HOW TO STEAL A MILLION DOLLARS

A dyslexic gunman bursts into a bank, shouting: 
"Air in the hands, motherstickers, this is a F*&*-Up!"

* * *

If you get handed a lemon, get out the Vodka. (Chris Bunch)

* * *

Chris said, "I flat don't get it."

"What's not to get?" This from Al Godfrey, our new mentor and exec-producer of Quincy M.E., starring Jack Klugman.

Chris said, "Okay, stop me if I get it wrong anywhere along the line. Klugman orders Peter Thompson - the guy you replaced - to buy a script from me and Cole, here. Right?"

Godfrey nodded. "You boys are two lucky sons of bitches."

"Yeah, yeah," Chris said. "But, what happens next is that old Peter informs us that Klugman's been wanting to do something about Pedophiles and how they bury themselves in the community to stalk our kids."

Godfrey said, "I'm with you so far. Still don't see anything to be confused about."

Chris said, "Well, hang fucking tight because it gets a little scary from here on in… We tell Peter, no problem. When do you want the story? And how long should it be?"

I break in, getting steamed just listening to Chris' recital. I say, "And Peter tells us - 'Not to worry, boys. I have the story. You just do the research and when you're ready call me."

Godfrey gave us looks of great amusement. "And you - You poor Putzes - believed him."

"Well, you saw what happened," Chris said. "The three of us (he indicated me, Godfrey, and himself) go to Peter's new Mister My Shit Don't Stink Office in the Black Tower. First thing out of his fucking mouth is, 'What's The Story, Boys?"

Godfrey said, "Good thing he got called away so we had time to figure one out."

"That's the whole fucking point," Chris said. "He didn't have a story. He lied to us. We had to come up with one on the fly. Then we go home, write the story. Get your notes and Peter's notes. Then write the script. Script's approved. Checks mailed to agent. Agent clips them for ten percent and sends them on."

Godfrey nodded. "That's how it works."

Christ snorted. "Well, riddle me this, Mr. Godfrey, sir. How come if we did all the damned work - with no help from Peter - that when the check showed up from fucking Universal Studios that we got screwed for two thousand dollars? And it turns out that the two grand went into the pockets of - guess who - Peter Thompson."

Godfrey shrugged. "Easy," he said. "That was Peter's share. He had the story, remember?"

Chris was exasperated. So was I, but I kept my mouth shut. This was a learning opportunity if ever saw one. A lesson, as it happens, that cost us two thousand dollars so I didn't want to miss a word.

FREEZE SCENE FOR FASCINATING BACKSTORY

If you have been following these MisAdventures you'll know that Jack Klugman, star of stage, screen and television, had recently gifted us with our big break into Hollywood in the form of a guaranteed Prime Time Television script sale. There was talent involved, sure. But a lot of it was luck. Plus Klugman and I shared some things in common, including an interest in The Sweet Science, the Philadelphia Boxing Association, and a shared hometown - South Philadelphia.

I mean, how lucky can a green horn writer get?

Anyway, we got the assignment. Were told by that lovable rogue, Peter Thompson, to go thou and do research - but, not the story, because he had the story.

But when the day came for our meeting with Peter - the one where he'd tell us the story he had in mind, then send us to write the script - a Third Act Twist reared up to bite us.

It seems that Peter had found favor with the Big Boys in Black Tower and had been promoted from Exec Producer of Quincy to Head Of Production for MCA Universal Studios. Godfrey, who was doing Exec duties for the hit series Vegas - starring Bob Urich - had been called in to take over for Peter at Quincy. (Chris and I would later work with the late Bob Urich at MGM on the short-lived "Gavilan" TV series.)

Anyway, for reasons known only to Godfrey, he'd saved our butts when Peter pulled his - "Tell me the story, boys," turnaround. He'd bailed us out of our jam, then had taken us under his wing, dishing out uncle-like advice and a steady supply of scotch and soda.

With the Quincy sale Chris and I were on the verge of being able to quit out day jobs and launch our scriptwriting/book careers. But, Peter's cut into our take had threatened to delay that joyful day. Two grand doesn't sound like much these days, back then it was significant dough for a couple broke writers. (Around six thousand in 2011 bucks according to my handy-dandy inflation calculator.)

Okay, so that's the lay of the land. And now we can:

RESUME ACTION

Chris said, "It's not Peter's fucking story. It never was Peter's fucking story. He didn't write - or think up a word of it."

Godfrey said, "Of course, it's his story." He jabbed a finger at the stationary on his desk, headed MCA-Universal - Business Affairs. "Says right here it's his story. Credit he generously shared with you and Allan. And, pal, if fucking Business Affairs says it's so, It's So. Just ask them."

Chris made a noise of heart-felt disgust. "Peter's the freaking head of production for the largest studio in the whole freaking world. What's he need two grand of our measly script money for?"

Godfrey said, "I'd like to say it isn't the money. But in This Town money is always part of the story. Guys like me and Peter live way over our heads. We have to drive the nicest cars. Live in the nicest houses. Send our kids to the best private schools. Wine and dine and fuck the sexiest and most expensive starlets… You know. Keep up appearances."

"Yeah, but two grand?" Chris said in a dismissive tone. "What's two grand to him?"

Despite his protest, however, my partner's outrage was starting to wane. Beating your head against the wall called Studio Business Affairs can be weary work.

I said, "You mentioned that money wasn't Peter's only motive. "What other reasons are there?"

Godfrey leaned back, hands behind his head. He said, "In a word - Credit. And the bottom line is that Peter was more after the Above The Line Story Credit than the money."

(Above The Line on the End Reel are the names of the producers, directors, writers, actors and other "creative" personnel. The Below The Line credits are everybody else, from Makeup to the guys who provide the portable Johns on location.)

We gave our new mentor blank stares.

Chris said, "Credit? He's got fucking credit." He jabbed a finger at the Business Affairs document. "Says right there he was fucking Executive Producer."

Godfrey sighed - such red-ass innocents. "In this business," he said, "there is nothing lower than a writer. But if a non-writer wants to go places he'd better have some writing credits to go along with his masters degree in pencil pushing and pissing on the peons."

"Peter claims he has a degree from the London School of Economics," I said.

Godfrey chuckles. "Yeah, and if you fucking believe that you'll probably believe that he was classmates with Mick Jagger."

"He's too old," Chris said.

Godfrey raised an admonitory finger. "Never tell an old fart he's too old," he said. "It will be the end of your career."

"Gotcha, boss," I said. Amused, because Godfrey himself had claimed he was about our age, when he was clearly ten years or more older.

I steered back to the point. "Are you saying that Peter wants his bosses to think that he's actually a writer, who got interested in production"

"Fuck no," Godfrey said. "But if he can flash a few credits to The Guys With The Big Telephones, it'll show that he has a creative streak. But not so much of one that he's gonna go sideways on them. Develop a case of integrity. Or fucking honesty."

