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Friday, December 30, 2011

IRWIN ALLEN'S RECIPE FOR DISASTER


WGA Strike Class Of '81
Richard Brooks, Bo Goldman,
Gore Vidal & Billy Wilder
To understand how we wound up getting run over by Irwin Allen's big fat toupee, you first have to know about the Writer's strike of 1981.


The strike wasn't as long as the 1988 strike, which lasted a bank-account-bruising, lose-your-home-and-everything-you-own, five months. Nor, was it as short as the two-week 1985 eating-Danish-at-Farmer's-Market-while-picketing walkout. But it did last a mortgage payment squeezing three months, just like the recent 2007-2008 Studio ball buster.

The '81 strike, like all that would follow, was over technical issues, such as how much the royalties ought to be for hitherto unknown media markets, like VHS, and later DVD's and streaming videos. In my view, despite all the agony the writers have suffered during those strikes we've never come out well. The '81 strike was badly mismanaged - also in my view - by a professional labor negotiator.

She was a person whose name I totally forget, but whom we immortalized in Sten #3 (Court Of A Thousand Suns) as a voracious sea monster. We called the critter a Gurion (Gurionus-awfulus, to you biology majors) and it featured many barbed tentacles and turned itself inside out to swallow you with its fang-lined stomach.

Yech, right?

Our view of the dis(re)membered woman entirely.

Defenders Of The Earth
During the strike we scraped by with some magazine freelance work, and even wrote a little animation - the animation writers weren't Guild members, so although the pay was low the work was legal. We also got a helluva education about comic book heroes and animation from Stan Lee, working on some his shows like Defenders Of The Earth. (Mandrake Rocks!)

We worked the picket lines regularly, which was sort of fun because you got to meet old friends, catch up on their news - thereby gaining ammunition so that later on you could talk about them behind their backs.

Meanwhile, Kathryn's career in the escrow business was really taking off, so when vacation time came around and her boss said company policy was use it or lose it, we had money enough to pack up our little Honda car and set off on a camping trip up the coast of California, Oregon and Washington. Chris remained behind to tend our rather empty freelance store.

Kathryn and I took El Camino Real (The King's Highway, or Highway One) all the way, getting forced onto a freeway or a larger road only occasionally.

We had a marvelous time, cruising along the Pacific Ocean where cattle ranches ran right down to the water's edge and you'd see longhorns standing belly-deep, cooling off. There was the Big Sur, the redwoods, fishing villages and the mountains, where we saw an eagle owl with a wingspan as long as our car, pursuing some kind of lapdog, clutched in the arms of a scampering woman.

Along the way, we would buy things for dinner - artichokes from Castorville (the artichoke capital of the world) crab claws and sourdough bread from the docks in San Francisco, and so on until we stopped for the night.

Our camping gear was all from motorcycle magazine advertisers - light weight mountain tents, sleeping bags, pop out butane burners - on loan for the trip with promises of articles lauding said gear upon our return. We set up in seconds every night, while others struggled with ungainly tents, or leveling and hooking up their motor homes.

Then it was a nice dinner under the moon and the stars, a loaf of sourdough, a good jug of wine and a dusty bottle of brandy for afters and thou - Kathryn being my thou. And I hers. And there was much singing in the wilderness.

Eventually, after many days and hundreds of miles we reached the end of the King's Highway. It stops at Port Angeles, just across the bay from Vancouver Island, in Canada. We wanted to try the famous High Tea at the Empress Hotel, so we took the ferry across. It was delicious, as advertised, and we had a lovely time playing tourist on the island.

On the way back, a radio news announcement broke into the easy-listening music station playing on the ferry's loudspeakers.

It seems that the Hollywood Screenwriters' Strike had ended.

Son of a gun. Amazing to hear such news from afar - and in another country yet. Proof positive that you'll get airtime anywhere in the world if you use Hollywood as a modifier.

Over at Port Angeles I phoned Chris. "Shit, Cole," he said, "did you hear the news?"

"That's why I'm calling," I said. "Your sister and I are going to hop on I-5 in the morning and we can be home in a couple of days. Meanwhile, you can beat up on our agent to set up pitch meetings before all the shows are sold out."

