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Friday, June 25, 2010

TOUPEES ROASTING ON AN OPEN FIRE


When we strolled into the office from lunch, Genevieve handed us a sheaf of pink phone message slips.

"Any good news or money?" Chris asked. (It was a line he'd admired in A Thousand Clowns and appropriated for his own use.)

Genevieve riffled through the phone slips, pulled one out."You might want to call this one first," she advised. "It's from Bob Cinadar."

"Hot damn," Chris said. "When Uncle Bobby calls sometimes we get both."

Bob Cinadar wasn't an uncle to either of us. But we thought of him that way because of all the career-guidance he'd given us. After years working for Jack Webb on shows like Dragnet and Emergency, Bob had become the ultimate fix-it man that all the studios and networks called on when a show was in trouble. Then he'd come in and take over the program for just long enough to straighten it out and be on his way to the next trouble spot.

We'd written a Quincy for him - Riot - which had not only topped the ratings for the series' fifth season, but remains a cult favorite to this day. We'd also written what proved to be the last episode of The Rockford Files, The Solid Gold Spike. In the case of Quincy, Cinadar managed to make peace between Jack Klugman, the star, and Universal Studios. In the case of The Rockford Files, James Garner had been screwed over by the Black Tower Pencil Brigade too badly for Bob to fix anything. In either case, our scripts were aimed at helping to solve the problems and went a long way in establishing our reps as fix-it guys.

Chris headed to his desk, dialed the phone and when Bob's secretary answered he flipped the desk speaker on so we could both hear. Out contract was nearly up at Code Red and it was our hope that once we'd escaped Irwin (The Towering Toupee) Allen's clutches that the angels of freelancing would immediately smile on us. And in the past Bob Cinadar had proved to be an angel, indeed, albeit with a craggy face.

Cinadar's gruff voice came on the line. "Hey, boys, how's life treating you over at Code Red?"

"Like shit," Chris said. "We want out of here in the worst way."

Hope bloomed for both of us. Chris flashed me a thumbs up.

"You coming in to take over the show?" I asked. "If so, we've got to warn you that the Towering Toupee has things so fucked up that neither of us think the show can be salvaged."

Another Cinadar chuckle. "Towering Toupee, huh? You guys are priceless. But, no, I'm not heading over your way. I was asked to help a show of Irwin's a few years ago, but all I got was a case of the hives. He's a piece of work. Thinks the world revolves around his asshole. I chewed him out when I left, but he's such a wizened little jerk-off that he still thinks I love him."

I said, "You've got Irwin pegged, that's for sure." Then, fingers crossed, I asked, "Got anything for us, Uncle Bobby? Our contracts are up in a few weeks."

Chris chanted, "All we want for Christmas is a Burning Toupee." We were entering the holiday season. Thanksgiving and Christmas were just ahead of us.

Bob chuckled. "Irwin really got to you, huh?"

"You don't know the half of it," I said.

"Actually, I do," Cinadar said. "Or, a bit of it anyway. You see, Irwin phoned me at home last night."

Chris' eyebrows shot up. "What the fuck, over?"

Bob said, "Yeah, that's why I'm calling. To give you boys a heads up."

"I repeat my last," Chris said. "What the fuck, over?"

"He cried on my shoulder for half an hour about all his problems at Code Red," Bob said. "How the network fucked him over on the timeslot and the budget and then forced him to take that little hairball Adam Rich off their hands. It seems that when Eight Is Enough was still on, Adam's agent got a guaranteed TV series deal. A bullet-proof pay or play deal."

Suddenly, everything clicked into place. So the fact that Adam (The Beach Ball) Rich had been foisted on us by the Anything But Class (ABC) network had little or nothing to do with the ratings game. Pay or play, meant that either ABC had to put young Mr. Rich into a series - with a fat salary package - or pay him whether he worked or not. But, in one deft move they'd shifted the financial burden over to Columbia Studios, the suckers - I mean backers - of Code Red. And they probably didn't much care whether the series worked or not. Which is why they'd put us up against 60 Minutes - the monster CBS hit at 7 p.m. Sunday night. They were just going to burn it off, deal and all.

"And Irwin's known this all along," I supposed.

"Of course, he has," Cinadar said. "After all these years in the Biz, Irwin knows to buy his KY Jelly by the caseload. But what he's really hoping is that if he can bump the ratings up two or three points he can maybe muscle the network to go for a second season. Or, if they cancel him, he'll be able to take the series over to another network and make the Magic One Hundred."

The Magic One Hundred was the number of episodes needed to sell a show into syndication. Basically, networks only paid a portion of a show's budget. In our case, a measly $600,000 an episode. Even though we'd all cut costs to bare bones, it was still running us upwards of $700,000. Well, not us, personally - but Columbia Studios, with a little from Irwin's vaults, which were rumored to be even deeper and more heavily guarded than Jack Benny's.

It was a high stakes Craps game, called Deficit Financing. Because for that $600,000 the network got two runs - the first showing, plus a rerun in the summertime, or whenever. After that, the negatives belonged to Columbia Studios and Irwin.

To show you what a syndication deal can deliver, in later years (1988 or so) when the A-Team was sold into syndication, we were told that Frank Lupo and Steve Cannell - creators of the program - cut up $120 million. That's $60 million each. And that was just their share. Universal Studios and other entities probably coined at least that amount. Using my handy-dandy inflation calculator, $120 million dollars in 1988, equals $223,641,559.70 today. Get my drift?

