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Friday, October 28, 2011

SHOWDOWN AT THE INCREDIBLE HULK: IN WHICH CHRIS LUGS A 'MACHINEGUN' TO THE PARTY


Nick Corea

Everybody warned us about Nick Corea. Nick likes to get into your face, they said. Knock you back on your heels to see how you react. But if you survive the introduction, you might - just might - land a gig on The Incredible Hulk.

Chris bristled. "What do you mean, get in our face? I’ll double gobble turkey stomp the son of a bitch if he fucks with me and my partner."

Nick Corea, as I said, was the number two man at The Incredible Hulk and its driving force.

"He’s not a bad guy, Chris," Jeff (the EatAnter) Freilich hastened to assure us.

This was before Galactica '80, but after Jeff’s sojourn as story exec at the (thankfully) short-lived Mrs. Columbo series. He’d parted company with Chris Trumbo and won himself a spot as a producer on the Hulk.

"He’s an ex-Marine," he added, as if this explained everything. "Very creative. And smart. Really, you’ll like him."

"Can’t be that smart if he was a Jarhead," Chris said. "Only thing they know how to do is fix bayonets and charge."

As I mentioned before, Chris had been a LURP in Vietnam, sneaking around the Cambodian border and other places the U.S. wasn’t supposed to be. He admired the Marines, but was too much of an Army man to admit it in public.

"What kind of things does he do?" I asked Jeff. "To get in your face, I mean."

"Well, I know your agent sent him a sample of your writing, because I saw it myself," Jeff replied. "It was pretty good, too."

"Of course it was fucking good," Chris growled. "We wrote it, didn’t we?" He hated being condescended to, a habit Jeff had formed after donning a producer's hat.

The spec script in question was "Crosses," a movie about a bunch of thieves in Berlin at war’s end. They are trying for one last big score to finance their escape before the Russians burst into the city with blood in their eyes. We’d never sold the movie, but had optioned it many times and considered it one of our finest scripts.

"Sure, sure," Jeff said. "And Nick will have read it, and liked it too, or he wouldn’t have had you guys come in."

"Okay, so what's our script have to do with it then?" I wanted to know.

"Well, maybe nothing," Jeff said. "But sometimes - I’ve been told - sometimes he holds up the script, and says, 'I’ve read your script, and here’s what I think of it.' And he drops the script into the waste basket."

"Asshole," my partner hissed. Such a threatened act was an affront to his artistic dignity.

"Now, Chris," Jeff soothed. "He only does it sometimes. Probably he won’t do it at all to you guys. I’m just warning you, so you’ll know not to get pissed and just laugh it off."

"I’ll tell you fucking what," Chris said. "If Corea pulls shit like that you tell him that I will immediately drop to the floor and I’ll run through the entire drill of setting up and locking and loading a fucking M60 machine gun. And then I'll open up on his ass."

"What’s that mean?" Jeff puzzled. "Is it bad?"

"Tell him," Chris said. "If he really was a Jarhead, he’ll know."

"He might cancel the meeting," Jeff warned.

"Then he’s chicken shit," Chris said. "Tell him that too.

Jeff never did tell Corea. He sort of passed along the word to the rest of the staff. By the time the buzz reached Corea, the story was so blown out of proportion that some people thought Chris was going to bring a machine gun into the meeting.

Corea was not a guy to be intimidated. It only made the meeting more certain than ever.

Come the showdown:

When we entered Nick’s office the meeting was packed with producers, (Karen Harris and Jill Sherman among them) story guys, assistants to the assistants of The Main Assistant. Everybody was here for the showdown. They were crowded on either side of the room, making an aisle. At the far end, Corea sat at his desk. Short beard on a hawk’s face, rugged build. Clad in a voluminous Hawaiian shirt over cammie trousers.

As we entered, he leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, lips twisted in a wry grin. He nodded at me, then looked at Chris. An unsmiling Chris stared back.

I could almost hear Fistful Of Sergio Leone music shrilling in my ears.

Nick suddenly dropped his hands and came forward. He picked up a thick sheaf of paper in one hand. Held it over the wastebasket by his desk.

"I read your script," he said. Then waited.

Without a second's hesitation, Chris dropped flat to the floor - legs outspread. Then he quickly and smoothly went through the complicated By The Military Manual motions of setting up an M60 machine gun on its tripod, then locking it and loading.