There was an unusually long pause on the other end. Unusual for Chris, that is. Who was a motor mouth of the first order and proud of it.

I blinked first. "What's the problem?" I asked. "Did you get pissed at the agent and fire him? Don't sweat it for not asking me first. He probably deserved it."

I don't remember who our agent was. In those days we went through agents like bacon through a goose. Chris used to say: "In the spring the swallows return to Capistrano, the buzzards come back to Hinkley, Ohio, and Bunch and Cole fire their agent." (More on that subject a little further down the Misadventures road.)

Chris said, "No, I didn't fire him. In fact, it looks like the little weasel got us a job. Or, damn close to it."

I was pumped. I gave Kathryn a thumbs up and said, "Out of work for three months and back on the job in nothing flat. That's great news, partner."

Another pause, but a shorter one. "It's not exactly great," Chris said. "Maybe good news, or even so-so news. Or maybe it's plain old shit news."

"So what if we have to write a dumb script for a dumb show," I said. "We'll be on to another one in a few weeks. That's the joy of freelancing. Bad boss one day. Good one the next. All putting money into the book-writing coffers."

"It's a fucking staff job," Chris blurted.

Now it was my turn to pause. For those of you who have been following these misadventures, you'll know that we swore off staff jobs back when we escaped Galactica 1980 and seven years of indenture at Universal Studios.

Chris said, "Al, I'm so damned broke that American Express is calling to tell me to leave fucking home without it."

"You don't have American Express," I pointed out.

"Well, if I did," he said, "the fucking phone would be ringing off the hook with creditors dunning me."

I sighed. "Aw, shit."

Chris sensed that I was weakening. He said, "The weasel's pretty sure he can get us a two-script guarantee. On top of four grand or more a week."

"Okay, okay," I said. Then: "Who's the meeting with?"

"That's the good part," Chris said. "It's with Irwin Allen."

You know who the late Irwin Allen was, don't you? The self-proclaimed Master Of Disaster? Architect of the first "Poseidon Adventure," and "The Towering Inferno" movies. Creator of Boob Tube hits like "Lost In Space," "Land Of The Giants," and "Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea," to name just a few.

Pretty damned impressive, right?

Chris said, "It's a show about firemen. Called Code Red."

That sounded cool. Who doesn't love firemen?

"We can learn how to blow things up and set things on fire," Chris added.

I liked that too.

"Plus," Chris said, "plus... and this is even better... our old buddy Lorne Greene is the star of the show."

"Holy shit," I said, delighted.

Lorne was one of the few bright notes on Galactica. Doing his best with lousy scripts and even lousier production bosses. He was also very kind to writers. A prince among men.

Chris said, "Maybe we'll get to pay Lorne back for all the shit he had to put up with on Galactica."

"Damn straight," I said, ending the hesitation waltz. "We owe him big time... I'm in if you are, partner."

Poor Lorne.

NEXT: CODE DEAD

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, December 23, 2011

A HOLLYWOOD CHRISTMAS

A Marilyn Monroe
White Christmas
NOTE FROM ALLAN: This episode, which first appeared last Christmas, was set at the end of our sojourn at Werewolf - a show created by our old friend Frank Lupo for Fox Television. It was so popular, that I thought I'd run it again. Happy holidays, one and all.

***
"It's Christmas time in Hollywood, Santa's back up in the hood..."

........Lyrics by The Hollywood Undead

* * *

'Twas the day before the night before Christmas and all through the Werewolf 's house, every critter was stirring, and as far as I can recall, not a single one of us was soused.

We were all too darned busy figuring out new and interesting ways to scare hell out of people and besides, it was going to be a short day in a short week because our boss, Frank Lupo, was throwing a big party for the staff and crew.

To locate everyone, this was Wednesday, Dec. 23, 1987, and we all had Thursday off as well as Friday, which was Christmas. In the high speed, high stakes world of weekly television, this meant that everything had to be done by the (early) close of business, because shooting would resume in Salt Lake City, Monday morning. (The day starts well before the crack of dawn for actresses because of makeup and costume requirements. The guys wearing the Werewolf suits started even earlier.)

