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Friday, January 28, 2011

DANCING WITH A NAKED LADY WHILE WATCHED BY GUYS WITH GUNS.


"They say cocaine's for horses/Not for men,/Doctors say it'll kill ya/But they don't say when."
(Cocaine Blues - Luke Jordan, 1927)


Chris was razzing the DEA agent. He said, "Know how many cop jokes there are?"

The DEA agent shrugged. "Has to be a couple of billion."

Chris held up two fingers. "Only two," he proclaimed.

The DEA agent said, "Okay, I'll go for it. How come only two?'

Chris said, "Because the rest are true."

The DEA agent thought a minute, then nodded. "A lot of funny things happen when you're a cop," he said. "Like, when I was a rookie escorting the meat wagon to the coroner's office and the body fell out the back when they hit a bump."

Chris and I laughed.

The DEA agent shook his head. "That's not the funny part," he said. "The funny part is that I ran over the son of a bitch."

The laughter became louder and extended. Then the cocktail waitress fetched more drinks and we settled down.

The DEA agent said, "Problem with cop humor is that somebody is usually getting the brown end of the stick."

I said, "Like Carlos Lehder And Associates. Shitty sticks all around for those guys."

The DEA agent said, "They had a helluva run while it lasted. Lived like the Rajahs of old. Mountains of money. Harems of beautiful women. Jewelry. Cars. Boats. Villas. People bowing and scraping when they passed."

Chris intoned: "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan/A stately pleasure dome decree:/Where Alph, the sacred river, ran/Through caverns measureless to man/Down to a sunless sea."

"Coleridge," The DEA agent said - identifying the poet. When he saw our surprise, he added, a little embarrassed, "I was a Liberal Arts major." He sighed. "No help there busting bad guys. What - you've got Reading Gaol? Oscar Wilde going boo-hoo? Carlos Lehder would have pissed on Wilde - or, likely, worse. Hated gay people so much it made me wonder about his own orientation."

The Carlos Lehder we were talking about was one of the villains who pioneered the modern drug smuggling and narco-murder business. And the DEA agent - who was undercover and must remain nameless - was the Federal cop responsible for putting him and a whole host of people - including a gang of American good old boys - so far under the jail that they can hear Satan scratching at their cellblock floor.

The noted director, William Friedkin, had hired us to write a Showtime movie about the DEA agent bringing Carlos to justice. (To see how and why we were hired check out the previous episode: Bunch & Cole Meet Bill Friedkin And The DEA.)

We'd flown (first class, natch) to Jacksonville, Florida, to meet and interview the agent, who was there tying up the loose ends in the aftermath of the Federal Court Trial of Carlos And Company. Things had been so tense during the trials, that all the Courthouse entrances had been sandbagged and the ground floor windows boarded up. They were still in place when we arrived.

A side effect was that the script assignment itself was double-damned delicate and every step had to be approved by the DEA brass. They ran security clearances on us, and it didn't hurt that I was a CIA brat, or that Chris was a decorated combat veteran.

Eventually, we met up with the agent and we hit it off from the start, even though he thought we were hippie commie symps and we thought he was a fascist piggy with a badge and gun.

There was a nice bar at our hotel, and while pretty cocktail waitresses fetched us drinks and emptied our ashtrays we got down to it. Naturally, one of the first things we wanted to know was how he got into the cop business in the first place.

He said, "I'm from a little bitty hick town where nothing ever happens and I was the kind who craved adventure. If things had been different, I guess I could have been a bad guy myself.

"I used to like, you know, sort of peek over the fence and see what they were up to. I admit I was tempted, but my momma would have killed me if I had strayed, so I cashed in some decent high school grades and went off to college instead."

I said, "Drugs were - and are - rampant on most campuses. And the Justice Department's pretty unforgiving about previous drug use. Was that a problem when you took your pre-employment lie detector test?"

The DEA agent shook his head. "Thanks to my upbringing - and fear of my momma - I managed to stay clean in college. It was tougher afterward, when I was a rookie on the D.C. police. I was hanging with the same college crowd. Chasing girls. Drinking beer. There was pot and shit everywhere."

"And you never partook?" I pressed.

He sighed. "No. But, I was tempted. Had to quit hanging out with that crowd. Lost a lot of friends.

I said, "What prompted you to go from being a D.C. flatfoot to the DEA?"

He said, "Well, it wasn't long before the cop work got kind of boring. And that can get real dangerous. You get careless."

Chris nodded sympathetically. "It's like being a sojer boy in a combat zone," he said. "Days on end of nothing happening, followed by three minutes of flying bullets and sheer terror."

"Exactly," the DEA agent said. "Anyway, I made some impressive pinches, and pretty soon the DEA came knocking at my door. It looked like a helluva challenge, so I jumped at it."

He paused, then said, "That's when I lost the rest of my friends. Suddenly, in their eyes I was a Narc. And everybody hated Narcs."

Chris nodded. "Hate them myself." He grinned at the DEA agent. "Present company excepted... Almost."

"Good to know where we stand," the DEA agent said - but with a slight smile.

I said, "Then things got boring again, right?"

He snorted. "Right! It's still basically police work. And that means shoe leather, knocking on doors, or staking out places where the bad guys hang until your ass is falling off and your stomach is eating itself raw from all the cardboard coffee and junk food."

I asked him how it was that he stumbled on Carlos Lehder's trail, and he said that while he was based in Florida, he became suspicious of a pilot... crop dusting, flying banners over the beach... that sort of pilot. The guy had been busted before on Federal dope smuggling charges. Flying pot in from Mexico, and so on. He said the guy was White Trash - an ex-con Cracker - who was suddenly flashing a lot of cash.

He thought the guy was up to his old tricks again, but in a much bigger way - flying harder stuff, like cocaine, into little private airfields that exist by the thousands in the U.S.

"Come to find out," he said, "that when the guy was in the pen at Danbury, he ended up cell mates with Carlos, who also spent a couple of years in our jails. That's where they worked out the new methods of smuggling coke in huge quantities. Flying in small planes below the radar from South American and the Islands. Tons of the stuff, wrapped up in football-size packages. A hundred grand a football."

"Your bosses must have creamed their jeans when you told them about the guy," Chris said.

A weary sigh. "That's what you'd think, wouldn't you?" he said. "But when you're dealing with the government, nothing is ever logical. They were pointed in one direction - dope smuggling on a much smaller scale, and not very organized. Also, I had one sort of job I'd been assigned to, and they wanted me to stick to it."

He said during his off hours, he started hanging out in the neighborhoods where the Cracker and his extended family and friends lived. Saw little trailer homes transformed into big, new doublewides, with fancy decking and above-ground swimming pools in the backyard. Saw the doublewides turn into upscale homes in posh neighborhoods, with proper swimming pools planted into the earth. Big screen TV sets and stereos. Expensive cars and pickups. Bass boats, speed boats. Wives graduating from K-Mart shopping sprees to Bloomingdale blowouts.

"First sign that a Cracker has made good," Chris commented, "is he gets himself a doublewide and a picture of Elvis painted on black velvet to hang in the living room." Chris was originally from Fresno, so he knew the type.

"Hell, there was a time when I might have done the same," the DEA agent said. "But then those boys started getting really serious. Money - and dope - was rolling in. They bought bigger and better planes - all with really sophisticated electronics. Extra gas tanks to extend the flying range. And pretty soon they were building additions to those homes, and instead of just new cars and pickups, they were buying up whole dealerships."

