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Friday, September 30, 2011

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

HEY, IT'S JUST MONEY!
Dolly’s voice came over the speakerphone: "Look alive, boys. Frank Lupo's on the line." 

We looked alive... scooping the pages of Sten #1 into our desk drawers, getting out notebooks and pens, whirling fresh sheets of paper into our IBM Selectric II typewriters. I picked up the phone, told Frank’s secretary we were there, then nodded for Chris to pick up as well.

"Hey, guys," came Frank’s cheery, but gravelly voice. "How’s it goin'? Okay?" We both said everything was just fine by us.

He said, "Good... How’s the book comin’ along?" Frank knew, and approved of our working on our first novel during the ton and half of spare time we had while being ignored on Galactica 1980. Even so, we both felt guilty for goofing off.

Lupo was the boy genius in Larson’s stable. He was in his twenties, but when he spoke The Boys With The Big Telephones listened. Frank had the air of a knock around, street wise kind of guy. But he was a man with a purpose. The story was that he set his sights on a writing career in his college days. A liberal arts degree, plus a wife and kid later he headed out to LA and drove cabs to support his family while hammering out spec scripts on the side.

His work and bearing impressed the hell out of so many people that he ended up being Glen Larson’s right hand man when he was no more than 26. Galactica 1980 was his first real showrunner's gig and to Frank’s supreme credit, he did his damndest to finesse the failing Galactica 1980 along through many inept hands, and shined like gold despite the show’s imminent demise. When it finally died, nobody would blame Frank.

"What do you need, Frank?" I asked.

"I want you guys to go to dailies."

Chris groaned aloud. "Aw, Jesus, boss," he griped. "Dailies blow big green Donkey dicks."

"Nah, much worse," I said. "With the Schoolship episodes we are talking about blowing elderly camels."

Frank laughed. "Yeah, yeah,"" he said. "I heard it all before from you guys. But I need you to go. There’s gonna be fallout and I’m depending on you guys to fix some of it."

"Boy, when the shit hits the fan," Chris said.

"Look at it this way, guys," Lupo said. "You’ll be doin' me a favor."

The way it turned out is over the years that favor led to many hundreds of thousands of dollars in our coffers. But, we didn’t know that at the time. Frank was one of the good guys, in our estimation. And he had done much to try to lessen the misery of our tenure.

THE FIX-IT BOYS
Besides, we were The Boys From Dover. The Fix It Guys. Bunch & Cole & Cole & Bunch. So we went.

A couple of Teamster Jokes later (told by our driver) we found ourselves in the screening room where the Dailies - the results of the previous day’s shoot - were being shown to a large number of Suits.

There were Suits from every Universal Studios department. Suits from every segment of ABC Television, and Suits from advertisers who were (unhappily) chained by contracts for the run of the show. (A happy few had Give-Back deals pegged to the ratings. The lower the Nielsons went, the more free ad time they got on other ABC shows.)

POOR BABY
And then there were the hordes of producers from Galactica 1980 - including Glen By-God Larson Himself, who sat at the command station in the center of the screening room. Perfumed women assistants sat on either side of him, refreshments and soothing words - if needed - at hand.

Chris and I moved quickly down the aisle just as the room darkened, passing the command group in time to see Lupo there as well, along with Jeff (The EatAnter) Freilich, his co-supervising producer.

Directly in front of the command group was Vince Edwards, the director of the episode. He didn’t look well. But maybe it was the lighting.

Chris and I found a place out of the line of fire, where we could see both the screen and the Suits. The lights dimmed further, but I could still see Larson’s weirdly lit face - colors playing over it - and one seat in front of him, Vince Edwards.

The former Dr. Ben Casey lit a cigarette and the smoke curled back toward Larson. Someone said "Fuck." I think it was Larson. And Edwards hastily put out the cigarette.

The footage rolled. It was herky jerky at first but soon settled down. We were looking at the bridge of Galactica’s Mother Ship.

Adama (played by our buddy, Lorne Greene) was conferring with his right hand super genius Dr. Zee, who held court in a huge, futuristic command-type chair.

WHAT'S WRONG WITH HIS NECK?
Zee was a Larson creation to satisfy the FCC's children’s hour dictates. The character was supposed to be a child in body and age, but very wise, very adult, but with really, really long sideburns. A Disco-era hair style on steroids. Zee was played by a 12-year-old named James Patrick Stuart. He was a nice kid. For trivia freaks, his father was Chad Stuart, of the ‘60’s pop group, Chad and Jeremy. His mother, Jill Gibson, a supremely talented lady, collaborated on most of the group’s albums.

The point being, we all assumed the kid had the part because his dad was a friend of Glen (Twenty Six Miles Across The Sea) Larson from his days in the music business. If friends they were, I would not have wished what followed on the kid of any friend of mine, much less the snot-nosed delinquent of my worst enemy.

First off, the kid’s voice was starting to change so it cracked at every other syllable. When he said Adama, for example, it came out ah-Dam!-ah. Low at the start, cracking high in the middle, back to low at the end. Making things worse, he was plainly terrified.

Anyway, the idea of the scene was that Dr. Zee was warning Adama that the evil Cylons had targeted the fleet’s school ship and would attack at any moment.

But as he shrieked his lines he sat stiff as a board in his chair, not moving a muscle. He stared straight ahead as if his head were mounted on a Popsicle stick instead of a neck. (We were told later that he was scared spitless of Vince Edwards, who was said to be displeased with the boy’s performance. This may, or may not have been true.)

