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Friday, July 29, 2011

THE GALACTICA 1980 FIASCO


Glen Larson

FIASCO: fi-as-co (pl) fi-as-coes
 Definition of FIASCO:
 1. Glen Larson
 2. Galactica 1980
 3. ABC (See: Anything But Class Network)
 4. Susan Futterman (See: Censor, Dimbulb, Bluenose Twit)
 5. MCA/Universal Studios.

Origin: Low French - A fucking fuck up of the first fucking order.

First Known Use: Circa 1980 - Chris Bunch to Allan Cole: "This show is a fiasco, Cole. A fucking fuck up of the first fucking order.

*****

NOTE FROM ALLAN:

I was going to regale you this week with tales of our MisAdventures writing for "The Incredible Hulk." After all, out first sale to that show is more or less next in historical order. Then I received a fascinating email from a longtime reader that brought that plan to a halt.

His email informed me that some doofus-brain had launched a "Galactica 1980" comic book series. I thought, surely you must be joking - and a sick joke at that. but he included a link proving it. (Don't bother looking it up. You'll give your Browser warts.)

In my view "Galactica 1980" was easily the second worst prime time show in television history.

What was the first?

To quote our former producer guru Al Godfrey: "When you see something really bad, always remember there's something a lot fucking worse right around the corner."

Truer words, and so forth.

Anyway, the G-1980 comix project brought back all kinds of hideous and gideous memories from those days, so forgive me for going out of order. Never fear, Hulk fans, I promise many episodes about that happy subject later.

But first…Wait for it…Cue the drumroll…

FADE IN: GALACTICA 1980

Freilich was on the phone. I heard him say, "Well, what did you think of the Battlestar Galactica movie, guys?"

Diplomacy was required here, so I said, "Lorne Greene was good. But, then he's always good."

Sounding a little exasperated, Freilich said, "That's it? Nothing else, except you liked Lorne Greene?"

Grudgingly, I said, "The rest of the cast wasn't bad, either."

Over at his desk, Chris lost patience. "Jeff," he said, "let's fucking face it. They had good reason to cancel the son of a bitch. The special effects were shit. The directing was shit. The script was shit. The whole thing is a fucking bad rip-off of Star Wars, including the design of the cheesy fighters."

After a pause, Jeff displayed a rare flash of humor. "Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln," he said, "how did you enjoy the play?"

We all laughed over that, then things calmed down and Jeff said, "Seriously, guys, I could use some help. I know you sold a big science fiction series (Sten), and that will go over well with Glen Larson if I show him I'm connected to the science fiction community."

Chris rolled his eyes at me. One sale does not a science fiction community member make. But, why tell Freilich that?

I said, "Well, we saw the movie version like you asked. It was just down the street from us on 20th and Wilshire. Popcorn was pretty good. And the air conditioning worked. Beyond that, we can't see where Glen can go with the premise. When we left off, and the show was cancelled,- Lorne Greene and his hardy band of heroes were looking for the mythical Earth, with evil Nylons, or Zylons, or Cylons, or some shit, chasing them."

Cylon - Nylon - Zylon?
"Cylons," Freilich corrected.

"Whatever they're fucking called," Chris said, "the sucker who designed them ought to be hung by his balls from the highest point of the marquee at Grauman's Chinese."

Freilich said, "They had budget problems in Battlestar. That definitely won't be the case with the new series."

I said, "I know Larson is a genius at picking the pockets of the Networks, but how'd he manage to get a bigger budget for the revival of a failed show?"

Freilich said, "He didn't want to do the show. Honestly. He was totally opposed. But they've got some new faces at ABC and they think Battlestar was mishandled. Plus, there was a huge write in campaign by fans of the old series."

Chris groaned. "A write in campaign? To save the piece of shit we just saw? God, people are stupid."

Jeff ignored this and rattled on. "Get this, guys. The Network is guaranteeing Glen a minimum one million dollars per episode, with room to jump that up for special episodes."

Chris whistled. "One million? No shit?"

At the time, this made Galactica 1980 the most expensive series in television history. But, hang on, folks. It gets worse. And more expensive.

I said, "Yeah, but that doesn't answer my question, Jeff. What's the show about? Are they still looking for Earth? Are the Cylons still after them?"

"Wait'll you hear this, guys," Jeff said, bursting with enthusiasm. "In the very first episode of the new show, they FIND Earth. And it's Earth in 1980! Just like now!"

There was silence on our end.

Lorne Greene
Jeff rushed on. "And, get this, the Cylons are right behind them. So, the first thing Adama (that was Lorne's character) has to do is keep the secret of Earth's location safe. Or the Cylons will destroy us, because they hate humans so much. And the second thing, is that Adama can't let people on Earth know of the existence of a superior group of humans, with incredible scientific advances, or it will cause a panic."

The long silence continued.

Jeff nervously said, "Guys? Guys? Are you there?"

Chris could hold it in no longer. "That's the stupidest fucking idea I ever heard in my fucking life," he said.

I added, "At heart, good science fiction is what Damon Knight called 'a search for wonder.' And if you are searching for wonder, and find a place exactly like the one you left, then why watch the damn thing in the first place?"

Jeff dug in his heels. But, when I think back on it now, what choice did he have? He'd already signed onto the gig. And if he didn't convince himself that Galactica 1980 was the best thing that happened since the Federal Government lifted the ban on sliced bread after the end of World War Two, he'd go shrieking and gibbering into the night.

He said, "Look, guys, think about it. Work some stories out. All my friends are coming in to help out and I know I can count on you two."

Chris and I looked at each other. He had us there.

But before we could say, "Okay, Jeff," he said, "Also, I might even have some staff jobs for you. We're looking for story editors."

Dead silence on our end.

Jeff said, "Guys? Guys? Are you there?"

I suppressed a long sigh. Chris and I definitely DID NOT WANT a staff job. And I said, nicely as I could, "Sure, Jeff. You can count on us."

We hung up. Not a word was exchanged. Chris just got to his feet, went into the kitchen and made us a couple of stiff ones. Came back. Put one on my desk. Went to his desk. We both sucked on our drinks for a few minutes in dead silence.

Naming Of The EatAnter
Finally, Chris said, "He's a fucking EatAnter, you know that?"

I just stared at him. What the hell was he talking about?

"Only EatAnter I know of," I said, "is the critter in the BC comic strip."

Chris nodded. "Yeah, that whiny little son of a bitch. Jeff sounds just like him. Or, at least how I imagine he talks,"

I laughed. Now that he mentioned it, Freilich did sound like the EatAnter. He was also a very picky person who could drive you nuts with points so small, you lost track of what the hell you were talking about.

"It's like being nit-picked to death," Chris said. "He doesn't listen. He just fucking, picks, picks, picks. Whining about it all the time."

Well, there was nothing to do but find out more about what the fuck was going on with Galactica 1980, and who better to check in with than our producer/mentor Al Godfrey. Gave him a call, then drove over the hill to buy him a steak sandwich and French fires and crispy onion rings, with lots of hot barbecue sauce to dip them in, at Morton's - a favorite industry lunch spot in the days when people thought "cholesterol" was a cure for bowel disorders.

We talked about things other than business, during lunch. Godfrey was one of the "Geller Boys," after Bruce Geller the legendary producer best remembered today for creating "Mission Impossible."

Geller's career was tragically cut short in a light plane crash in the Santa Monica Mountains. Every year Godfrey, and the other writers and directors and producers from "Mission," got together for a Bruce Geller Memorial Lunch.

Why lunch? Well, because all those years ago Geller had famously decreed that "Lunch Is Important," forbid all shop talk when he ate with his crew, and he made the whole experience like a family hour, except this would have been a family whose language would make a boatswain's mate blush.

Meanwhile, back at Morton's we finished lunch. Then, over a couple of scotches for us, and a vodka-tonic with a lime twist for Godfrey, we ran down our conversation with Jeff (The EatAnter) Freilich.

Godfrey laughed. "Jeff wasn't shitting you about calling all his buds," he said. "He's got his ex-partner Chris Trumbo on the hook, E. Nick Alexander… the whole Quincy gang… and on and on… Shit, he even called me."

A modicum of gaping ensued. "And you told him to fuck off, right?" Chris said.

Godfrey looked pained. "Now why would I do that?" he said. "It's fast money. And since every time I blink some ex-wife has got her hands on my wallet, I'm sure as hell not turning up my fucking nose at a little fast money."

Al was many things - most of them good. A loyal friend, a talented producer, a helluva story man and so on and so forth. But, he had one fatal flaw.

As Chris once put it, "Godfrey will try to fuck anything in a skirt. And if she holds out for two dates, he'll marry the broad just to get into her pants. Then, he'll keep on fucking around until the lady righteously divorces his ass and then takes anything she can lay hands on that the other wives didn't get."

We all studied our drinks a minute, then I couldn't help but ask, "The show sounds like a piece of shit, Al. Sure you want your name on it?"

Godfrey gave me a withering look. "Haven't I fucking taught you big lugs anything," he said. "Nobody sees the writer's name on the credit roll. When the son of a bitch goes into the tank, the Network will blame Glen Larson, not some poor schmuck of a writer.

"And they won't blame him too hard, because he's got so many shows on the air and he is into them for the tune of a couple of hundred million of dollars. So, it may look like shit, and taste like shit, but they've got no choice but to eat it up and say, 'Yum, yum. Pass the mustard.'"

So, you don't think it's going to last long?" I said.

Godfrey chuckled. "Didn't Jeff tell you the time slot?"

We shook our heads. Dumb bunnies, us. We'd forgotten to ask.

"Seven o'clock, Sunday night, that's when," Godfrey said.

It registered immediately.

"Opposite fucking 60 Minutes?" Chris said. "They'll get steamrolled."

Godfrey nodded. "You got it. Cancellation City, here we come."

"But, that's blatant show-icide," I said, aghast. "And after all those people wrote in! They're going to be pissed."

Godfrey said, "If Jeff told you that's why they were putting it on the air, he was pulling your fucking leg. ABC doesn't give a shit if people write in. No Network does. This is the fucking National Broadcast Business, boys. They've got the country wired coast to coast and border to fucking border. And they only things they care about are the advertisers and the fucking FCC."

We were both puzzled. What's the Federal Communications Commission got to do with it?

Godfrey saw our looks and snorted. "The FCC controls the licenses that authorizes the Networks to broadcast. No license. No God-given right to pollute the public airways."

"And this has what to do with Galactica 1980?" I asked.

"Everything to do with it," Godfrey said. "And everything to do with the seven o'clock time period. See, Congress wants us to think they give a shit about what the kiddies watch. That's one of the main ways they keep getting elected and ripping us off. Family values, blah, blah, blah.

"So seven o'clock has been declared the public interest hour. You can broadcast news and information, like 60 Minutes. Or, programs that - and I quote - enrich the television experience for the nation's children."

Chris and I didn't know what to say. So we ordered another round of drinks. After they had arrived and we'd lit new smokes, Godfrey said, "Now, the real politics cuts in when you think about which network in particular is putting Galactica 1980 on."

"ABC," Chris said.

"Yeah, ABC," Godfrey said. "The network that puts more jiggling tits and ass on the air than the rubes got to see on the old burlesque circuit."

I got it. "So, they have to show they are good guys at heart," I said. "We'll give you a million bucks an hour kiddie show, if you let us keep letting us flash all the skin we want."

"Shit," Chris said, getting it too.

"ABC has been getting so much grief from the Feds," Godfrey said, "that they even put a Program Practices Vice President on the Board Of Directors. Show the FCC how serious they are."

Chris and I were horrified. Program Practices! A dirty phrase in any American screenwriter's vocabulary.

"Fuck me," Chris said.

Godfrey raised an admonitory finger. "Yeah, but not on Galactica 1980."

Then he said, "Remember this name, boys. And remember it well. Because she will be the one who holds your destiny in her lily-whites: Susan Futterman.


"And she spells it, C-E-N-S-O-R."

Oh, yeah!

NEXT: SUMMONED TO THE BLACK TOWER


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, July 22, 2011

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


Chris said, "The good news is that we sold the fucking book."

"We sold the fucking book," I agreed. I was speaking of the Sten series, whose bizarre sales scenario I described in the previous MisAdventure. (Sten: The Fast Turnaround Caper )  

Chris said, "The bad news is that books pay like shit."

No disagreement there. In those days first time writers got a standard $5,000 advance. (Pretty much the same today.) Typically paid out at the rate of $2,500 on signing; $1,225 on delivery; and $1,225 on publication. Figure, it takes six months to a year to write a book. Another year to get it published. The money split between two guys, in our case.

