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Friday, October 29, 2010

CHUCK CONNORS KISSES THE RING


I said, "Got a Hollywood joke."

Chris nodded. "I love Hollywood jokes."


I said, "A TV producer, an actor and a writer die and are whisked by the Great Ratings Spirit to the top of the Black Tower."

"Great Ratings Spirit," Chris said admiringly. "Universal's dreaded Black Tower. Nice touches."

I continued: "The Great Ratings Spirit intoned, 'Throughout your careers you have earned tens of millions of dollars for our Masters. For this, you will be handsomely rewarded. Choose anything you wish to be, leap from this tower, and you will be blessedly transformed for all eternity.'

"The producer immediately jumped, bellowing, 'I want to be an eagle!' Instantly he was changed into an eagle and soared away into the setting Studio Logo.'

"Not to be outdone, the actor charged into space, shouting, 'I want to be an owl!' Immediately, he was transformed into an owl and flew off over Universal's Back Lot.

"Now, it was the writer's turn. He'd been thinking deeply about his choice, and when he had it fixed firmly in his mind, he ran forward, but he was concentrating so hard his feet got tangled up and fell off the edge, screaming:

"'Shhhhiiiiiitttttttt!'"

When Chris was done laughing, he said, "Why is it that the writer always gets it?"

I shrugged. "Life, Hollywood style."

Chris said, "Like in a horror flick: the slut gets it first, then the token black dude."

"Pretty much sums it up," I said.

Chris rubbed his hands together. He said, "Well, our mission today... and we definitely choose to accept it... is to figure out how to knock off that pisshead, Chuck - The Rifleman - Connors and bury him at the crossroads with a stake though his black heart."

I raised an admonitory finger. "A silver stake. He's a werewolf, not a vampire."

Chris pulled a yellow legal pad close and scribbled on it. "Or, maybe instead of a stake, a silver spear," he mused.

"Where's our hero supposed to get a silver spear?" I asked.

Chris shrugged. "Same place he was gonna get the stake."

And so we settled down to plot the demise of the arch-villain of Werewolf, a TV series created by our old friend, Frank Lupo, who had hired us as story execs on the show. As related in the four previous Misadventures (Episodes 51 through 54), Frank had also asked us to kill off Connors and replace him with another Werewolf King.

Fast backstory: Connors had a horrible rep around town, but had convinced Frank that he'd sincerely reformed, and any rumors Frank may have heard about his private life as well, were either untrue, or even if they were sort of true, he'd gotten professional help.

As Chris had put it when we heard the details, "Gives you a whole new way of looking at The Rifleman." (The late 50's-early-60's series that had made the ex-pro athlete a TV star)

The hiring of Connors caused a minor stir of nostalgia in the entertainment press. After a few appearances on talk shows, old Chucky-Poo suffered a relapse of Big-Head-itis, and demanded a new contract and a lot more money. This was before the series had even aired.

Things went downhill from there. We were writing and shooting around him, using his body double for most appearances. Plus the rare times he did show up he freaked everybody out, mainly, we heard, because he was such a scary 6'5" 240 plus pound wild man that nobody wanted to work with him.

With me so far? Good. We can now return to plotting Mr. Connors' well-deserved demise.

Chris said, "Even with a three-parter, we don't have a lot of time. At 22 minutes an episode, that's 66 minutes to track down Skorzeny, kill his ass, and intro the new Werewolf King."

"The good news," I said, "is that Connors has agreed to film it. We just have to give him a super duper sendoff."

"No problem," Chris scoffed. "We're the best hitmen in Town. How many regulars have we killed so far?"

"Five," I said."

"No, six," Chris corrected. "You always forget that Spanish broad who wouldn't fuck the producer."

I sighed. "Yeah, I feel bad about that," I said. "But we didn't know the details at the time. Otherwise we would have passed on the gig."

Gloom descended.

"Asshole," Chris said.

"We can put him in the next Sten," I suggested. "Have Kilgour rip his head off and shit in his neck."

Chris brightened. "I feel better already," he said.

I said, "If we use the first two parts to track down Skorzeny - maybe hint at the new bad guy at the same time - we can give Connors a big speech in the penultimate scene. Then kill his ass. But he still gets in the last word at the end. Tells Eric his troubles have only just begun."

Chris picked it up: "Then part three is devoted to setting up the new villain. We can really show him off. Make it look like Eric's problems are almost insurmountable."

"Even with a three parter," I cautioned, "we've got to watch where we set all this. Too many locations... too many setups... it'll murderilize the budget."

Silence as we thought. I paced, while Chris doodled on his notepad. He pushed his chair over to the bookcase and started thumbing through the volumes. I kept on pacing. Thinking... Thinking...

Chris said, "Wait up!"

I turned and saw him pull a book from the shelf. It was Interview With A Vampire.

"Why don't we do an Anne Rice?" he said. "Set it in New Orleans?"

I got excited. "We can dupe the French Quarter on a set easy," I said. "Make the whole thing at night. (On a set, night and day are just a matter of an overtime-saving flipped switch) Add some dark alleys. Old gardens with lots of hanging moss."

"And fog," Chris said. "We can really crank up the smoke generator and haze all the scenes. Cover up anything that might look phony."

I stopped. "But it can't all be New Orleans. What about Skorzeny's backstory? And the new guy? We're gonna have to show all that."

Chris nodded. "Don't say it, show it," he said - the most basic rule of filmmaking that goes back to the days when Edison sicced armed Pinkerton agents on his peep-show rivals.

I said, "What'd Frank say about Skorzeny's backstory? You talked to him last."

Chris snorted. "Didn't think he needed one at the time," he said. "Figured he'd fill it in later. Said to work it out for ourselves. Pretty near anything we want."

"That's cool," I said - meaning it. This way our hands wouldn't be tied. And we had worked with Frank long enough to come up with something that'd make us all happy.

Chris said, "We have to make this whole thing spooky, mysterious. Nothing's as it appears to be, blah-blah." He doodled some more, then: "Music! We're in the French Quarter. Maybe use musical clues from some old Blues piano man."

"Love it," I said, scribbling a note. Then, "Say... do you recall that spooky Mime?"

Chris laughed, remembering. We'd been in New Orleans with Kathryn and Karen a couple of years before. Strolling through the French Quarter late at night, then wandering off into some side streets, looking at weird antiques in the closed-shop windows.

We were admiring a riverboat gambler's ring that concealed a single shot pistol, when thick fog closed in around us. We set off for our hotel, but soon became lost.

Chris was standing on his tip toes, trying to make out a street sign, when we heard a spooky sound. Turning, we saw something swirling towards us through the fog.

Then a white-painted face, with red lips suddenly appeared. We all jumped... Son of a gun if it wasn't a Mime!

A Mime who was a little bit drunk. (One of the nice things about New Orleans is that almost everybody is almost always a little bit drunk.)

He pointed at his face with a white-gloved finger, and spoke: "Never fear. Thish facesh ish regish-tered with the (hicupp) po-leish... Shh-I mean... po-lice."

Then, weaving a little, he guided us through the fog to our hotel. He had a red scarf about his neck, which he withdrew and waved at us whenever we lagged. Being a Mime, he never spoke again, but only wriggled the fingers of one gloved hand when he bade us fare-thee-well outside our hotel.

"Boy, do I remember that sucker," Chris said. "Just about jumped out of my shorts."

I said, "We could maybe have a Mime float through the whole story. Use his appearance to maybe button all the key scenes. We don't know whether he's good, or evil..."

"Until Eric maybe finds him dead at an act break," Chris put in.

This was getting to be a whole lot of fun. We even got to write some clue-laden lyrics for the piano player to sing to Eric (our good guy Werewolf) to send him in the right direction. (After the episodes aired, the Musicians Union sent us an invitation to join, which we did just for the bragging rights.)

Finally, we were done. Everybody loved the three scripts. Frank reported that even Chuck Connors was delighted at his sendoff, and we left work Friday evening, well-satisfied. The shoot was set to begin in Salt Lake City first thing Monday.