"Irwin's frantic about it," Cinadar went on. "Says he can't sleep at night."

"Probably suffering from uncontrollable regurgitation as well," I said.

"Well, boo-fucking-hoo for fucking, Irwin," Chris said. Then: "What's he want you to do about it?"

"Well, before he had a chance to ask," Cinadar said, "I told him that I wasn't available. So, instead, he asked what he should do to rescue the show?"

"And you said..." We both asked at the same time.

"I told him his only hope was to hire the best fix-it team of writers I know - Bunch and Cole." Uncle Bobby said.

"And Irwin said, 'But, I already have Bunch and Cole.'

"And I said, 'Then, Irwin, you'd better call in the dogs and piss on the fire, because it is fucking over, man.'"

After falling all over the floor and laughing our heads off, we thanked Uncle Bobby and said goodbye. (We didn't know it'd be the last time we would talk to him. Almost exactly a year later he died of cancer. He was a helluva guy and I miss him still.)

Just after Thanksgiving, we were stealing time away from Code Red again, toiling over The Wolf Worlds - the second Sten novel - when Genevieve buzzed us.

I answered to hear her say, "You've got a call from Irwin."

I said to put him on, please and in a second I heard Irwin's secretary saying, "Hold for Irwin Allen."

It was Irwin's style to get his secretary to call you, then make you wait until he deigned to come on the line. So, I held. Meantime, I cupped a hand over the receiver and whispered to Chris, "It's the Towering Toupee."

In his patented stage whisper which could be heard from here, to Lower Subservia - and maybe even as far as Upper Hoostania - Chris said, "Tell him to go fuck himself."

Then, knowing there was plenty of time, he got out the Scotch and made us a couple of drinks. I swallowed half of mine right off the bat, knowing I was going to need it.

Then I heard Irwin's voice. Filled with phony cheer. "Allan, my boy, as you are no doubt aware your contract is up Friday."

Damn right, we were aware. We'd already hauled most of our stuff home, including some office supplies that we'd ripped off.

I said, "Time sure can get away from you, can't it Irwin?"

A false chuckle. Then, "Well, it's quite close to Christmas. And it has always been my policy in these situations to extend my people's contracts a week or two. So, they won't be out of work during the holiday season. And in that spirit, I'm going to extend yours."

Irwin waited. Obviously expecting effusive thanks. I looked over at Chris, mouthed the word "contracts" and spread one hand away from the phone, indicating that Irwin wanted to extend same.

Chris shook his head. Mouthed the words, "Fuck him," and in my ear I heard Irwin say, "Allan? Are you there?"

"I'm here, Irwin," I said. "And we both thank you for your generous offer. But it won't be necessary. We'd just as soon go home."

I heard Irwin make with a shocked, "Oh!" as it sunk in that we'd just told him to take his job and shove it.

Then he recovered enough to say, "Good luck to you, boys."

He waited a beat, but I didn't wish him the same.

And then he broke the connection.

I hung up and turned to Chris. "Well, to quote the eminent philosopher, Robert Cinadar," I said, "Let's call in the dogs and piss on the fire, because we are fucking out of here, partner, mine."

Chris raised his glass in toast - "Merry Christmas, partner."

And I toasted back, singing, "Toupees roasting on an open fire..."

We drained our drinks and I must say, it was the best Scotch I have ever tasted.

NEXT: STEN VS. THE SANTA ANA WINDS



IT'S A BOOK!
THE COMPLETE HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES! 




WHERE'S WHERE YOU BUY IT
The MisAdventures began humbly enough - with about 2,000 readers. When it rose to over 50,000 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.    

Friday, June 18, 2010

WHY CLINT EASTWOOD OWES US BIG TIME


"I wanna be an Airborne Ranger," Chris warbled at the top of his voice, "Livin' the life of sex and danger... If I die in the old drop zone... Box me up and send me home... Sound off - 1, 2. Sound off - 3-4. Sound off - 1-2... 3-4."

This was not long after the Andy Warhol Fire Extinguisher caper, and Chris was still in a great mood for having put one over on Irwin (The Towering Toupee) Allen, boss man of the quickly dying TV Series, Code Red.

There was a dirty version of the song, but Chris, who really had been an Airborne Ranger in Vietnam, stuck to the family friendly alternative out of deference to the two ladies in the outer office. One was our secretary, Genevieve, and the other I'll just call by the made up name of Jodie, for reasons that will soon be obvious.

I said, "You sing worse now than when we were kids." (We met in our senior year of high school) "Maybe if you smoked and drank a little more, you'd get a Phil Harris effect. That'd be an improvement."

"I'll smoke to that," Chris said, firing up a Marble. "And drink to it too." He retrieved a bottle of Scotch from a desk drawer, sweetened his coffee, then shoved the bottle over to me.

"What do you say we sneak a little Sten work in?" I suggested. I indicated a stack of Code Red scripts on my desk. "Nothing here that can't wait."

We were in the beginning stages of writing The Wolf Worlds - the second book in the Sten series. The novel was much overdue and we'd been getting heat from Owen Locke, our editor at Del Rey Books.