He swung the imaginary barrel around and aimed it directly at Nick. "Fire when you’re ready, partner," Chris drawled.

Nick barked a short burst of laughter. "Shit," he said. "You didn’t leave out a single beat. All twenty steps."

"Twenty one," Chris corrected him as he rose to his feet.

Nick dropped the script back on his desk. "Crosses, he said."It was a good read."

"We know," Chris said.

Nick waved and we took the only two empty seats in the room - directly in front of his desk. I could hear the others breathing sighs of relief and whispering to one another.

Incredible Hulk Pilot
"Okay, guys," Nick said. "What do you want to do?"

"A motorcycle gang story," Chris said. "You get to see a Hulkout on a motorcycle." He made motions of a head exploding through a helmet by way of illustration.

Nick nodded. "Heard you once had a PR contract with Hell’s Angels," he said.

"It’s still in effect," Chris said. "I took over from Hunter Thompson after they kicked shit out of him." Chris grinned. "I told him, 'Hunter, you've got to learn to get along with people.'"

Another short bark of laughter from Nick. Then he said, "Okay, guys. Tell me the story."

So we did.

NEXT: LOU FERRIGNO AND THE HARLEY HULKOUT

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, October 21, 2011

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


To understand The Incredible Hulk you have to first know that everybody on the show was nuts. Some were nice nuts. A few, not so nice. And others bounced back and forth like green balls of silly putty with no notice whatsoever.

It also helps to understand that the very premise of the show was schizoid, with this wimpy little doctor-type guy (played by Bill Bixby) transforming into a big green monster (played by Lou Ferrigno) when somebody kicks sand in his face and pisses him off.

Put another way, scripting for the Incredible Hulk was like writing for Kabuki theater. As Chris said, "one frigging thing out of place and everybody and everything goes apeshit."

The writing experience could be frustrating, agonizing and drive you just plain bonkers. On the other hand, of the hundred and fifty odd shows Chris and I worked on, it was one of the most fun and satisfying. Once you got the formula down pat, you could write just about anything you wanted. More importantly, what you wrote went on the screen, so you didn't hesitate to open up and address broader themes than one might expect in a show about a comic book character.

It was a bit like the old Black Mask Magazine days, where some of the 20th Century's great writers, like Chandler and Hammett, practiced and perfected their art and still kept the mag's thrill-seeking editors and readers content.

Created by Stan Lee and his buddies back in his Marvel Comic days, The Hulk was turned into a long-time hit TV series by Ken Johnson, who would go on to create top SF shows like V and Alien Nation.

The premise of the comic book and the TV series were different in many ways, but the important thing is that the Hulk is big and green in both venues.

Although, it should be said that Kenny at first wanted make the guy red - I don't know why - but was overruled by Stan Lee. Also, Stan's comic book Hulk could (sort of) talk, but Kenny's could only roar. (Roars provided by Ted Cassidy, then Charles Napier). In Stan's version, the Dr. Jekyll-like character was named Bruce Banner, in Kenny's it was David Banner.

Later, when we wrote a couple of scripts for Stan's "Defenders Of The Earth" series, he told us that the guys in the Black Tower thought "Bruce" sounded too gay and made Kenny change it. With that wry grin of his in place, Stan noted that it was the handsome young David with the slingshot who had a mad affair with King Saul, and not a guy named Bruce, but what the Hades, maybe the Black Tower boys knew something he didn't.

Another bit of trivia: Arnold - the ex-Governator - Schwarzenegger supposedly first read for the part but was rejected for being too short.

Kenny's main man on the show was the late Nick Corea (1943-1999), one of the best sheer story talents in the business. He was a master at adding interesting twists and turns and inspiring people to put real substance into their stories. Added to this brew were Karen Harris and Jill Donner (Jill Sherman when we first met) - a writing team when we met them - and Andy Schneider.

Over several seasons, Chris and I wrote multiple episodes of the Hulk - so many that some people thought we were on staff. There were a lot of MisAdventures in between those encounters with the Hulk gang, so for clarity's sake (hah!) I'm going to tell what happened over several back-to-back chapters.

So stay tuned until next Friday Gentle Reader when I present:

NEXT: SHOWDOWN AT THE INCREDIBLE HULK: 
CHRIS BRINGS A 'MACHINEGUN' TO THE MEET!

