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Thursday, April 29, 2010

THE TOWERING TOUPEE THROWS UP


Irwin's Office Was Packed with Network Suits. And when I say Suits, I mean guys who looked like zillion-dollar-an-hour lawyers, with eyes glinting through steel-rimmed glasses, even if they didn't wear glasses. It was apparent from the get-go that there wasn't a creative bone in their collective bodies and at times I doubted if there were enough brain cells distributed among them to rub two together.

These boyos were from the Anything But Class (ABC) network, after all.

One guy, who looked like an accountant, complete with dandruff on his shoulders, leaned in and with great sincerity said: "We're concerned that our show is danger of becoming too gritty." (The show he was talking about was Code Red, which Chris had taken to calling, Code Dead.)

His colleagues of The Suit muttered agreement.

Irwin, who sat at the head of the conference table, black toupee perched precariously on his head, frowned then said, "Anyone who has ever worked with me, and knows my track record, will tell you that 'gritty' is something that I just don't do."

He lifted his hands in appeal. "Was the Towering Inferno gritty? No. Was the Poseidon Adventure gritty? Not one bit. Lost In Space, Land Of The Giants? No and no."

Our story exec, Larry Heath, who sat at Irwin's right, asked, "What's the cause this sudden concern?"

Dandruff Shoulders tapped the script in front of him. It was the episode I mentioned before where Adam (The Beach Ball) Rich is falsely accused of setting fire to the school gym. Although, with budget cuts, the fire had been reduced to a wastebasket and some charred curtains in the principal's office.

"In this story Adam joins a gang," he said, voice quivering indignantly. "The Hawks. Who are a clearly delinquent group of young toughs."

"He doesn't join them," Larry pointed out. "They try to woo him into joining the gang. In the end he not only refuses, but convinces the leader of the gang to see the error of his ways."

Irwin broke in: "Your own Program Practices... uh, person... loved this episode," he said, not mentioning Susan (The Censor) Futterman by name because he hated her so much that his stomach would rebel. (More on Irwin's rebellious stomach later). As for Ms Futterman, she wasn't at this gathering, which made it the usual all-male enclave of that era. If Suits can be called male, that is. Chris said they were all "smooth between the legs, like Barbie's boyfriend."

Irwin smiled with satisfaction, and added: "This... umm... umm... Person said it was an excellent example of the kind of moral lessons we want to impress on our young audience."

Dandruff Shoulders replied, "Possibly, possibly... But Adam's mother thinks it is bad for his image. All this gang business."

Now it was all out in the open. It was the Beach Ball's stage mother who was behind it all. A Hollywood Force Of Nature that is hard to resist.

"But that's the character he plays," Larry argued. "He's an orphan, a street kid rescued by Lorne and Julie who raise him as if he were their own. A troubled boy, who finds his way, thanks to the embrace of a warm family atmosphere, with real heroes as role models."

Chris groaned and I kicked him under the table. Thankfully, nobody heard. I knew what Chris was thinking: Poor little Adam Rich clearly had troubles, but they weren't of the street variety.

Just the other day, our tech advisor, Joe Weber, a retired LA County Fire Department Chief, had presented the Beach Ball with an actual fire department helmet, cut down to fit. In the series, the kid joins the Fire Scouts, and gets to wear a cool uniform and hat while riding around on the fire trucks. Never mind every kid in America would be envious, Chris and I were jealous. A real fireman's helmet. Damn! Could we have one too?

What does the kid do? He gingerly accepts the gift, glances at his mother who has a dangerous look in her eyes, then offers polite but chilly thanks.

But - and get this - he doesn't don the helmet. Instead, he touches his perfectly shaped Prince Valliant hair-do and says, "I won't be able to wear it much because it'll mess up my hair. And it takes an hour for them to fix it." His mother smiled in approval.

Back at the meeting - A balding Suit with an expensive comb-over jumped in: "If we do this story at all, we'll have to be very careful with the casting."

Irwin turned green. Put a hand to his mouth and went, "umph,umph!" Then excused himself and rushed into his private bathroom, where we shortly heard sounds of upchucking.

Larry covered for Irwin, saying, "Sorry. He's got that... uh... thing that's going around."

There were murmurs of false sympathy, sure, everybody's getting it, awful bug, etc.

Larry shrugged, saying, "We've committed all the money in the script budget." He tapped the script in front of him. "If you scrap this one, which, I might add, was previously approved by all of you, including Ms Futterman, we'll need you to okay the fee for another one."