We heard Larson’s voice boom from behind us: "What the fuck’s wrong with the kid’s neck? Can’t he move it? Jesus Christ! Somebody call his mother. Call his teacher. Call the fucking doctor. Do Goddamned something, Goddamn it!"

I glanced back and saw Vince Edwards’ cringe at the explosion going on behind him. I don’t know if Larson realized he was there or not, but he cussed a blue streak.

Beside me, Chris muttered, "I almost feel sorry for the poor bastard."

Things deteriorated from there. The next bits were supposed to portray the aftermath of the Cylon attack on the schoolship - Zee's chirps of warning apparently came too late.

The corridors were filled with smoke and flames. Alarms were blaring. There were off screen shouts and screams and the sounds of laser-fire and rocketry.

Meanwhile, in a series of shots, our heroes are shown walking casually through the chaos as if they were on a Sunday school outing. Later footage showed them leading kids to safety, with equally slow calm.

If this was an emergency, you sure couldn’t tell it by our actors. Plus, if any of them started to quicken his or her steps, you could hear Edwards’ off screen voice commanding: "Slow down!"

I think in whatever he called a teeny mind, Edwards believed that the slower the actors walked and the calmer they appeared, the more heroism they would be displaying. But what was in fact happening is that Edwards was ruining all sense of danger or suspense that several millions of dollars of special effects were aimed to evoke.

NOT JUST THE EARTH
Once again we heard Larson’s booming voice: "What the fuck is this? Who directed this turd? Who? Who?" We heard someone whisper something to Larson. "I don’t care if he is here. He’s ruining my show, Goddamnit. Lift on this nonsense. Lift! Lift!" (Lift is a film editor’s term that means to remove, to edit out. In this case, Larson was not speaking of running celluloid through the splicer, but Vince Edwards.)

Somehow order was restored and the screening room guy resumed torturing the boss - and the rest of us - with the dailies.

Chris and I were quiet as little church mice. It was no time to draw attention to ourselves. Especially since...impossible as it seems... things got worse. Not just blowing donkeys or camels worse, but stinky-breath monitor lizards worse.

It was like this: We were watching the most expensive scene of all. The scene in which a missile fired by the dastardly Cylons blows up the bridge of the schoolship.

Tens of thousands of dollars had been deployed getting ready for this scene. (Remember, in its time, this was the most expensive episode of television ever filmed.)

First they had lovingly constructed the bridge, which bristled with faux controls and winking lights. Then explosive squibs were carefully placed here and there. Smoke generators were mounted just out of sight of the cameras. Hidden gas lines snaked about to feed and control the flames when they were ordered up by the director. They even had ram jets installed beneath the decking to throw stuntmen hither and yon.

Finally, an explosives expert had set things up so that after a huge explosion stunt people and debris would be hurled everywhere and the bridge would be destroyed.

In other words, there was no possibility of retakes, because the bridge would really-o, truly-o be burned to an fucking crisp. Utterly destroyed.

As you shall see.

On screen you could see Vince Edwards putting his people through a dry run. He pointed at the bridge’s large consul and said, "Fire." Meaning, following his command, a fire would be caused to erupt.

Then he directed the two male leads to come running out (well, strolling, really) onto the bridge proper...look about and react: Oh, my, god, holy shit, etc.

Then Edwards would order the camera to pan left, and the two leads would be replaced O.S. (off screen) by brawny stuntmen. Return to scene: And Vince would say, "Explosion," indicating that at this command there would be an explosion. The ram jets would hurl the stuntmen fifteen feet or so across the smoking bridge.

Then the footage showed Edwards looking up and the camera tilting to show - high overhead - a muscular grip perched over a fake steel beam (which probably weighed several hundred pounds).

 And as he indicated that particular prop he’d say, "Beam!" and the grip was supposed to let loose with the beam, which would crash to the deck.

A cheater angle would make it appear that it almost hit the stuntmen. They’d immediately be replaced by our leads. Who would leap to their feet and rush off, leaving a destroyed set behind them.

I heard Larson mutter, "Okay, okay, this is going to be good. Never mind the other shit."

The on screen Edwards ducked out of sight and started calling out directions as the real deal unfolded on screen.

He called out "Action," his assistant repeated "action" and the shoot began.

Then he called, "Fire!" and his fire wrangler repeated, "fire" - and a fire erupted from the bridge’s big console.

The two leads ran out, looking wildly about. The camera swung away to show the fire getting larger, giving the stuntmen time to replace the leads.

Then Edwards called, "Explosion!" The explosives wrangler repeated, "Explosion," and there was a big damned explosion and the ram jets rammed right on schedule hurling the stuntmen across the bridge.

There was a long pause of apparent confusion. Then we saw the leads back on screen again, rising from the deck, looking about in much bewilderment. And they weren't acting. They really were confused. Something was definitely wrong! But what?

Then they practically shrugged and trotted off the set.

Suddenly the on-screen Edwards burst into view. He was totally bewildered. He said, "What the fuck happened to the beam?"

Up above we heard the grip shout, "Beam!"

And ka-fucking-bang! The steel girder came crashing down missing Edwards by no more than Dr. Zee’s pinky.

"Holy fucking shit!" Larson roared behind us. "It’s ruined! Totally ruined! Lift! Lift! Lift!"

The lights came on and Chris and I dashed through a crowd of very angry suits who were descending on Edwards. Well, he must have survived because I see by his IMBD.com entry that he lived on until 1996.

However, if you should be unfortunate enough to be stuck somewhere and forced to see the schoolship episode of Galactica 1980, you’ll understand why the scene is so weirdly empty. And when it is over, you’ll feel that there is something missing in the sequence. Which was the beam that almost pegged Edwards, but never appeared in the show.