Saturday morning I got the call:

"Allan, we're fucked." It was John Ashley, Lupo's El Segundo.

"Connors?" I guessed. No biggie, since getting fucked by him was the most likely crisis.

"You got that right," Ashley said. "He had his agent call Frank this morning. He's not going to show."

"What a chicken shit," I said. Then: "Guess we're going to have to do a fast rewrite."

"Yeah, can we get you guys to come in?"

"No problem," I said. "I'll call Chris. Be there in an hour or so."

Called Chris. "What a pig fucker!" he said. Then: "Be right over."

Frank was waiting at our office when we arrived. After he cursed himself dry, he said, "We need to collapse it into two parts, instead of three. Lots of cheater angles so we can double Chuck all the way."

Chris said, "Can we take the gloves off, boss? Make Connors grovel in front of the new guy? Show what a fucking coward he really is?"

Frank said, "You can have the asshole kiss his ring, for all I care."

"Holy shit," Chris said. "I love it."

Frank went back to his office and we got to work. After all our labors trying to give Connors a dignified sendoff, we felt personally betrayed. Before, the whole thing was somebody else's problem. A problem we had to work around, to be sure, but we had no reason to feel offended, or even put out. In fact, it was kind of fun figuring out how to work around the difficulties. And Connors' not-so-secret weaknesses, were only scandalous stories we could use to amuse our civilian friends.

But now, we felt like he had personally pissed on our work. And when you piss on a writer's work, you might as well be pissing on him.

Writer's may be the low men/women on the totem pole in Hollywood, but ultimately they are the worst people to fuck with. The Keyboard really is mightier than the sword. Take that producer who used us to get back at the Spanish actress. Hell, he'd not only find his name on the Sten shit list, but when the book was published, that name would be seen by science fiction fans the world over, plus it would be enshrined in the Library Of Congress for two small forevers.

And when we were done with Chuck Connors, his humiliation would be witnessed by millions for years to come. Didn't matter if he refused to be filmed. We had him on camera from previous episodes and we could mash those up with live profile shots of his body double.

"Fuck a bunch of Chuck Connors," Chris said.

And we did.

We rewrote the penultimate scene so that his character was revealed as a craven of the lowest order. And we made him kneel before his Master and kiss his ornate ring. Made that as humiliating as we could

Then we got to the final death scene.

Chris said, "If we disfigure Connors in the fight, we can get a full on face shot."

"Gotcha," I said. "Go for an angle with the double, then maybe Eric throws acid in his face. Let Make Up take over from there. Skorzeny turns, we see a blackened ruin of a face, that actually belongs to the Double, but still looks like Chucky-Poo."

"Acid! Love it," Chris chortled, pounding away at the keyboard. "And we keep the silver spear, right?"

"Right," I said. "Eric drives the fucking spear right through Chuck Connors' black fucking heart."

Chris raised a hand. "Wait, wait!" he said. "Better still... How about we put some kind of electrical device in the scene? Have the spear go right though Connors' body... make contact with the electrical doo-hickey... and then we..."

"Fry his ass!" I laughed.

So we worked it out - me pacing, and talking, Chris typing as fast as I could talk. Since the death scene was set at an old theater, we made like the last play showing there had been "Elmer Gantry." Just needed some posters and such. That gave us a big old cross from the Come-To-Jesus scenes, all studded with lightbulbs. And... Voila! Our device for the electrocution was born.

Over the weekend, we collapsed the three scripts into two. As we finished each page, Frank's assistant retyped it, put in scene numbers, and then our secretary faxed the pages to Salt Lake.

By Sunday night we were done and the actors in Utah were already half way through memorizing their lines. Meanwhile, the director and crew were rushing around making adjustments.

Just before we left for the night, Frank came into our office, waving the scripts and laughing.

"Hey, you really did have him kiss the ring," he said. "Shit, guys. I was just blowing steam."

Chris summed it up with his favorite payoff: "Fuck with the bull, you get the horns."

Postscript: The buzz about the quality of the show was so good that actors and actresses who didn't normally do TV were eager to get guest-starring roles. But then, as it happens more often than not in Hollywood, the studio bosses got all excited about having a big hit on their hands. They tried to fuck with us, but Frank wouldn't let them. Finally, they demanded that the show be expanded from a half hour to an hour. Frank rightly believed this would destroy the show that he had in mind. In the end, Fox burned off the episodes, throwing them all over the schedule so nobody could find them. And that was the end of the most delightful staff experience that Chris and I had ever enjoyed.

NEXT: SCREWED BY THE MOUSE - OR, MICHAEL EISNER AND THE 7 PI$$ING DWARFS



IT'S A BOOK!
THE COMPLETE HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES! 




WHERE'S WHERE YOU BUY IT
The MisAdventures began humbly enough - with about 2,000 readers. When it rose to over 50,000 I started listening to those of you who urged me to collect the stories into a book. Starting at the beginning, I went back and rewrote the essays, adding new detail and events as they came to mind. This book is the result of that effort.  However, I'm mindful of the fact, Gentle Reader, that you also enjoy having these little offerings posted every Friday to put a smile on your face for the weekend. So I'll continue running them until it reaches the final Fade Out.  Meanwhile, it would please the heart of this ink-stained wretch - as well as tickle whatever that hard black thing is in my banker's chest - if you bought the book. It will make a great gift, don't you think. And if you'd like a personally autographed copy you can get it directly through my (ahem) Merchant's Link at Amazon.com. Click here. Buy the book and I will sign it and ship it to you. Break a leg!

THE STEN COOKBOOK & KILGOUR JOKEBOOK



Two new companion editions to the international best-selling Sten series. In the first, learn the Emperor's most closely held  cooking secrets. In the other, Sten unleashes his shaggy-dog joke cracking sidekick, Alex Kilgour. Both available as trade paperbacks or in all major e-book flavors. Click here to tickle your funny bone or sizzle your palate.    

Saturday, October 23, 2010

A Werewolf Paradise. Or, Killing People Is Fun


Chris said, "Shit, Cole, I think we just died and went to Heaven!"


I didn't reply. I was too busy gawping at the reason for Chris' speculations in Theography.

Only minutes before we had lunched at a restaurant conveniently located many floors below the production offices of Werewolf, where we worked as story execs for our old buddy Frank Lupo. After paying the tab, we'd climbed aboard an elevator which had clambered ever upward, dropping people off at each level, until finally only the two of us remained.

Then the elevator doors open-sesamed and we found ourselves gazing out on an absolutely stunning tableaux:

A veritable sea of gorgeous, scantily-clad women.

Skirts up to you know where. Shorts cut so high that many parts of the "where" were nicely outlined. Tiny blouses and tops overflowing with feminine bounty. Long, graceful, silken limbs wherever you looked, all shod in heels so high that one wondered how the wearer could remain upright. Scented air direct from some fabled perfumery billowed over our frozen forms.

Chris murmured, "If it's Heaven, it's probably a Muslim Heaven. Let's count and see if there's 72, Allah willing."

"You're supposed to get 72 Virgins," I reminded my partner. "Not hookers." (No disrespect intended, but that's what they looked like - hookers. Albeit very fancy hookers. Girls from high-toned Storyville brothels, or maybe they were channeling the Everleigh Sisters, God bless them.)

Chris snorted. "You're such a nit-picker, Cole," he said. "Whatever it says, I'm definitely converting."

We stumbled forward, as thoroughly pixilated as any poor souls who had ever wandered into a magical forest.

None of the women paid us the slightest attention, but swirled around the hallway, eyes fixed on the carpet, or the ceiling above, muttering to themselves, sometimes gesticulating as if making a point to an invisible audience.

Then I realized that they all had pages in their hands, which they were glancing at for a few seconds, followed by a several moments of closed eyes, accompanied by frowns of concentration. Then they'd start muttering again, while waving their arms about.

"Oh," I said. "They're here for The Unicorn."

"Toldja they were Virgins," Chris said. "Otherwise no self-respecting Unicorn would have a thing to do with them."