"Average guy works his whole life," Chris said, "and he's lucky if he has a set of paid up wheels. And here they have whole car lots full of wheels."

"That's what really pissed me off," the DEA agent said. "I started getting offended on behalf of all those working stiffs, who just manage to get by. I felt like these boys were personally rubbing my nose in it."

"Even though they didn't even know you existed," I said.

He laughed. "That was the good part," he said. "They didn't have a clue that I was on them like white on rice."

He said he became obsessed. After work, on his days off, and during holidays he would haunt their neighborhood, meeting places, and small private airports they favored. He kept track of everyone who visited them, snapping telephoto shots of license plates, running them through computers - gradually widening his hunt.

He persisted, argued with his bosses, put the evidence together piece, by piece. He and his partner spent hours pawing through garbage cans for additional evidence - some of it buried in with the dirty diapers.

"You should have seen us," he said. "Coming up smiling with a key piece of evidence, baby shit all over our hands."

But as they moved in on the Cracker, the international operation was getting larger. Carlos flew in and out of the U.S. with impunity, even though he had been permanently expelled from the country when he left prison.

"They are so sophisticated," he said, "that they've rented - and even purchased - homes near major American bases all along the Gulf.

"I visited one base where a they use an AWACs to patrol the Gulf for narcotics and human smugglers. The guy let me look at the radar display. There'd be all these blips of light showing boats speeding across the Gulf when the AWAC was on the ground. The moment it took off on patrol, the blips would stop. When the patrol ended, and the AWAC landed, the blips started up again. Zip, boom... so many dots of light it looked like a meteor shower.

"Obviously, they have guys watching the planes take off and land, and they're alerting their bosses when it is safe and when it is not."

But now, our DEA agent had a team of guys - both on the ground, and in the office - putting pressure on the Cracker and his gang. Going after their car and boat dealerships. Slapping liens on their planes. Searching their homes. Freezing their bank accounts.

"Finally, the Cracker Mr. Big and several of his cronies vanished," the DEA agent said. "Took a while, but we finally tracked them to Haiti, where they had paid off the government for protection. They set up shop again, but this time they had actual cops guarding whole warehouses of their shit. And the Haitians refused to extradite them."

"Sounds like you were pretty well stuck," I said. "What did you do?"

The DEA agent shrugged. "I went to Haiti. What else?"

Now the tale got doubly interesting. The Agent flew to Haiti and checked in with the police there.

"I tried to appeal to them cop to cop," he said. "But, it was no dice. I couldn't even get a line on where they lived. I hit the streets, greased some palms, and finally found this nightclub they hung out in.

"And man, that place was something else. Like one of those hangouts Blackbeard and his pirate crews partied at in Port Au Prince back in the old days. Everything illegal in the world going on in that joint, and they had uniformed cops outside for bouncers."

"One night there was a big party and I blended in with the crowd and got into the club. Boy, were they going at it. Smoking dope and snorting lines of coke right at the tables. Everybody openly armed to the teeth. Drinking and carrying on.

"Pawing at naked girls on their laps. Then hauling them out on the floor to dance. It was the wildest scene I've ever witnessed in my life.

"After a while, they started to take notice of me. Even in the crowd. I figured I was looking too straight. So, I started drinking a little more. And then this pretty girl came up to me - stark naked - and asks if I want to dance with her.

"I could see out of the corner of my eye that some of the guys were watching me. That's when I spotted the Cracker Mr. Big, who was sitting there with the other guys, a girl in his lap. One of his boys gives him a nudge and then he's looking directly at me. He's never seen me before, but I could tell he was getting suspicious.

"So, I act all drunk and happy and grab the girl and get out on the floor and dance with her. Dancing right over by their table, as if I hadn't a thought in my head but this beautiful Haitian girl."

He shook his head at the memory. "It was so damned strange," he said. "I'm dancing with this naked girl who is all pressed up against me, which sure got my blood boiling. Meanwhile, these guys with guns in shoulder holsters are giving me the eye and sending icicles up my spine."

"What did you do?" I asked.

The DEA agent barked laughter. "What else? Grabbed her ass and kept dancing. Let her rub herself up against me. Then it was back to my table and more drinks."

He said after a while, when the Cracker and the others quit paying attention to him, he figured he'd better get out of there. But how to exit without drawing their attention again?

"I told the girl I wanted to hire her for the night," he said. "So, she got some clothes - a really skimpy outfit that showed everything. And she had plenty of everything.

"Then we slip outside and get into my rental car. I wait a few minutes, smoking a cigarette, and listening to the girl chatter in this sexy, Island/Frenchy accent. Pretty soon I see the Cracker come out with some buddies and several girls.

"They get into a big old SUV and take off. I followed them out of there in my car, not letting on to the girl, and I see where they go. Up this big hill, with a ditch running right down the center, carrying a huge pipe that was busted up and spewing water everywhere. And there's people there, in the middle of the night, with buckets and pails filling up with water and hauling them home. The girl's talking a mile a minute and I'm nodding, 'Uh, huh. Really? Son of a gun.' Like that.

"Pretty soon I see the SUV get to this huge mansion at the top of the hill. I thought it was obscene. All that money on display with all those poor people hauling water from a ditch.

"The SUV heads up the driveway, and so I mark the spot and go on past. And, now I know where the Cracker hangs his Ball Cap. I turn around and head back down the hill. But then I notice that those car lights I 'd thought might be following me, really were following me.

"I pass the car and it's a cop car. After I go by.... In my rear-view I see it make a U-Turn and come back to shadow me.

"Only thing I could do was go back to my motel. And now, here I'm sitting in this motel with this gorgeous girl who was dancing naked with me only an hour or so ago. And what the hell am I going to do with her? I can't send her away until morning, because I know damned well that Haitian cop car is out there watching."

He paused, stubbed out a cigarette and a lit another. For a minute, it looked like he wasn't going to continue. The suspense was killing us.

Chris finally asked, "Did you fuck her?"

The DEA agent sighed. "Yeah," he said. "I fucked her."

"But you were divorced at the time, right?" I said, allowing him to let off a little of the guilt I saw on his face.

He brightened a bit. "I was," he said. "Wasn't final yet. But we were getting close."

Chris said. "Good, because Billy will want to put that in the movie."

The DEA agent nodded. "Thought he would," he said, resigned.

"And now you had to figure out how to bust the Cracker and get him and his gang home and in jail," I said.

He laughed. It was the first real laugh we'd heard from him since the interviews had started.

"That was one helluva deal," he said.

"Tell us," I said.

And he did.

NEXT: TRACKING CARLOS LEHDER TO HIS LAIR


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, January 21, 2011

BUNCH & COLE MEET BILL FRIEDKIN AND THE DEA


The DEA agent measured us with his cold cop's eyes. "I hope you guys are traveling clean," he
said. "If not..." he shrugged... "You're on your own."


Chris snorted. "Just because we maybe look like Hippie Commie Symps," he said, "doesn't mean we're stupid Hippie Commie Symps."

The DEA agent barked laughter. "You two don't look like hippies," he said, "but you do look like you take a walk on the wild side now and again."

"If we didn't," I pointed out, "Billy Friedkin wouldn't have hired us to write this movie."

The DEA agent grinned. "Who do you think Billy will get to play me?" he said. "Redford, maybe? Or, Warren Beatty?"

Chris said, "If we promised you Redford, then whipped out a Doobie and lit up, would you still bust us?"

The DEA agent sighed. "Geeze... Robert Redford," he said. "My wife would be all over me like it was our second honeymoon."