"Honesty?" I said. "Heaven forefend."

Godfrey cocked an eye at me. He said, "If you ever use the word 'forefend' in a script you write for me you can look for it the next day at the County Dump."

Just then we were joined by the new Quincy story editors - Chris Trumbo and Jeff Freilich. Drinks were made, smokes fired up and we all settled back to get to know one another.

It turned out that Chris Trumbo was the son of the legendary blacklisted screeenwriter Dalton Trumbo (Spartacus, Exodus to name just two), while Frelich - a medical school dropout - hailed from the shores of Roger Corman, king of the down and dirty drive-in movie makers. (Freilich - who Chris later dubbed "The EatAnter" after the character in BC Comics, is currently Exec Producer of the hit series, Burn Notice.)

"It was one hell of an education,' Freilich said - speaking not of the medical school part, but of working for Roger Corman.

"You only had a few thousand bucks to make whatever flick Roger assigned you. Which meant you really had to use your imagination and cheat like hell to shoot the movie.

"The real beauty was that if you stuck to the few basics Roger required - "I want Women In Chains Meets Dracula" - you could say or do pretty much anything you wanted."


"Sounds like old Black Mask Magazine," my partner opined. "Stick to the basic formula and you had a free hand. That's where the best writers in the detective story business, like Raymond Chandler, got their start."

While they were all talking, I was thinking about the cheapo movies that Corman and his ilk made, some of which were (accidentally) good. Most turned a large profit and even the worst never lost a dime on the drive-in, neighborhood movie circuit. (Today, it's DVD rentals and Streaming Video.)

Meanwhile, the studios regularly lost their silk shirts on Big Bucks Productions, and had to count on one or two bonanza films every year or so to pay the bills. These days they call them 'Tent Pole' pictures and they consist of endless sequels of mindless movies aimed at teenage boys, who consume so much popcorn and drink so much Coke that they keep the zillion dollar entertainment business afloat. (If you want to get rich, do a movie about a couple of pimple-faced nerds trying to get laid for the first time, who finally do.)

I asked Jeff, "What if Corman gave you a million dollars. What could you do with that?"

Freilich laughed. "Shit, with a million dollars I could have re-made Ben Hur, complete with the chariot race. Of course, we'd have to shoot it in Italy, or southern Spain, but hell, their prop masters probably have dozens old movie chariots on hand. And there's plenty of period footage we could buy for the price of a pizza."

At the time, studio movies averaged ten million bucks or so, which shows you how long ago this was. Currently, film budgets are hammering on the gates of $300 million. Stars like Johnny Depp ring up paydays of $50 million. (The most recent Pirates Of The Caribbean.)

I turned to Godfrey, "So, tell me Al, if you can make a million dollar movie - one that's guaranteed to turn a profit - why don't the studios make ten, one million dollar movies that will all make a bundle… instead of one ten million dollar movie that's probably going to lose money?"

Godfrey gave me a pitying look - oh, you poor putz. Then he proclaimed, "Allan, listen closely to this. The reason studios make ten million dollar movies, instead of million dollar movies, is that you can't fucking steal a million dollars from a million dollar movie."

That was our first real money lesson in Hollywood and it pretty much explained everything you needed to know about the business - including how Peter Thompson ended up with some of our money in his pockets.

"It's like points on the project," Godfrey said. "You are never going to see any, because the points are based on gross profits and no studio in Hollywood will ever make a movie that shows an actual gross profit that points can be levied against."

Godfrey told us that recently he'd been offered two points on a multi-million dollar project and he'd said, "I'll swap those two points for a flat ten thousand dollars cash."

The deal maker looked at him, hurt in his eyes. "Come on, Godfrey," he said. "Play fair."

As the conversation moved on, Chris sat there silently for a time. Which was quite unlike him.

Finally, he piped up: "You know, if Cole and I had known that Hollywood was like the plumber's, or the electrician's union. And that all you had to do was grease somebody's palm to break in - well, fuck, man! We'd have paid somebody two thousand dollars years ago."

FADE OUT - ALMOST THE END

Quincy Postscript: As time went by we met every chance we could with Godfrey - so much that Scotty just waved us through the gate and didn't bother to ask what we were up to. And we spent many an evening pitching stories and shooting the breeze with Al, and Trumbo and Freilich.

We even sold another script to Al - The Money Plague - which was about anthrax-infected money getting into the system through a neighborhood bank.

Al lasted one season - a very successful season - and another producer came on board. Several others followed. Klugman chewed through producers like he chewed through dialogue. (Quincy scripts had to be twenty pages longer than most because Klugman talked so fast.)

Godfrey was philosophic about what he knew would be his eventual demise.

"If I do my job right," he said, "I can keep the numbers up and the show a hit. But, eventually, I'm going to make Jack mad. And then I'm gone. No worries, though. I had that eventuality covered in my contract."

Meanwhile, over the following seasons we sold several more scripts, and were such old pros at Quincy that the new producers used to call us - a couple of freelancers - to ask vital questions, such as: What's Quincy's first name? Answer: He didn't have a first name, just the initial "R."

Another: What was Sam's (Quincy's sidekick, played by the multi-talented Robert Ito) last name? Answer: Fujiyama. And, yes, he was a doctor too, although few writers, except us, ever referred to him with that honorific.

Quincy M.E., ran for eight hit seasons, ending in 1982 - not because the ratings were down. The show was always in the top ten, or close to it. Jack Klugman was worn out with the incredible effort he put into the program and was having continuing problems with his voice. He called it a day, bowing out at the top of his game. Last I heard he was still alive and giving them hell at age 89.

An interesting side note on Godfrey's comment about the firewall he'd built into his contract:

Glen Larson was the creator of the Quincy- a guy I'll be telling you a lot more about later on in greater and more horrific detail. Old Glen had a PhD in stealing other people's ideas and making them into (usually low brow) hits.

He probably would have ruined Quincy, one of the most honored shows in TV history, with an impact that reached all the way to Congress. But he didn’t stick around much past the first season. Old hands on the show told us that Klugman and Larson were butting heads before the cameras started to roll.

Klugman demanded quality. He wanted realistic stories based on fact. Stories that meant something and that had decent dialogue for the actors to speak.

Surely, Glen may have wondered - Is Jack fucking nuts?

As you may have gathered, Larson was an unlikely source for any of the things Klugman demanded. Larson’s motto was: Whatever works, works. The rest is bullshit.

Despite these problems, Quincy was a huge a hit. It started out as one of the shows in the NBC "Mystery Wheel." The other members of the wheel were "McCloud," "MacMillian and Wife," "Banacek," and "Columbo." All good programs. Each getting two hours per episode - just like a movie, with all the production values that a movie has.