But, now he was laughing, because he got it too. The ladies were actresses here for a casting session to pick the lead, and the lead's best friend, for an upcoming episode of Werewolf, titled, "The Unicorn."

In the story the two characters were ladies of the night. One would be murdered by the evil Skorzeny werewolf, played by Chuck Connors, while the other would be rescued by our hero/werewolf played by John York.

So all those gorgeous women actually were working girls, but not the sort that their attire might imply. In Hollywood, an actor pretty much has to dress the part when she/he is trying to land a gig.

Chris and I moved through the crowd, doing our gentlemanly best to avoid bumping into, or boorishly brushing against, so much pulchritude.

When we rounded the bend we were once again brought up short. But this time it was not Beauty that did us in, but a multitude of Beasts.

This portion of the hallway was jammed with the most evil looking men you have ever seen. Thugs one and all. Muscular thugs. Scarred thugs. Tattooed thugs. Snarling thugs. Grimacing thugs. Thugs of every size, shape and hairy-scary countenance.

"Guess we got kicked out of Heaven," Chris said. "And this is the other place."

Fortunately, the thugs also proved to be actors, dressed in character, while milling about the hallway, gesticulating, committing scenes to memory, and muttering lines.

"Must be here for Skinwalker," I said.

In this episode of Werewolf our hero finds himself pitted against a Skinwalker/werewolf, who is murdering members of an Indian tribe stranded in the big city. It was written by Christian Darren, son of James Darren, the former teenage hearthrob, who had gone on to become a helluva television director. (He directed several episodes of Werewolf, including one of ours.)

Chris said, "Either that, or they're here to scalp everybody."

We weren't as gentle with this crowd, elbowing through, getting snarls of resentment, silenced immediately when they saw us open a door that led into the Production Office's inner sanctum.

"If they knew we were just writers," Chris muttered, "instead of something really important like casting agents, they'd probably knife us."

"If they catch on," I said, "you hang back and reason with them while I scurry off for help."

A few seconds later we were safe in our office, which was rather nifty; potted palm in one corner (a gift from Kathryn and Karen), some Sten and Reckoning For Kings book cover posters, (from Kathryn), shelves packed with books (mostly dealing with witchcraft and lycanthropy), two desks with comfortable chairs, two IBM-type computers, and one studio-veep-type wall of glass, which offered a spectacular view of beautiful downtown Burbank, with the Black Tower of MCA/Universal menacing in the distance.

As we settled in, Frank's right-hand man, John Ashley came calling. Ashley was a handsome man in his early 50's. He'd started out as an actor, playing mostly in B-movies, melodramas and horror flicks, then moved into production, putting his long experience and degree in economics to good use. His credits included Apocalypse Now, as well as many hit TV shows, such as The A-Team, which is where I assume he and Lupo became tight.

"Jesus, you guys have been writing up a storm," he said. "Got our fax machines working overtime."

This was no exaggeration. Chris and I had been hammering steadily at our keyboards, producing finished script after script. In all, we wrote eleven episodes of the first season, and did extensive rewrites of most of the remaining eighteen. For The Unicorn episode, for example, we had basically jacked up the title and moved a new script under it. Skinwalker, on the other hand, needed very little help. Christian Darren was an excellent writer.

"Gotta keep feeding the monster," Chris said.

"Well, I don't know if this will help," Ashley said, "or if we're stepping on your Creative Toes."

He dropped a file folder on my desk, flipped it open, and fanned out sheaves of paper with photographs clipped to them. Chris came over to look.

"We've got ourselves a gung-ho location guy in Salt Lake," Ashley said. "Whenever he goes location hunting, he checks out other places he runs into that catch his eye."

For budgetary reasons, the show was being shot in and around Salt Lake City, which proved to offer an unexpected treasure trove of resources. First off, the nice people in Utah had invested a lot of money in the arts, both fine and popular. Set decorators, wardrobe and makeup people, musicians, and just about any other below the line talent we needed were readily, and cheaply, available.

Key people from each department were camping out in Salt Lake and employing experienced locals to work under them. Same with actors. Turned out there were plenty of people with stage experience in Salt Lake, so we only had to send our regulars and guest stars there. Stunt people, of course, were almost always Hollywood pros.

When we finished the first draft of a script, we drew up a rough location and character list, which would be faxed to Salt Lake and the hunt would immediately commence. The final draft usually followed in the next 24 hours, and the cameras would start whirring. A typical shoot was six days, with a one-day turnaround. This meant that on the Seventh Day the actors did not rest, but set to work memorizing their lines for Monday.

Chris and I shuffled through the pictures. One was of a really cool old rollercoaster. Another was of an old black freight train. A series of shots limned a beat up mall, with boarded over windows.

Ashley tapped the train picture. "It's a working train," he said. "And the tracks it's sitting on are part of a small, private rail line. Guy who owns it says we can get the train and as much of the tracks as we need for ten grand for three days."

We both perked up. "Shit, that's cheap!" Chris said.

A sudden thought: there'd been a rash of bum-beatings and murders at the LA yards in recent days. One or two people seemed to have been involved, the cops told the Times reporter. So far, there were no arrests, and no reported clues.

I said, "A werewolf stalking hobos. That'd be a cool story."

Chris and John agreed. "Keep the whole thing on the train," Chris said. "Like we did with Black Ship." (Eventually the train would be featured in an episode titled King Of The Road. A piece of the track and train was also used for Blood On The Track, a boxer story written by Christian Darren.)

Tucking that one away, we went through the other photos. The bankrupt Mall was intriguing as all hell. Malls were all the rage with young people in those days.

"Maybe something with runaways," I said. "Hiding out at the Mall. A kid's paradise. Throw in a werewolf and it could be one scary story."

Everybody liked that too. (A few weeks later, we turned it into something called "A Material Girl," dircted by James Darren.)

Ashley indicated the roller coaster. "They claim it's the last wooden roller coaster in the country," he said.

"Does it work?" Chris asked.

"That's what they told me," Ashley said. "The amusement park went belly up a few years ago, so the owner will let us have the place cheap."

I shrugged. "Yeah, but we'd need a ton of extras, right? And some working rides, besides the roller coaster."

Ashley thought a minute, then said, "I have a buddy who's a honcho at Seven Flags. We could maybe get some second unit guys over there and steal some candid pickups with handhelds."

"That'd look cool," Chris said. "We'll make a definite note of it." (That eventually became an episode titled "Blind Luck," written by Chris' buddy, Dennis Foley.)

Next, there was this crazy-looking junkyard, with cars piled all over the place. This, too, was abandoned - you never think of junkyards going out of business. (Where do you junk the junk in a junkyard?) And it became the setting for Norman Spinrad's Gray Wolf episode, mentioned in the previous Misadventure. Norman's story was about a werewolf who went back to Neanderthal times. The junkyard - with lots of smoky fires adding to the atmosphere - became his lair.

Finally, we were done. And it had proved to be a most productive meeting. Ashley left, bearing many words of appreciative thanks from us to the "gung-ho" location director.

"This is a fucking great job, Cole," Chris said. "Every sucker on the show is pitching in to make it work."

Indeed. So unlike many of the other staff jobs we'd had, where everybody seemed to be working against each other.

We went down the hallway to the coffee room to further fuel our afternoon, once again pushing our way through faux thugs and hookers.

As we were filling our cups, a round little man scurried into the room. He was breathing hard and his eyes were wide with fright. The guy looked a lot like a mouse (with a comb-over) who had just escaped the claws of a hungry feline.

He pointed back through the door and gasped, "Did you see those... those... uh, uh... strange people out there?"

"What strange people?" Chris said in pretended puzzlement. He looked at me. "You see any strange people, Cole?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Nope."

Chris looked back at the little man. "You work around here, buddy?"

The little man nodded. "Down the other hall," he said. He named an accounting firm, whose sign graced the door at the far end of our floor. (Frank had snapped up all the other available space, leaving the accountants stranded in a sea of Hollywood weirdness.)