"But you'd still put the cuffs on us," I said, starting to like this guy.

"I would," he said. "Although I wouldn't enjoy it... if that makes you feel any better."

"Never fear," Chris said. "Only shit we're holding are a couple of hip flasks of scotch in case Jacksonville is dry."

"Only on Sundays," the DEA agent laughed. "And that's just until 2 p.m."

Our bags came up on the carousel. We grabbed them, and followed the DEA agent out of the airport into the steamy Florida air.

I won't name the DEA agent. He was undercover then, and even if he's retired now, I'm sure there are a lot of bad guys he put away who'd relish eating a cold dish of Revenge on his corpse's chest.

The "Billy" Friedkin I'm referring to is the great director, William Friedkin; and no, I'm not going all Hollywood on you with the "Billy" business. That's what he prefers to be called.

The movie he'd hired us to write - TARGET: CARLOS - was for Showtime and it was about Carlos Lehder, who along with Pablo Escobar and the Medellin Cartel, pioneered the modern Gazillion Dollar dope smuggling and murder business.

Our nameless DEA agent was the man most responsible for bringing Carlos to Justice, where he is buried in a federal prison so deep they have to pipe in the sunshine - and that for only an hour a day.

The reason we were in Jacksonville, Florida was to interview the DEA agent, who was tying up the loose ends after a series of Federal Court trials where Carlos and a group of American Good Old Boy associates had been judged Guilty, Guilty, Guilty.

Those of you who have been following these MisAdventures will know that Marc (with a yuppie "c" spelling) Pariser, one of our agents at CAA, had promised to hook us up with Friedkin in return for a favor. (See: Chris Bunch VS Steven Seagal)

I know, I know... your jaw just bounced off the floor in amazed disbelief that an agent - especially an agent at the infamous CAA - had kept his word.

Well, he did. But in a bassackward way. No surprise there, right? It happened like this:

FLASHBACK TO: INT. WARNER BROS. BOARD ROOM - MORNING

Chris and I watched in dismay as Suit after Suit filed into the room, each with coffee (or whatever) in one hand, and a napkin-wrapped cruller or bagel in the other.

There was no end to them: You had your TV Suits, your Movie Of The Week Suits, Your Miniseries Suits, your Network liaison Suit, your Production Suits, your Program Practices Suits, your CAA Agency Suits, plus a Three-Suit Business Affairs Team, led by a fat guy with a scabby Friar Tuck dome and a six-inch doughnut bar gripped in his teeth like a cigar. Or, well... you get the picture.

Chris stage whispered, "There's enough Suits here to start a fucking dandruff farm."

On the other side of the huge board room table, Pariser had picked up on Chris' comment and started to raise an admonishing hand to keep it down... then thought better of it and let his hand flop impotently to the table.

At the head of the table lounged Steven By God Seagal, star of the hour, with his long sheep's face, short pony tail, beady eyes and wearing an unbuttoned silk shirt that displayed a pudgy chest and thick gold chain.

"He's got bigger tits than Orson Welles," Chris whispered.

I don't know if Seagal heard him, but he flinched and rotated his face away. Chris had put him in his place two MisAdventures back and he had remained there ever since.

As each Suit entered they stopped to make obeisance before Seagal - who didn't rise. After all, he was the favorite bum boy of Michael Ovitz, uber-boss of CAA and the most powerful agent in the world. Seagal was also a teller of untruths so outrageous that Hollywood Suits hastened to worship at his feet. One by one he was presented by Pariser, and they all shook his hand and giggled nervously at whatever he condescended to say.

My partner was disgusted. He said, "Look like a bunch of groupies lining up to give him a BJ."

Fortunately, nobody heard him, because just at that moment the Business Affairs Baldy approached Seagal, removed the doughnut bar from his mouth, balanced it across his coffee (or whatever) cup and shook Seagal's hand, a wide grin splitting his puffed-up face.

"Looks like a fucking Cape Baboon," Chris whispered.

Finally, everybody found a seat - as lowly writers we had been shoved into a distant corner - but the meeting did not commence. One person was missing. There was a buzz around the room: Where is he? Why is he late? Should somebody call his girl?

The missing person was William Friedkin, and without him the meeting was pointless, because there would be no project.

Then, to everyone's relief, Friedkin entered. He paused in the doorway, looking every inch The Great Director. He was dressed casually and wore glasses, which he adjusted with one hand as he looked around the room nodding pleasantly at various Suits.

He saw Seagal, smiled and said, "Morning Steven."

Seagal returned the smile and the greeting, then motioned for Friedkin to sit between him and Pariser.

But Billy had spotted us. His polite smile turned into a wide grin and he announced to the room: "I think I'll go sit with my writers."

Chris and I had lunched with Friedkin a couple of weeks before and had been impressed. But with those words - "I'll go sit with my writers" - he climbed to the very pinnacle of our admiration.

With that statement, he not only boosted our status, but declared the three of us the only Creative People in a room crowded with expensive suits, power ties and pockets full of beans to count. An aside: The glass ceiling was very much in place - not one woman was to be found among all those Execs. (Q. What's the difference between and Male Suit and a Female Suit? A. Dandruff)

Somebody from Warner's opened the meeting with the usual blah, blah. Honored to have a director of the stature of Friedkin in their company. Praise for their new action star, Steven Seagal. And a few words about the writing team of Bunch & Cole who had been laboring hard on the project.

Then they kicked the ball over to us. Asking first, how long we envisioned the project to be. We had roughed out a movie with Friedkin in our meetings, but before I could say anything, Pariser caught my eye and spread his hands apart. Meaning CAA was on the hunt for a four-hour mini-series, not just a movie of the week.

(CAA perfected the art of "packaging." Meaning, they'd put together a team of their clients - writers, directors, actors, producers, composers, etc. - and strong arm the Studios into swallowing the whole thing. Loosely speaking, this meant CAA got many, many ten percents for one project. That this practice led to the manipulation of their clients and their clients paychecks - and entire careers - was something Ovitz vehemently denied.)

Back to the meeting and the two-hour movie that had just been transformed into a four-hour mini. In my mind I was quickly expanding the story that was supposed to be about the Yakuza (Japanese mafia) invading Hawaii, to an adventure that started in Hawaii, where it remained for the first two hours, then jumped to Japan for the exciting two-hour conclusion.

We'd agreed that I'd take the pitch - mainly because I had lived in the Far East for some years - and Chris would jump in with bits of martial arts and underworld flash.

It was a helluva pitch, if I do say so myself, and according to the clock on the wall - which I took occasional glances at - we completed it in a little over seven minutes. Everybody seemed pleased; Friedkin put his hands together, leading to applause from all the others.

All, that is, except for the Scabby Domed Business Affairs guy. Baldy's face was swollen in apparent fury. His two sycophants had started to applaud like the others, but immediately ceased and desisted when they saw their boss's reaction.

Before anyone could speak, he growled, "I can't believe that I had to sit through all this shit! What a waste of my God Damned time! I thought we were here to meet on the deal. But, no. I have to sit here and listen to the story! Who gives a fuck about the story? What's about the deal, God damn it!"

Total silence. I felt like shit. I was thinking, Jesus, what did I do wrong? Did I somehow let The Side down? Wasn't I supposed to pitch the story? And if I was, did I go on too long? And on, and on.

Chris whispered, "Fuck him."

And I think he was about to say it again, but louder, and addressed more personally, but we heard Friedkin clear his throat.