Chris raised his coffee cup in a toast to indicate agreement and I headed for the outer office to grab a typewriter cartridge. The new IBM Selectric-2 typewriters had the latest technology, including a white correction tape running beneath the regular black ink ribbon. If you made a mistake you just had to backspace to the error, type the letter again, and the whiteout tape would lift it off. Then you'd type the correct letter, and the type ball would whirl around to your letter of choice, and print it in black ink. No fuss, no muss.

I got a cartridge from the supply cabinet and as I headed back to my desk, Jodie caught my eye and motioned me over. Jodie was a good-looking young woman in her mid-twenties, who wore clothes that set off her figure, but tastefully so.

In a low, conspiratorial-like voice, she asked, "Is it okay if I go to lunch?"

I looked at the closed door behind her. The new exec story consultant, who took Larry Heath's place, was obviously home, or the door would be open. Technically he was Jodie's boss, and she ought to be asking him, not me. And why the hell did she have to ask anybody for permission? Genevieve, and every other secretary we'd had, used to just announce they were going to lunch and left - assuming there wasn't some sort of emergency; and even so, they'd already know about it and automatically put off lunch until the crisis had passed.

"It's important," Jodie stressed, still in that conspiratorial voice.

I shrugged. "Sure, go ahead," I said. Then mischievously added, "Take as long as you want. We're not busy today."

She whispered thanks, grabbed her purse and was out of there so fast the branches in the trees would have whipped back forth. If we had any trees in our office, that is.

"What was that all that about?" I asked Genevieve.

Genevieve shot the closed door a look that pretty much answered my question. "He's an ass," she said. "He's always riding her for no good reason. She's one of the best secretaries at TBS and he's lucky to have her."

It was true. It hadn't escaped Chris or my notice that Jodie was a crackerjack secretary, with not just superior technical office skills, like typing, organization, and so forth, but she was the sole of discretion and diplomacy when dealing with the phone, or visitors to our office. Plus, if the load for Genevieve got too heavy, she'd dive right in and help sort it out.

"Well, if he asks about her," I said, "blame it on Bunch and Cole."

Chris' voice came behind me. "Not so fast, Cole. What am I supposed to be sharing the blame for this time?"

I said, "I told Jodie she could go to lunch, and to take as much time as she pleased."

Chris thought a minute, then, with a grin: "Sure I'll take the heat from Old Anger-Concern."

Genevieve giggled. "He won't dare say word if I tell him that. He's scared to death of you two."

I can't remember the name of the "He" we were talking about. Honest to God. Mainly because whenever he comes to mind, I think of the name Chris had given him - Old Anger-Concern. The reason he got that moniker is because of a particularly bad script he'd turned in. And this was from a guy who wrote like a soap opera scribe on dope.

In a nauseatingly touchy-feely scene, he had one of our young fireman stars slumped on a curbside looking depressed after the weekly last-Act big blaze had been put out. A buddy approaches and asks him how he feels about what had just happened. And, in a tormented voice, out young star replies: "Anger, concern... What does it all mean?" This was followed by a list of other emotions that you'd never hear any stalwart fireman claim, even to himself. Our tech advisor, a retired LA County Fire Department Chief was livid. But the guy was the new boss of the story department and so nothing could be done.

And thus, thanks to Chris, he became forever known as Old Anger-Concern. Within a day it was all over the show. And a day later, the whole lot.

Genevieve wiggled her finger for us to come closer. Once again, I was listening to a conspiratorial whisper. "Guess who she's going to see."

Chris and I shrugged. "I give up," I said for both of us.

Genevieve said, "I'll give you a hint. He's the biggest star on the lot."

I thought a minute. There were lots of big stars around. TBS Studios, after all, was three studios wrapped in one - Columbia, Paramount and... It came to me and Chris at the same time.

"Warner Brothers," Chris said. "Clint Eastwood's shooting a movie for them."

At the time Eastwood and Burt Reynolds traded places summer-to-summer as the highest paid movie stars on the Planet. Since we were ensconced in Burt's old offices, there could only be one other guy.

"Give that man a cigar," Genevieve said, confirming our guess.

Then I asked the obvious question. "You mean Jodie's meeting him for lunch? Isn't that like - you know, really public. Might that not get him in trouble with... what's her face?"

"Sondra Locke," Genevieve said, filling in my mental blank. "And, yes, it would be troublesome if she were meeting him someplace public, but she's not." Leaning closer, lowering her voice more, she said, "Jodie told me that's she's meeting Mr. Eastwood in his trailer."

Chris and I laughed. "What a dog," Chris said admiringly.

We did some work on The Wolf Worlds, went to lunch, then returned, planning to dive back into the adventures of young Sten and Alex Kilgour again.

But before we could settle in, Jodie came bursting into the outer office. She was disheveled, one knee of her stockings was shredded and she had a wild, desperate look in her eyes.

"She just tried to kill me," Jodie said.

"Who tried to kill you?" Genevieve asked, rising and going to help the young woman to sit before she collapsed.

"Sondra Locke, that's who," Jodie said.

By now Chris and I were in the doorway looking on.

"What happened?" I asked.

Meanwhile, Genevieve was getting out some tissues and dabbing at dirt streaks on poor Jodie's face.

"I was just... you know... leaving Clint's trailer," she said, "...and I was walking down the alley between some soundstages when I heard this huge roar." She spread her hands apart to indicate just how huge a roar it was. "And I turned around... And... And... There was this big car coming right at me."