But, Mr. Mouse was not to be put off. "Surely," he said, "you saw all those, you know, girls... and... and... well, men who look like they belong in prison."

Chris shrugged. "Just folks looking for work," he said. "As it happens, our company is hiring."

Mr. Mouse was startled. "You mean, you... uh... work for ... uh... That Company? The one that's hiring?"

"We certainly do," Chris said.

"Uh... what kind of... you know... business are you in?" the little man asked.

Chris gave him his most wolfish grin. "We kill people," he said.

The little man jumped. "Oh!" he said.

Then higher still: "Oh!"

And he whirled about and scurried from the room as fast as his little legs would carry him.

Chuckling, we got our coffee and made our way back through the throngs of actors. We were still laughing about it a little later, when Frank came into our office.

"It's time, guys," he announced.

"Time to take out Chuck Connors?" I asked.

"You got it," Frank said.

"Fuckin' A," Chris said.

NEXT: CONNORS KISSES THE RING



IT'S A BOOK!
THE COMPLETE HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES! 




WHERE'S WHERE YOU BUY IT
The MisAdventures began humbly enough - with about 2,000 readers. When it rose to over 50,000 I started listening to those of you who urged me to collect the stories into a book. Starting at the beginning, I went back and rewrote the essays, adding new detail and events as they came to mind. This book is the result of that effort.  However, I'm mindful of the fact, Gentle Reader, that you also enjoy having these little offerings posted every Friday to put a smile on your face for the weekend. So I'll continue running them until it reaches the final Fade Out.  Meanwhile, it would please the heart of this ink-stained wretch - as well as tickle whatever that hard black thing is in my banker's chest - if you bought the book. It will make a great gift, don't you think. And if you'd like a personally autographed copy you can get it directly through my (ahem) Merchant's Link at Amazon.com. Click here. Buy the book and I will sign it and ship it to you. Break a leg!

THE STEN COOKBOOK & KILGOUR JOKEBOOK



Two new companion editions to the international best-selling Sten series. In the first, learn the Emperor's most closely held  cooking secrets. In the other, Sten unleashes his shaggy-dog joke cracking sidekick, Alex Kilgour. Both available as trade paperbacks or in all major e-book flavors. Click here to tickle your funny bone or sizzle your palate.    

Friday, October 15, 2010

TWO AMERICAN WEREWOLVES IN BRIGHTON


The sound of hoof beats 'cross the glade
Good folk,lock up your son and daughter;
Beware the deadly flashing blade
Unless you want to end up shorter;
Black Adder, Black Adder, he rides a pitch black steed
Black Adder, Black Adder, he's very bad indeed! 
............Black Adder Theme Song (1983)



CHRIS SAID: "Why did the werewolf go to Brighton?"

Kathryn sighed the weary sigh of a sibling who has listened to bad brotherly puns for lo these many. "Beats the furry heck out of me," she said.

Chris said, "Because he was on Howl-iday."

There were three groans and a chortle. The chortle was Chris laughing at his own joke. The groans were from Kathryn, Yours Truly, and Chris' Lady Love, Karen.

The cabbie said, "One more like that, mate, and I'll bloody well treble the fare."

It was unwise to issue that sort of dare to Chris, who would pun at any cost. Fortunately, at that moment our destination hove into view - the Metropole Hotel in Brighton Beach, England, home of the 45th Annual World Science Fiction Convention.

Opposite, was the broad pebble beach Brighton is known for the world over. The air was British September brisk, so the beach was empty - a much treasured state if you were beach people like the four of us. We stood by the luggage, drinking in the salty breeze. It made us feel at home, although our stretch of shoreline was thousands of miles away and washed by the waters of the Pacific, instead of the Atlantic.

Off to one side was the famed Brighton Beach Pleasure Pier and we could hear loudspeaker Rock N' Roll, competing with a calliope, people having fun at the top of their voices; and with it the delicious scent of food-that-is-not-good-for-you wafted on the air. We drank it all in, longingly.

"I wanna go play," I said. "I don't wanna go to work."

"Werrrkkk!" Chris screeched in his best Maynard G. Krebbs imitation. "Werrrkkk."

Karen rose on her toes and gave him a quick kiss. "Poor baby," she said. Then, with a laugh, "Don't worry, Chrissy. Kathryn and I will think of you guys every single minute that we're off having fun."

A couple of bellboys got our luggage and we followed them inside, pushing through a bizarre crowd of Darth Vaders, Princess Leas, Wookies, Blade Runner androids, pointy-eared Spocks, and a host of other science fictiony characters.

It was mostly great fun, except when we passed through a band of robed Druids.

Chris wrinkled his nose, and said in that stage whisper of his: "Suckers smell like they haven't bathed since Stonehenge was a rock pile."

Kathryn punched his arm in warning, while Karen shushed him, saying, "They can hear!"

"Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke," Chris said.

Kathryn said, "That's what they'll be saying about you when your Thingie falls off from a Druid curse."

The Druids glared at us, and Chris started to glare back. Then, perhaps mindful of his baby sister's warning, he broke eye contact and pretty soon we were bellying up to the registration desk.

We had just enough time to dump our bags, then meet Norman Spinrad for lunch at one of the hotel restaurants. Norman was already at the table when we arrived, and he rose to greet us, his trademark sardonic grin creasing his face.

He put out a hand to shake, but Chris pushed it aside. "Fuck that shit," he said and wrapped Norman into a huge bear hug, lifting him off the ground and slapping his back with both hands.

When Chris dropped him, Norman and stepped away, laughing. "At least he didn't fucking kiss me," he told us.

Karen arched an eyebrow. "He never!"

Kathryn laughed. "I saw him," she said. "Right on the lips. It was just after Chris crashed his party by riding a motorcycle into his house."

Norman chuckled. "After that he fucking kidnapped me," he said.

We all settled down, ordered drinks and food, then Chris and Norman regaled us with stories about the "good old days," when Chris was in the Underground Press and writing for bike magazines, and Norman was launching a career that would eventually win him many awards, including the Hugo and Nebula, as well as being declared an SFWA Grand Master.

Finally we got to the bit of business that would let us put the lunch on our Masters' tab. (The Fox Network and Columbia Studios).

"We want to hit you up for a big favor," Chris told Norman.

"Sure, if I can," Norman said.

"You know this new show that we're Story Execs on, right?"

He was speaking of "Werewolf," created by our old buddy, Frank Lupo - of A-Team, Hunter, etc., fame. Just after we got the job Frank had been generous enough to let us take a week off to attend the World Science Fiction Convention. Of course, this was after we had agreed to kill Chuck - The Rifleman - Connors for him. (See The Silver Bullet Sanction).

"From what you told me back in LA," Norman said, "it sounds like it might be a decent show. If anything on television can ever be called that."

"We're going to be showing the pilot in the hotel theater later tonight," Chris said. "See for yourself."

Norman nodded, which was an encouraging sign. He was an old hand, experienced in dealing with Hollywood, and was wise to be cautious.

Chris said, "We told Lupo we might be able to con you into doing an episode. It'd be a real coup if we could. Not just for us, but for the show."

I said, "If it's the hit we think it's going to be, we'd like to get other prominent authors to write for the show. You'd be sort of paving the way."

Chris added, "Kind of like Roddenberry did on Star Trek, except without screwing the writers."

Little known Gene Roddenberry bit: He'd cozen famous names in science fiction to write for his show, then, after they'd turn in the first draft, he'd act all humble and say that it had always been his dream to have his name associated with writers of their caliber. And would they mind if he put his name on the script as well? They'd feel flattered and agree. What they didn't know was that Roddenberry would end up getting a share of the script and story fee, plus residuals whenever the episode ran until the end of time, or people stopped watching Star Trek - whichever came first. (To see how that sort of scam was pulled on us, see How To Steal A Million Dollars.)

Norman had written an episode of Star Trek - the Doomsday Machine - which also credited Genial Gene, but kept his experience and opinions to himself.