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, October 14, 2011

TOM SELLECK AND THE UGLIEST DOG IN HAWAII

A few weeks after the Boxman delivered us from the land of endless horse-hooey with na’er a pony to be found, we were hunched over our IBM’s, putting the finishing touches on the very first Sten.

We were starting to think about lunch - pastrami on rye and a pitcher of beer at Kenny’s Deli across the street, or a couple of tacos and a pitcher of margaritas at the Mexican joint a couple of blocks down Wilshire?

Chris was humming "Wasting Away Again In Margaritaville" while he worked, so I guessed he’d be voting Mexican. The phone - as it so often does in these misadventures - rang.

Bunch picked up. "Anybody with good news or money?" he inquired. Then a huge smile broke out. "Hot damn," he said to me, "It’s the Lupo."

He punched the speaker button. "Hey, guys," came Frank’s gravelly voice. "What'cha doin'?"

"Finishing up the book," I said.

"No shit," said Frank. "That’s good news, guys. Congratulations."

A New York transplant to La-La land, Lupo was a boy genius who had churned out spec scripts while driving a cab to support his family. Before long, he became one of the town’s rising young producer stars. Besides being a good guy to know, he was a Good Guy, in our book.

"Listen, guys," Frank said, "I’m over at Magnum, now. Think you can squeeze in time for a script?"

"Damn straight," Chris said. Then realized - "Uh, Frank. Isn’t this Magnum thingie another Glen Larson special?"

Another chuckle from Frank. "You got it, Chris But this is a co-creation deal. Glen and a guy named Don Bellisario. After the pilot, Glen’s moved on to his other shows, so it'll just be Don, with me as his number two."

This was sounding better and better.

"Why don't'cha come in, see the pilot, then take a couple days to think up some stories," Frank suggested.

Done and done.

It was over the hill to see the pilot - which, to our surprise, wasn’t half bad, even with Larson sharing writing credit. We figured the good lines came from Bellisario. The series, set in Hawaii, starred a big, good-looking guy named Tom Selleck. Scuttlebutt was that he’d been offered the part of Indiana Jones in the upcoming Spielberg extravaganza, Raiders Of The Lost Ark. But Universal had forced him to turn it down because of his Magnum commitment. So the part went to Harrison Ford and acting history took a sharp turn for both men.

Heartened by the quality of the pilot, we worked hard for several days to come up with a half-a-dozen pitches. I was feeling pretty good about our choices, so the night before the big meet Kathryn (my wife and Chris’ sister) and I set out to show the town what’s what.

Cary Grant & Madam Wu
We dined at Madam Wu’s on Wilshire, the Place To Go for Chinese food in those days, and while polishing off my second rum punch dealie, we struck up a conversation with our waiter, recently arrived from The Great State Of Hawaii. As it turned out, that conversation saved my poi.

Meeting time: we’re ushered into the Magnum office to be greeted by Lupo and the bossman, one Don Bellisario. He had a short artsy-fartsy beard, a sour attitude and had been a producer on Battlestar Galactica, but we were prepared not to hold any of that against him.

He’d also been a Marine during peacetime, which he made much of - not the peacetime bit, but the Marine Corps business. Chris tried to warm him up using the brother in arms ploy, but it only seemed to make more Bellisario jealous, and less brotherly. I suppose it was because Chris had actually been in a shooting war and all Don had to brag about was his Good Conduct Medal - which he did, repeatedly. He also boasted about being such a rebel that when he was in the advertising game he used to defy his boss by throwing push pins into his office ceiling. I mean - Wow, man! What a macho dude!

In short - this was not going well.

We started our pitches. And bam, bam, bam, Don shot them down one by one for no particular reason that Chris and I could fathom. After he passed on the last one, I glanced over at Frank, who usually wore a poker face at meetings. He was frowning, looking up at Don now and again, then down at the floor. Frown deepening.

When we were done, Bellisario seemed a little shocked himself. What the hell, over? What did I just do? I saw him look over Frank, then cut his eyes away, embarrassed.

Before he could bring the meeting to an unprofitable end - for us - I cleared my throat. Don and Frank looked at me, expectant.

"There’s one other story," I said, "but we didn’t pitch it because it’s still kind of a work in progress."

"A work in progress?" Don repeated, his face lighting up in what I took to be relief.

"Yeah, we don’t have the story quite figured out, but it really has us intrigued, so we keep picking at it."