Everyone turned to him - expectant. He was looking at Balding Fat Boy with amusement. "If this were a meeting about the deal, instead of the story," he said, "then it would be a waste of My Time. My lawyer talks deals. I talk stories."

He turned to us and said, "Great job, boys! When we met, it was just a germ of an idea that we discussed. Now, we have Real Story and for a four-hour mini to boot."

Baldy started to say something, but the Warner Bros. Big Shot jumped in with effusive praise and agreement with Friedkin. Baldy, meanwhile, stuffed the whole doughnut bar in his mouth and chewed. Unfortunately, he didn't choke on it.

Friedkin tipped me the wink and I realized Baldy's rude comments had been a ploy to get the upper hand on any deal discussions with the director and his team. A ploy that had been turned back on him. Next to me, I heard Chris laugh - and knew that he'd picked up on it too. Well done, Mr. Friedkin.


A week passed. A chubby check for our work thus far on the Seagal mini had arrived, putting us in the best of moods. I think we were working on Sten #5 - Revenge Of The Damned - so we certainly weren't idle. The previous Sten novel, Fleet Of The Damned, had ended in a cliff hanger and our publisher and loyal readers were practically hammering on our door for the next episode.

Sound familiar, Dear MisAdventure Reader? Hmm?

The phone rang. We were expecting a call from our editor at Del Rey Books, so Chris punched the speaker button before he picked up. He delivered his favorite greeting: "This anybody with good news or money?" Usually he'd immediately add, "No! Then fuck off." And pretend to hang up.

But he was quickly brought up short. Over the speaker phone I heard Friedkin laugh, then say, "God, I loved A Thousand Clowns."

"Shit, you're about the only guy to ever get it," Chris said.

"In this case," Friedkin said, "the question was right on the mark."

"How so?" I asked.

Friedkin said, "I've got some good news, and some bad news guys. Which do you want to hear first?"

"Let's hear the bummer, first," Chris said.

Friedkin said, "In a little bit you're going to get a call from CAA. You agent is going to tell you that Warner Brothers passed on the mini-series deal. But, that's not the real story. The real story is that after looking over our pony-tailed friend (Seagal), I had second thoughts."

We got the idea that he thought Seagal was a walking, talking time bomb. He'd worked with the best in the business - Gene Hackman, Roy Scheider, Al Pacino - a whole galaxy of really talented stars. And Seagal would be a definite comedown. So, no dice.

But before we could despair, he said, "Now for the good news."

Chris said, "Shoot."

Friedkin said, "You boys ever see The French Connection?"

"Of course," I said. Every ink-spattered wretch of worth had seen Friedkin's brilliant tale of "Popeye" Doyle's battle against a mysterious drug lord.

Friedkin said, "How would you boys like to write something similar for me?"

Chris replied, "Far fucking out."

NEXT: DANCING WITH A NAKED LADY WHILE WATCHED BY GUYS WITH GUNS.



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, January 14, 2011

DUMB IT DOWN, BOYS!


"Working in Television is like coaching football. You've gotta be smart enough to understand the game, and dumb enough to think it's important."
.....Overheard at Spago's 

"Nobody knows anything."
.....William Goldman

(You're) An imbecile, an idiot, a perpetual sap;
You've gotta read the directions on a child-proof cap.
.....Lyrics from Stupid People by Quincy Punx.



A guy in the audience asked, "What's the dumbest experience you ever had in Hollywood?"

After Chris and I recovered from uncontrollable fits of heel-kicking laughter and got up off the floor, Chris managed to croak, "Shit, I wouldn't know where to start." He looked at me, "How about you, Cole?"

I thought for a second, then said, "What about our buddy, Old 'Kiss My Teeth?'"

That got a laugh from the audience, which was always a good sign.

The audience in question consisted of about seventy or eighty science fiction fans and fellow felons who had gathered at a waterside club in Port Angeles, Washington to see the "Bunch & Cole Show."

We had been on a West Coast tour for a little over a week and during that time we'd traveled by planes, (no trains)and automobiles from the Mexican/San Diego border to the Canadian/Port Angeles border. (Vancouver is just across the bay and is described in Recipe For Disaster.)

This was our last appearance and to show you how tired we were, when Kathryn and I stopped for gas outside of town I had signed the credit card receipt - "Best Wishes, Allan Cole." I laughed and tried to explain to the pocked-face gas jockey that I'd been on a book tour and had autographed hundreds upon hundreds of books - hence my "best wishes" signing error. Pock Face was not amused and called his boss who demanded to see more ID.

Despite our weariness the audience had us pumped. The majority were devotees of the Sten series and a goodly number had bought into our new fantasy series - The Far Kingdoms. We'd spent the evening regaling them with many of the Misadventures I've chronicled here, and despite the lateness of the hour they wanted more.

Chris said, "Oh, yeah... Old 'Kiss my teeth.'" He turned to the audience. "I'm sure you guys have heard that a few people in Show Biz partake of... ahem... illegal substances."

Knowing chuckles in the audience. I jokingly admonished Chris, "But only a few. A very few."

"Riiight!" Chris said, rolling his eyes and breaking everybody up. "Walked in on this other producer, once, who had his head in the drawer trying to get a quick snurf before our meeting."

I said, "He looked up, shocked and a little scared. And Chris told him - "

Chris picked it up - "I said, 'Hi, we're from the Los Angeles Times. We're doing a story on drug use in Hollywood."

"Guy almost had a heart attack," I said.

Chris raised a finger. "But he bought the story we were pitching. He probably figured it was either that, or..." And he drew a finger across his throat.

I said, "But, back to the first guy we were talking about. Old, 'Kiss My Teeth.' I'll just call him Hank - he's a nice guy and has cleaned up his act since. Anyway, Hank had a sudden windfall. Something he'd done for American television had been sold to Europe as an actual Big Screen movie and out of nowhere he gets a check for seventy five thousand dollars."

There were murmurs in the crowd. Chris said, "Any sensible person would have stashed the money in the bank, or invested it. But get this. Hank's business manager was also his dealer."

Gasps from the audience.

Chris nodded. "Yeah, his business manger. He'd show up every couple of days to take care of business details for Hank. They'd have a couple of lines first. Checks would be signed for expenses. Then the latest delivery of blow would be made, which the business manager would cover as some sort of write off."

"As you can imagine, with the IRS partly footing the bill, the snow got pretty deep for our friend, Hank," I said. "So deep that you never knew what to expect."

Chris said, "One day we came in for a meeting, and he's obviously ripped to the tits. Bloodshot eyes. Gnawing his lip. Sniffling like he's got a bad cold. Jabbering a mile a fucking minute."

"He said he'd been up all night writing," I said. "Looking at him, this wasn't hard to believe. Then he insisted on demonstrating his genius. He gets up from his desk and goes over to this lectern."

Chris broke in. "You heard Cole, right. A lectern." He scratched his head. "What the hell was that doing there?"

"The lectern was new, and obviously expensive," I said. "We'd never seen it in his office before... Anyway, he goes to this bloody lectern and picks up a thick sheaf of crumpled paper, covered with inky scrawls and scratches.

"Hank tells us - 'I wrote this great love scene. Took me most of the night. I wrote and wrote... all by hand... pen and fucking ink... then tore shit up, and started all over again... Wait'll you hear what I came up with...'

"And then he reads us this nonsensical scene about the hero of his show wooing a girl he meets. Chris and I really couldn't make any sense of it."