There were gasps of protest. A chorus of: "More money? No, no. Not necessary. We think it's a wonderful script." It was like Larry was asking them to offer up their wives, or mistresses, instead of a few thousand bucks.

Comb Over came to their rescue. "We talked it over and concluded it's just a matter of casting," he said.

"Yes, casting," was Dandruff Shoulders' contribution.

He pulled a manila envelope from his expensive briefcase. Got out some 8X 10 color photos from it and dropped them in the center of the table like the flop in a game of Texas Hold'em.

"My son," he said proudly.

We all looked respectfully at the pictures. They showed a very handsome, very clean, very preppy, Jewish American prince of about 13 with a head of very blond curls. I looked closer to see if he had inherited his father's dandruff genes, but so far he appeared safe.

Irwin had returned by now, wiping his face. He looked at one of the pictures, then turned to Dandruff Shoulders.

"You want us to hire your son?" he said. Not waiting for an answer, he turned to Larry, "Remind me to ask Tanya to put the young man on the casting call list."

"No, no. That's not what I meant," protested Dandruff Shoulders. Although I noticed from the look in his eye that he wasn't adverse to a bit of casting bribery. Thinking, screw his son, maybe whisper something in Irwin's ear about his mistress, who would then make him a very happy man on black silk sheets, sprinkled with dandruff.

He continued, "This picture is just an example of what we are talking about. When you cast for the gang, get clean cut young American boys like this."

"That way Adam will look like he's in good company, even if in the script he's in bad company," added Comb Over."

"It'll make his mother so happy," somebody said, but when we all looked we couldn't tell who, except for one kid Suit who was staring at the table.

Ignoring the interruption, Dandruff Shoulders said, "Not gritty kids. Not kids who will loom over Adam, acting like a threat. He's a very vulnerable boy, you know. And looks it."

Chris barely buried a snort. I knew what he was thinking. The Beach Ball was not just 'vulnerable looking,' but so short, we'd have to cast midget kids to avoid the looming business. On the other hand, I could partly see the point, which scared hell out of me, because when you agree with a Suit's point, it's time to check your IQ levels.

However, now that the deed was done - firing the kid who played the Adam Rich's role in the pilot, who at least looked like he could act bad ass and replacing him with the Beach Ball - the script we were looking at was totally out of whack. As were most of the others on the burner.

Adam Rich just wasn't believable as a kid from the streets. Unless you were talking about the runaways who hung out on Melrose looking for "dates." So we would have to hire a bunch of Beverly Hills delinquent wannabes. Short ones.

Irwin picked up one of the pictures, pretended to study it closely, then said, "Gentlemen, I'm in complete agreement with you. We'll take this to heart when we are casting." He showed Larry the picture. "Won't we, Larry?"

Larry said, "Absolutely."

The tension in the room eased. Suits shuffled papers, snapped briefcases open and closed, while Irwin regaled one and all with tales of his adventures with Groucho Marx.

As he talked, he picked up a pencil, and absently pushed it UNDER his toupee. And SCRATCHED his bald head leisurely, and with infinite pleasure.

I lost it. Desperately covering my mouth to keep from bursting into laughter, I turned to the left to hide my face. Only to find myself looking into the eyes of one of the Suits, who was doing the same thing. Mouth covered with a hand. Barely controlled laughter.

We both almost erupted with loud guffaws, and quickly turned the other way.

I had a hard time getting myself together and when we all rose to leave, Chris gave me a strange, what the fuck, look.

I shook my head. "Don't ask," I whispered. "If you do I'll lose it and we'll both be fired on the spot."

Somehow I got out of the meeting without looking at Irwin - studying my boots when I shook his hand. Chris covered by making noises about the nice meeting.

Back in our office - and fueled by a shot of Metaxa - I told Chris the story. I started giggling uncontrollably before I was done. Chris caught my giggles, then we were both laughing so hard that the tiles threatened to come loose from the ceiling.

Our secretary - a super lady named Genevieve - stuck her head in the door. "What so funny, boys?" she wanted to know.

This only made us laugh harder. We couldn't get a word out to explain. Gasping. Pounding the table.

Genevieve nodded knowingly. "You boys have been upstairs visiting Cheech and Chong again, haven't you."

NEXT: THE HAWKS TAKE CARE OF THEIR OWN

THE COMPLETE MISADVENTURES: IT'S A BOOK!