"Let’s hear it," Don said.

"Sure," I said. I could feel Chris’ eyes on me. What the fuck was his partner up to? The Magnum story bucket was empty. And there certainly was no freaking "Work In Progress."

Meanwhile, I was thinking as fast as I could, while bullshitting my heart out. Hawaii, Hawaii, Hawaii, I was thinking. What do I know about frigging Hawaii? Only been there twice and that was in my misspent CIA-brat youth.

"It’s like this," I said, "Uh... Magnum comes... comes... uh... home and finds… uh uh... A middle-aged woman waiting for him."

"An attractive middle-aged woman," Chris puts in, trying to goose up whatever it was I had in my tiny mind and giving me more time to think. "And wealthy. Rich as shit."

"Yeah, an attractive middle-aged woman," I say. "And really wealthy. A big potential fee for our boy. And she, and she... She says... 'You have to help me Magnum. Somebody’s trying to kill my Susie!'"

"That’s right," Chris says, "some son of a bitch is trying to kill her Susie." He gives me a look - who the fuck is Susie?

Don breaks in: "Why doesn’t she just go to the police?"

"Yeah, yeah," I say, "That’s what Magnum wants to know. 'Why don’t you go to the police?'"

"What does she say," Don inquired.

"Tell him, Allan," Chris says.

"Well, she says, 'I did go to the police. But they refused to help me.'"

Don leans forward. He’s getting into this. "How come?" he wants to know. "Why won’t they protect her daughter?"

At that very moment I figure out who Susie is. Sort of. In bits and pieces. Jogged into life by memories of my conversation with the Hawaiian waiter at Madam Wu’s the previous night.

"That’s what Magnum wants to know," I tell Don. "He says, 'Why would the police refuse to protect your daughter?' And the lady looks at him like he's off his coconut for not knowing and says, 'Susie’s not my daughter. She’s my... my... my Dog!'"

I sit back, catching my mental breath. Don is plopped back in his chair, a look of utter amazement on his face.

"Shit! It’s her dog!" He looks at Frank. "Susie’s her god-damned dog."

Frank grins. "What did I tell you about my guys?" he says with some pride.

Then Don turns serious again. "But, Allan, why the hell is somebody trying to kill her dog?"

Chris says, "Yeah, Al. Tell him. Why are they trying to kill Susie the dog?" He looks at Don, winking. "This is gonna be good," he says.

Drawing on my conversation with the waiter I tell them about Hawaii’s very strict laws regarding immigrant dogs. Like all islands, they are scared spitless that rabies might break out. So all incoming dogs have to spend six months at a government-licensed kennel before they can officially enter the state. Don nods knowingly while I talk - he’s familiar with all this. I go on and say that a lot of those kennels cater to rich people like the middle-aged rich lady seeking Magnum’s aid. Very posh Super secure. And so on.

"So that very day Magnum escorts the lady to the kennel to see the dog," I say. "He’s wondering if maybe it is a very rare breed. And that maybe the bad guys want to blackmail the lady into ponying up bucks to save the poor pooch."

Don smiles. "That’s interesting," he says. "Exactly what kind of dog is it?"

Now, I know bupkis from dogs, and I’m at a momentary loss. Then I remember the waiter at Madam Wu’s again. The bit about "poi" dogs.

"Well, that’s the thing," I say. "The damned dog is a mutt. A poi dog, as the Hawaiians put it. And the more that Magnum looks at him, the more worthless the dog seems. Man, this is one ugly dog. Really, really, ugly."

A Poi Dog
I pause, gathering my wits, and say, "In fact, that’s our working title for the story: The Ugliest Dog In Hawaii."

Don plops back in his chair, laughing. "Son of a bitch," he says. "The ugliest dog in Hawaii."

Then he’s all serious again. "So, what gives?" he wants to know. "Why is somebody trying to kill the ugliest dog in Hawaii?"

I shrug, "Beats the shit out me, Don," I say. "Pay us ten thousand dollars and we’ll figure it out."

Bellisario roars laughter. Even Frank allows a chuckle.

Then Bellisario stops laughing long enough to say the four magic words: "Who’s your agent, boys?"

The following night Kathryn and I went to Madam Wu’s again. We got the same waiter. I told him the story and we all laughed and when we were done we left him a very, very big tip.