Instead, he asked for more information about Werewolf and to our delight - he eventually agreed to our request - subject to viewing the pilot. (Eventually, Norman did write a brilliant episode, titled Gray Wolf, which appeared right after we killed Chuck Connors. It featured the new Werewolf King, played by Brian Thompson. Norman later called the writing experience one of the best he'd ever had in Hollywood.)

With that small victory under our belt we went at our other Convention duties with gusto. We participated in the usual panel discussions, bought drinks for old pals at the SFWA Suite, worshipped at the feet of Gods like Doris Lessing (Guest Of Honor, who later won the Nobel Prize for literature), Robert Silverberg, and Roger Zelazny.

We also had a great conversation with Special Effects & Makeup Maestro Ray Harryhausen, (Chris had interviewed Ray during his days as a freelance magazine writer.) Harryhausesen had a lot of nice things to say about Rick Baker - the young rising Makeup and Effects star who created the Werewolf suits for our show.

Later that night we showed Frank Lupo's pilot episode of Werewolf (Part I; Part II), as well as two of our episodes: Black Ship and The Wolf Who Thought He Was A Man. The buzz prior to the showing must have been enormous, because the theater crowd spilled out into the hallway. Eventually, we had to promise a midnight showing to sooth disappointed fans.

Our big moment, however, came the next day. We were due to give a talk about our experiences as science fiction writers, toiling in Hollywood. I've long since lost the poster for the event, but it went something like this:

STEN SERIES AUTHORS

ALLAN COLE & CHRIS BUNCH

PRESENT

ADVENTURES IN LA-LA LAND

OR,

WHY HOLLYWOOD SCREWS UP SCIENCE FICTION


We didn't expect much of a crowd. At that point in time, the 8-novel Sten series was only half completed, had appeared only in the English language, and was only sold in North American bookstores - meaning the U.S. and Canada.

As Chris put it: "They've never fuckin' heard of us here, Cole. What'll we do if nobody shows?"

Before I could offer up phony reassurances, the nice Convention guide arrived to escort us to the speaking hall. Kathryn and Karen came along for support, and also to give us cues, like, speak louder; or, time's up; or, Run Like Hell!

When we entered the hall we were dismayed.

"It's fucking huge," Chris said.

And it was. Hundreds of chairs huge. Big damned speaker's table on a raised dais huge. Not only that, but:

"Shit," Chris said. "It's fucking empty."

And so it was. There was not one single, solitary soul in the immense hall. At the speaker's table, there were only a pair of microphones on small desk stands, and a pitcher of water with two glasses.

Kathryn squeezed my hand and said, "It's early yet."

Karen patted Chris. "It doesn't even start for ten minutes."

I sighed. "Well, no matter how many show up, we still owe them a good time, right?"

"Yep," Chris said, resigned.

We had appeared in public many times before. Had a regular little act we'd rehearsed. Plus, we'd been on television, radio, plus those all important autograph sessions. You never know what's going to happen at a book signing. Sometimes you get zip support from the store - no advertising, no notices in the newspaper. Nothing, except maybe a poster in the window. The store owners just pocket the publisher's ad and PR money and shrug their shoulders at you.

Chris and I had done signings where several hundred people showed up, arms loaded with books. And one where only a single person dropped by. For that event we'd driven for an hour an half. Even so, we gave that one solitary fan the full Bunch & Cole Magilla Gorilla. (Bit of Bunch & Cole Trivia: Chris' had named his loan-out corporation, Whatever The Gorilla Wants, Inc.)

Meanwhile, back at the empty speaking hall, we squared our shoulders and marched to the front. Mounted the dais, slid into seats behind the microphone stands, and poured glasses of water.

The sound of the pouring water echoed in the empty chamber.

Oh, Man!

We tapped our fingers. Played with pieces of paper with sweat-smeared notes on them. Sipped water. Cleared our throats. Looked at watches, many, many times. Then up at the meeting hall.

And still, the only people there were our loyal sweethearts, sitting way in the back by the big double doors. There was a large clock above them, numbered in the Roman style, big hand ticking toward the top of the hour.

Then, just as it reached the XII, there was a noise. Footsteps? A boom as the doors were thrown open and a few people entered the room.

We waved them forward - there's nothing more ridiculous than a audience of six scattered over several zillion empty chairs.

There was a sudden buzz of voices, and Chris sat up straight.

"Shit, Cole. Would you fucking look at that!"

"I am, I am," I said.

Totally out of it. God damned Stunned.

Because those few people were only the beginning of an outright onslaught of lovely human beings. Scores and scores of people swarmed through the doors. Most in costume and with painted faces, and among them there were even the by God smelly Druids.

Before we knew it the whole place was packed. Every one of the several hundred seats bore the weight of Wookies, and Hans Solos, and Spocks, and Aliens, and Witches and Warlocks.

A veritable invasion of otherworldly forces.

But now, instead of worrying about being ignored, we were suffering the beginnings of stage fright.

"So fucking many," Chris said.

As my stomach churned and heart trip-hammered I remembered reading that even that great master of the boards Lord (then Sir) Laurence Olivier confessed that he suffered badly from stage fright. Frozen in fear before every single performance.

But then our greenies cut in.

Chris said, "Come on, Cole."

He jumped to his feet and grabbed a microphone off its stand. I snatched up the other one. We hopped off the dais and got right down on the floor with our audience.

And we heard an announcer's voice boom: "Gentlebeings. The authors of the Sten series, Allan Cole and Chris Bunch."

A half beat before the applause began, Chris shouted: "Direct from Hollywood! At enormous fucking expense!"

Well, they just roared. And the applause was - as they say - deafening. I'd heard loud applause before. But, never for me!

We started talking and spinning tales of our misadventures in Hollywood. Many of which, I've already related here.

It was an amazing experience. I knew for the first time what it must be like for real stars. You get a high like no drug could ever provide.

Then, when we were done with our act, it was time for questions and answers. They came thick and fast. To our amazement, most of them were about the Sten series.

In the middle of it all, Chris had a question of his own: "I just gotta ask you guys," he said to the audience, "how do you even know about Sten."

There were hoots of laughter, then one guy shouted, "Forbidden Planet." (A famous SF bookstore in London). Then others called out the names of science fiction bookstores up and down the country.

(We learned later that in those days specialty bookstores would order whole cartons of American books from intermediaries in the States, getting around stupid regulations imposed by U.S. publishers. The upshot being, Sten was almost as well known in the U.K., as it was in the States.)

Finally, Kathryn gave us the high sign - a throat cutting motion - that time was up. Karen pointed ostentatiously at her watch.

We called for the final question.

One of the Druid priestesses shouted, "What's your favorite British television show."

I was quickly running through Masterpiece Theater programs and probably would have ended up saying something Rawther pompous.


But Chris, brilliant Chris, pulled the perfect crowd-pleasing reply right out of thin air: "Black Adder," he shouted to howls of appreciative laughter. (Chris had never even seen the hilarious series - a cult favorite - starring Rowan Atkinson, but I had. And in a flash he remembered that I had told him about it many months before)

The applause was double - no triple - what it had been before.

Out of the corner of his mouth, Chris said, "Can you fucking believe this, Cole?"

And we collected our ladies and exited - floating on air.

NEXT: KILLING PEOPLE IS FUN



IT'S A BOOK!
THE COMPLETE HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES! 




WHERE'S WHERE YOU BUY IT
The MisAdventures began humbly enough - with about 2,000 readers. When it rose to over 50,000 I started listening to those of you who urged me to collect the stories into a book. Starting at the beginning, I went back and rewrote the essays, adding new detail and events as they came to mind. This book is the result of that effort.  However, I'm mindful of the fact, Gentle Reader, that you also enjoy having these little offerings posted every Friday to put a smile on your face for the weekend. So I'll continue running them until it reaches the final Fade Out.  Meanwhile, it would please the heart of this ink-stained wretch - as well as tickle whatever that hard black thing is in my banker's chest - if you bought the book. It will make a great gift, don't you think. And if you'd like a personally autographed copy you can get it directly through my (ahem) Merchant's Link at Amazon.com. Click here. Buy the book and I will sign it and ship it to you. Break a leg!