Chris came in: "Then Hank says, 'Now, wait'll you hear this, guys. Our hero looks at the girl, then gives her the biggest fucking grin since grins were invented. And he says, 'Kiss my teeth!'"

Nervous laughter from the audience. One woman said, "Ewww!"

"That was our reaction," Chris said. "Fucking Ewww! But Hank is just looking at us. Like, isn't that great? Aren't I a fookin' genius?"

"He was so screwed up on blow," I said, "he couldn't tell how awful we thought it was. Then, he knocks on the lectern, and says, 'I owe it all to this.'"

Chris said, "And then he tells us his... ahem... secret. His new method for getting at the real poetic gold hidden deep inside all Real Writers. He says he stood before that lectern all night, writing in long hand until his fingers got sore and his feet got numb.

"'It was an incredible fucking breakthrough,' he told us. Then, asked, 'And you know where I got the idea?'

"We said we didn't have the foggiest. And he said, 'I got the idea from Hemingway. He used to write standing up. Used a lectern just like this.' And Hank knocks on the lectern again."

I pick up the ball from there and tell the audience. "And you know what my partner said? Chris said, 'But, Hank, Hemingway had a bad back!"

It took a minute to sink in, then the audience erupted in laughter and applause. I heard people muttering, "Bad back! Bad back!"

After they settled down, Chris said, "Some of the dumb things that happen aren't so funny." He turned to me. "Tell them about the submarine movie, Cole."

So, I told them. We had an MOW (Movie Of The Week) meeting with a honcho at ABC. I really can't remember the guy's name. Wish I could, because he deserves to have it smeared aloud. The story we were pitching was about the KKK infiltrating the Navy.

"No, kidding," I told the audience. "It's really been going on. We showed the Suit some stories we'd clipped from newspapers and magazines. About how racists had been getting their tentacles into the military, especially the U.S. submarine service, where there are almost no African-American sailors."

Chris broke in: "Only about fifty have been admitted since World War Two."

I continued: "So, we pitched our story. Our hero was a black guy - the boat's new second officer. And his race is a big deal to some of the men onboard. Anyway, violent incidents, including murder onshore, put him on the trail of the leader of the KKK, who is a member of the sub's crew. The blow off comes after an accident aboard the nuclear submarine, when they are all trapped at the bottom of the sea."

Chris said, "The whole time we were talking, the Suit didn't make a peep. Total poker face. Then, when we're done, he says, 'We'll have to take a pass on that. I like the story, okay. It might even be an important story. But it's not for us.'"

I said, "We were puzzled. So we ask him, How come? And he says, 'Well, your hero is a black guy, right?'

"I say, 'Yeah...' "And he says, 'Only black people watch stories about black people. Too small of an audience for a network.'"

Our own audience was silent. Aghast.

Chris said, "We had a couple of other stories, but we just got our asses out of there before we smacked him and they called Security on us."

Time for a changeup: I said to Chris, "How about the War Magician story?"

Chris laughed. "Perfect," he said. "Shows just how dumb these guys can get."

"This was an NBC pitch," I told the audience. "Another MOW. One we called 'The War Magician.' And it was based on a true story about a professional magician who was recruited by the British in World War Two to confound the Nazis."

"It's a damned good story," Chris said. "At one point, the guy made an entire train disappear right before the Nazi's eyes."

"When we were done with the pitch," I came in, "the NBC Suit just looks at us like we're dopes. And he says, 'Another World War Two story? What's up with you writers? Everybody's coming in with World War Two stories. What's the big fucking deal?'

"And my partner gives this guy the 'you're the dope' look right back and says..." I motioned for Chris to finish.

Chris sighed and shook his head, just like he did that day. And he said, "Because next year is the 50th Anniversary of World War Two, that's the big fucking deal!"

When the audience got through digesting that one I said, "What about the Dennis Weaver story, Chris?"

He liked that one. "Yeah, old 'Mister Dillon? Mister Dillon?"

"Gunsmoke," I said, identifying the series he co-starred in opposite James Arness. "And he also did Gentle Ben and McCloud. Both Westerns, or about Western guys."

"You'd think he'd be the best guy to hear a Western pitch, wouldn't you?" Chris said.

"So, we gave him a movie script we'd done, called 'The Last Green River.'" I said. "It was about the Mountain Men, particularly about one mountain man and a preacher's kid he rescues from the Wilderness."

"And Weaver tells us he loves the story - fucking loves it," Chris said.

I raised a finger. "Only one little change, he tells us. Just one."

Chris said, "Weaver says, can we 'make the mountain man a vegetarian?'"

The audience breaks into laughter.

"No shit, a fucking vegetarian," Chris went on. "Instead of the big campfire scene with the kid and this crusty old mountain man eating buffalo they'd just killed, they're eating-"

I broke in, "Roots. Yeah, Weaver wanted them to eat tubers the mountain man has dug up on the prairie. And maybe some mushrooms."

Chris shook his head. "Fuck me! A vegetarian mountain man!"

They all got a big laugh at the late, hardly great, Dennis Weaver's expense.

In the back row, Kathryn and Karen were giving us the signal to wrap things up. Time for the show to end. We needed a closer.

I asked Chris, "What about an EatAnter story? He's always good for something dumbass."

The EatAnter was Jeff Freilich (See: Towtruck Boogie & The EatAnter), a producer we had met on Quincy and had dealings with many times since. Chris dubbed him the EatAnter after the B.C. comic strip character because - well, as Chris put it: "...he's a fucking EatAnter, you know?"

Chris thought about my suggestion then said, "Yeah, the one about Dark Justice. They want dumb. We'll give them fucking dumb."

I told the audience, "Dark Justice was a CBS series about a guy who is a judge by day and a vigilante by night." Snickers from the audience. I went on: "Basically, he'd be forced by commie-symp inspired laws to let criminals get off scot-free during his day job. Then he'd do them dirty when he was off work."

There were groans from the audience. Chris said, "Hang on, that's not the stupid part. The stupid part comes next."

I said, "We were hired for what the EatAnter, I mean Jeff Freilich, said was a really tricky job."

"Among other things," Chris said, "we're known for being free-lance hit men." Nervous laughter from our listeners. Probably thinking, with these two anything is possible.

"No, we don't mean we actually kill people," I hastened to assure them. "But to knock off actors who are regulars on a show. Usually, it's because the producers are making unreasonable demands on the actors, or the actors are making unreasonable demands on the producers." (See The Silver Bullet Sanction.)

"The trick," Chris said, "is to make the part so good that the actor or actress will agree to have their demise filmed. Makes for a better story, and doesn't look weird the following week when a new actor steps in. Anyway, we're good at it. Racked up a pretty successful celluloid body count. So that's why the EatAnter hired us."

I came in: "The EatAnter had a leading lady he wanted us to eliminate and replace with a new co-star," I said. "The show was shot partly in the U.S. and partly in Spain. It was a financial experiment, and they got tax bennies from Spain."

"But only if they hired a certain number of Spanish actors and crew members," Chris said.

"The actress in question," I explained to the audience, "was Spanish. So, her death in the script and the changeover had to be handled just right, or there'd be diplomatic hell to pay."

"Making things even more delicate," Chris said, "is that the whole project was the brainchild - don't laugh - of a guy whose name I won't mention, but whose initials are Jeff Sagansky."

"The head of programming at CBS," I added.

"In other words, one of the Guys With The Really Big Fucking Telephones," Chris further explained. "And the EatAnter was scared shitless that he'd somehow piss Sagansky off."