POSTSCRIPT: After we turned the last draft of the script in Bellisario tried to add his name to the credits. Which would mean he'd get one third of the rerun money forever. Fortunately, the Writers Guild automatically arbitrates such things. And they ruled that the story was 100% ours.

We had nothing to do with the decision, or even know it was under consideration. A panel compared scripts and made a judgment.

Anyway, the day after the ruling Lupo calls us, laughing his head off. He says he just saw Bellisario running down the hallway, cursing a blue streak, and screaming, "Bunch and Cole will never work for me again!"

And we never did.

NEXT: IT AIN'T EASY BEIN' GREEN: JUST ASK THE INCREDIBLE HULK

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, October 7, 2011

THE BOXMAN COMETH!


Chris exited the office John, rolled up copy of Variety under his arm. "Any word on the Boxman?" he asked.

I sighed. "Nope."

"Not to panic," he advised. "Let’s hear it from the majority." He hit the office intercom button. "Dolly, me dear. What’s the news on the Boxman grapevine?"

Dolly’s voice crackled over the intercom speaker: "No sightings yet, Chris."

"Shit," Chris said. Then: "Sorry, Dolly."

He switched off. "Let the panic commence," he decreed. He got out the Remy Martin. Spiced each of our coffee cups with a couple of healthy glugs. Raised his cup. "Confusion to our enemies." We inhaled suitable quantities of the anti-panic recipe. "Speaking of enemies, what’s the skinny on Peter Thompson?"

A charming rogue, Peter was the head of production for MCA-Universal, and he really wasn’t our enemy. As a matter of fact, he was our self-proclaimed friend and mentor, who frequently claimed that he had our best interests at heart.

"He’s still in Hawaii," I replied.

"Thank God for that," Chris said.

"But, he’s due back tomorrow."

"Shit," Chris said again.

He climbed to his feet and went over to the window, looking down the street that cut through the warren of double-wide trailers that made up the Writer’s Village, set on the cement banks of the drizzle of water the natives grandly called the LA River.

Turning back, Chris said, "The son of a bitch is late to our firing." He slunk to his chair and goosed his coffee with more cognac.

"You ever been fired before?" I asked Chris.

"Sure," he said. "Several times. Once I was canned for throwing an electric typewriter through a window."

"Why, pray tell, did you assault the window?"

"Son of a bitch boss tried to tell me how to write."

"Don’t blame you," I said.

"When I was in the Army," Chris added, "they didn’t fire you. They just sent your ass to Vietnam."

"I remember when they did that," I said. Chris had spent a tour of duty in Long Range Recon, an Army commando unit. After he got tired of taking kids into the jungle to get killed, as he put it, he wrangled a post as a combat reporter for Stars And Stripes and survived the remainder of his tour unscathed, except for a small napalm burn on his trigger finger. (When you consider his original unit took 300% casualties, that was really saying something.)

I remembered something else: "Before that, they sent you to Korea."

"Wasn’t so bad," Chris said. "Nobody shot at me hardly ever and I didn’t get the clap even once."

"And didn’t they send you to Germany a couple of times?"

"That wasn’t getting fired. That was a reward for being such a good sojer," Chris said. Then added, "German girls are great, and so's the beer."

He fell silent a moment, a smile twitching his lips, remembering either the girls or the beer; or, more probably, both.

Got up again and went to the window for another look."Nary a Boxman in sight," he observed gloomily.

The Boxman's Buddy
Perhaps I should explain: The Boxman was the vice president of firing folks. He was a nondescript little guy with a bad toupee and a cheap suit. He drove a canopied golf cart around the studio lot, towing a small trailer. The trailer was filled with boxes.

Empty boxes.

Empty boxes suitable for stowing your stuff, whilst under the stern gaze of the boxman; and, if he sensed trouble, a couple of beefy rent-a-cops. Then you and your boxes were escorted off the lot.

At least once a day the Boxman would exit the Black Tower, square his glasses, straighten his toupee, then climb aboard his golf cart to go about the business of putting other folks out of business.

The way he sat in the cart, stiff with importance, little eyes fierce behind those thick glasses, he reminded you of Robespierre’s executioner, except he didn’t have a guillotine handy and was probably a lot shorter. But people swore they sometimes spotted blood on those boxes.

Secretaries and production assistants would track his movements throughout the lot. If he was coming toward their office, phones would summon one and all to the windows to see if he was going to stop. And if he did, would he head for their place, or hunt up another nearby victim?