"No shit," Chris said.

"Well, I jumped out of the way just in time," Jodie continued. Then indicating her torn stocking, she added, "Fell out of the way, actually. And then...Then... when the car screeched by I looked up and there was Sondra Locke behind the wheel. At least I think it was her." Then she nodded vigorously. "I'm certain of it."

"Are you okay?" I asked. "Do you need to go to the emergency room, or something?"

"We'll drive you," Chris volunteered.

Jodie shook her head. "No. I'm okay. Just - you know - shaken up." She looked down at herself. "I'll just go to the Ladies and repair the damage the best I can." As she rose, she added, "Besides, I don't want a single word to get out about it. You know how the tabloids hang out at the emergency rooms around here. They'll find out and there will be a big scandal."

She left and we turned to Genevieve. "Do you think she's telling the truth?" I asked.

Genevieve shook her head. "I have no idea," she said. "But she's always been very open and honest before."

"A little too open," Chris observed.

Jodie had entertained us all with various stories of her conquests, including the most recent, which was with a handsome young cowboy in the hayloft of a local dude ranch. We listened, of course, feeling vaguely guilty the whole time for reasons that I still don't understand. When I get to the Afterlife I'll check it out with Dr. Freud.

A couple of days later Jodie came back from her break with a stack of newspapers under her arm. She plunked them on her desk and I heard excited chatter between Jodie and Genevieve. A moment later Jodie tapped on our open office door.

"Jodie, my belle," Chris said, "What can we do you for?"

"I just don't know what to do," she said, advancing to our desks. "Look what happened." She held up a tabloid for us to see. "I don't know how they found out," she said.

Chris took the paper and I got up from my desk to look over his shoulder. On page two was a double-column, top to bottom article with some kind of salacious headline about Sondra Locke and Eastwood. There were mug shots of both of them. Basically the article, which was by one of the top 'reporters" of the scandal sheet, repeated the story Jodie had reported to us a few days before. Except, it was told from the point of view of several bystanders who claimed to have witnessed the event.

"They even got my name somehow," Jodie said, stabbing at a sentence in the story where she refuses to comment on whatever the question was the reporter had asked.

"Whatever am I going to do?" she asked.

But she had an odd note to her voice, which both Chris and I picked up on. Jodie was enjoying the hell out of this. Fame, however small, however scandalous, has a way of going to people's heads.

I said, "You did the right thing by not commenting. Keep it up, ignore the whole issue, and by and by it will go away."

Jodie nodded. It was a firm nod. But I could see the light dancing in her eyes. "Thank you, Allan," she said. "That's just what I'm going to do."

She went back to her desk. But, when Chris and I went to lunch we could see a whole stack of tabloids on her desk, all turned to page 2 where the item was prominently displayed. Jodie was on the phone, obviously talking to a friend.

"I just can't imagine how they found out," she was saying. "I only told a few of my closest friends."

I looked over at Genevieve, who rolled her eyes and made dialing motions with a finger, indicating that Jodie had been calling her "closest friends" by the dozens.

Without a doubt Jodie was having the time of her life.

A few days later Jodie was tapping at our door again.

I said, "What's up, Jodie?"

Jodie's face was alight with excitement. "May I take lunch?" she said. "I know it's a little early, but..."

"Isn't Old Anger-Concern around?" Chris asked.

Jodie wrinkled her nose. "He's locked up in his office with that weird guy again."

I didn't want to get into the odd balls who regularly visited Old Anger-Concern, so I just said, "Sure, Jodie. Go right ahead."

And this time it was Chris who added. "Take all the time you need."

Jodie gave a long sigh of relief. "Oh, that's just great," she said. "Clint's been calling me all morning just begging to see me."

"Be careful," I warned. "You know what happened last time."

"I know, I know," Jodie said. "And I told Clint that maybe we ought to cool things a bit. But, then he told me he's going to Africa tomorrow, and there's no telling when he'll be back. And he's really, really lonely for me."

I recalled that Eastwood was shooting some kind of African-themed film, and said, "Go. Go."

She exited in a flash. Half a flash, even.

Chris said, "I think Clint is wanting his weekly BJ."

"Thanks to us," I said, "he's going to get it."

"Man, that guy owes us big time," Chris said, "and he doesn't even know it."

NEXT: TOUPEES ROASTING ON AN OPEN FIRE.



IT'S A BOOK!
THE COMPLETE HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES! 




WHERE'S WHERE YOU BUY IT
The MisAdventures began humbly enough - with about 2,000 readers. When it rose to over 50,000 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.    

Friday, June 11, 2010

ANDY WARHOL'S FIRE EXTINGUISHER

"Take a letter, Cole," Chris said, raising a page of scrawled notes to eye level.

I laughed. "Must be another memo to Irwin Allen." I turned to my IBM Selectric-2 Typewriter. Flipped it on, watched the type ball shoot from one side to the other and back again as it positioned itself, then said, "Ready when you are C.B."


Looking over his notes, Chris said:

"From: The Desk Of Bunch and Cole. To: Irwin (The Towering Toupee) Allen.

"It has come to our attention that you have been wearing the same unwashed toupee since the inception of Code Red."

"Inception?" I queried. "Isn't that a rather grandiose word for this piece of dog poop show?"

"That's good," Chris said. "Put that in. Make it read... since the inception of this piece of dog poop show, Code Red."