Chuck Connors
To further locate you, this was a little before Chris and I got to TWEEP Chuck Connors on the new Fox Network series, so we still had that little bit of fun ahead of us. (For the definition of TWEEP, see The CIA dictionary.)

We were just working on our second cup of coffee, when our secretary buzzed us to say that Bob Butler was on the line. Butler was a hot, hot, hot television director who had a nice production deal with Viacom.

Chris slapped the speaker phone to "On" and said, "Ho, Fucking Ho, Robert!"

I heard Butler chortling at Chris' greeting, then he said, "And Merry Fucking Christmas to you too, Bunch."

I came in. "Gonna come over and check out our new digs? See a werewolf or two? Let us buy you a couple of drinks?"

Butler said, "Maybe later, boys. I'm just calling to give you guys an early Christmas present."

Chris said, "Hmm, let's see. I already asked Santa for a new crossbow and a speedloader for my AK-47. Got something like that in mind?"

More laughter. Then Butler said, "Actually, I was getting ready to call your agent and re-up the option on We Take The Palace." He was referring to an hour-long comedy series Chris and I had created about a group of screwball mercenaries who end up running an equally screwball island. Sort of like "F Troop," but with an ocean view.

I said, "Same deal? Option for another year at the same price?"

"That was my thinking, " he replied.

"Far fucking out," Chris said.

"Would that be a 'Yes, thank you, Mr. Butler, sir?'" Robert said.

"Fucking A," Chris said. "And Merry Christmas back at you... Mr. Butler... sir."

We exchanged a few more pleasantries, then got off the line.

Chris said, "Now, that's gonna brighten our Christmas." He started flipping through his Rolodex. "Gotta call Kurtz Jewelers," he said. "Buy Karen something shiny."

A little over an hour later - and I swear I'm not making this up - we got a similar call, this one from Phil Fehrley, a producer, but one of our favorite people just the same.

"Ho, Fucking Ho, Uncle Phil," Chris greeted him.

"You're such a heathen," Fehrley laughed. "Better watch out for lightning."

Chris said, "Hey, it wasn't JC who said Ho, Ho, Ho. It was Saint Nicholas and he was a fucking Turk, and last I heard the Pope yanked his sainthood stripes. So, I'm pretty sure I'm safe."

I said, "Let me guess, Phil. You're calling about the option on The Berlin Reel, right?" The Berlin Reel was yet another TV series proposal, this one a drama about an American newsreel journalist in pre-war Berlin.

Phil said, "That's the size of it, Allan. And Merry Christmas to you both."

The option money for The Berlin Reel was similar to We Take The Palace, so Christmas was looking merrier by the minute. Chris called Kurtz again and I made grander plans for Kathryn as well.

Naturally, things couldn't continue in that vein, even if it was the day before the night before Christmas. The next call was a little troublesome and involved outgo, not in-go. It was from the artist/owner of a crystal-making shop in Venice.

Chris and I had conspired to create some special gifts for people on the show. We'd scored photographs - from different angles - of one of the werewolf costumes. We'd given these to the artist to make crystal statues for everyone. Lupo was to get the largest - about ten inches high. John Ashley, his right hand man, John York, star of the show, and Rick Baker, who created the costumes, would get smaller ones - about six inches high. And we'd had another two dozen or so made up for our secretary and other key people on the show. These consisted of the werewolf head, mounted on a base.

They were very, very cool, if I do say so myself.

Anyway, the order was a week overdue. The good news - the artist was calling to say they were finally done. The not so good news - he was so swamped by Christmas orders that he couldn't personally deliver the gifts to our office.

I jumped on the line, called ABC Messenger service, and arranged for a pick up. Naturally, with the holiday, ABC was pretty busy. But for an extra fee, they promised delivery before the party.

Finished what we were doing and went to see Lupo. Stuck our heads in the door. Chris said, "Want to hear how we're going to kill that son of a bitch, Chuck Connors?"

Lupo paused, hands dangling over his keyboard. "Ah, geeze, guys, it's the holidays. I never kill people during the holidays."