When he passed, relief turned to fear for friends and people would call down the line: "He’s coming! He’s coming! The Boxman’s Coming! And he’s heading your way!"

Of course, every person who was fired didn’t get first news of their employment demise via the Boxman.

They had other ways. Bwaaa-haha.

It seemed to be an unwritten rule at MCA-Universal that you would be the last to know that you were for the chop.

Not for them, the proverbial pink slip in your pay packet. One of the Guys With The Big Telephones didn’t call you into his office in the Black Tower to deliver the news. They didn’t even have the courtesy to line their employees up, then bark, "Everybody with a job take one step forward - not so fast, Bunch and Cole."

The only guy I ever heard of who fired people face-to-face was Ken Johnson, the exec producer of The Incredible Hulk, and not technically a Suit. I was told that he’d issue a summons, then when you got yourself settled and pleasantries were exchanged, he’d pull a Bullwinkle moose hat from his desk drawer, put it on his head, then give you the ax in Bullwinkle’s voice.... Yuk., yuk, you’re fired, Rocky, old pal... But that probably had more to do with Kenny’s insecurities, than pure meanness.

Another way they got the message across was via the huge overhead menu boards at the studio commissary. If you were a big enough star, the chef was sure to name a sandwich after you. For example, a Jack Klugman sandwich (Quincy M.E.) was a Philly cheesesteak. (Our shared hometown.) A Tom Selleck sandwich (Magnum P.I.) was a foot long hot dog with a kosher pickle. (Don't ask.) And a Lorne Greene was a ham sandwich (Swiss cheese 25 cents extra.)

Anyway, if you were a star of that caliber, the first time you would become aware that you were unemployed is when you visited the commissary for lunch and saw your sandwich crossed out. And if your sandwich was canceled, so were you. The chef had that kind of clout. He was notified before the star, or even the star’s agent got the word. No kidding.

And so it was that people whose shows were in trouble checked the menu board daily and kept worried watch for the Boxman. Waiting in suspense for the empty boxes to fall.

Chris and I were in a different position than the others. We wanted to be canceled in the worst way. It was our fervent prayer to the Gods Of Writing, that our contract would be torn up and we could return to a life of freelancing TV episodes in order to support honest work writing novels.

As I mentioned in a previous MisAdventure, we were blackmailed into taking jobs as story editors for the abysmal Galactica 1980 by the aforementioned Peter Thompson. It was either that, or be blackballed from the lot. The contract was only for ten weeks to start with, but after ten weeks the Studio had the right to extend that contract for another seven years. But if the contract wasn’t picked up, the seven-year clause was null and void, and we were free, free, free.

It was the scariest ten weeks of our lives. We lived in daily fear that some dastardly miracle would occur and Glen Larson - creator of the show - would cease the writing of crap and let the pros go to work, causing the show to catch a healthy case of decent ratings.

Thank the Gods, he didn’t, and the show didn’t. Instead it sank lower and lower in the Nielsen ratings. The magic number, we were told, was 13. If the Nielsen ratings dropped lower than 13 ratings points, ABC television would cancel our asses.

We went so far as to post a huge number 13 above our office door, although we never told anyone what it meant. After all, they wanted their jobs. Needed them, even, to feed kids, shoe current wives and pay alimony to exes.

If you check back to the previous chapter, you’ll note that Chris and I lucked out big time when they hired Vince Edwards (of brooding Ben Casey fame) to incompetently direct and ruin the two-part burning of the schoolship episode. It was not only a disaster, but a disaster boring to all but the folks who had to pony up several million dollars to shoot the sucker. (The episodes, not Vince Edwards... although it was rumored a hit man was briefly considered.)

After the shows aired, Chris and I holed up in our trailers, drinking Scotch and Remy, chanting: Come on, thirteen! Come on, thirteen!

Then we got another incipient stroke of luck. Just as the final days of our contract were running out, Peter Thompson took a vacation. He and his family flew to Hawaii for fun, surf and sun. And we knew then, that if the show was canceled, and the contract sands ran out while Peter was away, we Writer Mice could not only play, but we could beat feet for home.

While we waited with hope in our hearts that the Boxman would bless our day, the intercom buzzed. It was Dolly. "Freilich’s on the phone, boys."

"Aw, Jesus," Chris said. "What’s the EatAnter want this time?"