I hammered some xxx's through the first "Inception" sentence, then retyped it with the inserted, "piece of dog poop."

I nodded to Chris and he continued: "Obviously, you have never washed said toupee, much less traded it in for a new one, for at least a hundred years. Since you are easily older than Methuselah, we estimate that you must have one hundred deceased toupees tossed into the back of your closet.

"With the one currently perched on your bald head, that makes one hundred and one dead toupees. Equally obviously, you have stored those toupees in your closet because you don't know what to do with them. Therefore, your story execs of this piece of dog poop you call a show, generously offer a way out of your predicament, undeserving shithead of a boss though you may be."

"Ah, ha," I ah-ha'ed. "Now I see where you are going."

Speaking aloud as I typed, I hammered out the following title:

101 THINGS TO DO WITH A DEAD TOUPEE

"By George, I think he's got it," Chris said. Then he rattled the piece of paper that contained his notes and dictated:

1. Mow it.
2. Sew razor blades along the edges and use it to hunt kangaroos.
3. Train your cat to retrieve it.
4. Tell people it's a frisbee with a bad case of hyperpilosity.


Chris paused. "That's a hairy virus," he explained.

"I know, I know," I said. "I've read L. Sprague De Camp too."

Chris went on:

5. Roll it and smoke it.
6. Hang it on an alcoholic's wall so the DT's can be really impressive.
7. Tell everyone that it's a tennis ball that you successfully turned inside out.
8. Tuck it in the front of your shirt and hang a gold chain over it.
9. Drag it behind you on a leash and tell everyone it's your pet porcupine.
10. Practice topiary ideas with it.
11. Cover it with cream sauce and tell foreign visitors that it is a great American delicacy.
12. Stuff it with walnuts and bread crumbs and have it for Thanksgiving.
13. Serve it to Turks as the world's first hairy crepe."


I broke in. "Why Turks?" I wondered.

"Beats the shit out of me," Chris said. "Guess I was running out of steam and while searching for some becursed nation I settled on the Turks. I mean they really should have stayed on their side of the Dardanelles, and..."

"Okay, okay," I jumped in, "Keep going."

"Fuck it," Chris said. He crumbled up his notes and tossed them into a wastebasket. Rising, he added, "That's all I've got. We can think of some more later. Besides, it's time for lunch. My treat at the Kosherama Chinese Deli."

We never got around to finishing the list, although I did manage to stuff the page I had typed into my briefcase to save for the ages.

The other day I found it way at the back of a desk drawer, along with some other yellowing Bunch & Cole memorabilia, which I'm sharing with you now to illustrate just how punchy Chris and I were getting only a month or so into the show. We would break into gales of laughter at the slightest thing. No prank was too low. No joke too juvenile.

For example, here's another bit of silly business memorabilia from our Code Red days that I found along with 101 Things To Do With A Dead Toupee.

This one was a petition that Chris and I drew up and posted next to the main exit from the building. It reads:

PLEASE HELP SAVE THE NUKE THE WHALE PROGRAM

In 1962, then-President John F. Kennedy realized that there was an active danger in the proliferation of sperm whales in the world's oceans.

Whales were not only providing blubber, a probable cancer-causing agent, to deprived Third World Countries at the instigation of imperialist and Soviet exploiters, but dangerously contaminating the sea. This, in turn, was endangering the porpoise population - a load of whale shit dropped on a porpoise's head at sixteen fathoms would obviously ensure the death of that intelligent mammal.

For this reason, President Kennedy, at the instigation of Bella Abzug and Ralph Nader, authorized the development of small, limited-yield nuclear devices intended for the painless implantation in sperm whales to reduce the population to manageable levels.

This program continued development under later Presidents and was to be field-tested in early 1982. However, President Reagan, with the cooperation of James Watt, has cut the Nuke The Whales Program almost completely.

Write your Congressman... Sign this Petition. WE MUST CONTINUE NUKING WHALES. NOT ONLY THE SMALL CREATURES OF THE SEA, BUT FUTURE GENERATIONS WHO WILL HAVE TO LIVE WITH THE NAUSEATING EVIDENCE OF WHALE SHIT ON THE BEACH, WILL THANK YOU.

Any questions may be referred to Jeff Feilich, at Flamingo Road, Producers 7, Room 3.


A long, blank signature form was taped below this appeal.

Sure it was stupid. Doesn't even qualify as sophomoric. But within a couple of days the signature form was full. Chris taped another under it. It filled up again in no time. Like-minded folks taped forms beneath the others until the whole shebang reached the floor.

Eventually, we tired of it and I rolled it up and stuffed in my briefcase for the edification of future generations of Bunch & Cole readers.

Larry Heath, our show's executive story consultant, was not immune to all the foolishness - especially since he was getting short. His contract with Irwin (The Towering Toupee) Allen was nearing an end and he was soon to be off to a cool, well-paying gig writing a Movie Of The Week, or mini-series about Columbus or something.

Even though he didn't have that much time left, Larry was getting antsy and had a tendency to writerly depression, so Chris taught him how to make a GI Reverse Calendar. Basically, if you have - say - thirty days left before discharge from the Army, you start with the number 30 then number down the page until you reach the number 1.

Once that's done, you cross off each day as it ends. So, you go, 29, 28, 27 and so on...

But that's not all. You can hasten the end and really lift your spirits if you go, Okay, I've got 28 and a wakeup. (instead of 29) Then 27 and a wake up. Proceeding to 26 and a wake up, etc. Before you know it you are at one and a wake up (In reality two days) and damn Sam, you are almost out of This Man's Army. Or, in this case, Irwin's backstabbing management ways.

Larry was at about 25 and a wake up when he conspired with us to avenge ourselves on Irwin by making him throw up.

We'd noticed that Irwin possessed a hair-trigger gag reflex. Chris theorized that it was caused by repressed guilt for being such a shitheel boss, and who were Larry and I to argue?

It seemed that if Irwin somehow got the foolish notion that at least something was going right on the show, the merest dash of negativity would make him start gagging. He'd go, "Umph, Umph," and you could see his round protruding little pot belly reflexively going in and out. And if negative comments continued, he'd go "Umph, Umph," some more, covering his mouth. Then he'd rush into his executive bathroom, slam the door behind him, and spill his guts.

So, the three of us started setting Irwin up. He'd call us to his office for a meeting to announce some new development. For example, one time he said that the Network had requested more air time for Adam (The Beach Ball) Rich. (This was the tyke that the Anything But Class - ABC - network had forced on us, claiming the former Eight Is Enough star would bring us six rating points. But, as Larry observed from the very beginning: "They didn't say which way. Plus, or minus?")

"Was it really the Network who asked for more airtime, or his mom?" Larry wondered after Irwin explained about the increased air time request. The Beach Ball's mom was reputed to be the ultimate backstage mother.

Irwin paled, then replied, "Oh, I'm sure it's because of the latest ratings study."

"In other words, our ratings are sinking," Chris guessed.

"Well... not sinking... we're still finding our place on the Sunday night schedule." (Our place was opposite mega-ratings king, 60 Minutes.)

"I'm not sure the kid can take it," I put in. "More airtime, I mean. He's already a mess of nerves."

"A wreck in the making if I ever saw one," Larry added.

And we all saw Irwin turn paler still.

"Did you see the Dailies yesterday?" Chris asked Larry.

"Oh, did I ever," Larry said, shaking his head.

Irwin hadn't been there, so he couldn't help but ask, "What was wrong."

"Adam seems to have developed this twitch," I said.

"A nervous twitch," Chris added.

"What's he do?" Irwin asked, dread in his voice.

"He blinks, is what he does," Larry said. (This was true)

"Constantly and without stop," I said, demonstrating, by rapidly blinking my eyes. (This was also true)

Then it started and Irwin went, "umph, umph."

"It's like he's got sand in his eyes," Chris said.

More "umph, umph's" from Itwin.

"Or some kind of condition," Larry said.

"Umph, umph," and we could see that little pot gut start clenching and unclenching.

Larry gave Irwin a look of deep concern. "Maybe we ought to get some psychiatric help," he said.

"Yeah, a shrink," Chris said. "Poor kid."

"I don't know," I put in. "Seems pretty far gone to me. He just can't seem to stop blinking."

Irwin groaned, put hand over his mouth and rushed into the bathroom that was especially installed for him at great Studio expense.

As we sat there listening to him spewing his guts, we all imagined him worshipping at the Porcelain Throne Of Asshole Boss Guilt and made with high 5's all around.

Sometimes life can be really, really good. Even at the grimmest of times.

My favorite prank, however, was the Great Fire Extinguisher Caper. It came from the evil genius brain of my partner in Hollywood crime.

It was like this: Mounted on the wall next to the exit from our building was a large fire extinguisher. Just as red as it could be.

One morning when we came to work, Chris spotted the fire extinguisher and paused. He studied it as if he'd never seen anything like it before. Then light dawned and he rushed into our office, dug around in the supply closet and came up with a pack of blank white note cards.

He got one out, went to his desk and fired up the typewriter, inserted the card and typed a few words. When it was done, he hunted up some Scotch tape, and exited our office, with a very curious Yours Truly at his heels.

He taped the card to the wall beneath the fire extinguisher. I stepped closer to read:

FIRE EXTINGUISHER

BY ANDY WARHOL


I shrugged. "Won't work," I said.

"Hide and watch, O ye of little faith," Chris replied.

You are probably thinking the same thing I was - pretty silly, right?

Maybe so, but soon all the people in the building started talking about it. If you recall the occupants included Cheech And Chong, who had the whole second smoke-hazed floor. And we shared the bottom floor with the staff of Flamingo Road, headed by none other than Jeff (The EatAnter) Freilich. (Among the cast of Flamingo was the beauteous Stella Stevens, mother of Andrew Stevens, one of the regulars on Code Red)

Everybody was going, "Andy Warhol! Wow!" Thinking that it was really cool for the Studio to bless our building with such an important piece of art. The Suits must think we're all important as well.

Pretty soon word drifted over to the offices of Irwin (The Towering Toupee) Allen. One morning the boss had himself driven over in his Rolls.

Our secretary, Genevieve, could see the front door from her desk and she spotted Irwin enter with his chauffeur.

Irwin glanced around to see if anyone was watching (he didn't notice Genevieve) then strolled over to the fire extinguisher. Put his hands behind his back and studied the faux objet d'art for a long time.

She heard him say, "Amazing. Just amazing." He left without another word, his head-scratching chauffeur in his wake.

That was a Friday. On a Monday when we returned to work, the fire extinguisher and the card were gone.

"Son of a bitch," Chris said. "Art thieves at work."

We both laughed.

We heard nothing for a time, then one day the show's tech advisor - Chief Joe Weber, recently retired from the LA County Fire Department - came into our office chuckling and shaking his head.

"What's up Chief?" Chris asked.

"You have to find some excuse to visit Irwin's office," he said. "Don't go in, but just take a look around."

"What for?" I pressed.

"Just go," he said. "You won't regret it."

So we went. Strolled into the main office with scripts in our hands, as if there for a conference. Everybody said hi, and we kept going, finally getting to the hallway to Irwin's office. The door was closed, so we strolled onward.

Came to a halt at the hallway's end. And there, to our amazement was the missing fire extinguisher. Just as red as ever.

Beneath it, was not a white note card... but a small brass plaque.

And it read:

FIRE EXTINGUISHER

By Andy Warhol.


NEXT: CLINT EASTWOOD OWES US BIG TIME


IT'S A BOOK!
THE COMPLETE HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES! 




WHERE'S WHERE YOU BUY IT
The MisAdventures began humbly enough - with about 2,000 readers. When it rose to over 50,000 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.    

Friday, June 4, 2010

JULIE ADAMS: THE LADY EVEN MOVIE MONSTERS FELL FOR

LUCAS: I can tell you something about this place. The boys around here call it "The Black Lagoon;" a paradise. Only they say nobody has ever come back to prove it.

***

DR. DAVID REED: We didn't come here to fight monsters, we're not equipped for it.

***


Anybody who doesn't recognize those two bits of dialogue has been woefully deprived of good old American pop culture. The lines, of course, are right out of the script for the cult classic, The Creature From The Black Lagoon.

And the lovely actress who was the unwilling object of the Creature's obsession was sitting across from me and Chris, spinning a few tales of Hollywood misadventures of her own. Her name, known to several generations of young men, was Julie Adams.

"I made my debut in the third grade," Julie told us. "The play was Hansel And Gretel." She gave us a mischievous grin. "Guess which part I played."

In her heyday, Julie was one of the most beautiful women in Hollywood. Legs insured for a quarter of a million dollars. Starring roles opposite all the great leading men of her time: Gary Cooper, Jimmy Stewart, Tony Curtis, Clark Gable, and many, many more.

And now, at about 50, here she was as lovely and charming as ever, co-starring as Lorne Greene's wife in Code Red. She'd dropped by to see us to talk about the dreadful scripts they were getting, although she hadn't gotten around to that yet. Like Lorne, who'd shown up at our office doorstep a few days before, she was too polite and diplomatic to dive right into the mess that just might become Irwin (The Towering Toupee) Allen's last hurrah. (Or, Last fucking Ha-Ha, as Chris was wont to say.)

Although she'd guest starred on Quincy, we had never met her. But we had met her husband, Ray Danton, who'd directed a couple of our Quincy episodes.

"Ray got started in Westerns, just like I did," Julie said, when told about the Quincy connection. "He likes to joke that he spent his first few years in the business with an ear full of dirt."

We looked at her quizzically. Dirt? In his ear?

She laughed - a lovely sound. "He was always playing Indians in those days," she said. "A bit of type-casting that was hard to break... Although there's not a drop of Indian blood him. And he says that invariably, he'd be the Indian scout who puts his ear to the ground, then sagely announces: 'White man comes on iron horse.'"

Chuckles all around, and as our secretary, Genevieve, entered with more tea for Julie, we motioned for her to sit in and listen.

Julie said, "You know, I was just a girl from Iowa with stars in her eyes when I came out here to make my fortune." She shrugged. "It wasn't easy. I worked as a secretary part time for a couple of years, meanwhile taking all the classes I could in acting, dancing, fencing... you name it, I took a class in it."

"And horse riding?" I guessed.

Another melodious laugh. Julie's eyes sparkled with mirth. "No, I'd never ridden a horse in my life until I got my first job. And in a way, it was fortunate that I hadn't."

How so?

She said, "The director asked me if I could ride, so I said, absolutely... all my life. And then the big scene came up where the horse I was riding was supposed to run away with me, so I could be rescued by the handsome hero.

"Well, they had me in this outfit - leather pants, leather everything - and the pants were so tight they had to sew me into them. I didn't touch a drop of water for hours, for fear that I'd have to use the Ladies, and they'd have to cut me out of the pants and then sew me back in them again."

We all laughed, Genevieve the heartiest.

Julie said, "Then came the big scene and the pants were so tight I couldn't bend my legs. So they lifted me on the horse. Mind you, this was the first time I was ever on such a beast. And it was huge, huge." She raised a hand as high as she could to indicate just how huge. "Then, they led the horse out to the Mark, handed me the reins and said to wait for my cue.

"Shots were fired off camera, for the big shootout, and the director shouts for me to go. I didn't know how to make a horse go... there wasn't a pedal anywhere that I could see. But the gunfire scared the horse and it took off. Going like crazy.

"Fortunately, I was supposed to be screaming for help, because that's what I did anyway. I was terrified. And then... well... like a bit right out of Auntie Mame... my pants were so tight I got stuck in the saddle so I couldn't have fallen off if I wanted to. The horse ran on and on, then turned and raced back through the camp, scattering extras and crew members.