And voila:

"We're fucked," Chris said, summing it up quite succinctly, thank you.

I sighed. "All my life I figured that all I had to do was publish my first book, and everything would be gravy from then on."

"My boot camp sergeant shit better gravy than that," Chris said.

"Let's face it," I said. "Until we start making bigger advances - a lot bigger advances - we're going to have to labor in the trenches of television land."

"That's the other thing," Chris said. "Nobody's called with another gig."

"Let's hit the phones again," I said. "See what kind of trouble we can stir up."

Chris grunted agreement and flipped open our new rolodex of Hollywood contacts. This was in the very early days of our careers and the contact list was mighty slim. He plucked some cards out, divided them up - and we hit the phones.

The first person I put a call into was Peter Thompson - the guy who had given us our start, in return for grabbing a third of the story credit for our Quincy script, and two grand of the payout. (See, Episode #5 - What's The Story, Boys.)  

Don't get me wrong. Chris and I liked Peter. A charming rogue, is how we thought of him. More importantly, he was now head of production for MCA-Universal Studios, the biggest movie and television studio in - well, the Universe. 

He had fancy offices on the very top floor of the Black Tower, where the fanciest offices reside, filled with rare works of art, furnishings and carpets that went at eleventy-million a square centimeter. Watched over by the smartest, most beautiful and sophisticated secretaries and "production assistants" in all of Creation.

Peter was out. His secretary said she'd tell him we called. I could almost imagine her full lips speaking those words of empty promise in plummy, British upper class tones and felt my heart beat just a little faster. I hung up, figuring I'd been burned, but happy about it.

Before long, we'd made all the calls we could, then got to work on some freelance magazine assignments we'd scored through Chris' many contacts in that field. Wasn't enough to pay the bills, but it kept us busy doing something involving positive cash flow.  

PAUSE SCENE FOR BUSINESS OF WRITING ASIDE

Writing for a living really isn't different than any other small business. All the rules of business apply, including keeping regular hours, if you know what's good for you. And you'd best show up to work (even if it is a short stroll from the living room to your home office) washed, shaved and dressed to meet with the Suits, if any should call. For Hollywood writers like us, this meant jeans with only a few holes in them, fancy cowboy boots, and a clean shirt of some sort.

 Chris and I adopted a 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. schedule, five days a week - weekends, holidays and birthdays off. Unpaid overtime required when deadlines loomed. We couldn't offer our employees (ourselves) vacation pay or health benefits - although, we learned soon enough that if you reached a certain sales quota Writers Guild Insurance cuts in - a Tiffany policy if there ever was one. Besides the usual, it also offered generous payment on all forms of psychological and substance abuse treatment - pretty much a necessity for writers in general and Hollywood writers in particular.

Over the years our production rate was pretty steady - about ten pages each a day. Which, if you are a writer yourself, you'll know is pretty respectable. That's finished pages, mind you. Everything Chris wrote, I rewrote from top to bottom and vice versa - blending our styles into a third bunchandcolecoleandbunch voice. (I've been writing these MisAdventures pretty much in that Voice, which some of you might have noticed.)

That was for books and articles. Screenplays were a whole different animal. For screenplays one of us sat at the keyboard - usually Chris, since he could type at a blinding speed - while the other paced, tossing out dialogue and descriptions. The important thing was the dialogue. Since it was spoken aloud, we could be pretty sure an actor could say them without going all mushy mouth or tripping over his/her tongue. Plus, you could hear for yourself if the dialogue tracked.  

Must have worked, because we became known for our dialogue chops.

RESUME SCENE

The phone did not ring that morning. Or, during lunch. Or, in the several hours that followed lunch. Things were feeling bleak out. And then - Ta-Da:

The son of a bitch rang.

"Finally," Chris said. But he hesitated to pick up. "You go," he said. "I'm not feeling very lucky today."

I picked up and a familiar voice said, "Hey, boys. What're you up to?"

It was Jeff Freilich, whom we'd met when he and his partner - Chris Trumbo - were story editors at Quincy. They'd since left and we hadn't know where'd they'd landed.

I gave Chris a thumbs up and he grabbed the phone while I admitted, "We're doing shit, Jeff. A couple of magazine pieces, but that's it."