Because, like I said, we really did burn down that schoolship and there was no going back. The sucker aired a couple of weeks later as is.

Chris and I took turns holding our breaths.

Would the ratings fall further?

Would the show sink to 13, the magic Nielsen ratings-point that guaranteed cancellation?

Would Peter Thompson let us out of our seven-year contracts so we could return to freelancing and finish the first Sten?

Stay tuned Gentle Reader and all shall be revealed.

 NEXT: THE BOXMAN COMETH' 

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, September 23, 2011

LORNE GREENE RIDES TO THE RESCUE

Our Hero
"He lay face down in the desert sand/ Clutching his six-gun in his hand /Shot from behind, I thought he was dead/ But under his heart was an ounce of lead / But a spark still burned so I used my knife / And late that night I saved the life of  Ringo... " (Lorne Greene Singing 'Ringo.') 
*** 
Everyone was still wondering when the hell Glen Larson would finally burn that damned schoolship when the word came down that Actual Production had begun. Film was being by-God exposed.

Now, Chris and I hadn’t even seen a script and since we were story editors on the show, this was rather weird. Normally, we were left out of the loop about everything, except the scripts. This was because we were the guys who had to answer to the Studio, the Network Boys, and Susan #%$% Futterman, the very scary woman who was the network censor for ABC.

Never mind that nobody paid any attention to what we said, when any of the above decided to relieve themselves their excrement streamed directly downhill into our home-away-from home, a double-wide trailer that sat on the banks of the lovely, cement enclosed, LA River. Which was empty, except for a trickle of water and speeding Universal Studio stunt vehicles, eleven months out of the year. (See previous episodes for an enlightening tour of the Writers' Trailer Village.)

What happened is that when Mr. Larson turned in one of his scripts, always at the very last tenth of a second, everybody in the chain of first draft Scriptland snatched it up, read the sucker, got pissed, then called us on the phone to vent their spleens, livers, hearts, lungs and rectums.

They’d learned that it was dangerous to yell at Glen. He’d just say fuck off, order his crew to shoot the script anyway, then put it on the satellite cue for national broadcasting. Leaving them with the choice of either showing his episode, or something in the can - like a documentary about ski touring in downtown Oslo. Or, the plight of young minority males in Urban America.

Anyway, the first notice we got of Episode #1 of the School Ship Burning was a call to our office from our producer,  Jeff (the EatAnter) Freilich, to hustle our butts down to the sets to do some on the spot cutting. It seems Mr. Larson’s script was so overly long that no matter how fast the crew worked, they couldn't move the lights, sound booms, or cameras fast enough.

Glen Larson Script On The Way
Dolly entered our office, handed us both a copy of the script that was Episode One and said, "The cuts have to be made here, boys." She was indicating paper clipped pages. (They didn’t have sticky notes in those prehistoric times.) "There’s a driver waiting outside to take you to the set."

"Never fear," Chris said. "Bunch and Cole to the fucking rescue!" 
And we exited to peels of unladylike laughter from Dolly. 


On the way we scanned the indicated pages. When we reached the end, we gave each other puzzled looks and started in again. But this time from the script's Fade In.

"Fuck!" Chris finally said. "This story - and I use the frigging term in its loosest god damned sense - does not track in any way, shape or bloody form."

"We aren’t being asked to fix the story, Chris," I pointed out.

My partner tended to look at things in the larger, bleaker picture. Such as, is there actually a story here? But our job didn’t involve anything as impossible as fixing a Glen Larson script. It was only a little bit of latrine duty we had to perform. What Chris called, "Burning the shitters" - GI speak for hauling out the oil cans full of sewage from the 6-to-12-hole outhouses used at forward firebases, dumping AV-gas into them, and setting them ablaze. With luck, your friendly neighborhood sapper squad was in lurking position downwind.

I said, "Let’s just concentrate on the piece of excrement in front of us. Do our job and with luck the show will be canceled by and by and we can get the hell off the lot."

"Okay, okay," Chris said. "What’s their goddamned problem?"

"The sequence is too long," I said. "We need a time cut."

"Meaning," Chris said… reminding himself, more than me… "That cutting this shitty dialogue won’t help."

"No," I agreed. "It’s the setups we have to cut. Mostly the shitty dialogue will remain."

Chris groaned: "No way out. No way out. No way out."

(At the time, we were among the few people in town who not only had seen and loved "The Producers," by Mr. Mel Brooks, but who quoted key lines regularly. As others picked up on the film, it was a nice conceit to think that Bunch & Cole had been an Influence For The Good. Zero Mostel's plaster cast-enclosed Attitude Finger making his perpendicular point for all time.)

Sound Stage
So, we went to the shoot at one of the big Universal sound stages, with the usual warren of double-entry-and-exit doors with blackout chambers in between. There were red and green lights fixed overhead telling you to STOP, don’t enter, on pain of getting hit over the head with a Mitchell. Or, Go fast as you damn can before shooting resumes and you let in light and noise from the outside.

Sound stages are enormous. It’s hard to image how vast they are because only certain sections - the places where they are shooting - are lighted. Comparing them to a hangar for 747 jetliners might give you an idea about the size. You tip toe over what seems like miles of cables snaking off God knows where.

Finally, you get to the place where they are shooting and you see the huge lights playing across anything from a posh living room to a jungle set, to a whole damned city block.

