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Acting has been good to me and for me. I have worked hard at it; had my share of struggle; my share of luck; my share of success; my share of failure. There are actors who have had more success and fame and many who have not. I have always been content with whatever success I was fortunate to have. I don't have a jealous bone in my body. (Except for Pavarotti's voice, alas now silent.) I owe a great deal to many people (agents, writers, producers, directors) but most of all to the public, without whose acceptance I would still be stacking hay in Montana. (Which isn't a bad job by the way.) The public has always, always been kind to me. (The same cannot be said of "the business".) I receive many inquiries as to why I don't appear as much as I used to on television or in the movies. Why it seems to many that I have disappeared. Let me share some of my thoughts and feelings as to "whatever happened to Dirk Benedict?"

He is alive and very well and lives in the land of Quasiville. Quasi-rich. Quasi-old. Quasi-wise. And of course quasi-famous. It is the purgatory to which celebrities, of a certain level, are sent to live out their quasi-lives.

What saved me from the psychiatrist's couch and the whiskey bottle's embrace, as I found myself in this purgatory of quasi-celebrity, was the fact that I never wanted to be one. As my career progressed from doing repertory theatre in the provinces; to starring on Broadway (Butterflies Are Free); to starring in movies (W with Twiggy; SSSSS with Strother Martin); to starring on television (Battlestar Galactica; The A Team; Scruples; etc.) my anonymity waned and my celebrity waxed. Naïve lad that I was, from ranch-country of Montana, it never entered my mind that with success as an actor, there too would come a loss of privacy. That my job would not end when the curtain went down or the camera stopped rolling. That when I went out into my life, people would recognize me, and more than that, they would think they "knew" me. I am by nature a recluse. Having complete strangers greet me as an old friend and expect I greet them in the same way, was disconcerting, to say the least. All I wanted, all I've ever really wanted, was to be left alone. I enjoy being my Self. By myself.

Unlike many (most) actors, I never became one to gain adulation. I have always believed myself to be the most interesting character I have ever played. (With the possible exception of Hamlet?) Like all diseases (alcoholism; cancer; diabetes; obesity) of which celebrity is one, it is progressive. You don't get it over night, American Idol, Big Brother, etc., notwithstanding. Being a resourceful lad, I became quite adept at resisting this creeping celebrity that was impinging upon my life. It was a challenge to my ingenuity, but for a time I was able to inoculate myself against this disease of celebrity. I didn't go to those places where celebrities go, like moths to a flame. The private clubs, the "in" discos and nightclubs; didn't attend the openings of films; didn't dine at the trendy restaurants nor drink at the hot-spot watering holes. I didn't wear the attire of someone who was "somebody". When I wasn't working, acting, I was more than likely back in Montana fishing or hiking in the mountains. Hanging out with the "normal" people who knew me when. Knew me before I became public domain. I found I could pretty much move amongst the average folk and not become fodder for their need to rub shoulders with someone who was... celebrated, special, famous. (Which need I have studied for decades and still don't comprehend, not having it myself.) However, it would come to pass that I would continue to succeed in finding work as an actor and with each job my celebrity would grow and my attempts to maintain my anonymity would become less successful... no matter how drab my attire or unfashionable my means of transportation i.e. my automobile.

This being America, the automobile, more than anything, defines you. There are many people who live in squalor, so they can drive in splendor. If you are a celebrity, it is required, (I think it's in the Screen Actor Guild's By-laws.) that you drive a sexy, hot, trendy, NEW car. My car, when first in Hollywood (1973), was a '66 Volkswagen. Then it morphed into a '63 Nash Rambler. One of the ugliest cars ever made and a definite step in the wrong direction if being perceived as a celebrity is one's aim. I adored it. More than a few aspiring Hollywood starlets refused to ride in it. During this time I was working at Paramount Studios, starring opposite Twiggy in a horror film called "W", although now I believe it is called, I Want Her Dead. I played the "I" of the film, Twiggy the "her". In real life, they way in which I wanted Twiggy had nothing to do with death, although I knew better than to embarrass her with an invitation to cruise The Strip in my sensationally ugly ride. (Alas, in my real life, unlike in my TV/film life, I never got the girl I wanted.) But I digress.

