in my work. Painters can get up in the middle of the night and paint if they feel inspired. A writer can turn on the bedside lamp and purge. A musician can lock himself in a room and just play. Not the same for an actor. We need someone else's permission to be creative. I mean, I suppose I could recite some of my best lines from The Sopranos, "an ounce of blood costs more than a gallon of gold" or "This is a fuckin stagmire". Or I could recite Shakespeare. But an actor acting alone, no audience? Well, think tree falling in the forest.
So, what's an actor to do? We wait for the phone to ring. Every ring of the phone gets our attention like the ding-a-ling on the diner door. We look at source of the ring, freeze for a second and think "Is this it"? No, it's my mother, or sister, a friend or neighbor. But "IT" could come at anytime and like Tony Soprano, we just never know when... or even if.

Wait! The phone is ringing right now. RING Ow! I turned my head too quickly. Pain shooting down my spine. RING! I have caller ID. 323 525-3 RING!-- It's my agent! "H-h-hello," "Ray?" BLACKOUT!