Whatever you can imagine, Hollywood artists can duplicate a set so real that if it were your childhood bedroom you couldn’t tell the difference from the real thing. They’d have it down to all your favorite toys and books. Well, maybe it'd be neater than your old room, but you get the point. They are aided in this illusion because a camera is a one-eyed devil. Inconsistencies, such as size and distance are easily overcome. (Try it: Cover one eye and look around the room. Now uncover it. See what I mean?)

Robyn Douglass
As we approached the bright lights we saw the elaborate bridge of Galactica 80's Mothership. Off to one side I thought I saw the shapely figure of Robyn Douglass, who played Jamie Hamilton on the show. A fine actress - a double threat in both drama and comedy - and a noted beauty.

"What a fuckin' waste," I heard Chris mutter.

Then Vince Edwards rushed out to greet us. (In the previous episode you learned that the former, 1980’s TV doctor heart-throb was now a lowly TV director.) I have to say, he looked pretty damned good. Of course, he was older than his Ben Casey days, but he’d kept that rugged handsome look that a lot of Italian guys can maintain if they watch the pasta and vino. The rumor around town was that he’d been "difficult;" a Method actor, in constant search for Motivation, which is why his days as a heart throb petered (so to speak) out.

Old Hollywood joke: (Q) Know how an actor reads a script? (A) "My line, my line, bullshit, bullshit, my line, bullshit, my line."

Edwards, we were told, was of this breed of Brando wannabes.

Vince was frantic when he came running up. "Boys!" he cried. "Boys!"

I said, "Yessir?"

What's My Motivation?
Chris said nothing. I could feel him curling up - wary. Thinking: who the fuck is this clown?

Edwards laid the open script down on a high, four-legged stool. In the gloom it looked like he’d conjured it out of nothing. Then one of the lighting magicians completed the move and we had our own by-god spotlight beaming down on us. We could see Vince's once famous brow furrowed in worry.

He said, "The actors have memorized all their lines, so you can’t… you must not cut the lines. It will fuck with everybody’s motivation… We’ve spent hours on Motivation! Hours!"

Before we could answer, he whirled and hurried off, shouting, "Ten minutes, everybody! Ten minutes!" And his assistant echoed: "Ten minutes! Ten minutes!"

Chris and I looked at each other. Then the spot went off. So we were in the dark, both literally and figuratively.

"What a load of horseshit," Chris said.

"And we only have ten minutes to deliver it," I replied.

Before we could say more, a deep voice made itself known. It wasn’t a shout, or even a voice that seemed raised above the normal. But it was a commanding voice that seized your attention.

It was none other than Lorne Greene. Mr. Bonanza, himself, and a gentleman of the old school even in person. We had met Lorne several times before, as you probably remember from a previous episode of this particular Misadventure.

PAUSE SCENE FOR FULL DISCLOSURE

In my previous existence as a newspaper man I had written a nice little review - accompanied by a picture - of a spoken-word album he had just released. (My newspaper's circulation area included the Pacific Palisades, where Lorne lived.) Not only had he sent me a nice, personally written note of thanks, but he followed it up with a brief phone call.

It made my day. Hell, it made my week. Poppa Bonanza had just called and said, you did okay, son! Take that, Adam and Hoss. You too, Little Joe!

Anyway, when we met in person on the show I reminded him of the article and his kind response and he was gracious enough to say he remembered.

RETURN TO SOUND STAGE CRISIS

"Allan," Lorne called out… "And Chris. There you are. How pleased I am to see you boys."

Then the beam of light winked on as if by command and he strolled over to greet us, shaking each of our hands in turn.

"I’ve been given to understand that there’s a time problem, boys," he said. "And that we must eliminate some scenes to reduce the number of times the lights and cameras must be moved."

We agreed that this was, indeed, our mission.

"Have you had a chance to look this over?"

We said we hadn’t. That the script had been delivered into our hands only moments before.

"Mind if I make a few suggestions?"

We sure as hell didn’t. Lorne had been in the business for two small forevers. (Click here for details.)

Lorne removed the script from the stool’s surface, handed it to me, then laid his own well-thumbed and dog-eared copy on the same surface. He thumbed through it, jabbing a finger here and there.

"There are words residing on these pages," he said in that deep and mellifluous voice, "that no decent actor - an actor with any sort of training - would wish to speak."

It was Chris' turn to say, "Yessir." He liked Mr. Greene a lot.

I said, "But we’re not here to cut lines, Mr. Greene. And we aren’t authorized to rewrite them. We’re supposed to just cut the setups."

The fact was that by this point every spoken line in the script had been vetted by the Powers That Be, including Glen Larson, who no doubt had decreed that anyone who touched a single precious line would be dirt.

MCA/Universal Contract Writers
Not wishing to be dirt - only wanting to return to our freelance TV and novel writing careers - Chris and I were loathe to piss off Larson. Theoretically, our contracts were almost up. (Unless Peter Thompson picked them up for seven fucking years.) And the show surely would be canceled. To defy the Black Tower now would be like escaping from the chain gang the week before your legal release. After all, MCA-Universal had nearly a century of dealing with greater malcontents than the two of us.

But we were young and dumb and it wasn’t until a few years after we made our escape that I appreciated just how graciously Mr. Greene had come to our rescue.

"Look here, boys," he said, pressing the open script on the stool. At the same time, he withdrew a pen from his pocket. He struck the pen across the page, flipped that page, struck across another, then wrote some things in, saying all the while: "Chuck this. Chuck that. Write a short description of transition here and another there… to be delivered by yours truly, of course - and we’ll be back on the time track."