Jeff said, "Well, maybe we've got something for you. Me and Chris (Trumbo) are over on the new Kate Columbo show. We're already way behind and under the gun. Can you guys come in and see us?"

"Far fucking out," Chris said.

I said, "When?"

Freilich said, "How about right now?"

Boy, was that agreeable to us. Hung up. Splashed our faces and headed out over the hill to the land of silk and money. (Not forgetting the smog.)

As I mentioned in Episode # 6 - How To Steal A Million Dollars - Freilich was a medical school dropout who got his start working with the legendary schlockmeister Roger Corman. Trumbo, was the son of the super legendary Dalton Trumbo, one of the blacklisted Hollywood Ten. (He co-wrote the Steve McQueen/Dustin Hoffman starring movie, Papillon, with his dad, who was ailing.)  

We found our boys on the far reaches of the Universal Lot in a trailer village where the studio housed the rowdy writer community. The trailers, mostly double-wides, were lined up along the cemented in LA River - just across from the Bob Hope Golf Course. Later, Chris and I would share many a MisAdventure on those cement-covered banks, which I'll tell you about down the road.

We hesitated before the trailer door - was this the place? Then we saw a hand-scrawled sign that read: Kate Columbo.  

I knocked. A petite redhead in a Wow! sundress answered, flashed a starlet-quality smile when we gave our names, then ushered us into the offices of Freilich and Trumbo. The guys were eased back behind their desks, and as we entered they toasted us with bottles of beer.

The redhead said, "Let me guess. Two more for you guys. And two for Bunch and Cole, am I right?"

We all agreed that this would be a genuine act of mercy on her part - it being the dead of summer and all. And we watched with pleasure as she ankled out of the office, slim hips twitching under the sundress.  

Chris said, "Can she type?"

Frelich laughed. "Boy, can she."

Trumbo, always the more serious and socially conscious of the two, said, "She's also probably smarter than all of us put together. English major, with a Poli-Si minor. Former legal secretary. Was going to law school, but had to drop out." He shrugged. "Some kind of family thing."  

We got our beers, then settled in to learn about the show - Kate Columbo (also known as Kate Loves A Mystery, and Mrs. Columbo)  was a spinoff of the popular Columbo series, starring Peter Falk. The new show would feature the formerly never seen - but much discussed - wife of Lt. Columbo. She would be a reporter for a small newspaper who ends up involved in all sorts of exciting mysteries.

"Sounds like a shitty idea," Chris said diplomatically.

"We've got Kate Mulgrew to play Mrs. Columbo," Jeff said. "And you can't get much better than that." (Ms Mulgrew, who would win a Golden Globe for playing Mrs. Columbo, would go on to stake out a remarkable career and would achieve everlasting Trekkie fame playing Capt. Kathryn Janeway on Star Trek: Voyager.)

"The problem is not just the lousy premise," Trumbo put in, "but the guys running the show are complete hacks." Trumbo tended to see things as they truly are, and obviously agreed with Chris.  

Jeff looked over at me. He said, "With your newspaper background, we thought maybe you could help us out here. Rise above the fray, so to speak."

I nodded. While they were all talking, I'd thought of an idea. I'd only quit my newspaper job a month or so before and that world was still fresh to me.

I said, "How about a real locked door mystery? A trendy couple - who own a nightclub - are found murdered in their mansion. The whole place is like a fortress. Alarms, iron gates, barred windows. The whole thing. And there they are on the kitchen floor, both shot twice in the head with a .22. Obviously a pro hit. Not just a tap - but a double tap."

"Shit," Jeff said, a little stunned.  

My partner gave me a grin - knew you could do it, Cole.

Trumbo said, "Did this really happen?"

I said it had. The murders occurred back when I was City Editor of the Outlook in Santa Monica. My reporters covered the whole thing. Just before I left the paper, some of the suspects were coming to trial.

"But, these aren't the murder suspects," I said. "Nobody knows who pulled the actual trigger. A pro probably flew into LA. Did the hit. Flew out."

"So, the guys on trial are the ones who ordered the hit?" Trumbo guessed.

I nodded. "Yeah, that's where it gets really good. The whole thing tracks back to a bunch of illegal gambling clubs here in the Valley. The nightclub owners had a whole Casino-type thing going on above the club. Then got into a turf war with some other types."