THE STEN COOKBOOK & KILGOUR JOKEBOOK



Two new companion editions to the international best-selling Sten series. In the first, learn the Emperor's most closely held  cooking secrets. In the other, Sten unleashes his shaggy-dog joke cracking sidekick, Alex Kilgour. Both available as trade paperbacks or in all major e-book flavors. Click here to tickle your funny bone or sizzle your palate.    

Friday, October 8, 2010

THE SILVER BULLET SANCTION


IN THE PREVIOUS EPISODE: Frank Lupo, co-creator and creator of such fare as The A-Team, Wiseguy, Hunter, and many more, told us he'd sold a new show to the Fox Network. Titled, Werewolf, it starred John J. York (Eric Cord) as the reluctant Werewolf falsely accused of murder; Lance LeGault, Aka Alamo Joe - the cop hunting him with a pistol loaded with silver bullets; and Chuck Connors (Janos Skorzeny), as the King Werewolf that York must track down to rid himself of the curse and clear his name. Frank asked us if we'd like to head up his Story Department. To which Chris replied, "Is the bear Catholic? Does the Pope shit in the woods?" Which I translated for Frank: "Damn straight, boss." A few days after we'd joined the show, Frank came into our office and perched on Chris' desk.

Chris said, "How can we help you, boss?"

Frank said, "I want you guys to fucking kill Chuck Connors for me."

Now, Chris and I weren't aghast at this request. Although, if we'd had a little rum and nutmeg, we might have been agog. But we were - loosely speaking - surprised. (In reality, nothing surprises in Tinseltown. Except, maybe, the occasional Buckyball of Brilliance that somehow sneaks through Studio Interference.) We'd previewed the pilot and thought that Chuck (The Rifleman) Connors had done a damned good job of portraying an evil, scary, villain with no moral compunctions whatsoever.

We said as much to Frank.

Frank said, "It was fucking typecasting."

"How so, boss?" Chris asked.

"Everybody warned me not to hire the son of a bitch," he said. "And it turns out everybody was fucking right. Nobody would touch the guy. They thought he was a fucking time bomb. And that when he blew up any show he was associated with would be buried by the fucking paparazzi."

This was getting interesting. Pray tell us more, boss, we urged.

Frank did.

"Holy shit!" Chris said. "Gives you a whole new way to look at The Rifleman, doesn't it?"

"Nobody'd touch him with a fucking ten-foot pole," Frank said.

"Until you came along," I said.

Frank sighed. "We had a heart-to-heart," he said. "Swore he never had a problem. If anybody said so, they were lying. And even if he did have a problem, he got fucking help."

"So, did he slip, or something?" I just had to ask. "Is that why you want to get rid of him?"

Frank was clearly disgusted. "The guy is trying to fuck us," he said. "I told him at the start that I was going out on a financial limb with this show. Maybe it'll be a go. Maybe not. I told him not to fucking hold me up when the show went on the air and try to force a new deal. I said, let me get my negative costs back, then we can make a new deal if you want." (The show cost roughly $700,000 per half hour episode. Which, according to my handy-dandy inflation calculator would be $1,492,243.83 today.)

"He didn't listen," Chris said.

Frank grimaced. "He wants to break his contract. Make a whole new deal."

"But the show hasn't even aired, yet," I said.

"Yeah, but Chuck's getting all kinds of publicity," Frank said. "The saintly Rifleman-Knows-Best comes back as a gore-spattered werewolf. They're all loving it. Entertainment Tonight. The Tonight Show. He's all over the place giving interviews and doing a fucking Robert Blake."

(Frank was referring to THE Robert Blake of Baretta, In Cold Blood, and Did He Really Murder His Wife, infamy. Blake, a former child star, was a notorious asshole. Periodically he'd make a comeback. Get on Johnny Carson, and confess his Son Of A Bitchedness. All would be forgiven and he'd go back to work, only to repeat the whole cycle again. Never fear, I'll tell you all about Bad Boy Bobby Blake in a future Misadventure.)

"I saw Connors strutting his stuff on Arsenio Hall," I said. "I sort of thought that his ego was running away from him."

"I don't give a shit about ego," Frank said. "Comes with the territory. I've worked with some of the biggest ego-freaks in the business. But this son of a bitch is trying to hold my show hostage." He tapped his chest. "My fucking show."

"Consider the mother fucker dead," Chris said.

"Without killing the show," Frank cautioned.

"That's easy," I said. "Maybe Skorzeny is just a werewolf prince. Maybe the guy who bit him is the real King Of The Realwolves."

Chris jumped in. "So, after Eric (our hero) kills Skorzeny, he finds out that the curse hasn't been fucking lifted. There's another furry asshole. A guy who maybe goes way, way back in time."

"Like Cane and Able, far back," I added. "Was the first werewolf really Cane?"

"I like that," Frank said. "Put that in. But as a question. You know, the guy tells Eric: 'Do you think it was I, who slew Able?'"

"Here's another thing," I said. "The Connors character is pretty much of a lowlife. Total scum. Cruises the docks and the slums. Maybe the new Werewolf King is somebody really classy. Educated. Sophisticated."

"In World War Two," Chris said, "He would have been Hitler's buddy. A general in the SS. Liked to keep slaves and torment them."

"It would be nice, but not absolutely necessary," I said, "if we could get Connors to appear in the episode." (Chris and I had a rep as skilled hit men. We'd killed off many a major character, all of whom liked their exit scenes so much that they'd filmed their demise.)

Frank raised a finger: "Three episodes," he said. "Make it a three-parter so we can give the new Werewolf King a big buildup."

Chris and I did not object. For us, three episodes would equal a resounding Cha-Ching!

It should be explained that prior to this point, Chris and I had been aware that something kooky had been going on with the Skorzeny character. In the episodes we'd written, Frank had instructed us to minimize Connors' appearances. He'd explained it with vague references that, Chuck's got other commitments... or, his deal at this point is only for XYZ number of appearances in the season... or, save him for the shock value - we don't want to overdo it. That kind of thing.

We hadn't pressed for an explanation, thinking it really wasn't our business. In our first script - The Wolf Who Thought He Was A Man - the plot hadn't called for a Skorzeny appearance. The only werewolf in the episode, which was spooky as all hell just the same, was that of our hero - Eric. In the second episode - The Black Ship - the whole point was that Eric was imprisoned by a Skorzeny slave in an abandoned freighter at the docks. We twisted the screws up to the last minute, when Skorzeny finally arrived. (When it was shot later, they used Connors' double, who bore a striking resemblance to Connors when viewed in profile. But head on, he had this huge friendly - almost goofy - face, sort of like Chuck Connors' good twin.)

In Let Us Prey, there was no Skorzeny appearance. Instead, there was a monk who had been "infected" by Skorzeny, and we got a cool Werewolf fight between Eric and the lycanthrope monk.

For those of you interested in such things, the Werewolf costumes were by Rick Baker, whose credits are way too numerous to mention. There were three complete Werewolf costumes: two were fully operational, with short(ish), muscular stunt men inside, who were assisted by hydraulic operators on the outside. A third consisted of separate motorized parts for scary closeups of claws, fangs, etc. They cost about five hundred thousand dollars each. ($1,065,888.45 in today's money.) Suspenseful music for the series was supplied by Sylvester Levay, which added greatly to the transformation scenes.

Now, let's return to our office, where Frank was giving us a License To Kill Chuck Connors. After reviewing our suggestions for TWEEPing old Chucky-poo, he said he liked how we were thinking.

"Okay, guys, you got it," he said. "But put it on the back burner for a bit and let me see if I can still work something out with Chuck."

As he started to go, Chris and I exchanged looks. We'd been waiting for the right time to ask Frank an important favor. Should we, or shouldn't we? Chris shrugged. What the fuck?

"Uh, boss?" he said.

Frank turned back. Quickly caught the looks on our faces and said, "What's up guys?"

Chris said, "Well, see, before we came on the show, we got this... you know... invitation."