He straightened… to quite a respectful height, looming even over Chris who was 6’2”, to say, "And the nice thing is, boys, that it not only saves the setups, but eliminates some of that awful dialogue I was required to commit to memory. And have even less than no desire to speak."

He turned, then paused to add, "And if anyone - including Glen - complains, send them to me."

Lorne walked away and it was if he was followed by his own Theme Music and I swore later I could hear the ghostly strains of "Ringo."

Then the spotlight winked off and he vanished into the gloom.

"God damn!" Chris said in awed tones.

Indeed.

NEXT: DIE, SCHOOLSHIP! DIE! DIE! 
OR, HOW VINCE EDWARDS SCREWED THE POOCH


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, September 16, 2011

WE BURN THE SCHOOLSHIP - PART DEUX


"Television is an invention that permits you to be entertained in your living room by people you wouldn't have in your home."
David Frost

"They say that ninety percent of TV is junk. But, ninety percent of everything is junk.
Gene Roddenberry
* * *

The Cure To All Our Ills
Dolly entered our office, clutching the daily hotsheets. A mischievous grin lighting the way. “Guess who’s directing the schoolship episodes?” she asked.

“Irwin Allen!” Chris blurted.

“No, he’s a producer, silly,” Dolly said.

Chris knew this, of course. Allen, of “Poseidon Adventure” and “The Towering Inferno” fame was known far and wide as “The Master Of Disaster.” But little did we realize that someday we would come to know him too damned well as “The Towering Toupee.” (See Episodes 28-39 of The MisAdventures Thus Far for the lowdown on that stinky little mess.)

“Well, who then?” I asked. Our fates rested on the hopefully puny shoulders of whoever shot the two parter. With luck, it'd fail so badly that the ratings would dip below a thirteen Nielsen share and Chris and I might escape our contracts.

Wishing I was the praying sort, I glanced over at the sign we'd posted on our door:

COME ON 13

Dolly, who knew how badly we wanted off the lot, put a hand to her bosom and intoned, “Man… Woman… Birth… Death… Infinity!”

Chris goggled at her. “Sam Jaffee?” he said. “Gunga Goddamned Din?”

He poured Remy into our coffee cups. “Cole, we’re up shit creek with nary a paddle in sight,” he groaned. “Jaffee’s talented, even if he is older than God.”

I looked at Dolly with pleading eyes. “Tell us it ain’t so, Dolly,” I said. “Lie to us.”

“No lies are necessary,” Dolly said. “I’m speaking of none other than that heart throb of the Sixties doctor shows, Vince Edwards. Ben Casey in the ever lovin’ Italian Stallion flesh.”

Sam Jaffe & Vince Edwards
Chris and I felt much better. Vince Edwards had peaked in the early Sixties during the five years that he played surly neurosurgeon, Ben Casey. (1961-1966)

Sam Jaffee had played his boss and also did the intro to the show - Man, woman, etc. Almost two decades had gone by since then. To my rookie mind that meant Edwards had been reduced to directing loser TV shows. (TV directors are almost never a big a deal as their Brethren Of The Big Screen. They are for hire per episode and the cast regulars and staff producers and writers have way more clout.)

“I’ve heard good things about him,” Dolly said.

“Don’t tell us,” I begged.

Chris pointed at the door. “Get thee back to the winch, wench,” he said.

Laughing at our plight, Dolly returned to her duties as the chief scrounger of Cole And Bunch productions.

An aside: We had loan out companies to keep our taxes low. Mine was called, “No, No, Don’t Do That.” It was my dream that I’d make a fortune with that company. Producers would call to consult and try out things, like: We’re going make a sequel to “Casablanca.” You know, what happened to the guys after the plane took off?

And I’d say, “No, no, don’t do that.” And they’d drop the picture idea, save a bundle of money and pay me a ten thousand dollar consultant fee. (A TV sequel was actually boarded - lasted three episodes, I think. Also a prequel to The African Queen, for crying out loud.)

Chris’ loan out company was called, “Whatever The Gorilla Wants.” No explanation necessary. Says it all.

The phone rang. Chris picked up. “This anyone with good news or money?” he demanded. He listened a full half-second. “No? Then fuck off.” He slammed the phone down.

“I hope it was somebody who realized you were joking,” I said. “Somebody who saw ‘A Thousand Clowns’  and remembered the Jason Robards bit.”

“It was the EatAnter,” Chris said. He frowned. “He hasn’t been a producer long enough to get that stupid, has he?”

The EatAnter was Jeff Freilich, co-producer, along with Frank Lupo, of Galactica ‘80. Until recently he’d been a lowly writer like us.

“What did Jeff want?” I asked.

Chris shrugged. “Beats the shit out of me,” he said.

The phone rang again. This time I got it. It was the EatAnter. Again. And he was laughing - a hopeful sign.

“That was a good one,” he said. “Chris is lucky I'm a fan of ‘A Thousand Clowns,’ or you guys might be fired.”

“Damn,” I said. “Missed again.”

“Look,” Jeff went on, “I wanted you guys to be one of the first to know. I mean I brought you onto the show, after all. I feel responsible.”

My heart skipped a joyful beat. “We’ve been canceled?” I said. I heard Chris say, “Hot damn,” and crack another bottle of Remy.

More chuckling from the Eatanter. Jesus, he was sounding more like a producer as the days passed. “No, no, nothing like that,” he said. “You guys are safe. We’ve got the schoolship episodes, right? A three plus million dollar spectacle.”

“Right,” I said glumly. Chris heard the woeful tone of my reply and returned the bottle to the booze drawer.

“Plus, we’ve got Ben Casey directing,” he continued. “He’s supposed to be pretty hot. A personal friend of Bing Crosby.”

“He’s dead,” I said. “Crosby, I mean. Died on a golf course in Spain a few years back.”

“Sure, sure, but that’s not the point,” Jeff said. “Crosby discovered Edwards. Gave him a super recommendation, I’m told.”

I was starting to feel better. Recommendations by a dead guy, even if he was Bing (The Crooner) Crosby, boded ill for the show and well for us.

“So, what’s the news, then?” I asked.

“I’m leaving the show,” Jeff said. “Larson’s starting a new series called ‘Battles.’ It’s a detective thing set in Hawaii. Starring old ‘Gunsmoke’ himself, William Conrad.”

William Conrad & Co.
His reference to ‘Gunsmoke’ was the fact that William Conrad was the voice of Matt Dillon in the old Gunsmoke radio series. But in person he was too damned fat to play him when it went to TV. That role was limned by James Arness. (Brother of Peter Graves of Mission Impossible fame, in case you are curious.) However, Conrad was as massively talented as his girth. (Although a friend who later worked with him on 'Jake And The Fataman' said you couldn't shoot him from the back, because it looked like two gunny sacks of potatoes going up and down when he walked away from the camera.)

“Sounds like fun,” I said. “A sure hit.” What I didn’t say was that it was a sure flop if Larson wrote all the episodes like he was doing on Galactica. (This turned out to be true on both counts.)

“Here’s the thing,” Jeff said. “I want you guys to know that if Galactica is canceled I’ll try to get you on at ‘Battles.’”

I bit my tongue. I couldn’t say, please, Jeff, don’t help us. Eatanter that he was, he’d take it the wrong way. Instead I said, “Well, maybe we could at least bang out a script for you.”

“Well, that’s the other thing,” he said. “We need some scripts pretty fast. I’ll send over the show bible and you guys see what you can come up with.”

I said thanks, made my farewells and turned to Chris. “The good news,” I said, “is that the Eatanter is going to hire us to write a script for William Conrad.” Chris’ eyebrows rose. “The bad news,” I went on, “is that if this show goes tits up, Jeff wants to take us with him to a brand new Glen By God Larson gig.” The eyebrows descended.

“We gotta stop him,” Chris said. “We gotta fucking break his telephone hand, or something. Set fire to his fucking hair.”

“Take it easy,” I said, although I didn’t feel too easy myself. “One schoolship burning at a time.”

NEXT: LORNE GREENE RIDES TO THE RESCUE

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, September 9, 2011

WE BURN THE SCHOOLSHIP


"An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with his fools." 
Ernest Hemingway

"I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me." 
Hunter S. Thompson 
* * *

Okay, Who Stole
The French Fries?
Chris gave me the elbow and stage whispered, "Did you fucking see that, Cole?"

Eyes cut toward us and I ducked my head, hissing, "Shut the fuck up! Everybody can hear you!"

Chris shrugged, then attempted to lower his voice. "Yeah, but did you fucking see it?"

I had. And it was disturbing.

We were sitting at the Galactica table in the Universal commissary. I was having the Jack Klugman sandwich - A Philly Cheese Steak, natch; while Chris was finishing up the Telly Savalas Greek Grinder.
  
Who Loves Ya, Baby?
Sandwiches at the commissary were named for Studio stars. Klugman was the coroner lead of Quincy M.E. And Telly Savalas was the Forever "Who loves ya, baby" who had Universal over a contract barrel that could only be concocted by a wily Greek accountant whose ancestors, no doubt, designed the Trojan Horse.

Of course, if your show was cancelled and they were tearing up your contract, your sandwich would vanish from the Big Menu Board that graced one wall of the commissary. More often than not, the chef would be told before you or your agent, so you'd first learned that your ass was fired when you looked up on the Menu Board and your sandwich was gone.

As much as we longed for such an honor, there was no Bunch & Cole sandwich. And if there were, we'd want it cancelled in the worst way. Because at this point in time we were five weeks into our threatened seven-year indenture to MCA/Universal and everybody on the Glen Larson created disaster was slowly coming apart at the seams. To cope, they were developing bad new habits, or relapsing into old ones.

Witness the "did you fucking see that, Cole" incident that Chris was referring to. One of the handsome young Galactica stars - who normally spent hours in the weight room and the treadmill to keep camera fit, and who denied himself all but the healthiest and least caloric foodstuffs - had suffered a minor breakdown when he left our table.

As he passed by a plate a busboy was clearing away, he made a quick snatch for a handful of leftover fries. The commissary made outstanding fries. Thick and sizzled crispy on the outside and moist on the inside in hot vats of pure white Crisco lard, they probably weighed in at a zillion calories a fry.

And the minute our young star thought he wasn't being watched, he stuffed the whole handful in his mouth. Chewing surreptitiously, he ducked out of the commissary before anyone could notice his mushmouth.

"Yeah, I saw," I told Chris. "One of the busboys told me half the regulars are sneaking things off plates. They've had to dodge forks, or risk having their fingers chomped by pearly whites. Apparently busing dishes for the Galactica table is not a job for the faint of heart."

Chris chuckled, then said, "A Teamster told me his old man owns one of those We Care And We Bail limo services that contracts to the studios. I guess Saturday night bar hopping has gone through the roof. And he has no idea how they make it for the Monday morning call."

(TV people work incredible hours, especially the actresses who have to get to work at least two hours early for makeup and hair. And on a science fiction show aliens and other critters have to get there even earlier than the actresses. A typical shoot is Monday through Saturday. You get Sunday off, but that's usually when the script is delivered for the shoot the following morning. While we're all watching 60 Minutes, they're memorizing their lines.)