"You’ll have to ask him," Dolly said.

So we did.

"Guys," Jeff said. "Got some good news and some bad news."

"Okay, I’ll bite," Chris said to the speaker phone. "Gimme the bad news first."

"The show has officially been canceled."

Chris and I looked at each other. "There is a God," Chris murmured.

"Maybe even more than one," I whispered back.

I cleared my throat. Tried to sound sad. "Oh, that’s too bad, Jeff."

"But not unexpected," Jeff said. "Especially after Vince Edwards fucked us."

"You said something about good news?" I ventured.

"Yeah," Jeff said. "I got the gig as supervising producer of Battles.”

Battles was also a Glen Larson creation. Set in Hawaii, it was to star the hugely talented and hugely fat, William Conrad.

"How nice for you," Chris said, meaning it.

Birth Of The EatAnter
For an EatAnter, Jeff wasn’t too bad of a guy. For those just joining us, Chris had dubbed him the EatAnter after the whiny character in the B.C. comic strip.

"Not only that,” Jeff said, "but if your agent plays his cards right, I can bring you two on board as my story execs."

Chris turned beet-fucking red. He was ready to crawl through the phone, rip the EatAnter’s head off and shit in his neck. I held up a cautioning hand just in time to shut him up.

"Did you hear me guys?" Jeff said. "I got you jobs."

"Yeeeesss," I said, voice quavering. "We heard you…. Uh… Thanks, Jeff."

I wanted to say fuck you, keep your damned job and let us alone, but that would be a bad thing. We’d sound ungrateful, and Jeff was a steady and reliable source of freelance assignments. Besides, if we passed he’d call Peter Thompson in Hawaii and get him to blackmail us again.

"Oh, and listen, guys," Jeff went on. "We’re having a little party at my office. A wake, really. To say goodbye to the other people on the show. Come on over and drink a little champagne with us."

We said we would, hung up and silently polished off the coffee/Remy. Chris got out the Metaxa and we had a couple of shots of that fiery Greek cognac... just to let the Good Lord know we were serious... then headed for the wake.

Lorne was there. So was Kent McCord and Robyn Douglass. They were still in costume and makeup… They’d been in the middle of filming an episode titled Cleopatra when word came down to not only cut, but to cut forever.

Lorne greeted us with a wide smile. "We gave it our best, boys," he said. "Pity we didn’t have more support from on high. By that he meant Glen (The Ultimate Hack Writer) Larson.

Someone else muttered, "It was that fucking Susan Futterman’s fault."

Susan Futterman was the network censor and she did, indeed, do much to destroy the Galactica 1980. Since the show was aired during the FCC’s mandated children’s hour (7 p.m. - 8 pm) she insisted that we have what she called "educational beats." For example, in the middle of a car chase, she’d require us to insert a discussion explaining the workings of a combustion engine. And other exciting shit like that.

However, in truth, Susan was not to blame. The show was simply a very bad idea, guided by a lousy producer/writer who insisted on writing all the episodes himself, believing all the while that his words were golden. As Mark Twain said: "Ignorance is like bad breath. You don’t know you have it."

The party ended almost as soon as it began. When we took our leave Lorne slapped our backs and said, "Cheer up, boys. Maybe we’ll get a chance to work together again."

As you shall see a few episodes down the road, this was an unfortunate, but prescient, prediction.

Chris and I made our way back to the Writer’s Village. It was near the end of the day and somebody must have just finished a script, because half-a-dozen celebrating writers were out on the banks of the LA River, shouting hooray! and hurling empty bottles across the cement divide, trying to loft them onto the Bob Hope Golf Course on the other side.

"Let’s get moving, Cole," Chris said, "we’re missing the fun."

A squeaky little horn beeped behind us. And we stepped aside to allow a golf cart to pass.

We gaped.

It was pulling a trailer.

Beep! Beep!
And that trailer was filled with many boxes. And without a doubt those boxes were empty, because they were bouncing up and down. And behind the wheel of the golf cart was a small, nondescript man wearing a bad toupee and a cheap suit.

He stopped before our trailer, got out, squared his glasses and straightened his toupee. Then he marched to our office door and banged for entry.

"Holy shit," Chris said, in awe-filled tones. "It’s the fucking Boxman!

"We’re free Cole! Free!"

NEXT: TOM SELLECK AND THE UGLIEST DOG IN HAWAII


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?