Frank smiled and nodded - go on.

"We've been invited to the World Science Fiction Convention," Chris said.

"It's in Brighton Beach," I elaborated. I named the date, then added, "It's for a week."

"Brighton Beach as in Brighton Beach, England?" Frank said.

Chris and I said it was that very place. I noted optimistically that the friendly smile remained.

"We're pretty much caught up around here," I said.

Without a second's hesitation, Frank said, "Sure, go."

Chris said, "We wouldn't expect a paycheck for the week."

Frank snorted. "Fuck that. Just take the pilot with you and show it to the fans. I'll get John to strike a couple of PALs for you." (PAL is the British video standard - different from ours. The John, he referred to was the late John Ashley, his right hand man.)

Many thankyous crowded into a few second later, Frank exited.

Chris said, "We're shitting in tall cotton, Cole."

"Thanks to Frank," I said.

"I knew he'd go for it," Chris said.

"No, you didn't."

"Sure, I did."

"Didn't."

"Did."

"Didn't..."

NEXT: TWO AMERICAN WEREWOLVES IN BRIGHTON BEACH


IT'S A BOOK!
THE COMPLETE HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES! 




WHERE'S WHERE YOU BUY IT
The MisAdventures began humbly enough - with about 2,000 readers. When it rose to over 50,000 I started listening to those of you who urged me to collect the stories into a book. Starting at the beginning, I went back and rewrote the essays, adding new detail and events as they came to mind. This book is the result of that effort.  However, I'm mindful of the fact, Gentle Reader, that you also enjoy having these little offerings posted every Friday to put a smile on your face for the weekend. So I'll continue running them until it reaches the final Fade Out.  Meanwhile, it would please the heart of this ink-stained wretch - as well as tickle whatever that hard black thing is in my banker's chest - if you bought the book. It will make a great gift, don't you think. And if you'd like a personally autographed copy you can get it directly through my (ahem) Merchant's Link at Amazon.com. Click here. Buy the book and I will sign it and ship it to you. Break a leg!

THE STEN COOKBOOK & KILGOUR JOKEBOOK



Two new companion editions to the international best-selling Sten series. In the first, learn the Emperor's most closely held  cooking secrets. In the other, Sten unleashes his shaggy-dog joke cracking sidekick, Alex Kilgour. Both available as trade paperbacks or in all major e-book flavors. Click here to tickle your funny bone or sizzle your palate.    

Friday, October 1, 2010

THE NEIGHBORS ARE SCARING OUR WEREWOLF

It was 1:30 or so in the morning and we were cruising down Wilshire Boulevard, having a good old time, laughing, joking, and singing along to the car stereo. Chris was driving, and with him were me, Kathryn (my wife), Karen (Chris' longtime girlfriend) and my brother, Charles, visiting us while on leave from the Army.

The occasion: we were celebrating my brother's graduation from DLI (Defense Language Institute) where he'd finished first in his Arabic class. (Greek was this Irish kid's first language - see why in Lucky In Cyprus.)

We'd been to Universal Studios for a Wrap Party and enjoyed a late dinner at Musso & Frank's Grill, where the drinks were strong, the food grand and the average age of the of waiter/owners rivaled Methuselah's 969 years.

There was a full moon hanging over the Hollywood Hills, and somebody made a Lon Chaney joke, and Chris said, "Hang On," and popped Werewolves Of London into the tape player, cranked it up and we heard Warren Zevon wail:

"Ahhhooooo, werewolves of London!"

We all joined in, warbling: "Ahhhooooo... Ahhhooo... Werewolves of London..."

And then Mr. Zevon goes: "Well, I saw Lon Chaney walkin' with the queen, doin' the werewolves of London."

We all sang the next line with him: "I saw Lon Chaney Junior walkin' with the queen, doin' the werewolves of London..."

Then, just as we hit the intersection of Wilshire and Santa Monica Mr. Zevon growls: "I saw a werewolf drinkin a Pina Colada at Trader Vic's... And his hair was perfect!"

And Chris cries, "There's Trader Vic's," and sure enough, up ahead was the distinctive Tiki Bar outline of Trader Vic's, and quick like a werebunny, Chris whips the wheel over and we bump into the parking lot, singing, "Ahhhhhoooo... Ahhhooooo... Werewolves of London."

Giggling like fools, we piled out of the BMW and trooped into the place. Thank God it was empty and there were no witnesses, because we all bellied up to the bar, behaving pretty much like a bunch of underage kids with phony ID's.

Chris pounded the bar, crying, "Barkeep! Barkeep! Pina Coladas for the House."

This was a drink none of us would normally imbibe - firm believers all in the ancient dictum, "Thou shalt not drink strong spirits Thou can not taste the alcohol in."

The umbrella-and-silly-fruit drinks arrived and Chris called for a toast: "The Werewolf Of London."

We all cheered and drank. Wiping the foam from my lips I swiveled in my tiki-basket stool and saw that we were not alone in the bar after all. A vaguely familiar figure was ensconced in a booth with a lovely young lady.

I stared. And stared. And then it gradually dawned on me that I was looking at none other than David (The Fugitive) Janssen! As recognition dawned, I saw him reach up and smooth an amazing head of expensively coifed hair.

"Look," I stage whispered to the others.

They looked and immediately got it.

"Fuck me," Chris said. "His hair is fucking perfect!"

And so it was. Smooth, and wavy and carefully parted and frozen into place with some kind of spray-on gunk. We all burst into uncontrollable laughter, spewing Pina Colada all over the place. And it was just perfect, because so was Janssen's hair. Here, see for yourself if you don't believe me.

Anyway, I don't know what poor Mr. Janssen must have thought about the laughing idiots at the bar. From what friends have told me since, the late actor was a gentleman of the first order. But that night we couldn't control our mirthful fits. So, we polished off our Pina Coladas and fled giggling into the night, leaving the bartender a huge tip and Mr. Janssen, no doubt (carefully) scratching his perfect hair.

The next day... which would be too good to be true, but what the hell, this is my story so it was the next damned day.. I was humming Werewolves Of London when the phone rang. Chris grabbed it, face brightening when he heard who was calling.

"It's the Lupo," he announced.

He toggled the speaker phone in time for me to hear Frank Lupo's distinctive voice gravel: "Hey, guys, How ya' doin'?"

We said we were fine, thank you, boss and what could we be doing for you on this fine morning.

"Got a new show on Fox," Frank said. "Maybe you heard about it?"

We hadn't and Frank said, "It's called Werewolf."

Chris and I looked at each other, flashing on the previous night's hilarity. We almost burst out laughing.

"Come again, boss?" Chris managed to say. "What's it called?"

"Werewolf," Frank said. And before we could lapse into hysteria, he added, "The hero's a kid who's a werewolf."

"But werewolves kill people, Frank," Chris said, coming off his humor high.

A patented Lupo chuckle. "That's what the guys at Fox said, and I told them, 'Wait'll you see the fuckin' bad guy.'"

We said pray tell us more and Frank said, "It's a Fugitive kind of thing," and both of us flashed on the perfectly coifed David Janssen with his girl.

Lupo went on to explain that the hero is bitten by the king of the werewolves, becomes a werewolf himself, then is unjustly accused of his best friend's horrible murder. So, he's on the lam from the law - represented by a Javert-like cop named Alamo Joe - searching for the King Werewolf. If he kills him, he'll not only get his revenge, but will break the werewolf spell.

"Whaddya think, guys?" he asked. "Wanna do a script for me?"

Chris said, "Is the Bear Catholic? Does the Pope shit in the woods."

I translated: "Damn straight, Frank!"

And in blink of the eye (in television time), Frank messengered over a tape of the pilot episode and, voila! - we sold the first of what was to be a string of eleven Werewolf scripts - The Wolf Who Thought He Was A Man. Two blinks later, we'd delivered that script, made the changes, then were on to yet another: "The Black Ship."