Chris raised his empty beer glass and across the room our waitress caught the signal, nodded and hustled off to fetch us two more. Then he said, "Let's make this our last round. For now, anyway. Our booze level has started to creep up, in case you haven't noticed."

"Creep up?' I said, incredulous. "It grabbed us and ran off about week two of this bullshit show."

"When you're right, you're right, Cole," Chris said. "What we need to do is impose some fucking discipline before our livers call it quits."

The waitress arrived with our beer and Chris took a thirsty gulp, put the glass down and pulled over a placemat. Fished out a ballpoint and clicked it into action.

"Let's lay down some rules," he said. "Then stick with them."

"Agreed," I said, taking a honk off my own beer.

Chris said, "First thing I noticed is that we're starting to put Drambuie in our coffee when we get to work in the morning." He wrote on the placemat, saying, "Rule Number One - No more morning Drambuie."

I started to agree then thought of something. "What if it's a Futterman Morning."

"Shit," Chris said. "That's a tough call."

A Futterman morning was when we had to deal with the ABC censor, one Susan Futterman. The lady you met in last week's episode, Meatballs In Space - The Larson-Futterman Wars.

Chris scratched out Rule Number One. Then rewrote it. "No more Drambuie in the coffee," he labored, "except on Futterman Mornings." He raised his head, then said, "And if she's really shitty, we get a consolation hit after we get off the phone."

"Good," I said. "Except let's make it Remy (the cognac) instead of Drambuie.

"You got it," Chris said, making the correction. "And if she really pisses us off we get doubles."

No quibbles were heard from my side of the table.

The list went on from there. I thought I had a copy of the original. I distinctly remember folding the placemat up and tucking it aside to go with other memorabilia that will someday be on display in the Bunch & Cole Wing of the Library Of Congress. My searches have failed to turn it up thus far, but I'm pretty sure I can reconstruct the list.

It went something like this:

Rule Number One: The above mentioned ban on starting work with Drambuie-laced coffee - except on Futterman Mornings.

Rule Number Two: No more than four beers each were permitted at lunch. Except for the day of the list-making, that is, since we'd already passed that point. In addition, we would no longer order four beers at a time (two each) to save the waitress the walk. This way we could spread the beer out and even the score with the waitress by upping the tip.

Rule Three: We'd stick to coffee as best we could, then in the afternoon we'd switch to extremely strong pots of tea. To encourage that switch, we permitted ourselves one cup of Earl Grey laced with Tia Maria liqueur after lunch and another at 5 p.m.

Rule Four: In the Evening we were allowed as much scotch and soda as seemed fit. (We always had to work late because of Jeff (The EatAnter) Freilich’s insistence on stupid meetings. Chris, if you recall, dubbed Jeff The EatAnter after the whiny character in the B.C. comic strip. Once he made us wait a couple of hours in his back yard on a Saturday morning, while he and his wife got their weekly massage. Afterward, Chris gave him a Wedgie and he never did it again.)

Rule Five: No drinking on the drive home, unless The EatAnter had been particularly whiny, then we were allowed a nip or three from the hip-flask of Drambuie we always kept handy for traffic emergencies.

There were other inducements and inducement-bearing people - as well as firm rules governing same - but they shall remain unremarked upon to protect the astonishingly guilty.

I'm mentioning the above to illustrate the tremendous pressure everyone was under. Five weeks felt like five centuries. Unlike us, most people feared for their jobs. Here they were working on the most expensive TV show in history and it was quickly going down the tubes. My God, there might not be a pickup! No second season!

In short, the ratings were as abysmal as Glen Larson’s scripts.

Of course, what made a loser show in those days would make a winning program today. There were basically only three networks – meaning three channels – and somewhere between 75% to 90% of the public watched one of those three networks from 7 p.m. to 11 p.m. every night. (And everybody, but everybody watched Johnny Carson at 11:30 on NBC five nights a week.)

A top ten show, like Quincy, would usually get over 30 Nielsen Ratings points. (Simply put, a rating point is a little over a million viewers, so a rating point of 30 would mean an audience of over 30 million.) A number one show like Sixty Minutes – which was opposite us on Sunday nights – would garner 40 rating points or even more. Today, a top show draws somewhere between 15 and 19 rating points. If an episode of the late, unlamented "Survivor" had captured 10 ratings points the producers would have been thrilled.

What was the doomsday number for Galactica 1980?

"Thirteen," our producer/mentor Al Godfrey told us over lunch one day.

"If the show weren't so expensive and Larson wasn't such a pain in the ass it might hang on a little longer at that number," he said. "But I double-damn guarantee you that the day the Nielsen's hit 13, the Network will cut Larson off at the knees."

After lunch, Chris made up a big sign and posted it on our office door. Very simply it read:

COME ON 13!

Freilich had just come in and he peered at the sign, puzzled. Finally, the EatAnter asked: "What's that mean?"

"That's our lucky number," I said.

"Since when is thirteen lucky?" he said. "For most people it's in the toilet time."

I jumped in before Chris could say, "That's where we were hoping the show will go - down the fucking toilet."

I delivered the answer we'd planned all along: "We're resurrecting the old Thirteen Club," I said.

"Yeah," Chris said. "If it was good enough for Chester A. Arthur, it's good enough for me and Cole."

"The Thirteen Club?" Freilich scoffed. "There's no such thing."

"Wanna bet?" Chris said.