THE VITAL LINKS:
The MisAdventures began humbly enough - with about 2,000 readers. When it rose to over 50,000 (we're now knocking at the door of 110,000) 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.    




EMPIRE DAY 2012 - A COMMEMORATIVE EDITION

Relive the fabulous four-day Stregg-laced celebration.  Alex Kilgour's Worst Joke Ever. New recipes from the Eternal Emperor's kitchen. Alex Kilgour's Worst Joke Ever. Sten's thrill-packed exploits at the Emp's castle. How to make your own Stregg. And, did I mention, Alex Kilgour's Worst Joke Ever?




Friday, April 23, 2010

BEACH BALL BLUES

MEMO FROM IRWIN ALLEN TO BUNCH AND COLE: The network, in its wisdom, has decreed that all episodes (of Code Red) will feature at least two instances of fire. Please see that our writing teams are informed of this.

The legal-size envelope that contained the memo also included a large (folded up) sheet of paper with columns that bore the name of all eight freelance writers or writing teams at the top and a list of sixteen script titles running down the side. A second sheet contained our names, along with Larry Heath's, and columnar space for the four scripts we and Larry had contracted for.

"What the fuck is that shit?" Chris wanted to know.

"I'm not sure," I said, tipping the envelope down.

A river of multi-colored stars spilled all over my desk, my lap, the floor, everything.

Chris barked laughter. "What are we supposed to fucking do, Cole?" he wondered. "Award different color stars to the writers for completing their assignments and spelling words more or less correctly."

"Maybe this explains it," I said, fishing out another sheet of paper.

If was a memo from Irwin's secretary explaining the purpose of the charts and the stars. Some were supposed to show script progress. Others, the number of fires. And the others... well, whatever the other purposes were fled my mind the moment I read them. It isn't that she didn't explain things clearly - she was a very intelligent woman - it's just that the system defied all logic.

I shoved the explanation over to Chris. He scanned it, then declared, "I'm not fucking doing this."

I didn't blame him. This was not only the lousiest system for tracking writers' assignments that I had ever encountered, it was humiliating to boot. Here we were, grown men - whiskey drinkers at that - and we were supposed to lick the backs of these little stars and stick them beside people's names.

Before I could join him in blasphemy, the phone rang. It was Irwin's secretary. "Did you get Irwin's little present?" she cooed.

"We did," I said, and it was hard to keep the piss off out of my voice.

"I know, I know, it's a bunch of baloney," she said.

"I'd call it something worse than baloney," I replied.

"I couldn't agree more," she said. "But the little stars are nothing. You should see what I have to put up with."

"Doesn't make us feel any better," I said. "We're not kindergarten teachers. We're writers."

Chris shouted to be heard: "And we've got our own little IBM Selectrics to prove it!"

Irwin's secretary said, "Tell Chris that if he wants to keep his Selectric he'd best not displease our Fearless Leader."

"Okay, okay, I'll do the damn stars," I said.

I was about to say bye bye and hang up when she said, "Wait, there's more."

"You sound like a TV pitchwoman," I said. "Do we get a free set of steak knives if we buy your miracle salad chopper?"

She was kind enough to laugh, which made me feel a little better.

Then she dropped the bomb: "Since we've been cut back to 7 p.m." she said, "our budget has been cut from a little under a million to a little over six hundred thousand."

I was shocked. "But we've just been ordered to have at least two fires a show," I said. "You can't do two fires for six hundred thousand. Hell, I'm not sure you can do two fires for a million."

"Yes, but the Studio says they won't deficit finance four hundred thousand dollars," she said. "And Irwin will never pick up the tab, no matter how rich he is."

"What do we do?" I asked, realizing just what the poor sap feels like who finds himself caught between the Devil and the deep brown shithole.

"Irwin said to make one fire small," she said. "Have a little one in the first or second act and save the big one for Act Four."

I sighed. "Okay. I got it. Wastebasket fire in Act One, LA County Dump fire in Act Four."

Then, just to give her a dig - undeserved though it might be: "What color star do we use for the wastebasket fire?" I teased.

Without a beat, she replied, "The brown ones." Then she hung up.

Chris looked at me. He hadn't heard most of the conversation, but he knew from my side of it that things were not good. In fact, they were deplorable.

I filled him in. "Aw, fuck," he said. "On the job less than two weeks and already we're in the shitter."