"The story we came up with to do the job was called 'Brother Mine,'" I said. "A tale of two criminals - brothers - that we turn against each other. Using the Spanish lady as a honey trap, of course. Except in her case, she loses her life bringing the brothers down."

"Not a bad story," Chris said, "considering the shit we had to work with."

"Sagansky liked it," I said, "so as far as the EatAnter was concerned it was solid gold."

"We write the story," Chris said. "Turn it in."

"We wait," I said.

"And we keep on waiting," Chris said.

"Finally we call the EatAnter," I said, "to ask where the fuck are our second draft notes. He says not to worry, the notes are minimal and we'd get them any day, now."

"Couple of days later," Chris said, "a messenger comes knocking at our door. He's got a package for us direct from By-God CBS headquarters.

"We open the package," I said. "There's a copy of our script inside. We take it out."

"To our surprise," I said, "there's only one God damned note."

"It's scrawled across the cover," Chris said. "And it is from Jeff Frigging Sagansky, Himself. Head of Fucking Programming For CBS."

"Only four words," I said, holding up four fingers. "And all they said was..."

Chris took over... "Dumb It Down, Boys."

"Dumb it down, Boys," I repeated. "Direct from the boss of all programming at a major American network...

"...Dumb It Down, Boys.

"Words to live by if you work in Hollywood."

NEXT: BUNCH & COLE AND THE DEA



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, January 7, 2011

CHRIS BUNCH VS STEVEN SEAGAL

"There are three kinds of lies: Lies, Damned Lies and Hollywood Lies."
...With no apologies whatsoever to Mark Twain



The phone rang. Chris picked up. "This anybody with good news or money? No? Then fuck off!"

But instead of hanging up, he put a hand over the receiver, and grinned at me. He counted silently - one, two, three - then removed the muffling hand.

"Oh, it's you! Sorry." But his nasty cackle said he wasn't. At full volume he informed me, "It's our fearless agent, Marc - with a "C" - Pariser."

(Pariser was head of the television department at CAA, which at the time was the most powerful talent agency in Hollywood - which meant the world. For more about this fascinating subject, see: Screwed By The Mouse.)

Back to Chris on the phone: "What's up, Marc?" He listened. Then, "You're shitting me." He started laughing, then stopped, except for occasional snorts of mirth. "Okay, okay, I won't laugh. Tell me what the fuck happened... Okay... Okay..."

He looked up at me, speaking overly loud, letting Pariser know he was spilling the beans to the room at large.

"...So, let me get this straight... You got a new garage door opener. Check! But then you went and left the fucking remote along with all your keys in the house. Check! Check!

"And now you are in the garage, but the kitchen door is self-locking and it did its fucking self-locking job as advertised... and now you can't get back in the house. Check! Check! And Check again!

"On top of that, you don't know how to open the garage door without the remote, so you can't get out of the garage, either. In short, you are well and truly up the brown creek without a rowing device... I forget how many Checks I'm up to, but am I right so far?"

More listening... Chris chortling, enjoying the hell out of Marc's plight. Then he asked, "So, exactly by what means are you calling me, Marc? Got a phone in the garage, or something?" (This was at the tail end of the barbaric 80's and cell phones hadn't - gasp - been invented.)

Another laugh from Chris. "What, the fuck? You got yourself a car phone! Shit, Marc. We know you're a arugula-sandwich-eating Yuppie, but do you have to be so obvious about it?" He snorted. "Fucking figures. Guy who spells Marc with a wimped-out Yuppie "C" gets himself a fucking car phone."

He started singing a way off key version of the new Yuppie-mocking novelty song, "Car Phone." (To the tune of "Convoy," the old long haul trucker's anthem.)

"Car Phone!
He's got a bitchin' car phone,
He thinks he owns the road.
Yeah, he's got a brand-new car phone,
He's stuck in the yuppie mode.
Since he has a brand-new car phone,
You better not get in his way.
He's gonna use that car phone,
To make his name in L.A."
Car phone!


I was in stitches. Marc apparently was not and was telling Chris that this was a God Damned emergency! And to get him out of the garage, please, before his boss fired him for missing the regular Monday a.m. CAA Power Breakfast.

Marc's fear for his job made Chris feel sorry for him and so he quit laughing (mostly) and quizzed him about the garage door opener. Then he instructed Marc how to manually operate the thing. A few minutes passed, and I heard a tinny shout of triumph from Marc. Then he was back on the phone, thanking Chris.

"Yeah, Yeah, you owe me... blah, blah..." Chris said. "Now, before I tell everybody in the whole town what a putz you are... where are we on the job front? I've got ten cats to support (only a slight exaggeration) and we could use a gig."

He listened. And then listened some more. Finally, he snorted disgust. "You're shitting me. That asshole?" More listening. Several groans later he said, "Okay. Okay. We'll get back to you. I've gotta talk to Al about this, first. "

Chris hung up. Shook his head, then announced, "Marc wants us to fucking Take A Meeting with that royal fucking blowhard, Steve Seagal."

Seagal, who had no acting credentials whatsoever, was newly famous for his out of nowhere action hit Above The Law. The movie was made for about $5 million and took in nearly $20 million at the box office. More importantly, Seagal was the bum boy of Mike Ovitz, Uber boss of CAA. How Chris and I came to be represented by a little dingleberry like Ovitz is a whole other MisAdventure, which I'll relate down the road. (You may have had the recent misfortune of seeing old Stevie-poo on his phony-baloney cop unreality show.)

"Is that the same Seagal who has been going around telling everybody that he's a former CIA assassin?" I asked.

Chris sighed, "Yeah, yeah. That's the guy. The Double Oh, Oh, Fuck wannabe."

"Why the hell would we want to get involved with a dipshit like that?" I asked, quite reasonably.

"As a favor for Marc," Chris explained. "He's trying to help out Richard Lovett with a director they're wooing." (At the time Lovett was a rising young star in the Agency's movie division.)

"So, what the hell do we need Seagal for?" I asked. "Why not just meet with the director?"

"Beats the hell out of me," Chris said. "But here's the thing. Marc sort of implied that if we helped him on this he'd put us together with William Friedkin."

I sat up straight. "No shit?" I said, impressed.

"I shit thee not," Chris replied.

Friedkin - The French Connection, The Exorcist - was a director Chris and I admired. Hell, any writer in Town would jump at the chance to work with him.

"Seagal must have some kind of pay or play deal," I mused. (Meaning, the Studio - in this case, Warner Bros. - had to pay Seagal a bunch of money, whether he starred in one of their movies, or not.) "And CAA is waving that at the director to entice him to sign."

"That's what I figured," Chris said.

We fell silent for a couple of beats, thinking. Then I said, "We'd better find out more about what's going on."

So we called our producer buddy, Al Godfrey, (See: What's The Story, Boys) and made him buy us lunch at Morton's Steak House. Godfrey was wise in the ways of many things, including Agency politics. Hell, he was usually stringing along three or four agencies at a time. Godfrey also had a weekly poker meet with the top money men in Town, and the fact that he regularly won in that bloody pool of sharks had a lot to say about our friend.

After we finished eating, had some cigarettes going, and were sucking on a couple of drinks, Godfrey asked, "So, who is this director CAA is trying to impress?"

We said it was a guy named Avi Nescher.

Godfrey nodded, and said, "He's that hot young Israeli director everybody's talking about. From what I heard, I think you'll like him." He thought a minute, then added, "Before he got into the Business he was some kind of Israeli commando. One of the guys with big brass ones." (In fact, Nescher had been a member of the super elite Sayeret Matkal)

I said, "It wasn't the director we were worried about, Al. What about this asshole Steve Seagal?"