Jeff laughed. "Shit, go write it," he said. "And on your way out, tell our favorite redhead to call your agent."

We did. And she did. And by the following morning we were working on the script.

And hot damn, just before lunch, the phone rang again. This time it was our agent, calling to set up an appointment for a new series starring the fabulous James Earl Jones.

"Fuckin' A," Chris said. "I'd pay them to write for Mr. Jones."

And it was over the hill again, but this time to a different address. A nice little white bungalow, set among whole neighborhoods of similar bungalows from Hollywood's days of yore. A scene right out of Nathaniel West's Day Of The Locust. Complete with garden forecourts and blooming Bougainvillea. But instead of civilians, production company spillovers from the Studios ended up there. Also, there's a whole section where most of the XXX-rated movie industry is housed.  

There, we sold yet another newspaper-themed story - also based on fact. This one was about an investigative reporter who uncovers a very nasty - and dangerous - conspiracy. It takes all of the James Earl Jones character's consider skills to keep him alive, and bust the bad guys. (Interestingly enough the showrunner for Paris was an as yet unknown producer, Steve Bochco who went on to create hit shows like Hillstreet Blues, LA Law and NYPD Blue.)

Next day.  

Now, we're juggling two scripts: Mrs. Columbo and Paris. And guess what?

The phone rang.

Picked up to hear that sexy British voice purr, "Hello, Allan, love. I have Peter on the phone."

Yep. Good old Peter Thompson was actually calling back.

When he got on, he said, "Allan! I understand you lads are doing great things. Great things."

I said we'd both quit our jobs and were working full time as freelance writers. Peter made nice noises about that - I told you he was charming, didn't I?  

Then he said, "Allan, it happens that my old mate Bruce Lansbury has taken over the duties of executive producer at Buck Rogers." I asked if Bruce was related to Angela Lansbury. "Her brother, dear boy. Her brother."

Then he went on to tell us that the new show - Buck Rogers In The 25th Century - was yet another Glen Larson creation. (Much more about Larson later.)  

"When Bruce called me about needing some writers," Peter said, "I immediately thought of you two. I'd just learned, you see, that you and Chris sold a science fiction novel series. Is that true?"

I pleaded guilty.

"Well, in that case, you could be big help to me, dear boy," Peter said. "It's science fiction expertise, that Bruce wants. Give him a jingle and go in and see him, would you? As a favor to me. Hmm?"

Naturally, I said we would. Got off the phone, filled Chris in. Called and made an appointment with Lansbury. Then we pushed everything else aside and start working on Buck Rogers stories. When the head of production of Universal Studios calls and says he wants a favor, you do your damndest to comply.  

The stories took a couple of days. We didn't neglect the Mrs. Columbo and Paris scripts, but we skipped lunches and worked late to get it all done. Finally, we had several Buck Rogers stories ready, with one we thought would be a sure thing. (A genius idea from my genius partner.) To be on the safe side, we called our new, self-appointed, producer/mentor Al Godfrey and set up a practice pitch session.

We ran down our pitches - leading with our best story. The sure fire one. When we were done, Al correctly identified the one we thought was a sale.  

"Pitch that to Bruce last," he advised.

"What the fuck for?" Chris asked for both of us.

"Because nobody ever really listens to the first pitch," Godfrey said. "You've got your mind on other things - hangovers; am I going to get laid tonight; is my wife/girlfriend/mistress wise to me. That kind of thing.

"So you'll reject the first pitch right off, because you're too embarrassed to admit your mind was wandering. You'll also more than likely toss the second pitch on general principles. Show that you were really paying attention all the fuck along.  

"Then, for the next pitch - and you're never gonna get more than three shots, boys - the guy gets serious. I mean, shit he really needs to buy something or he would have had his girl call and cancel the fucking meeting because his hangover is so bad."

"But what if it doesn't work that way?" I asked. "What if he buys one of the others? Do we then say, "Wait a minute! We've got a better one?"

Godfrey gave that weary sigh he had, when addressing rookies. "Not only no, but fuck no," he advised. "If you do that, you'll get no sale at all. He'll change his mind about the one you just sold, then shoot down the other story because right about now his hangover has caught up with him and he's starting to hate your fucking guts for making him think."

