Everyone else who is wearing headphones discards them immediately, partly to avoid the "singing," partly to avoid that special embarrassment of overhearing something you weren't supposed to and really didn't want to hear in the first place. Val, our script coordinator, Ken, our sound mixer, and Adam, our writer/producer, are also wearing headphones to listen to the scene that's in a different car from the tow car in which they are riding.

At first, they are mildly amused and curious. By take five, they yank their headphones off so fast they get earburn. Zach and I don't mind. To us, "The Boxer" never sounded so good.

"In a clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade." Maybe we'll take it on the road.

Later that week, Zach, Hayden and I find ourselves face to face with Stephen Canfield, played by Andre Royo. Many of you know Andre as Bubbles in The Wire. Heroes truly has been the beneficiary of The Wire going off the air. We got Jamie Hector, Andre, and our director of this episode, the aforementioned Anthony Hemingway from the fantastic HBO series. (Anthony has just been tabbed to direct a major motion picture, Red Tails, about the Tuskegee airmen. George Lucas is executive producer. Obviously, it's a big deal and we're all thrilled for him.) These guys are all so good; it's great to have them on our show.

In the scene, Claire has come to recognize Canfield's innocence and is preventing Sylar and me from taking him down. Canfield then lets loose with his vortex/black hole ability and Sylar and Claire and I are nearly whooshed away, into oblivion. Both Hayden and Zach are wired to fly, whereas I am left to cling to a pillar for dear life. This scene took a long time, as you might imagine, but I think it came out really well. Hayden and Zach spent the better part of two days being levitated by wires; I was smashing myself against the pillar. We all came away bruised -- except for Andre, who drops the vortex in the middle of the room, and sneaks out the back door. I hate when someone does that.

This was one of those "what a silly job this is" moments. Don't misunderstand me, when I say I have a silly job (which I do) or "what the hell have I done with my life?" I don't mean I regret it. I have brothers and sisters with really hard jobs that require many more years of learning and training than I would have been willing to commit, so I have seen close up what it takes to do well in the real world. Who needs it? I, by comparison, chose a job that can be highly remunerative with relatively little down payment. Of course, you can easily end up in the poor house or on some dumbass reality show if it doesn't pan out, but ya pays your money and ya takes your chances.

[Quick sidebar: the war on elite. What the hell is wrong with our country that elite is somehow a bad thing. Snobbery is one thing, but it is a different thing. Elite is good. It means training. It means... gasp!... learning! Actually knowing something about your area of so-called expertise and not just freakin' wingin' it according to your gut. Special forces are elite. Neuro-surgeons are elite. And who is it that uses the word "elite" as a weapon? The elite. The elite who benefit from keeping Joe Sixpack voting against his own interests. Talk about the pot calling the kettle Ivy League! OK. End of sidebar. Can you tell it's the political season?]

Back to my silly job. The thing about a scene like this is that it takes a long time to do, we're all shouting over the wind machines that blow all day long, and then of course we have to loop it anyway (re-record the dialogue and screams later in a recording studio) because the wind machines are like jet engines howling away. While doing it we know we will have to loop it all and yet, there we are, shouting over the wind machines anyway. Sisyphus pushing the rock uphill. But when it's all put together, it looks great, tense and compelling. In short, it is a silly job, but I love it. If I have given a different impression, I apologize.

Finally, we come to the night scene in Griffith Park. This is the scene where Bennet uses Claire to get access to Canfield and then tries to use Canfield to make Sylar go away. Forever like. In a black hole. But it all goes badly, Canfield vortexes himself, and Claire is left with a whole different perspective of her father, having seen his ruthlessness up close for the first time.

We shot this scene all night long in Griffith Park on a Friday night with paparazzi hiding in the bushes, snapping away the entire time. The thing that's so creepy about these guys is that they use these long lenses that zoom up so close from so far away. It really is like having a sniper trained on you. As a photographer friend explained to me, those long lenses have a surveillance feel to them, so that you look guilty no matter what you are doing. It's all by design.

Creepier still is that, of course, they are all there to shoot Hayden. The entire tabloid industry is predicated on destroying young women. If that sounds harsh, sorry. That's what they do, that's how it's all set up. I could run through the lobby of the Four Seasons naked and on fire and the paparazzi would yawn. (I haven't actually done that, by the way. I wore a thong and was only smoldering.) But the second Hayden or Kristen Bell turn up anywhere, the shutters start flapping. They camp out, they stalk, and they wait.

They target only young women, girls in some cases. Think about it. Other than the occasional shot of Brad Pitt or Matthew McConaghey (though seldom on fire, often naked) who is it you always see in these magazines? It's all young women. And it needs to be controversial/damaging or it's a no-go. So, anything salacious or, if need be, a shot where they don't look as trim as one thinks a starlet should be or too thin, or a shot where, if you're really lucky, they look drunk, even if they're not -- that's golden. I have actually heard a paparazzo ask Hayden, "When are you going to get a DUI?" I don't know how she puts up with it. I'd make Sean Penn look like Harvey Levin.

The night gets late, then early. Canfield has lost everything and is suicidal. Andre's compelling and sympathetic. Claire is beside herself at her father's ruthlessness. HRG is being an absolute schmuck and poor Zach has to stick around all night long even though he is mostly far off in the background. The presence of the paparazzi has put everyone on edge; enough so that Zach and I do not reprise our Simon and Garfunkel concert. Maybe the world owes the paparazzi a debt of gratitude after all.

Next time: Doyle, the puppet master. He makes Karl Rove look like... well, he's almost as manipulative as Karl Rove. David Laurence XVII makes his acting debut and rocks the house!

And much more! (?)