The show was a writerly blast. It was a half-hour, two-act, drama - a throwback to the days of yore when that format wasn't reserved for laugh-track comedies. Less commercials, that was twenty-two minutes of airtime, which Chris and I always thought was the perfect length for tasty little short stories with crackerjack endings.(If you think about it, most one-hour shows are ridiculously padded out to fill the hour and if you blew away all the fluff, you just might have a decent half-hour left. Other means of padding include the current craze for many-leveled flashbacks: Twenty Minutes Earlier, or Twelve Months Earlier, or It Happened Before - But, Fuck If I Know What Day, Much Less What Time, It Was)

In Frank's new series, John J. York played the unfortunate young fugitive and werewolf in training. The detective obsessed with his capture was limned by Lance LeGault, a marvelous character actor who played on many of Frank's shows. (Most famously, the character of Col. Decker in The A-Team.)

The King of The Werewolves - Janos Skorzeny - was portrayed by none other than the late Chuck Connors. And when Chris and I saw him menacing young Mr. York in the pilot we Believed that his character was pure villainy.

As we watched, Chris said, "Where in Hell has he been hiding his Bad Guy chops all these years? Old Chucky Poo is the perfect TV series Son Of A Bitch, if I ever saw one."

How big of a son of a bitch old Chucky-Poo was in real life, we'd learn just a little bit down the road.

(BTW: Here's a Chuck Connors interview with Arsenio Hall about Werewolf on the Fox Network's Late Show.)

We were still working on the "Black Ship" when Frank called yet again.

"Hey guys," he said, "how'd'ja like to come over and run my story department?"

Halle-damned-lujah! Would we!

Lupo was bar none the most fun producer we had ever worked for. I don't mean, party, hilarity, fun. I mean, pure writer-type fun. He had even made Galactica 1980 (where we first met him) almost bearable. Okay, even he couldn't work that miracle, but he by God tried.

Frank was a lot like another favorite writer/producer, Nick Corea (See "Showdown At The Incredible Hulk), in that he was a serious writer, himself. He gave you free rein to write what you wanted, as long as you hit the basic marks in the series. Which in Werewolf meant that you had to have a last act Wolfout. You could have more than one transformation, but you didn't want to overdo it because of (a) expense, and (b) the audience might become jaded and bored.

As Chris put it: "You gotta keep to the Steven King Rule (Danse Macabre) which is don't show the monster until you absolutely have to. Tease 'em, tighten the scare-me screws, then, Fucking Rowllll! and they're guaranteed to piss their goddamn pants."

Anyway, for a change we really loved the idea of working on staff. It was Frank Lupo, for crying out loud! The only wrinkle was that we had two other offers at that time: High Mountain Ranger, starring Robert Conrad and The New Zorro, helmed by another buddy of ours - Michael Halperin.

The reason we were so sought after at the time, was partly due to the publication of the paperback version of our Vietnam novel - A Reckoning For Kings. (Dead Tree Edition; Kindle Edition) Although the hardcover had gotten zip support from the publisher, Atheneum Books, (we were "orphaned" three times, plus the company was bought out by Scribner's) the reviews had been universally fabulous and the book was nominated for many awards.

Then Random House (or, as Chris called it: Rum-Dum House), the parent company of Ballantine/Del Rey Books, which also published the Sten Series, stepped into the breach and bought the paperback rights for ten times what the pikers at Atheneum had paid us for the hardcover.

The first print run was one million books. You heard right - One Million!

Chris and I realized exactly what that meant one day when we made a mid-day run to Boy's Market in the Marina Del Rey.

As we approached the entrance, the automatic doors hissed open and we stepped out of the bright sun into the cool interior of the store. Blinking like Mr. Mole and His Cousin emerging from spring cleaning chores, we found ourselves staring at an impressively tall revolving paperback rack.

It was an amazing sight, because from top to bottom there was not one, but three rows of A Reckoning For Kings. Each slot packed five or six books deep.

Chris hissed, "Son of a bitch, Cole, look!"

"I'm looking, I'm looking," I said.

Numb, we tottered over to the rack. Took a couple out. Flipped pages. Examined our picture on the back. Looked at the cover again. Studied the bylines.

"Shit, it's really ours!" Chris said.

Then he was yanking at my arm, saying, "Would you look at fucking that, Cole!"

I turned to see where he was pointing. At first, all I noticed was row after row of check out aisles. Cash registers. Check out people operating them. Racks of candy and magazines and...

Damn! And there was Reckoning again! Stuffed in every single rack for what must have been twenty aisles.

Except for a few scatological exclamations, we were left speechless.

Then awareness partly returned. Chris said, "Come on. Let's get the stuff and split, before I come down with a case of the fucking vapors."

We got the stuff, then stood in line as the check-out person punched in our purchases. (This was before the days of the carpal tunnel destroying SKEW scanners.)

It was Chris' turn to pay and he scribbled a check, tore it out, reached into his pocket for ID. Then stopped.

A huge grin split his face and instead of his pocket, he reached for a copy of Reckoning.

Then he turned and slapped the book and check on the counter, telling the Check Out Lady, "I've waited my whole life to do this. Here's my check. And here's my ID."

The lady smiled, but looked confused.

Chris tapped the book, indicating his byline. "That's me," he said. "Chris Bunch." He flipped it over, displaying the authors' picture on the back. Indicated his mug shot. Then pointed at his real-life face. "See? It's really me!"

The light dawned for the Check Out Lady and she laughed. "Congratulations," she said.

The other people in line got the spirit. Vacant-shopper looks turned to smiles. Everyone congratulated us and a few people even grabbed copies of the books for us to autograph in the grocery store line.

The store manager came over to see what the noise was about and he immediately joined the show. He set up a card table and some chairs at the entrance to the store, stacked up piles of books and we had an impromptu autograph session right there and then.

We drove home euphoric as all hell.

"Fuck a bunch of lunch," Chris said. "I'm for getting plotzed."

"Here, here," I said.

And so that's what we did.

Before long the word about Reckoning spread, and job offers started pouring in. We turned them all down except the before mentioned High Mountain Ranger and Zorro. We were thinking those over when Frank phoned with his Siren, "Ahhhooooo... Werewolf Of London..." call.

In the end, they say, Blood will out. In our case, that was literal. Gobs of it.

So, we packed up our silver bullets and headed over the Hill to join Frank on his new show.

After we got settled into our office, found the coffee alcove and the men's room, Frank came by to see us.

"Guys," he said, "I know you're busy on your next script."

We said we were - by now we were on to "Let Us Prey," a Werewolf episode set in a monastery.

"Great," he said. "But while you're workin' on that, I want you to start thinking about something else."

"How can we help you, boss?" Chris asked.

Frank grinned and said, "I want you guys to fucking kill Chuck Connors for me."

NEXT: THE SILVER BULLET SANCTION



IT'S A BOOK!
THE COMPLETE HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES! 




WHERE'S WHERE YOU BUY IT
The MisAdventures began humbly enough - with about 2,000 readers. When it rose to over 50,000 I started listening to those of you who urged me to collect the stories into a book. Starting at the beginning, I went back and rewrote the essays, adding new detail and events as they came to mind. This book is the result of that effort.  However, I'm mindful of the fact, Gentle Reader, that you also enjoy having these little offerings posted every Friday to put a smile on your face for the weekend. So I'll continue running them until it reaches the final Fade Out.  Meanwhile, it would please the heart of this ink-stained wretch - as well as tickle whatever that hard black thing is in my banker's chest - if you bought the book. It will make a great gift, don't you think. And if you'd like a personally autographed copy you can get it directly through my (ahem) Merchant's Link at Amazon.com. Click here. Buy the book and I will sign it and ship it to you. Break a leg!

THE STEN COOKBOOK & KILGOUR JOKEBOOK



Two new companion editions to the international best-selling Sten series. In the first, learn the Emperor's most closely held  cooking secrets. In the other, Sten unleashes his shaggy-dog joke cracking sidekick, Alex Kilgour. Both available as trade paperbacks or in all major e-book flavors. Click here to tickle your funny bone or sizzle your palate.