I don't believe Bruce was hungover when we met with him. (Although we'd learn later that he did enjoy his dry martinis. Lansbury's recipe: Two shots of gin in a shaker of shaved ice. Whisper vermouth over it. Shake and pour into a chilled cocktail glass.) Bruce was warm and friendly, putting us quickly at ease. (Later, when we met his sister, we'd learn firsthand that niceness runs in the family.)  

We pitched the first story, and although he was gentle about rejecting it, I could see that his mind really wasn't on the pitch. Just like Godfrey had predicted. The second was also a no go.

After rejecting it, for reasons I can't recall... just as I can't recall the story... he leaned forward, elbows on the desk, a frown of concentration on his face.

"What else do you have?" he wanted to know.

I gave Chris the high sign. Go, boy, go.

Chris said, matter-of-factly, "Oh, we want to clone Buck Rogers three times and put him in aerial combat against himself." A slight pause, then - "We call it Buck Times Three."

"Bloody hell," blurted Lansbury - momentarily losing his British cool.  

Then he said the four magic words: "Who's your agent, boys?"

On the way home, Chris said, "Talk about fucking Fat City. We're working on three scripts at one time. Man, my landlord is gonna love me."

We got right down to it, churning out Kate Columbo and Paris, then jumping on the Buck Rogers episode. As it turned out, everybody was so impressed with the story, that it underwent a major change, including the title. "Buck Times Three" became, "Ardala Returns."  

The character of Ardala was played by Pamela Hensley,  as talented as she was beautiful. She'd co-starred in the pilot and was lured back to do our episode with promises of lots of money and a great script.  

The idea of the story was that Ardala, who always had a sweet spot for the hunky Buck (played by Gil Gerard) planned to capture Rogers, then clone him and create an invincible armada of fighter pilots. She'd also have an endless supply of willing lovers in Rogers' clones.

We decided on an amusing trap - a mysterious antique ship, seemingly shot forward in time - just like the Rogers character. It was a ghost ship, the only cargo, a treasure-trove of 20th Century junk food. Rogers, slavering at the sight of all those burgers and fries, Twinkies and Ding Dongs, can't help but visit the craft. And wham! The trap would slam down and Ardala would have him in her clutches.

Lansbury called us into his office for our second draft notes. As we sat down, both of realized that he did not appear to be a supremely happy man. My stomach did flip flops, thinking that maybe our script had fallen from favor and was doomed. That we'd be thrown out and told never to darken Mr. Lansbury's door again. And then maybe he'd call some other guys - like Peter Thompson - and tell them never to hire two guys named Bunch and Cole.

Bruce said, "Lads, I fear I am the bearer of ill tidings."  

Chris and I nodded. I also gulped - Chris probably did the same.  

Lansbury slid a small glossy magazine across his desk. It was TV Guide. We looked at the cover and saw a picture of Gil Gerard, dressed up in his tight-fitting Buck Rogers costume.

We puzzled at it. "OKaaayyyyy?" I said.

"It you look to the article inside," Lansbury went on, "you'll see that the essayist - a writer well known for his insensitivity - said our Gil looked like an overstuffed sausage in his costume."

Chris and I both examined the cover again. We sort of agreed with the writer's description, although we didn't say so. (To show you that it really was a problem in the making, a supremely pudged-out Gerard underwent gastric bypass surgery not long ago.)

I looked at Bruce. "What does that have to do with our script?"

Lansbury sighed, saying: "The word has come down from Gil. We are to never mention food on the show for the duration of the series. As for your script, obviously you'll have to come up with something other than the junk food trap. And Gil said to lose all the food jokes."

Chris and I were relieved. Screw a bunch of food jokes. "So, we still have a job?" I asked Bruce.

"Absolutely, he said. "You've turned in a marvelous script - food references and all. In fact, boys, when you are done with this one, I'd like to have you do another."

The next one was called, "Space Rockers."

And with those four back to back to back to back sales, our careers were launched.  

Erin Gray


Postscript: Here's where you can view both episodes for yourselves: Ardala Returns. Space Rockers.

And by popular request - after this MisAdventure was posted - here is a picture of Buck's beautiful sidekick, Erin Gray. A lot of guys remember her from their youth.  











NEXT: THE GALACTICA 1980 FIASCO

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?