When the Network - in its stupidity- broke up the wheel, Quincy became a regularly scheduled one hour program and Klugman - we were told - said either Larson was off the show, or he was.

Larson lost.

Well - not really.

Actually, Glen Larson probably never lost a dime of his own money in his professional career. We were told that his payoff was in the neighborhood of fifty thousand dollars an episode to stay away from the show. That's fifty thousand dollars in 1979 money, which, according to my inflation calculator, would be $145,846.11 today. Which is one hell of a restraining order.

I’d take that deal, wouldn’t you?

Anyway, at this point in the game, Chris and I were all but made.

But two things had to occur before our success was assured.

One concerned Sten - the first novel in a series that what would turn out to be an international science fiction hit.

The second had to do with a big fucking shark.

NEXT: THE SHARK THAT ATE BUNCH & COLE

THE COMPLETE MISADVENTURES: IT'S A BOOK!

THE VITAL LINKS:

TRADE PAPERBACK.  

KINDLE. NOOK BOOK. 

ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS. 

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?

Kindle - Click here

Paperback - Click here

Paperback Autographed By Allan - Click here.  

WHAT'S THE STORY BOYS?

A conman was caught impersonating a Hollywood producer. One of his victims - a rising young actress - told the judge: "I should've suspected he wasn't a producer. He didn't hit on me more than once."
* * *
HAL: Look Dave. I can see you're really upset by this. I honestly think you ought to sit down calmly, take a stress pill, and think things over. (From 2001: A Space Odyssey)
* * *
"It's not the most intellectual job in the world, but I do have to know the letters."
(Vanna White - Wheel Of Fortune.)
* * *
Chris was hammering furiously on the keyboard. He paused to glance at his notes, then snorted his complete disgust. He said, "Man, this is some seriously sick shit."

He shuddered. Something I had never seen him do before. "Makes my skin crawl just thinking about these assholes. And here we have to write a whole fucking script about the suckers."

I settled back from my own work and sighed my agreement. "I keep saying to myself, this is our big break. Don't fuck it up."

Chris said, "If this wasn't for Jack Klugman I'd pack it in. At least we know he'll make good use of this shit. Get some Congressional hearings going, and such."

Then he hunched his shoulders, his face took on a fierce light, and he started blazing away at the keyboard again.

When I tell you that the project we were engaged in had to do with Pedophiles - the scum of the Earth - you'll understand our feelings. Especially since the whole business with Jack Klugman started out with a nice, gentle story about murdering boxers.

As Chris put it: "On a scale of one to ten: Murdering boxers Versus Pedophiles, the baby rapers rate way down on the shit scale."

It happened like this: We'd written a spec script for Jack Klugman's TV show about a crusading corner - Quincy, M.E. It was about a boxer falsely accused of murder, with Quincy to the rescue.

Klugman had liked our script so much he had called us in for a personal meeting. Turns out that he was an ex-Golden Gloves boxer himself. What's more Jack was a South Philly kid like me. Man, did we look like we were made in the old shade.

But, not so fast, boys. Quincy had already done an episode about a boxer - which hadn't aired yet, so how were we to know?

Instant descent into the dumps for your favorite writing team - Bunch & Cole.

Then, just like a good Hollywood story, there was yet another twist. This one to the good. Klugman had liked our script so much that he'd ordered his executive producer, Peter Thompson, to buy a Quincy script from us.

This was pure gold, we thought. We had finally won our break into showbiz. All we had to do was make good on our first sale and fame and riches would be ours. (This will tell you just how young and dumb we were.)

Peter told us that Klugman wanted to do something on child molesters. Klugman thought it was a much-ignored problem and wanted to bring the public's attention to it.

When we asked Peter when he wanted us to deliver the story (the first step before "going to script") and how long it ought to be, he said, "Don't worry, boys. I have the story. You just do the research."

After we got home from the meeting and had poured a couple of scotches, Chris said, "I don't feel right about this somehow."

"What's wrong? We got the deal didn't we?" I replied.

Chris said, "Are you sure you got that right? We're just to do the research. And he'll give us a story which he already has worked out?"

I started to nod, then stopped to drag out my notes. Flipped through them. Found the place.

"Yep, he was adamant about it," I said. "We said two or three time - are you sure you don't want us to come up with a story. And he said - No. He had the story. I looked at the heavily scored pen marks beneath his exact quote and read it to Chris: "Not to worry, boys. I've got the story."

"Before he said it," I pointed out, "he thumped his chest like he really meant it."

Chris sighed and shook his head. Then, "What did you think about the guy?"

"24-carat British charm," I said. "At least that's how he comes across."

"Think it's actually gold wash?" Chris said.

"I do," I said. "I won't be surprised if he tries to pull some sort of con," I went on. "But, I still can't help liking him."

Chris laughed and topped up our drinks. "What the fuck," he said. "The Guild's got our back. And so does Klugman. What can he do?"

So, we jumped head first into the sex crime cesspool and researched the hell out of the son of a gun. It was a skin crawly subject, but with Klugman we knew it was for a good cause. Also, it was our entry through the gates of Hollywood.

We spent a couple of weeks taking to cops who specialized in busting the miscreants, and shrinks who specialized in treating young victims, as well as those who were experts on the mindset of the perps.

When we were done, Chris and I came away pretty much of the opinion that the perps were incurable and ought to be locked up for two largish forevers.

We called Peter's office and his assistant set up an appointment. But, while I was on the line with her I made double-damn sure of our instructions.

"Peter said he didn't want us to write the story," I told his assistant. "He said he had one he wanted to assign us. Is that still on? Or, should we get busy writing?"

The assistant said, "I know for a fact that he has a story. He had me call Business Affairs at the Tower and pencil it in on the production pay schedule."

Chris and I liked the sound of that: Pay Schedule. Rolled that around on our tongues a little. Went well with the scotch.

Couple of days later we were once again making our way over the hill from Santa Monica to the San Fernando Valley where most of the major studios, including MCA-Universal - were planted.

Scotty was at the gate like before and he whisked us on our way with a cheery, "Break a leg, boys." Made our way along the yellow brick road to the Quincy offices - about a hundred yards up from the old Ozzie and Harriet house - and with barely a wait we were ushered into the inner-sanctum of the Executive Producer.

Imagine our surprise when we were greeted not by Peter Thompson, but a smooth, well-made fellow who wore a quirky little smile as if he viewed the world with great amusement.

He said, "I'm Al Godfrey, the new exec producer." He shook our hands, then waved us into seats.

We must have looked like we were in shock, because he kindly hastened to explain: "I know you boys were expecting to meet with Peter - and you will in a minute or two. But first, let me reassure you that I've talked to Jack and he's impressed with you boys and so I know all the background."

I heard Chris give a sigh of relief. I could tell Godfrey caught this, but he just went on to explain that Peter had been promoted to head of production for MCA/Universal.