The car was gold in my battle to hang onto my anonymous lifestyle. Time, however, would pass and eventually I would have the unfortunate good luck to be cast in a TV show called Battlestar Galactica. Playing, of all things, a loveable scoundrel who, unlike Dirk Benedict, did get all the girls, no matter what galaxy. And so I became Starbuck. Well, I didn't become Starbuck, but only pretended to do so and only for an hour every week in the land of TV. But for those people out in TV Land.I did become Starbuck. Or rather, Starbuck became me. And as Starbuck, my dwindling state of anonymity vanished. I awoke one morning, drove to the corner store to get a paper, and was mobbed by everyone in the store who had just seen me the night before swashbuckling my way through outer space. This was shock to my psyche. I knew I was in trouble. But I enjoyed the work. Enjoyed being Starbuck. I just didn't want to "be" him 365 days a year. And I didn't. For Starbuck would morph into another loveable scoundrel called Lt. Templeton Peck, AKA Faceman. And with this the heavens of stardom moved, the wheels of fame turned, and my anonymous goose was cooked. For this show, unlike Battlestar Galactica, had staying power. For four years I kissed the girls, fought the bad guys, bantered with my compadres, Murdock, B.A. and Hannibal, and accepted my disease, my fate, my celebrity.

And so it would come to pass that one day, when I went out to the garage to get into my '63 Nash Rambler, I would discover it had become a sky blue 911 Porsche Targa. The perfect car for a TV star. Holy Faceman, how did this happen? Did I buy it during a celebroholic blackout? I must have it bad, this celebroholism. Sick, sick, sick. But I believed... nothing lasts forever. (My romantic life had taught me this.) And I was right for The A-Team did indeed come to an end. Faceman would no longer be "loving and leaving them" every Tuesday evening on NBC. He would go to that graveyard of forgotten TV characters. And so too would my state of celebrity. And I could begin my days as a recovering celebrity. A "celebroholic", living life Twelve Steps and one day at a time. Step one: Remove myself from Hollywood. Back to my native Montana. Step two: Become a stay-at-home father. Step three: Retire from acting. Well, semi-retire for my sons did need clothes, food, soccer balls, ski equipment, etc. etc. And so, like an alcoholic who loves to be in bars but doesn't like to drink, I loved to be in movies but didn't want to be famous. Occasionally, I would fall off the wagon, or rather casting couch; find myself stumbling over cables to get in front of the cameras to do such things as; a film called Alaska; a German film entitled Goldene Zeiten (Golden Times); forgotten weekends doing Fan Conventions in Holland, England, Germany, America; Celebrity Big Brother; but always I would sober up, get back on The Program and begin again my celeb-obriety. It is slow going, but I think I can say, as I lapse less and less, that my life as a recovering celebroholic is becoming a reality. And as it does, my serenity begins to return. The man in the mirror is less and less Starbuck or Faceman or even Dirk Benedict, for that matter, but rather Dirk Niewoehner. My "fame" now more vicarious... through the achievements of my sons. Perfect.

Maybe I have it licked, this progressive disease of celebroholism? Some days I think yes. And others, well, on other days, I discover my disease of celebrity has not completely disappeared. It has only become... Quasi. Once a Celebroholic always a Celebroholic.

For an alcoholic, it is a life spent saying "no" to the continually offered drink. "Ah, come on, one drink isn't gonna hurt you." For a celebroholic, life in Quasiville, is also spent answering questions. Questions asked by those who stumble onto you at your son's soccer games, at the supermarket, the petrol station, in the bathroom of the local bar (pub), waiting to board an airplane. Forget purgatory, it's a kind of hell, and it goes like this: