The Glamour of a # 1 Hit Show: An Insider’s POV.

Shuffling through lunch take-out menus from a dozen mediocre restaurants (who guarantee you that your food will be room temperature) and wearily deciding on the forgettable carbs from the studio commissary.

Smiling frozenly while a guest actor waxes expertly on her favorite subject — herself.

Handing over the keys to your new beemer and wondering where it might end up after all valet parkers have split early to watch the World Cup.

Reluctantly agreeing with the Network Exec that bad is good, black is white and dull is funny.

Trying to figure out how such funny, interesting people could throw such mind-numbing parties.

Ducking agents.

Ducking spec scripts from friends of friends of friends.

Ducking phone calls from anybody who isn’t already in the Writer’s room.

Trying to think of a joke to end the scene when the room is like a morgue.

Looking forward to hiatus the way you looked forward to Christmas vacation as a kid.

Looking forward to gossip almost as much.

Taking a moment to think about the only other ways you could make a living –teaching high school kids who’d rather be anywhere else than listening to you drone on and on or trying to sell some kind of crap that nobody needs to somebody who has taken an instant dislike to you.

I love show business!

There’s Nothing More Boring Than Hanging Out the Wash

Her mother made wet flags of clothes and hung them for the world to salute. Like paintings of her life they were. Pictures of her feet in cloth. Pictures of her legs and bottom with metal flashes. Buttons that gleamed like secret stars that only shone in the day time.

The clothes made moist flapping noises. They were seagulls skimming the waves with the tips of their wings. The poles creaked with the ghosts of a thousand-thousand washings. The line cracked like a whip when the breeze filled the towels with a sailor’s breath.

The sun peeked through the skipping garments. Soon they would smell of its gentle baking. The delicate aroma of sun and wind.

A spattering of rain made her mother rush out of the house with a shout. She snatched the clothespins off and attached the clothes to anything that could grab: hands, elbows, teeth, and chin. She hustled them inside like coughing children to a doctor.

Then her mother carefully folded the clothes and put them safely away. Like love letters.

An “Atomic Skull-Crusher” of a Life

Wrassling was a young man’s game. It helped if you were stupid, too. But as the years went by Hans only got smart enough to realize what a cruddy way this was to make a buck.

Lately, he’d just been scraping by. Hans wasn’t handsome enough to play one of the good guys so he really suffered. He caught a lot of colds from fans spitting on him in drafty, should’ve been condemned years ago arenas.

One day Hans got the bright idea of wearing a cape to spruce up his act. He didn’t make one extra nickel for doing so and now he had to dry clean it after every match or the other wrasslers complained. Stupid, really stupid.

Hans slipped on his tights and got a run in the left one. Shoot and these were right out of the package.

With a sigh he did his John Wayne amble into the tunnel to face another night of boos, hisses and a downpour of hostile saliva. Still it beat being a politician.

That Unnamed Guy in the Picture: A Story in the Verbatim Style

“That’s your mother on the end. The other woman is Sukie Zimmerman. But as for the fella I can’t place him at all.”

“The sun is at our backs so I can’t tell hide nor hair about his face.”

I’d ask Sukie but the good Lord took her five years ago. Not that she’d be much help. Her memory weren’t so hot when she was alive. And one can only imagine what death does to our ability to recall.”

“Though, who’s to say? Maybe in heaven you can even conjure up when your first tooth came in for crying out loud!”

“I think his name began with a ‘P’ or a ‘B’. I’m sure it didn’t begin with an ‘X’. That’s something I’d remember. Of course, if I lived in some Moslem country where all the names start with ‘X’ that might not be so true.”

“Aaaah, one of these days it will come back to me but by then I won’t care.”

Judy Garland: Mother of the Year (Except for one tiny little mistake).

Notation on the back of this picture: Judy and Lorna, 5/57– Flamingo Hotel, Vegas.

If JUDY loved
LIZA
and Lorna
so much
why the hell
did she allow them
to go into
SHOW BUSINESS
after IT
ruined
her life?

Ukuleles and Other Aspects of a World Class Singing Extravaganza: The Agony of Lower Billing.

“Look at those two geeks on stage. Singin’, talkin’, jokin’ and playin’ the ukulele and the uk-banjo.”

“What’s with Wally throwing his bulk hither and thither and havin’ the chutzpah to say it’s dancing? And callin’ himself –that Big Boy! Making a ton of money out of the fact that every night after the show he stuffs himself fuller than a polka party kielbasa. And for the record he’s not a Big Boy; he’s a Fat Guy!”

“But at least he’s a genuine lardo. That phony smile that Madame Minnie sports is just so much paint.
She’s like a cheap Japanese baby doll. If you ever saw her up close it would make your blood run cold. She’s got the eyes of viper and a heart to match.”

“I’m the only real talent in this trio. Or family for that matter. And I come on for just three minutes during one of their dozens of costume changes. And that’s only because tenors are inthis year.”

“If my voice ever changes it will be good-bye, Bud. They’ll ditch me in Altoona with crocodile tears in their peepers. As I shove off they’ll hand me five bucks, one of Wally’s out-dated suits and a hearty –Don’t forget to drop us a line, Junior!”

… “What? … And give up show business?”

Vital Lessons in Show Biz: How to Rewrite An Ice Show.

“Well, the headline is that the first twenty minutes of the show aren’t paying their fair rate. In short: fail. The Producers want more emotional content.”

“A show that is done on ice with more emotion. Ummmm, ‘kay. Got it Anything else as long as we are seeking the impossible on toast? … Or in this case a large slab of frozen water.”

“The Powers That Be aren’t sure. But if we want to show it to to them again we have to get our own rink and pay the skaters. They absolutely refuse to come up with one more buck. But that aside we should look at what we’ve got which is very good and then change the not so good part.”

“But the money people who we are pitching the revised show to are philosophically opposed to ice shows, right?”

“No, no, no… but so far – yes. But we still have people who haven’t seen it yet and if we get them to come and the people who hated the first twenty minutes come around then we might be in business.”

“Okay, let’s review. It would be better if we had Sonja Henie instead of Karen Lynn. And anyone would be better than Johnny Flanagan, but that’s what we got. If we changed either star it would be blood in the water. In this case frozen water. And that would be all she wrote.”

“Yes, yes, yes. It’s like we’re soul mates. Well, just run it through your word processor and blah, blah, blah. I have a 1:30 at the Ivy. I just have two other tiny notes– Do we have to use the Johnny Silvers Orchestra and does it have to be on ice?”

“Well, let’s put a pin in that and discuss those two areas next time, shall we?”

“You are one hell of a writer. Ciao!”

Sky Pokes: A Gathering of Aviatrixes

Emily was bequeathed a plane when her husband, Eddie wrapped his flivver around a tree. She felt safer in the sky.

Francesca loved her plane more than any girl ever loved a horse.

Dana had been born in the sky and had given birth there.

Margaret never prayed before she took off because flying was a prayer.

Beverlee screamed like a maniac each time her ship cork screwed through a bank of clouds.

Amanda liked to push her plane to fly as fast and as far as possible. A great day was when she landed with three drops left in the tank.

Angela trailed pilot’s hearts behind her like knots in the tail of a kite.

Marissa had a smile as broad as the blue horizon but had a tendency to fall for spoiled rich boys who just didn’t get why anyone would want to hurtle themselves into oblivion.

Lauren had a secret wish to kill some hot shot in a dog fight.

Amelia sat confidently above them all with her fame shimmering like a silver wing in a cloudless sky.

A Guide For Viewers Who Wouldn’t Be Caught Dead Watching One of Their Slapstick Fests to the Artistry of The Three Stooges.

The story always begins with the initiating action. The cue for this is “where are those three (whatevers) we sent for?”. In today’s film the (whatevers) are house painters but the same would apply to
bakers, door-to-door salesman, career diplomats ad infinitum.

Many film enthusiasts confuse the initiating action with the precipitating action. However, the precipitating action always comes after the former. It usually begins with something along the lines of Larry swinging an oversized two by four. (or long plumber’s pipe or surfboard. — Though, a surfboard would seem like a long shot in an original Stooges. Perhaps in the new Stooges movie?– See you at the opening midnight show!) Larry accidentally hits Moe in the face.

This action invariably causes the by-stander, Curly, to laugh or technically “snerk”. (Note: not “Nyuck, nyuck, nyucking” which always occurs three beats after the denouement.)

Moe reacts to Curly’s jocular humiliation by boinking him on the head. (“boinking” in the old school sense of a hard chopping blow to the cranium, not the more salacious slang popularized by the tv show as a euphemism for pre-marital sex.)

This assault on his brain case causes Curly to “Whoo-whoo-whoo” himself into a state of extreme unreason. After spinning a few times (often in one direction but not limited to that) Curly launches himself toward Moe. He misses and clobbers Larry instead.

The force of Curly’s assault forces Larry into a blind retreat where he steps into a bucket of paint or glue. (In the new film the bucket will be filled with some up-dated substance like pheremones, stem cells or nano-bots.)

The precipitating action having achieved closure the film moves on to the all important indiscriminate mayhem. Wild mayhem will now engulf the film from this point until the end which will be signified by the venerable strains of Three Blind Mice.

We hope this will enhance your viewing pleasure. For optimal enjoyment please leave your girl friend, sister or Mom at home.

Doubt, Confusion or Pretty Darn Sure: Which Way Doth Your Soul Go?

Are you rock solid in your belief in your immortal soul or (judgy-judgy as it might sound) do you have a doubting soul? At worst shouldn’t we call the condition unusure or confused soul?

Most doubters are just poor souls who don’t want to wander up the wrong path. Lots of folks selling spiritual snake oil out there. They’d like you to put your brain on hold. Take it all on face value. They sure don’t want you to start picking away at their beliefs.

Of course, there is always that little bump in the road on the Path to Enlightenment called “take it on faith”.
With your newer religions, the kind that set up shop at a defunct gas station or a little store front off the 405, it’s easy not to believe. These guys don’t have the millennia of tradition going for them. No white smoke announcing the new Pope (when I was a kid I thought it was a miracle, but it’s just a great theater effect.) or “why on this night do we recline when we eat” as pillars of belief.

But even the mightiest of religions have that “take it on faith” or “it’s God’s word” logic problem. (Not to mention the “believe it or we’ll chop off your head” folks.) This wouldn’t be so bad if they didn’t treat your skepticism as if you were a toddler or mentally deficient.

I’d like it better if we still had gods in the garden or attic. Or a whole bunch of them gathered together in Valhalla. The whole one true faith seems pretty corporate once you scratch the surface.

I love God as much as the next guy but as far as knowing the directions to His house you can count me among the doubting souls.