I gestured at his typewriter. "What's the body count on the Fade In? Two hundred? Three hundred?" He was working on the pilot for his new science fiction series, Something Is Out There, which opened with a violent break out on a prison space ship.

Frank chuckled. "Fuckin' guys," he said. Then he waved us off. "See you at the party."

When we got back to our office, Kathryn and Karen had shown up. They'd both come directly from work. Karen was the top designer at a fancy flower shop. While Kathryn owned an escrow company at Wilshire and Bundy in West LA. (Escrow Revue, decorated with antique movie posters and sporting a big, working popcorn machine just inside the front door.) Kisses and embraces were exchanged. And we shared the good news about the two timely options.

After chatting awhile, Kathryn said, "I saw the funniest thing this afternoon. It was right outside of my office. We wouldn't have noticed at all, if it wasn't for the fabulous old car."

Chris, who was making drinks, looked up at his baby sister and asked the typical guy question: "What kind of old car?"

"Oh, I don't know," Kathryn said, impatient. "The story isn't about the car, it's about what happened while we were looking at the car."

Wisely, Chris said no more, but just delivered the drinks.

"You know how I have all those big windows in my office?" Kathryn said.

We did indeed. The entire front of the long building was all window, with mirror coating. People in the office could see out, but people trying to look in only saw their reflection. Kathryn and her staff used to love to watch people pause to pose and primp, not knowing they had an audience.

Maria & Arnie In Somewhat
Happier Times
"Anyway, we were all looking at the old car, when who should come out of the Bicycle Shop next door, but Arnie and Maria." The Bicycle Shop was a trendy Hollywood lunch stop. Arnie and Maria were, obviously, Arnold Schwarzenegger and his wife, Maria Shriver.

"It was Arnie's car," Chris guessed correctly.

"Right," Kathryn confirmed. "And that's where they headed when they came out of the restaurant. They were in the middle of a knock-down fight. Maria was furious about something, and Arnie was stupid enough to argue back. Can you imagine? Making a Kennedy mad?"

Chris and I laughed, guessing what the fight was about. A friend of ours was a Below The Line craftsman on one of Arnie's recent shoots. He said Arnie had been after one cutie something awful, demonstrating in spades, what he would later call in his run for Governator of California, "My playfulness." The girl finally came around to his way of thinking, but the director spotted them in mid-act, and a couple of minutes later, Arnie begged: "Don't tell Maria. Don't tell Maria. It was jus' a ploh jhob, jus' a ploh jhob. It doesn't count."

Kathryn continued, "They stood right in front of our windows yelling at each other. Except Maria was doing most of the yelling. Arnie took off for the car, but Maria got in front of him, and she kept on yelling. And she was shaking her finger at him - she's so teeny, and he's so big, but he wilted like a scared you know what. Oh, it was so funny to see. Finally, they both got in the car and took off, but you could see her still yelling at him."

We had a good laugh at that. Chris looked at his watch. Frowning. "Where the hell's that messenger with the werewolves?" he wondered.

I started worrying. The party would start any minute and our presents hadn't shown up. Then our secretary buzzed us. I answered and she said, "Allan, there's something weird going on."

I asked what could be weirder than working on a show about a Werewolf, and she said, "What's weird about a Werewolf?" When I couldn't answer, she said, "There's some loony guy running all over the building asking for Brunch and Cola. He's going from office to office and floor to floor. Somebody thought it was a practical joke, or something. You know, Brunch and Cola? So they sent him to the restaurant. The receptionist finally figured it out and called me."

Right away I knew it was our missing gifts. I said, "Tell the receptionist to send the guy up."

She said it was too late, he'd already left. Chris and I bounded up and headed for the elevators. We searched for the guy floor by floor. Finally, we ended up in the basement in the Security office and there we found our missing presents in the keep of an hysterical guy with the looks and thick accent of somebody whose native land was South by Southeast of Somewhere The Hell Else. Obviously the messenger service was short-handed during the holidays and he was a temp. We showed Security our IDs and they released him into our custody.

There were several boxes and he wanted to help, but he was so screwy we were afraid he'd drop them and next thing we'd know there'd be this horrible crash and crunch of all those crystal figurines. We tipped him, snagged a nice rent-a-cop to help, and elevated the boxes upstairs to our office.