I had no argument. Sighing, I flattened the sheet of paper and started figuring out which colored stars went where.

Chris' estimate had been dead on. We were wading hip deep in sewer creek and the waters were steadily rising. Without warning, Code Red, the show we had contractually obligated ourselves to for twenty weeks, had been shifted from a nice 8 O'clock slot, to the clottin' Children's Hour.

Once again we were slotted at 7 p.m. Sunday night on ABC, a network we had dubbed Anything But Class long ago. Just like good old Galactica 1980, Sixty Minutes was waiting there on CBS to eat not just our lunch, but breakfast, dinner and any candy bars we might have in our pockets. Sixty Minutes regularly grabbed the Number One spot on the weekly Nielson list and Chris and I were not so foolish as to think we could match them.

I forget what show was on NBC, but the only way we could have taken it out was if it was a documentary series on skiing in downtown Poughkeepsie. Even then, with Irwin The Towering Toupee Allen at the helm, the task was hopeless, hopeless, hopeless.

To make matters worse, there were many other things conspiring against us besides our Alzheimer-out-patient boss and his nasty little stars.

There are several very good reasons that the lifespan of your average TV series is shorter than a lab-raised fruit fly.

First off, the guys who originally buy the show are never the same network crew that oversees the series when it goes into production.

Resentful of their colleagues, whom they consider fools (and who is to say they are wrong?) they immediately engage in a lot of leg lifting. They piss all over your project like it was the Great Fire Hydrant at the end of the doggy rainbow.

This had a lot to do with the reasons behind the show's demotion to the Children's Hour. And the recruitment of Adam (The Beach Ball) Rich to bedevil one and all - including really nice people like Lorne Greene and Julie Adams.

Also, as things turned out, there was more than envy at work. In short, they hated Irwin's guts - and who could blame them? He had made many enemies over the years and it seemed they had all converged on Code Red at Columbia Studios for paybacks.

Hence, the demand for two fires a week after a four-hundred-thousand dollar budget cut.

Making matters worse, our old nemesis, Susan Futterman, the VP of Censorship at ABC, was back to darken every second of our weekly 44-minutes of air time. (Yes, there really are that many ads on TV; actually, it's even more these days.)

Since our viewing audience was supposed to be composed of mostly rug rats, we were only allowed so many "violence beats" (Roughly, a beat is a scripted moment) per episode. As it turned out Susan defined fire as a violence beat, and since our show was about fires and the men and women who fight them, we were screwed Day One.

Actually, this turned out to be a not such a bad thing. At our current budget, we could set a lot of waste basket fires, which were pretty damned cheap, and not anywhere so violent.

Chris interrupted my self-propelled rail car of misery. "You know, your wastebasket idea is spot on for this sucker." He was holding up the first draft of a script that had just been turned in. "In Act Two, the Beach Ball accidentally sets his school on fire."

(The Beach Ball, as mentioned before, was the nick name our tech advisor from the fire department had given Adam Rich. And you know, when you thought about it, he really did look like a beach ball. Two beach balls, actually. A small one for his head and a larger one for his body.)

Chris continued, "The fire starts in the gym, after the Beach Ball has been chewed out for general mopery. Then spreads to the rest of the school."

He held up a finger, indicating that brilliance was on the way: "But, if we have the principal kick his fat little butt - and put the butt kicking in the principal's office - we can start the fire in the principal's wastebasket. Have it spread to the curtains, if we can afford charred curtains, then somebody rushes in to put it out and finds evidence to falsely accuse the little turd those shitheads at ABC stuck us with."

"I like it," I said. "I'll call the writers and tell them to make the change."

As I reached for the phone Chris said, "Tell them that if they do a good job with the wastebasket we'll give them a gold star."


NEXT: THE TOWERING TOUPEE THROWS UP

THE COMPLETE MISADVENTURES: IT'S A BOOK!


THE VITAL LINKS:
The MisAdventures began humbly enough - with about 2,000 readers. When it rose to over 50,000 (we're now knocking at the door of 110,000) 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.    




EMPIRE DAY 2012 - A COMMEMORATIVE EDITION

Relive the fabulous four-day Stregg-laced celebration.  Alex Kilgour's Worst Joke Ever. New recipes from the Eternal Emperor's kitchen. Alex Kilgour's Worst Joke Ever. Sten's thrill-packed exploits at the Emp's castle. How to make your own Stregg. And, did I mention, Alex Kilgour's Worst Joke Ever?