Godfrey sighed. "Aw, fucking hell, boys, he's an even bigger piece of work than you've heard. A real legend in his own mind. But he's got Ovitz behind him for some really weird reasons we probably don't want to think on too long."

"Isn't Seagal supposed to be some kind of fifth degree Aikido black belt, or something?" I said. "And Ovitz joined his dojo, or something?"

"Or, something," Godfrey said. "As for the black belt business, I'd give very good odds that four of those five degrees are total phonies, and the first was a gift that he didn't have to do shit for except marry the Poppasan's daughter."

Chris grunted. "He's no fucking Bruce Lee, or Chuck Norris, that's for sure." Chris had seen the trailer of Seagal's movie and was less than impressed with his martial arts skills.

Godfrey said, "Like me, he's a Jewish/Italian kid. But unlike me, he's ashamed of the Jewish part. Claims he was raised in one of the tough Brooklyn neighborhoods and is tight with the Wise Guys. But in fact, he was raised in a white bread Buena Vista, California burb, by a nice middle-class couple... His dad was a high school teacher, or something. I think his mom did some kind of medical work.

"Somehow, in his twenties, he ended up in Japan. Don't know how, or why, but I'll bet it's not a pretty story. Ended up marrying a lady who really is an Aikido star and whose daddy owned a chain of dojos in Japan. Poppasan was stuck with a bum for a son in law, so he put him to work managing one of the dojos. Of course, you can't do that without a black belt, so good old Poppasan wrangled one for the kid."

Godfrey paused to light another smoke, then said, "After that, he charmed his wife into backing his triumphant return to the States as a big time dojo owner. It was in San Diego, I think - but it went tits up after a few months. Then he opened the one on Mulholland, which just happened to be in plain view of Ovitz when he drove home every night. And that, is where Seagal's luck took a big fucking jump."

"What happened to the Japanese wife?" I asked.

Godfrey shrugged. "That's 'wife' in the past tense," he said. "Although a few people told me that Seagal might have been married to two women at one time. The Japanese broad and some American." He shrugged. "But, hell, I'm not one to throw rocks at a guy for tripping over his schlong when it comes to women."

This was true. Godfrey had the incredibly expensive habit of marrying and then divorcing starlets. These days he paid for everything cash, leaving no credit card trail for their lawyers or their shamuses to follow.

"Yeah, but what's with all this CIA hit man, Gar-Bahge?" Chris asked. "I've heard he claims that he was in a Phoenix wet work team in Vietnam, and a hundred other bullshit things."

Godfrey laughed. "One of my poker buddies said Seagal brags that he had a secret backstairs meeting at the White House with none other than John Fucking Kennedy. And that he'd personally gone on killing missions to Vietnam under direct orders from JFK. Says he was back and forth to Vietnam throughout the whole war."

I held my breath. Chris looked like he was going to explode. The one thing he couldn't bear was a guy who made false claims about his military experience.

Through clenched teeth Chris said, "Why the fuck would anybody believe such incredible lies?"

Godfrey gave him a look of great pity. "For fuck's sake, Chris," he said, "this whole Town was founded on lies. Any lie you tell that makes you look marketable to the Studios will be believed instantly."

"And nobody checks?" Chris said, disgusted.

"What, and find out that it's not true?" Godfrey said. "Where's the profit in that? Look, Chris, in this Town everybody believes any lie you tell, even though they know for a fact that you are lying." He shrugged. "Takes one to fucking know one, and all that."

A long silence. Then, "What do we do, Godfrey?" My tone was pleading.

Godfrey shrugged. "Take the meeting," he said. "Nescher's a big boy. He'll know CAA is stroking him. Plus - and here's the main reason - Pariser's going to hook you up with Billy Friedkin."

Chris nodded. "If he doesn't," he said, "I'll stick his fucking car phone up his Yuppie ass."

DISSOLVE TO: BEVERLY HILLS - AN ITALIAN RESTAURANT

Where the Meeting was set.

The restaurant was directly across from CAA's new headquarters, at Santa Monica and Wilshire. The building was an incredible testament to the out-of-control ego of Michael Ovitz. Seventy five thousand square feet of office space in three stories, with a 75-foot high atrium. An enormous Ficus tree was transported by ship all the way from Australia to decorate that atrium. The tale of how that huge tree came to find its way to Beverly Hills would fill volumes on wrong-headed corporate economics and even more volumes on Psycho analyses.

(Chris and I used a science fiction version of that tree and the grandiose building in Sten #6 - Return Of The Emperor to illustrate just how fucked up a group of politicians became when The Eternal Emperor was out of town.)

Anyway, we were a few minutes early to the meeting, as was the director, the aforementioned Avi Nescher. He was a great guy and we hit it off right away. Especially he and Chris, whose shared military backgrounds made them immediate paisanos. We got the idea that Avi knew he was being bullshitted by CAA, but was playing along to advance his own agenda.

Finally, Seagal came strolling in. He was a big guy - at six foot four he was just a little taller than Chris. For a supposed athlete he was a kind of hefty, with an unseemly roll at his gut. He also had a face like a sheep and wore his hair in a short pony tail. I almost burst out laughing when he shook Nescher's hand, pony tail bobbing up and down like a pudgy ungulate with a tick in its butt.

I managed to cover the laugh when he shook my hand, then he turned to Chris and although Stevie-poo was smiling, you could tell he was feeling challenged. Obviously, someone at CAA had told him all about my partner.

His face tightened with effort as he tried to crush Chris' hand, but my partner just squeezed back, grinning at the jerk in that mocking way he had when he was less than impressed with a guy's macho act.

Introductions over, we repaired to the dining room and the way the maƮtre d and waiters fawned on Seagal you knew he was a big-tipping regular. (We were told later that he had an open tab - with CAA picking up the bills. Steve never spent his own money on anything.)

Seagal spread himself across one whole side of the table, elbows stretching as far as they could - making himself appear bigger, in the manner of a blowfish.

When a waiter approached to offer menus, Seagal rudely waved him aside. He thumped his chest with both hands, declaring, "In this place, I'M the menu. Anything you want, ask me."

Ignoring him, Chris gestured to the waiter, saying, "I hear you guys make a great cannibal sandwich."

Seagal broke in. "It's not on the-"

The waiter cut in, "Sure, we can do that, Sir. No problem. Lots of onions and capers, Sir?"

Chris nodded. "And horseradish," he said. "Nice and fresh." (This was the first and only time I ever saw Chris eat a cannibal sandwich.)

While Steve sat back, stewing, Nescher and I asked the now beaming waiter about the specials and picked something off the list he rattled off.

Drinks came and after Steve got a couple under his belt he launched into his act. He asked Chris about Vietnam, but before my partner got two words out, Seagal started in about mysterious Southeast Asian missions he'd undertaken for the CIA.

At one point he was telling us how he and two members of his team had captured a dozen North Vietnamese soldiers, and led them back to American lines strung together with "det cord" (detonation cord) wrapped around their necks. One false move, Steve said, and he'd have fired the det cord. "...And off with their mother fucking heads."

Chris casually mentioned the speed at which det cord burns - which although fast, would allow plenty of time for all twelve guys to rip it away and take care of Steve and his mates.

But, even though Nescher snickered, Seagal didn't get it and continued spinning his tall tales of derring do. We heard all about the midnight meeting with JFK, where he was personally recruited by the president only a few months before the assassination in Dallas. He made dark hints that he "knew things" about the assassination that were being kept from the ignorant masses.