Freilich laughed nervously and shook his head. "You guys!" he said, backing out the door to avoid another Wedgie attack. 

He also didn't bet and later Dolly came in laughing, saying his lovely red-headed assistant just reported that the EatAnter had made her call Studio Research about The Thirteen Club.

"And you know what?" Dolly said. "It really did exist. They used to enter the meetings by walking under ladders, and the dining room floor was covered with spilled salt. A lot of very important people belonged to it."

The Man:
Chester A. Arthur
"Including Chester A. Arthur," Chris said. (And it's true. We looked it up before we posted the sign.)

Dolly gave him a look. "What're you boys really up to?"

"No good," Chris said.

After that we made it a point to have a different answer when anybody asked us what "Come On 13" meant. Meanwhile, week by week as each episode aired, the ratings dropped lower and lower. Steadily sinking toward that mark of the mortally wounded 13.

"Makes you believe maybe there really is a fucking God," Chris said, reviewing the Nielsen's one bright - for us - Monday morning.

He lowered his issue of Variety. "Makes me feel kind of guilty, though," he said. "We want out of here the worst way. But to do that a lot of nice people will have to lose their jobs."

I sighed my agreement. "Not our fault," I said. "Larson's the one who's making this such a shitty show. Hell, if it were any good, I might not mind working here so much."

Then we consoled one another by letting up a tad on the Drambuie in the coffee rule. The fact of the matter is that a lot of people’s livelihoods are involved in any television series and I'm not talking about rich people. There are far more working stiffs than stars; guys and gals and who lay carpet, knock the sets together, paint, wire, set up lights, fix cars – you name the trade and it is represented in any Hollywood production.

Even so, we felt like slaves under that Peter Thompson mandated Universal Studios contract. Which said, in short, that we were their virtual bondsmen for a period of seven years – unless they decided not to pick up our contracts, in which case our asses were fired and free.

We wanted fired and free. Back to freelancing TV shows, writing our books and living healthier lives that required fewer inducements to get through the day.

Besides the "Come On 13" - we wanted to post another sign aimed at our youthful audience (Ha!) that said: WHY AREN'T YOU LITTLE BUG SNIPES WATCHING 60 MINUTES, but feared that would tip our hand.

Meanwhile, Management, was desperately trying to turn the tide away from 13 toward a more desirable number that equaled a pickup for a second, and then hopefully a third season. Because three seasons - 66 episodes - is where the Syndication Bucks cut in to the tune of many millions of dollars an episode.

And so a Big Meeting Of The Suits was decreed. Yachting vacations were cut short. Mistresses were left to paint their nails in fancy suites. Company jets were commandeered to fly from New York to the Left Coast. An entire floor of the Universal City Hotel was roped off. (Except for Telly Savalas' suite, of course, where he and his family, along with his aged mother, lived free - courtesy of the afore mentioned Trojan Horse contract.)

And the Dawn To Martini Hour meetings at the Black Tower commenced. Gloom was parsed. Doom was dissected. And unbeknownst to them, all the actors and actresses came under the baleful gaze of various Big Telephone Guys, who wondered aloud if the fault was theirs.

The funny thing is, nobody questioned the writing. Nobody observed that the scripts were so bad that as Lorne Greene had complained when he visited our office: "Lord Lawrence, himself, couldn't rescue (the scripts) from the lavatory."

Glen Larson
At this point, Glen Larson, the man who was truly to blame, went into high meeting gear. A consummate salesman - albeit a lousy writer and committed borrower of better men's ideas - Larson, we were told, was at his most eloquent. He promised this. He promised that. He promised all the other things in the world. In short, he said he was going to film the most spectacular episode - no, two episodes - that have ever been created for television. No expense would be spared.

The senior vice president at Universal assured the network that they were putting their money where… well, I’ll skip this comment out entirely. Where Hollywood is concerned it could be considered XXX rated. Suffice it to say, they swore that if required, they would swallow.

Larson promised them a thrilling, two-part episode in which the evil Cylons gave it everything they had. The bad guys would ambush the heroic Galactica fleet in such numbers that many a human hero would meet his or her fate.

Moreover, if only they would promise to bar the dreaded Susan Futterman from the set, Larson said, the finale would be an all out attack on the school ship. The huge space ship that carried the hopes and dreams of Galactica, and therefore Humankind.

And get this, he said. The Cylons will succeed! They’ll blow the be-jesus out of the school ship while our cast of handsome heroes and comely heroines race to save the children.

In short, in the last scene of Episode One we will see the whole damned school ship ablaze while innocent little rug rats in spacesuits shrieked and wailed for their mommies.

Hot Damn! Was the reaction of one and all. Fan-fucking-tastic!

But then the ABC Biz Affairs Veep became suspicious and asked," What’s the estimated cost of these episodes?"

Larson nodded at the Universal Studios rep, who spoke up: "We have budgeted $3.2 million for both episodes..." (According to my handy-dandy cost-of living calculator that would be $8,310,679.61 in today's money.)

The ABC Biz guy lifted an eyebrow. (Or so I was told) "That’s well above our license fee," he pointed out with a wolfish grin. The license fee, was about $750,000. The studio ate the difference for every episode, which I said before was well over a million bucks. (For a lesson in TV deficit financing and the benefits of same, you’ll have to wait for future episodes of these Misadventures.)

Everybody was convinced. The show would go on. At least for the next two-part episode.

Unsaid was that if the show did not rise in the ratings, burning schoolships be damned, it was going to be All Over Now, Baby Blue.

NEXT: WE BURN THE SCHOOLSHIP PART: DEUX

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?