Christmas music blared over all the hallway speakers and it was time for the party. We carried the boxes into the main meeting room, which had been turned into a Hollywood Christmas Wonderland. Our set decorators had really gone overboard and we had glitter and lights and glorious Yuletide props everywhere.

A copy of the scarred Skorzeny Werewolf 's head was set up as a centerpiece of the table, with lights and candy canes dripping from his ears and muzzle.

 Spread around the head, we had plenty of drink to drink and goodies to eat. In one corner, there was a huge stack of presents piled under a spectacular tree blazing with lights.

The room filled up quickly and everybody got something to eat and drink and the fun began. Frank came in and he and Ashley handed out presents to everyone. Chris and I got new Sony stereo systems with all the gadget trimmings, including dynamite speakers.

Everybody oohed and ahhed over their loot, then Chris and I started handing out the boxes of crystal werewolves. When Lupo opened the box meant for him and drew out the large Werewolf figurine - an exact crystal copy of Rick Baker 's original - he was speechless.

"Fuckin', guys!" he said, choking up.

Then everybody else got their crystal mementos, including Ashley, York and Baker. And the reactions were equally appreciative. We also had smaller ones made up - just the head with bared teeth - for the rest of the team.

The party moved on and we had a nice chat with Rick Baker, a superb costume artist. He told us some of the tricks of the trade, such as the hydraulic puppetry he'd developed to bring the werewolves to life.

A short, but muscular stuntman was inside each costume for the main movement. But the really cool scary things - like the opening of slavering jaws, sharp claws reaching out, the head turning to show those blood red eyes - were performed by a team of technicians with control boxes hooked up to hydraulic lines that were connected to the werewolf.

Wherever the werewolf went, the team followed, all dressed in black, and keeping carefully out of camera range.

Our Star Werewolfing Out
Then we got to talk to our star, John York, who was a little shy and unassuming - a lot like the character he played.

York joked about the werewolf transformations. All his clothes would be ripped off, of course, and later there'd be a scene where the human York - quite naked - had to score new clothing. Stealing them from clotheslines, or whatever.

It was a challenge to come up with something different for each transformation.

"You guys are always making me flash my butt," he said.

Chris said, "Hey, we're past masters of flashing actors' butts, John." He clapped York on the back. "Just ask Bill Bixby. Two, maybe three Hulkouts per episode. Losing all his clothes every damned time... And poor Lou Ferrigno... There was the Hulk, always stuck in ripped up shorts with his balls hanging out."

"Happened so often," I lied, "they had to spray paint 'em green to match the rest of him."

York had to agree that he wasn't as bad off.

Rick added, "At least the guys in the werewolf suits don't have to worry," he said. "I made them smooth between the legs, like Barbie's boyfriend."

Chris said, "That bothered the shit out of artist who made the crystal statues, so he added a set on each of them. Take a look and see."

They all bent down and peered between the legs of one of the statues. And Chris said, "What're you guys, pervs or something? Staring at the poor werewolf's balls."

That broke everybody up and we all had a couple of more drinks.

The party wound down and finally, Chris and I and our ladies made our separate ways home.

***

DISSOLVE TO:

Thursday. The day before Christmas. Kathryn and I slept in, recovering from the party and a hard (albeit) short work week. The doorbell bing bonged and I grumbled and got up. It was chilly for California and the polished wooden floors weren't so charming in bare feet.

We were in our new house on Amoroso Place, in Venice. It was a two-story 1918 Arts & Crafts home, with leaded glass windows looking out on a wide front porch. I could see a young man in a suit and tie waiting there, with a big box beside him.

Even though there are few things in Venice Beach more worrisome than a short-haired guy in a suit and tie, I answered the door. He was too young and the suit was too nice for him to be some breed of cop. Also, even though I was a Venice denizen, I didn't have any current reason to feel guilty. That I knew of, anyway.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Cole," the kid said, beaming like one of Santa's elves. He told me his name, then added, "I'm from 20th Century Fox, Mr. Cole. The studio sent this little gift to thank you for the fabulous job you're doing on the show."

And he lugged the huge box into my house, shook my hand, refused coffee, and rushed out into the chill beach air, probably on his way to Chris' place in Manhattan Beach.

My sleepy-eyed wife wandered into the living room, tying her robe about her. "Who was that?" she asked.

I indicated the big box. "It's from the studio," I said.

Sleepiness was replaced by bright interest. "Ooh, let's open it," she said.

And so we did. The first thing we found was a large, wooly lap rug. It was red and black and white, and in the center was a big 20th Century Fox logo - like you've seen at the beginning of every Fox movie since 1935 when the legendary Mr. William Fox merged his company with the equally legendary Mr. Darryl F. Zanuck.

Beneath that were all kinds of goodies. Bottles of champagne and cider with two glass flutes. Cakes and cookies. Fine cheeses and sausages and crackers. Two 20th Century Fox mugs with packets of gourmet hot chocolate to go in them. And lots, and lots of other things, too many to remember.

While Kathryn made some hot chocolate and unpacked the cake and cookies, I finished setting up the new stereo Frank had given us.

Kathryn put on a record, then curled up with me under the 20th Century Fox lap rug, sipping at mugs of chocolate. Kathryn clicked the remote, a record fell into place, there was the hiss of a needle in the grooves and the music purred out of the speakers.

And this is the very first Christmas song she played:

Eartha Kitt's "Santa Baby."



NEXT: IRWIN ALLEN'S RECIPE FOR DISASTER


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, December 16, 2011

BRING ME THE HEAD OF THE HULK

Run, Lou, Run!
SLEAZY PUBLISHER: What makes you think that you can capture the Hulk when everybody else has failed?

ASSASSIN: I said nothing about capture.

* * *
It was another emergency call from The Hulk.

The show was usually blessed with excellent ratings, staying well up in the top twenty for most of its five-season run. Near the end, however, when the network started moving the time slot around, the ratings began to sag.

And that, as Al Godfrey was wont to say, "is when they really start to fuck with you."

Meaning, everybody from the network and studio brass to their mistresses' Tantra coaches, think they know how to fix the sucker.

Godfrey opined that the best position to be in was second place. (This was in the day when there were only three networks. Fox was just a gleam in Rupert Murdoch's avaricious eyes.) "First place, and they fuck with you so much you break out in hives when the phone rings. Third place and you start feeling as jumpy as an altar boy with a horny a priest. Second place you just keep chugging out the ad money and everybody forgets you are there. Quiet phones. Zip meetings. And you get home in time for a nice dinner and a cuddle."

"Every show you ever worked on was in first place," I pointed out. "Mission: Impossible. Vegas. Baretta. Quincy. All top shows."

Godfrey grinned and ran a hand through his graying hair. "Yeah, and would you believe I'm only 22," he said.

"Maybe twenty five years ago," Chris teased. "Shit, Godfrey, one of these days you're gonna pass us by. We'll wake up one morning and you'll be younger than us."

Chris' joke proved to be prescient. Godfrey always shaded his age. When we first met at Quincy in 1979, Chris and I were 36. Godfrey was easily ten years our senior, although he claimed he'd just turned forty. Channeling Jack Benny, no doubt.

When I was in town a couple of years ago and had lunch with him, Godfrey looked me up and down, then asked, "How are old you, Allan?"

I told him.

He got a quizzical look and said, "When the hell did you get older than me?"

Meanwhile, back at Panic Pass, the Hulk was calling and they wanted us in soonest with a notebook full of stories to pitch. We were several years into our careers at this point, and our reputations were growing. We'd crept into the secretive "A List" territory and networks were smiling favorably at Show Runners who commissioned Bunch & Cole scripts.

Even so, we were still green enough to worry about foolish things.

"All we're doing is shoot 'em ups," Chris complained to Godfrey. "We don't want to get typecast as writerly knuckle draggers. Guys you go to for Biff, Bam and Pow. But never anything with serious themes."

"Jesus Christ," Godfrey came back. "A few years ago you could barely afford the gas it took for you to ride your motorcycle to the studio. And now you're driving a BMW. Biff, Bam and Pow have been very, very good to you."