And there were stories about his buddies in the Yakuza (the Japanese mob)and the Mafia in New York, and he even threw in a few adventures in the Middle East for good measure.

So, in a very short period time he had told three guys - me, a CIA brat, Chris and Avi, former commandos - elaborate lies that we were uniquely qualified to throw back in his face.

Instead, Chris and Avi started playing games with his head. Speaking past him, they "discussed" skills and tactics and weapons that were wholly made up. But, no matter what they said, Steve tried to play one-upmanship.

If Avi asked Chris if he'd ever fired the "9 mm Bagel," or the M-60 Kibbutz(I'm exaggerating, but not by much), Seagal would butt in and claim that he'd "field tested" early experimental models of the weapons for the CIA.

Finally it started to dawn on old Stevie-Poo that he was being had. He was already a little in the bag, his features flushed from booze, but his sunlamp tan deepened as Avi and Chris continued their little game.

Suddenly, he could take no more. Out went the elbows again and he leaned across the table, his face inches from Chris'.

He said, "You know, I'm a trained killer."

A wicked grin spread across Chris' face. But he said nothing.

Growing more frustrated, Seagal raised both hands, displaying them.

"What would you say if I told you that right this minute I could reach over this table and kill you with my bare hands."

Chris laughed and said, "That's why God invented the .45, Steve."

Seagal gaped. A short bark of laughter from Nescher.

Steve's jaws snapped shut with an audible click and he shrank back in his seat.

So there the score stood Bunch 1 - Seagal 0.

And we never had a lick of trouble from old Stevie-poo after that.

NEXT: "DUMB IT DOWN, BOYS!"


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.    

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

LINKS TO THE MISADVENTURES



THE BLOG - MY HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES - ran weekly for 77 episodes. By the time it ended it had drawn more than 200,000 visitors. Many readers urged me to turn the blog into a book, which I did. Scroll down to the end for links to the trade paperback, or to download the e-book version. Meanwhile, if you'd like to dip into the episodes, here is a list - with links - from The Fade In to the Fade Out:

1. FADE IN BUNCH AND COLE

2. THE BLONDE ALL OVER LADY & THE LION

3. JACK KLUGMAN AND THE KO KIDS

4. JACK KLUGMAN AND THE KO KIDS - PART TWO

5. WHAT'S THE STORY BOYS?

6. HOW TO STEAL A MILLION DOLLARS

7. THE SHARK THAT ATE BUNCH & COLE

8. STEN: THE FAST TURNAROUND CAPER

9. BUCK ROGERS IS A FATTY! ARDALA DEFINITELY ISN'T!

10. THE GALACTICA 1980 FIASCO

11. SUMMONED TO THE BLACK TOWER


12. THE CURSE OF THE BLACK TOWER

13. THE UNSINKABLE DOLLY BROWN

14: FADE IN: LORNE GREENE

15. MEATBALLS IN SPACE: THE LARSON-FUTTERMAN WARS

16. WE BURN THE SCHOOLSHIP

17. WE BURN THE SCHOOLSHIP PART: DEUX

18. LORNE GREENE RIDES TO THE RESCUE

19. DIE SCHOOLSHIP! DIE, DIE! OR, HOW VINCE EDWARDS SCREWED THE POOCH

20. THE BOXMAN COMETH

21. TOM SELLECK MEETS THE UGLIEST DOG IN HAWAII


22. IT AIN'T EASY BEIN' GREEN - JUST ASK THE INCREDIBLE HULK


23. SHOWDOWN AT THE INCREDIBLE HULK


24. LOU FERRIGNO AND THE HARLEY HULKOUT


25. THE HULK AT SEA - MANNY DODGES THE BULLET - AGAIN!


26. SKYDIVING HULK: OR, WHAT THE HELL TO DO IF LOU WON'T JUMP


27. BRING ME THE HEAD OF THE HULK

28. IRWIN ALLEN'S RECIPE FOR DISASTER


29. CODE DEAD: THE BEACH BALL COMETH


30. OF BEACH BALL BLUES AND FLYING FICKLE FINGERS OF FATE


31. THE TOWERING TOUPEE THROWS UP


32. THE HAWKS TAKE CARE OF THEIR OWN


33. FOLLOW THE BOUNCING BEACH BALL


34. BOUNCING BEACH BALL PART # 2


35. LORNE GREENE NEVER SHOUTS - GOT THAT?


36. JULIE ADAMS: THE LADY EVEN MONSTERS FELL FOR


37. ANDY WARHOL'S FIRE EXTINGUISHER


38. WHY CLINT EASTWOOD OWES US BIG TIME


39. TOUPEES ROASTING ON AN OPEN FIRE

40. STEN VS. THE SANTA ANA WINDS


41. ALEX KILGOUR IN HOLLYWOOD


42. WE SAVE FLIPPER FROM A TUNA CAN


43. IT COSTS MONEY FOR GOOD GARBAGE


44. THE MOVIE ROCK MOGUL OF MGM


45. TOWTRUCK BOOGIE AND THE EATANTER


46. LET'S HEAR IT FOR THE 'S' WORD


47. HOW WE STOPPED WORRYING AND LEARNED TO LOVE THE MOB


48. THE FBI ONLY RINGS ONCE


49. CHRIS AND DIANA ROSS STEP OUT

50 STAN LEE AND THE MULHOLLAND ROAD RACING ASSOCIATION. 

51. THE NEIGHBORS ARE SCARING OUR WEREWOLF

52. THE SILVER BULLET SANCTION


53. TWO AMERICAN WEREWOLVES IN BRIGHTON


54. WEREWOLF PARADISE


55. CHUCK CONNORS KISSES THE RING


56. SCREWED BY THE MOUSE, OR MICHAEL EISNER AND THE SEVEN PI$$ING DWARFS


57. JOE PISCOPO AND THE BEACH POLICE


58. BAD BOY BOBBY BLAKE


59. BAD BOY BOBBY BLAKE: PART DEUX


60. CHRIS BUNCH VS STEVEN SEAGAL


61. DUMB IT DOWN, BOYS


62. WE MEET BILL FRIEDKIN AND THE DEA


63. DANCING WITH A NAKED LADY WHILE WATCHED BY GUYS WITH GUNS


64. TRACKING CARLOS LEHDER TO HIS LAIR


65. THE REAL STARS OF HOLLYWOOD


66. HOW MANY AGENTS DOES IT TAKE TO SCREW A WRITER?


67. HOW ROCK HUDSON (SORT OF) HELPED US GET AN AGENT


68. HOLLYWOOD SCREW-UP: WE LAND A PERFECTLY GOOD AGENT THEN BLOW THE DEAL


69. THE SHE-DEVIL WHO SCARED HELL OUT OF THE HIGHLANDER


70. HIGHLANDER TWO: IT'S JUST A FREE DAY IN LA


71. HIGHLANDER THREE: OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!


72. CHUCK NORRIS NEVER BLINKS. NEVER!


73. THE BIG RIPOFF - HOLLYWOOD STYLE


74. HOORAY FOR HOLLYWOOD

75. A HOLLYWOOD CHRISTMAS


76.  STEN IN HOLLYWOOD: THE PENULTIMATE MISADVENTURE

77. EPILOGUE: THE LAST MISADVENTURE



IT'S A BOOK!
THE COMPLETE HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES! 




WHERE'S WHERE YOU BUY IT