In other worlds, he was now one of the Guys With The Big Telephones who resided in the Black Tower.

"Peter still wants to handle your script," Godfrey said, "as his last contribution to Quincy." The crooked smile of his grew a little more crooked, with a little cynical twitch at the edges. It made you wonder what he was really thinking.

Godfrey looked us up and down, measuring. Then said, "I know you're both new to the game, and might not realize it, but you now have a friend in a very high place."

Chris and I nodded. "Head of production. It's just starting to sink in," I said, still a little numb.

The desk phone buzzed. Godfrey picked it up, listened, thanked the person on the other side and said, "Let's go see Peter. He's ready for us."

Godfrey chatted as he drove us over there in his Mercedes, but I don't remember much about what he said. I was too busy absorbing the fact that Chris and I were actually going to enter the infamous executive tower.

I saw it rising in my view like an obelisk. Cue the 2001 A Space Odyssey theme music. And damn was that sucker black. Black as a producer’s soul. And it really does tower. The closer you get to the son of a bitch, the more it looms over you.

As you approach, you know that no building in the earthquake prone City Of The Angels can be really very high. But if you are an aspiring anything, and either your doom or your dreams are to be found at Universal’s Black Tower, I guarantee that it will look like the Empire State Building when you arrive.

Here's what it's like when you enter:

After being examined for hidden grenades and genital warts by security, you are allowed to go to the elevator reception area. Generally men and women dressed in million dollar business outfits are waiting there. Very rarely shabby writers. The Suits stare at you, smiling - everyone in Hollywood cultivates a special smile - but it's about as shallow as a Casting Director's good intentions.

The elevator stops at each and every floor as you ascend. And if you dare to peek out at each stop, you will be struck at how amazingly well decorated each floor is. Lovely paintings. Plush rugs. Antique furniture. Beautiful secretaries and receptionists.

But as you rise, you’ll also notice that the carpets get thicker and richer, the paintings become originals, instead of just expensively framed copies, and the secretaries grow more and more beauteous.

When you reach the rarefied atmosphere of the very top floor - which overlooks all that the Guys With The Big Telephones choose to survey - you will step off into wonders unknown to a common writer like yourself. While you wait, they practically put out towels on the furniture so you won’t drip nervous flop sweat on the Louis the XXXZZZZ antiques.

You don’t dare look at the paintings, for fear that the light of wonder shining from your Commoner eyeballs might somehow harm them and lessen their value.

Your feet sink into the carpeting up to your ankles and janitors in gold-braided uniforms approach to make you wipe your feet on portable scrapers with handles made of polished wood.

And the secretaries - well, let me put it this way. These are women who have been genetically altered so they do not sweat, or do any of the ordinary human things regular women do. The wondrous ladies there smell only of faint, incredibly expensive perfume, have modulated voices that are eternally sweet, yet commanding, and have eyes that can warm you to the quick, or turn you into ice if you offend the dignity of the Very Top Floor Of The Black Tower. Oh, and no matter what their race, color or creed, they speak with a charming British accent, with a little French thrown in here and there for variety's sake.

Got the picture?

Okay, back to the action... After a small eternity, Peter’s exquisite executive assistant summoned us. The three of us followed her lovely, silk-clad posterior into Peter’s Office.

It was a marvelous office. As head of production at Universal, Peter commanded a space only a few places under the legendary Lew Wasserman and his mail-fisted Knights Of The Golden Box Office. There were so many floor to ceiling windows, you felt like you might fall off the face of the Earth.

And, although you could not see All The Way To Tomorrow, the view did offer a scary glimpse of your immediate future - if All Did Not Go Well.

Peter rose from his fabulous Prince Something Or Other Desk and graced us with that roguish smile. "Thanks for coming, boys," he said. He nodded at Godfrey. "And you too, Al... How are things progressing with Jack?"

We didn't realize it then, but Klugman was famously difficult with producers, but I did note the knowing look Peter gave Godfrey.

"Every thing's coming along fine, Peter," he said. "Thanks to your smooth handover."

Peter nodded, smiling a smile of such great sincerity, that I knew it was at heart, deeply insincere. In other words, Big Shot though he might be, he was worried Godfrey might show him up.

Then he turned to us, oozing warmth and charm. He made polite conversation for a minute or two, then paused. Planted his elbows on his desk and leaned forward.

Looking me right in the eyes, and holding that gaze, he said, "Okay, what's the story, boys."

It was like someone had rammed a big fat screw directly into my chest. I knew Chris must feel the same. Shit, the guy had insisted that HE HAD THE STORY. He'd said it several times over the past weeks. His assistant had confirmed it only a couple of days before.

What the hell was he doing? He was fucking us. Sure, I got that. But for the life of me I didn't know why.

I looked over helplessly at Chris, who had gone pale. I could see in his eyes that he was thinking, shit, shit, shit.

Then - without a beat - Chris said, "Go ahead, Cole, tell Peter the story."

If I'd had a gun, I'd have shot him. No, I would have shot myself first, then let the gun spill before his feet so he could follow me into that deep, dark place where ink-stained wretches are condemned to abide in an afterlife, where there is never a period to end a sentence, but only an endless series of commas.

This all happened in a split second. However, I hadn't been a newsman for fourteen years to not have several shovels of bullshit ready at all times.

So, I just started spouting our research. Spewing it out in way that might indicate that this was just the prelude to the story - a fabulous story yet to come. In the back of my mind I was hoping that I was giving Chris time to come up with something so I could toss the ball back to him.

Then Peter's phone rang. Peter raised a hand, "Sorry, Allan. This will just take a tick."

As he spoke to someone on the phone I gave Chris a look of desperation. To my horror, the look I got back was one of equal desperation.

I glanced over at Godfrey, but he was just staring at the floor, that crooked smile twitching his lips.

Then Peter hung up. "Sorry, boys, but I have to run down the hall to see Lew for a second," he said. "I'll be right back."

Then he was gone. In the silent room you could sever the tension with splicing shears. Godfrey cleared his throat, getting our attention.

My head came up to see a look of great pity. "You poor putzes," he said. "What the fuck is going on here?"

Quickly, we explained. We were told not to develop a story. Just do the research.

"Peter insisted he had the story," I said once again. "But now..." my voice trailed off.

"Never mind that shit," Godfrey said. "Let's stick our heads together and come up with something before the son of a bitch comes back."

Twenty minutes later Peter swept into the office, took up residence in his plush executive chair. He gave us his total attention.

And once again he asked, "What's the story, boys?"

But this time we told him.

NEXT: HOW TO STEAL A MILLION DOLLARS

THE COMPLETE MISADVENTURES: IT'S A BOOK!

THE VITAL LINKS:

TRADE PAPERBACK.  

KINDLE. NOOK BOOK. 

ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS. 

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?

Kindle - Click here

Paperback - Click here

Paperback Autographed By Allan - Click here.  

JACK KLUGMAN AND THE KO KIDS: PART TWO

The only sure thing about luck is that it will change. (Wilson Mizner)
***
Luck is the by-product of busting your fanny. (Don Sutton)
***

Chris was cussing a blue streak in my ear.

In between Eff words and Em-Eff words, I could sort of make out that he was in some kind of a pickle, but with all the sounds of a busy newsroom around me I was definitely missing the meat of the matter.

Something about a distributer. Well, a Fucking Distributer, actually. At least that's what I think he was saying.

"What about the distributer?" I asked.

Then the presses started rolling - hitting about two thousand feet a minute in no time. And then the whole building started to shake. It was the Home Edition.

I put Chris on hold and went into the computer room, which was soundproofed and air conditioned. The computer was a 1979 marvel to behold. Huge, with flashing lights and spinning reels of tape, it looked like something off the set of The Forbidden Planet. The Outlook was the first newspaper west of the Mississippi to computerize, making some of us proud, and others scared shitless of being run over by the Future. Thinking back on it, that whole damned machine probably had fewer brains than my six-month old Brandsmart Microwave, so maybe the scaredy-cat group really did have something to freak over. I mean, after that came Sexting.

Lifted the phone extension and punched up Chris. "What's going on, partner?" I asked.

"The new fucking distributer Russ' boys bolted on to my bike is fucking fried, is what's going on," he said. The bike - a blown out Kawasaki Z1 - was normally his pride and joy. The mechanics at racing champ Russ Collins' speed shop tried out experimental Go Fast gear on it, and let Chris keep the stuff if it worked. If it didn't - well, they'd fix it when they had time.

Unfortunately, mechanical things have their own schedule when it comes to going Kaput! And this was the worst possible time imaginable.

"Shit, we're due at Universal in an hour and a half," I said. "No time for me to pick you up and then make it to the studio. Not with you all the way over in fucking Compton."

Chris' voice was weary. "Well, I know that, Cole," he said. "What I don't know is what the fuck to do about it."

Unspoken, was that there was no way we could cancel. Mr. Jack By-God Klugman was personally giving us a shot at breaking into The Game and if we blew the meeting we'd both feel like blowing our brains out as well.

There was a clicking sound on the phone and Chris said, "Hang on. Got another call. Maybe it's Gunsmith Bob."

Bob Willy - aka Gunsmith Bob - was not only a great friend, a wealth of technical information of all kind, but possessed an old Rambler station wagon that regularly poisoned the atmosphere, but was reliably capable of getting from here to there.

Maybe… Just maybe…

Chris clicked back on the line. "Hot damn," he said. "Bob and Big Dave are dropping the Rambler by. See you in a bit."

A half hour later I was off work and Chris pulled into the newspaper parking lot as I exited the building. Double checked the chain lock on my Suzuki, then popped open the passenger door of the Rambler. Empty beer cans came rolling out, but who the hell cared at a time like this?

We dodged traffic over the hill, the car choking and coughing past Mulholland to the very top, then diving down to where many possible Freeway Cloverleaf routes leap up with no warning.

Quite by accident, we merged onto the correct freeway. Over the sputtering engine, I was shouting, "That way, Chris, that way," while jabbing my a finger in the wrong direction.

But my warning came too late and Chris was forced by traffic to make the proper choice and before you knew it we were approaching the Universal Studios off ramp, with the legendary Black Tower marking the spot just up ahead.

Even as red-ass rookies we knew the Black Tower was a scary place. That’s where the Guys With The Big Telephones held forth. GWTBT types like Lew Waserman - the Pope of Hollywood, who started out as a theater usher in the 1930’s and cut, slashed and machinegunned his way all the way to the top of the mountain - CEO and majority share holder of the biggest, baddest motion picture and music company in the...well... universe.

You know that scene in the Godfather with the horse's head in the producer's bed? If you had met Waserman and his Number Two - Sid Sheinberg - you'd know that there isn't a Mafia boss in the world with balls enough to pull such a stunt on either of them.

As Chris once put it, "The blowback would be fucking ferocious."

Once you become familiar with Universal Studios, it's no surprise when you learn that it was founded on the back of a string of horror movies. The House that Frankenstein, Dracula, and The Wolfman built, with a little Francis The Talking Mule and Abbott and Costello thrown in to lighten things up. It's like General Motors getting its start with Funny Cars. Which, come to think of it… Oh, never mind.

We stopped at the gate and a tall, silver-haired gentleman in a perfectly creased uniform emerged from the guard shack. He politely inquired what our business was, established that we had an appointment at the Quincy offices, and as he handed us a map of the Lot the Rambler gave a hacking American Motors wheeze and expelled a big fat smog fart.

The gentleman gate guard didn't react, or sneer at our poverty on wheels, but just leaned closer so we could hear him over the ailing engine noises.

(Later, we learned his name was Scotty, hands down the most well-liked gate guard in all of Hollywood. From that day on he remembered our faces and names and always smoothed the way with prime parking spots and a cheery, "Good luck, boys.")

Scotty indicated a score of lines painted on the roadway. They made up a rainbow of broad stripes: red, green, blue and yellow - and they all went off in different directions.

"Like the Good Witch said, boys, just follow the yellow brick road," Scotty quipped, smiling at what was obviously a joke he told many times a day, but still enjoyed.

He added, "Mr. Klugman’s production offices are just about all the way to the back of the lot. When you go by Mr. Hitchcock’s and Miss Lucille Ball's dressing rooms you will be almost there. If you find yourself in front of an old fashioned white house with a picket fence you have gone too far. That's the Ozzie and Harriet house, you know."

We didn’t, but figured we would when we saw for ourselves. Of course, Hitchcock was retired (he died the following year) and Lucy was in a long hiatus, and Ozzie and Harriet went off the air long ago, but we didn’t point any of this out to the dignified guard and set off to find the wizard whose name was Quincy along the By God yellow brick road.

The broad yellow stripe twisted and turned through a maze of sound stages and bustling crowds of workmen operating strange machines with even stranger gadgets attached. Electric carts whizzed this way and that, whipping around the occasional black limo carrying some "Suit" or other to meetings at zillion dollar a plate bistros, or maybe even the dreaded Black Tower.

The sound stages were the size of aircraft hangars and here and there alarms blared, doors into the sound stages slammed and red lights blinked on to warn one and all to stay the hell out - people were performing magic in there.

In some places costumed actors, actresses, and Star Standins hung out of open doors to catch a quick smoke break. We caught glimpses of everything from green-skinned aliens, guys with movie blood-spattered bandages, and fabulously beautiful women in every variety of scanty attire. Mingling with them were burly stuntmen and lithe stuntwomen.

We couldn't help but goggle, and by and by we came upon a tram ferrying some fellow lookee-loos around the lot. But these were rubber-neckers of the paying variety. They were enjoying what was then called the Universal Studio Tour. A primitive, low-bucks affair with no special effects, or rides, other than the trams, which were usually helmed by young actors and actresses who did their best to entertain the rubes with quips and show biz tricks, like stopping the tram in mid road, and juggling purses and cameras, or walking on their hands.

Anything to get in a little of the old razzle dazzle. Who knows, maybe a producer in a passing limo or electric VIP cart would see them and hire them on the spot. (Factoid: In those days the trams were called "Glamour Trams." Not very.)

The tourists were milling around two little cottages set side by side. One had Alfred Hitchcock’s shadow profile painted on the door; the other was graced with a caricature of Lucille Ball. The studio had turned them into mini- museums and the people seemed to be enjoying themselves wandering in and out.

Chris glanced over at me. "You a little nervous?"

I shrugged. "All they can tell us is to fuck off," I said.

"I didn’t ask you that," Chris pointed out.

I shrugged again. "Yeah, I’m nervous."

Then before we knew it we were cruising over a rise and below us we saw a white house with a picket fence.

"That must be Ozzie’s place." I observed. "Except in color, instead of black and white."

As Chris came to a stop he snorted. "Ricky Nelson’s a no-talent wimp," he decreed.

Then we were turning left into a parking area in front of a fairly large white cottage. Not only did the number on the cottage match the address scrawled in our notebook, but we spied an empty parking space with the name Jack Klugman painted on it.

"Guess Jack's not home," I said.

Inside Jack’s place we were greeted by a middle-aged woman, with a practiced smile meant to put us at ease. She advised us that the wait would be short and fetched us some cold drinks. The reception area was cool and dark, with comfortable furniture.

The walls were decked with posters illustrating Klugman's long and varied career. Films like 12 Angry Men and Days Of Wine And Roses. TV series like The Odd Couple. There were Broadway posters, like Gypsy. A framed picture of Klugman with Gypsy co-star, Ethel Merman. And any number of cards from his countless appearances on the Twilight Zone.

Before all this had time to sink in, the lady ushered us into an office where three men waited: Peter Thompson, the executive producer, and two other producers whose names I was too nervous to catch. We learned later that they were William (Billy) Cairncross and Charles (Diz) Dismukes and they both not only taught us a lot but saved our young asses innumerable times.

Peter was a handsome devil, with a British accent. He was the Quincy Showrunner - TV lingo for the guy who runs the show, okay? And, as we would soon learn, a genial conniver of the first order. Even so, he was hard not to like.

Copies of our script about a boxer falsely accused of murder were laid out around a large meeting table and as we settled into our chairs, nervously getting out notepads and pens, Peter said, "Hold on a tick, lads, Jack's going to join us."

I could tell from Chris' expression that he was as surprised as I was. We heard Klugman's gravel voice issuing orders to his assistant at the front desk, then the door opened to frame the Great Man Himself - Jack By God Klugman.

He was tall, well-built and he came charging into the room boiling with energy. Talking a mile a minute, grabbing our hands and giving them firm shakes, telling us to "Sit, sit," and all the while asking questions and issuing orders non-stop to his producers.

The assistant ducked in to tell Klugman so-and-so was on the phone. He waved at her, looking disgusted. "I don’t have time for Suits," he said. "I’m talking to my writers."

Chris and I exchanged looks. The guy was growing larger in our book by the second. (Later, we'd learn that sort of thing was routinely staged, but it was still a thrill that a big TV star like Klugman had taken the trouble.)

Then he got down to business. Grabbed a copy of our script and started flipping through it. "Great story, boys," he said. "I could almost shoot it as is. Maybe a couple of suggestions I might have, but bottom line - this is a damned fine job."

We were enthralled, to say the least. We were in. Finally in. The big door kicked down. We were made, Baby, made. Wait'll Kathryn hears the good-

"Unfortunately," Klugman continued, snapping off my thoughts, "we can’t use it. We’ve already done a boxing show for this season."

My heart fell from a far height. I could almost hear Chris' bouncing on the floor beside mine. Shit, so close. You almost get there - just like all those other times - then, wham, they sucker punch you flat on your ass.

"You couldn’t have known," Klugman went on. "The episode won’t air for a couple of weeks. It doesn't have the same angle as yours - the aneurysm deal - but what're you gonna do?"

He kept flipping through the script. Stopped at one point, read for a second. Then looked up.

"This boxing business is right on the money," he said. "That’s one thing that really caught my eye. You've got it down good. I oughta know. I was a Golden Gloves boxer back in the day, and I've had ringside seats at all the top fights ever since."

I couldn’t believe our good luck. "Well, sir," I said, "I’ve been nuts about boxing and boxers myself since I was a kid. My grandfather, Frank Guinan, and his brother, Joe, were founders of the Philadelphia Boxing Association. You know, the gym where they shot Rocky and -"

"No shit?" Klugman said, breaking in. "The Philadelphia Boxing Association? Know it well." He sat back in his chair. Impressed as all hell. "They must have been pros, then."

"Yessir," I said. "Back in the Twenties they not only won championships, but in several different names." Klugman laughed knowingly. I went on, "They had to feed their families, you know? So they’d fight two, sometimes three times a week. But under different names. Besides that, my grandfather was lightweight Fleet Champion when he was in the Navy, and something similar when he was in the Army. My Great Uncle Joe later became president or vice president of the association."

He looked at me, interested. "Are you a Philly kid?"

I hadn’t been there more than a few months at a time since I was a baby, but I said, "I was born in South Philly, sir. Twenty First and Tasker, that’s me. Just down from Bishop Neumann High School."

"No shit?" Jack said again.

"Yessir."

I was only lying a little bit. My Aunt Cassie and Uncle Tom had a row home at Twenty First and Tasker and I had attended Bishop Neumann for practically a whole month. (Uncle Tom was Thomas M. Grubb, a decorated, thirty-year veteran of the Philadelphia Police Department. To learn more about him, check out "A Cop's Life," by me and Uncle Tom.)

Klugman closed the script and sat silent for a few seconds, thinking. After the verbal barrage, it felt like a storm had just passed through.

Then he said, "Okay, Philly, here’s what we’re gonna to do." (Over the years that's what he called me - "Philly.") He looked over at Peter Thompson. "I want them write a script for us," he said. "Call their agent and make the deal."

Peter smiled that charming smile of his. "Sure, thing, Jack. And I have just the story for them. That notion about mistreated children you wanted to explore."

"Fine," Klugman said. "Get on it right away."

Then he rose, stuck out his hand for parting handshakes, and said, "You go get 'em, Philly." He grinned at Chris. "You too. I want to show those Suits in the Tower that they can’t keep a lock on this town forever."

Then he was gone and there was a sudden vacuum in the room. The two other producers (Billy and Diz) congratulated us, then shot out of there, leaving only Peter behind.

He said, "Jack’s been wanting to do something about child molesters. It’s become one of his pet causes."

"Yessir," Chris and I said in more or less unison.

"I want you to research the subject thoroughly," Peter added. "I have a few names at the LAPD you can contact and a psychiatrist or two who specialize in that area."

"When do you need the story?" Chris asked, naturally enough.

Peter gave a wide - and in retrospect - wolfish smile. "Don’t worry about that, boys," he said.

Thumped his chest. "I’ve got the story."

NEXT: WHAT'S THE STORY, BOYS?

THE COMPLETE MISADVENTURES: IT'S A BOOK!

THE VITAL LINKS:

TRADE PAPERBACK.  

KINDLE. NOOK BOOK. 

ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS. 

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?

Kindle - Click here

Paperback - Click here

Paperback Autographed By Allan - Click here.  

JACK KLUGMAN AND THE KO KIDS

"Gentlemen, you are about to enter the most important and fascinating sphere of police work: the world of forensic medicine, where untold victims of many homicides will reach from the grave and point a finger accusingly at their assailant." (Jack Klugman as Quincy M.E.)
* * *
"Don't point that finger at me unless you intend to use it."(Jack Klugman in The Odd Couple.)
* * *
We were pounding away on sample chapters for Sten, when the phone rang. It was Larry Grossman, our brand new agent. (I'll tell you how that happened down the line.)

Chris hit the speaker button in time for me to hear: "Guys, I've been thinking about our problem, and I may have come up with an avenue to explore."

The "Problem" was a series of no sales for movie scripts we were churning out. It wasn’t that the scripts weren’t any good. On the contrary, they got us noticed all over town. They not only landed us Larry as an agent, but opened the doors to more than a few producers' offices where the scripts were being optioned on a fairly regular basis.

But after that - Nada. And there they languished in Option Hell, waiting for somebody to say, "Let's shoot that sucker!"

Chris said, "Sure as shit hope so, Larry. This keeps up and the IRS will declare our work area a fucking Hobby Zone."

"Two words," Larry said. "Television."

I automatically blurted, "That's one word, Larry."

Chris rolled his eyes at me - Cole, the stickler for detail.

Larry said, "In this Town it's two words: Fucking Television. But the 'Fucking' part is understood."

Chris said, "What're you suggesting."

"Just that," Larry said. "Write for television."

"What about our movie scripts?" I said - a little stunned. Television? What the hell?

Larry sighed. "Guys, don't get me wrong. They're all wonderful scripts. But, you have to be realistic about this. The odds against actually selling a movie script without a track record are enormous. And even after you sell it, the chances that it will ever be made into a movie are even greater. And after that, even the scripts by recognized pros the average time between a script sale and a movie being made is ten years. Sometimes more."

Chris was getting hot. I wasn't far behind. He said, "What're you suggesting, Larry? That we pack it the fuck in?"

"No, no, not all," Larry hastened to say. "All I'm saying is that if you guys want to make a living at this, that you ought to consider working in television."

"Here's my two words," Cris said. "I hate fucking Fucking Television." He glared at me, quashing any urge to correct him.

"Everybody does," Larry agreed. "But that's where most of the employed people in this Town work. Also, the employment - although seasonal - is fairly steady."

"What about our movie scripts?" I demanded.

Larry said, "At this moment in time, they are your best chance of getting a job in television. Any producer who reads them is going to know right off that you have the talent and the dedication." He paused. "But you're going to need to do something more than just show them a good movie script."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Write a spec script for their show," Larry said.

"You mean write for fucking free?" Chris asked, outraged.

Larry sighed, "You're already writing for free, Chris. All those movies. And what about your book? Colt? Or Derringer? Or, whatever it is called."

"Sten," I said. "Which is also a gun. A machine gun, actually - which happens to be the name of our hero."

"Right… Sten," Larry said. "You're writing that for free, true? All in the real hopes of a sale down the road."

PAUSE SCENE FOR SHORT BACKSTORY

As usual, Larry was right on the money. Or lack of same. We'd talked him into letting us use his letterhead when we blanketed all the science fiction houses in New York with a query letter pitching the Sten Series - which we saw as twelve novels back then, instead of the eight it turned out to be.

Last episode I told you about the format we used for query letters. Three graphs. No more than one page. And the last graph said: "May we send sample chapters and an outline of our novel series."

But, using Larry's letterhead we could change that to read: "May we have our agent send sample chapters and an outline of our series." A big damned difference - even though Larry wasn't a book agent - which we'd have to get later on - he was a legit agent, with a sterling reputation.

Anyway, that query letter had drawn maybe eight or nine positive replies. One thing: There were no sample chapters, much less an outline. We hadn't written them yet. Now we had to deliver, and deliver fast. Thank the Gods Of Ink-Stained Wretches And Other Fools that we were fast writers. Because we had to get the chapters and outline in the mail PDQ before they forgot all about us. Even in normal circumstances the length of an editor's attention span is less than that of the half-life of a sub, sub-atomic particle.

RETURN TO SCENE

... Where Larry's words were sinking in. Way, Way In. To get through the gates of one of the studios, we were going to have to hold our noses and-

"Wait a minute," Chris said. "I don't even watch fucking Fucking Television. Shit, my folks didn't get one until I was twenty years old and in the Army."

I confirmed this. "He's right, Larry. And the only reason they bought the set is because I sold it to them for twenty five bucks. Chris was home on leave and we had spent all our money on - you know - and his dad felt sorry for us."

"Damned thing was half dead," Chris said. "My dad said he'd buy the sucker if it worked, so Cole stuck the antennae in his mouth and bingo, the picture came in clear as… well. Anyway, there was a picture." He chuckled at the memory. "Next day it died for good, but now my old man was determined to show he hadn't been taken so he bought fifty, sixty bucks worth of tubes and fixed it."

"He still barely speaks to me," I said.

"And then only when he's in his cups," Chris added.

Larry was only half-listening. He said, "What about you, Allan? What are your favorite shows?"

"I'm not so far off from Chris on the TV-watching front," I said. "I grew up overseas in places where you could only get radio. And half the time the Russians were jamming it." (See Lucky In Cyprus.)

Larry's voice took on an insistent tone. "However you do it, guys, my very best advice is to watch a few programs. Really study them. Then write a couple of spec scripts. If you really want to work in This Town, that's the price you'll have to pay."

After some moaning and groaning, we grudgingly agreed we'd try, then got off the phone. We dragged the morning newspaper out of the trash, found the TV guide and picked a couple of shows. Chris would watch one, I'd watch the other, and we'd discuss them the following afternoon.

I should mention that we at least both owned TV sets: Chris because his Ex-Wife liked to watch television and didn't take it with her when she left, and me because I needed one for when my kids came over for the weekend. (They came up once a month by train from San Diego, where my own Ex had moved.)

That night, after Kathryn and I had dinner, I dutifully switched on my fugitive from a pawn shop - staying well back during the warm up stage, since it tended to shoot sparks. When things steadied out, I turned to the assigned show and started to watch.

An hour or so later Kathryn shook me awake and I sat bolt upright on the couch. Other than the Fade In and the first commercial, I'd slept through the entire program.

Shit.

"I tried to wake you, Allan Dear," Kathryn said. "But you just kept saying, 'In a minute, in a minute,' but the minute never came."

The problem was that I had to get up at three every morning to make my job as Wire Editor of the Santa Monica Outlook. It was a tough shift - 4 a.m. to noon - but it gave me from 1 p.m. to 7 p.m. to work with Chris. We banged away Tuesday through Friday. I got a break on Saturday - I only had to work at the newspaper, not with Chris. I had Sunday and Monday off from the newspaper. Slept Sunday. Worked a full eight hours with Chris on Monday. So, that's 40 hours at the newspaper and 32 hours with Chris.

Which equals…

Well, never mind. I get tired just thinking about it. Bottom line: I was always on the edge of complete exhaustion and would fall asleep - suddenly, and deeply - at the slightest pause in the action of living. If there was a wall to lean against, I'd learned the trick every Swabie and Grunt the world over knows, and catch a nap standing up. Fortunately, my sole transportation was a motorcycle, or I might have nodded off while driving.

Shamefaced, I reported my failure to Chris the following day. But, he was no better off. He'd been reading, he said - had even set an alarm so he'd know when to stop and switch on the TV. Unfortunately, the book was so interesting that when the time came - and the alarm buzzed - Chris had absently shut it off.

Several days passed - all without success. And then Chris put his finger on another problem:

"We really ought to be watching this shit together," he said. "But I'll be damned if I'll drive to your place just to watch TV. And if you were that stupid to do the same, I'd take back my introduction to you."

"What we need," I said, "is one of those video recorders. We could record the programs at night, then speed through them together at work the next day."

Chris sighed. "Yeah, but I'm so broke the Eagle on my Last Quarter is flying on one wing."

He'd just had to pay out a bundle to his Ex, who had demanded a half share of everything he'd written - or any notion he'd put on paper - since they got married. In the end, our very clever attorney - Marshall Caskey - negotiated a buyout settlement. Even so, it would be a while before Chris had any spare money in his jeans. (More about The Amazing Possum-Eating Caskey down the road.)

Buying a VCR was no quick trip to Walmart in those days. The cheapest model - made by the Singer Sewing machine company, or something ridiculous like that - went for $300. (About $1,336 in 2011 dollars.)

Fortunately, I'd just done a Yamaha trail bike manual for Peterson Publications and for a change had a few bucks to spare.

I sprang for the VCR.

Every night I'd set the timer, tape a likely show, and the next day Chris and I would zip through it at high speed, noting premises, regular characters, and the type of stories they used.

Even so, it was wearisome.

Chris would sigh and say, "I’m getting warts."

And I’d reply, "Big deal. My warts are getting warts."

And he’d say, "Tell me about the yachts, Cole."

And I’d say, "If we can crack this nut, Bunch, we’ll be farting through silk."

And he’d look insulted and say, "I was talking yachts. Why’d you go all scatological on me."

And I’d end the gripe session, saying, "This is the last one. When we finish, I’ll pour us a Scotch." (We hadn’t invented Stregg yet.)

That would be on a Monday. On a Tuesday, the positions would be reversed and I'd do the griping and he’d pour Scotch on troubled waters.

Finally, one show in particular caught our attention - Quincy, M.D. - starring Jack Klugman, a great character actor who had blown us both away years before in Sidney Lumet's 12 Angry Men. There were many more great roles after that, including a couple of Twilight Zone episodes even Chris and I had caught, as well the TV version of the Odd Couple, with Klugman and Tony Randall.

Quincy, was unusual at that time because in those pre-CSI and Bones days it was a show about a coroner - a pretty gritty subject for the Networks back then. The other unusual thing is that Klugman not only insisted on total accuracy, but he loved stories that were "About Something." An injustice, revealed. A wrong, righted. Corrective legislation urged.

I called Larry the next day to report that we wanted to take a crack at Klugman's show.

Larry said, "What a coincidence, Allan. Have you seen today's Variety."

We hadn't. The mail came late in our neighborhood.

"Well, there's a story there about Jack Klugman and Quincy," Larry said. "The gist of it is that Jack is lashing out at Universal Studios and NBC again. He says they're sending him nothing but tired old hacks to write for his show and he wants fresh ideas - Fresh Blood."

"Does he mean it?" I asked. I might have been a Hollywood newbie, but I'd been a newsman for fourteen years and had waded through bullshit my entire career.

"Not only does he mean it," Larry said, "but he's put the word out to all the agencies that he'll consider any new young writer for his show - the less of a track record, the better."

Well, that was us all over. Although, at 35, we didn't consider ourselves young anymore. (Looking back, I can see now what red ass kids we really were.)

I reported all this to Chris, who was - if not delighted, encouraged. All objections to TV were momentarily edged aside. We sat down and really put our heads to coming up with a good story for a spec Quincy script.

In the end, we decided on a tale about a boxer. (For reasons that will be clear in the next episode of this MisAdventure.) We stumbled upon an old news story about a boxer who suddenly became violent in the hours after a bout - and then died. A nasty twist: another man was held briefly as a murder suspect. But it turned out that the boxer's death - and violent behavior - had been triggered by an aneurysm in his brain's frontal lobe.

In the Bunch & Cole version of the story, an old time boxer loses a crucial match to a young contender. Quincy, a boxing fan, is at the match. (We'd soon learn how right we were on that score.) Later, the winner is at a club celebrating with his girl and entourage. The loser enters. Gets a drink. Goes over to the winner - as if to congratulate him - but then suddenly attacks him. The kid blocks the punch, pushes the guy away, but before anything else happens the loser suddenly keels over - dead.

The boxer is arrested for murder. Enter Quincy. Add more complications - the kid's shady background, some Wise Guys, etc. And there you go.

Sent the script to Larry, who sent it over to Klugman's office at Universal Studios.

A week later the great man himself got on the phone to our agent.

"I like your boys' style," Jack Klugman said. "Have them come on in and meet my people."

The meeting was set for the following week, but already we could see ourselves on our bikes, thundering up to the Gates Of Universal Studios – the Infamous Black Tower looming overhead - ready to take on the world.

NEXT: JACK KLUGMAN AND THE KO KIDS - PART TWO

THE COMPLETE MISADVENTURES: IT'S A BOOK!

THE VITAL LINKS:

TRADE PAPERBACK.  

KINDLE. NOOK BOOK. 

ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS. 

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?

Kindle - Click here

Paperback - Click here

Paperback Autographed By Allan - Click here.