"Still," I said. "Still."

Catherine Bach As Daisy Dukes
Godfrey gave one of his pitying sighs, then said, "Look, in case you haven't noticed, there are only two things happening on television. Sitcoms with laugh tracks is number one. Number two is car chases with over-dubbed gunfire and lots of Daisy Dukes' type T&A. Scripts featuring over-dubbed gunfire and Daisy Dukes go for twice the price of half-hour laugh tracks. Take your choice."

"We didn't say we were going boycott the Hulk," Chris pointed out. "We're just saying we want to do something different. A change of pace."

"Just don't say I didn't warn you when Nick Corea quickens your pace with a boot up your ass," Godfrey said.


But we were determined to hang tough. Came up with some sweet change of pace stories about real people with real problems. Social issues shit.

Come meeting day, we got waved through the gates by the ever-smiling Scotty, who shouted "Break a leg, boys," as we sailed by.

The production offices for the Incredible Hulk were in one of the Producer's Buildings, opposite the dreaded Black Tower. The commissary was just across from the Jaws pond, and we could see flocks of pretty secretaries in bright summer dresses flitting by the pond to lunch.

As we turned toward the parking slot we'd been assigned, a tram went slowly by and Bruce The Shark rose out of the depths, snapping his bloody-stained fiber glass teeth at the shrieking tourists.

It was good to be alive and in Hollywood and on our way to bag a big fat check imprinted with numerous zeroes, signed by one of Lew Wasserman 's sycophants in Business Affairs.

Ah, Capitalism.

But our mood changed the moment we were ushered into Nick's office. It was a lot like the first meeting we'd had with him several seasons before. The room was crowded: producers and staff people lining either wall with their chairs. There was Karen Harris, her partner Jill Sherman-Donner and guys like Andy Schneider and Reuben Leder. There were pre-production people and post production people and so on and so forth. The office was dimly lit and there was a buzz of anticipation when we entered.

At the far end, framed by his staff, sat the show's El Segundo, Nick Corea, teeth showing white through his dark goatee.

He waved for us to sit, saying, "What do you have for us, boys?"

Chris and I looked at each other. Here goes nothing.

My partner took point: "We've been working on a change of pace, story, Nick. Something with real meat to it."

Nicked nodded - go on.

Chris drew a breath, then said, "What we'd like to do is 'Lilies Of The Field.' You know, that classic movie with Sydney Poitier? Except, instead of a black guy with a bunch of nuns, we'll have a big green guy with a bunch of nuns."

The air left the room as everyone in it sucked in deep breaths of Disappointment.

In a flash, I saw all their faces. Smiling and welcoming moments before. Now dark and somber with hurt looks of betrayal.

After a very long moment, Nick said, "Ah... guys. We were thinking of something a little different from you two. You know?"

Indeed we did. Fucking Godfrey had been right.

Immediately, I said, "Try this: A mercenary with a bazooka is stalking the Hulk. We call it 'Bring Me The Head Of The Hulk.'"

The air whooshed back into the room.

"Go write it," Nick said, gleaming teeth splitting his beard once again.

"Don't you want to hear the rest of the story?" Chris asked.

"No, just go write the fucker," Nick ordered.

And so we did.

Bixby To The Rescue
EPILOGUE: Everybody loved the script. So much so, that the episode was directed by our star, Bill Bixby. He was known as an excellent director, and we were told that he'd long wanted to helm an episode of the Hulk. Problem being, he had to spend so many hours in makeup - for the David Banner To Hulk transition scenes - that he never had the time.

But with the show obviously in its last season, he picked our script to direct. Not only that, but the full transitions were shown, from beginning to end. Usually, to save money and time, they cut in stock art of the Hulkout from the original two-hour pilot into those scenes. (Usually there were two Hulkouts in every show. In the First Act, trailing over into the second act. And then the Fourth and final Act.)

Finally - and best of all - when the show aired it not only took its hour, but came in way at the top of the weekly Neilson ratings.


Here's where you can get a peek at the episode.


NEXT: A HOLLYWOOD CHRISTMAS

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?