"Then came the big rescue. And when it was done, they lifted me out of the saddle, and I staggered back expecting to be bawled out by the director, or maybe even fired. Instead, he said, 'You were marvelous, darling! Marvelous! I wasn't told you were such a fabulous horsewoman!'"

Julie grinned at us. "After that, I very quickly started taking riding lessons up at Griffith Park," she said. "And it was a good thing, too, because I was in a whole string of Westerns after that. Word got out what a good rider I was. And..." she shrugged... "I suppose it helped that I looked good in tight leather pants."

"And white bathing suits, too," Chris opined.

"Oh, you meant the Black Lagoon movie," Julie said with a grin. "You know, I was in scads of films and many, many episodes of television, but the thing everyone remembers most was me in that white bathing suit being terrorized by the Creature. He was played by two men, you know. One for the underwater scenes, the other for the land scenes."

"So, it was the land scene guy who got to carry you around while you were eeking," I said, wishing mightily that I had been that man.

Julie chuckled, then said, "I receive fan mail from young men all over the world - as far away as Australia. All wanting an autographed picture of me in that white bathing suit, with the Creature threatening in the background."

Another laugh. "What a treat to make so many conquests of young men at my age."

"Was it a difficult shoot?" I asked.

"Oh, was it ever," Julie said. "We shot some of it at the lake in the backlot, but then went all over to pick up the rest. We even had a second unit in Florida to shoot underwater scenes, because the water there is so clear.

"It was hardest on Ben Chapman, though. The one who played the land-based Creature. The makeup took hours and hours, and then he couldn't sit down in the suit. He'd have to stand the whole time, sometimes ten hours a day. And it was so hot - he was being steamed to death in that thing. Ben spent a lot of time floating in the lake to cool down. And when we were shooting, he had a guy standing by to hose him off."

She sipped her tea, then added, "The other thing that was so horrible about his suit was that he could barely see. And whenever he lugged me into the Grotto, he scraped my head against the rocks.

"One time I got a really bad blow on the head and I was out cold for I don't know how long. And I felt dizzy after that for most of the day."

She shrugged. "But, as I'm sure you are aware," she continued, "they make mistakes by the dozen in films of all kinds. Why, when I was in Bend In River - opposite Jimmy Stewart - at one point I'm shot with an arrow right here."

Julie indicated a place between one breast and her neck. "Then, later on, the arrow is in my shoulder." She showed us where.

"Of course, they had to move it, because when the wound was treated the censors would have gone crazy because too much of my breast might have been revealed. The thing is, it would have been expensive to go back and shoot the scene of the arrow hitting me - this time in a more easily accessible place. We all just hoped no one would notice, and, of course, some people did."

Chris said, "Wasn't that the movie where you see a jet's com trail in one of the shots?"

Julie giggled. "The very same. But, we had Jimmy Stewart front and center and the script was great, so everything turned out for the best.

She paused, remembering. "Rock Hudson was in it, too. When the movie opened he got so many cheers from the audience that Jimmy got horribly jealous. He said Rock was just a big ham, and then he swore that he'd never speak to him again."

With a shrug, she added: "And as far as I know, he never did."

Julie said, "Of course, there are some things you have no control over. Tragic things. Why, when I did Six Bridges To Cross with Tony Curtis, Sammy Davis Jr. was in a car accident and lost his eye. He was on the way to record the music for the film, so I was long gone and on to other projects. But Sammy is a dear, dear friend, and we all felt simply terrible about it."

With that somber note, there was a short silence, which was then filled when Julie got to the point of her visit. Besides just making nice to the writers, that is.

She said, "Lorne's told me how little control you have over the scripts we're receiving, but perhaps there is something you can help us with."

Chris, as smitten as I was, said, "Anything, Julie."

To which I added, "Whatever we can do."

Julie said, "The thing is I'm finding very little to do on this show. I'm supposed to play Lorne's wife and the mother of our two firemen sons, but rarely do we have a scene together. With either Lorne, or the boys - or even the whole family."

We thought a moment, mentally reviewing the scripts that hadn't yet been produced, then ran into The Problem. The scripts had all been approved by many, vice presidents, including the all important Censor - Susan Futterman. To change anything at all - much less to add a scene - would require further approvals up and down the ladder. Plus, many of the approved scripts were hanging by a thread, and if the Suits had a second chance they'd put the kabosh on them for sure.

"There's a script coming up," Chris finally said, "where you and Lorne are together. It starts with a fight, then you two make up."

"That's good," Julie said. "I love working opposite Lorne. We can really strike sparks between us."

I remembered the script, thinking: Aw, shit!

But what I said to Chris was, "Uh... partner... maybe you forgot. Futterman nixed the scene."

I turned to Julie to explain: "She's the censor."

"I know who she is," Julie said, frosty.

"Well... She said the kiddies watching the show might get warped - she said, 'conflicted' - if they saw Mommy and Daddy figures kissing in their bedroom."

"What? We should do it in the kitchen?" Julie scoffed. "What foolishness!"

"Maybe that's a good idea," Chris put in. "The kitchen business, I mean."

We both turned to look at him. How so?

Chris said, "That script's still a little short, so we could put the scene back in. Except, we start the fight in the bedroom. Then move it to the kitchen, where they can settle the argument. Then kiss to make up. Except, just then, one of the boys comes in from work and they jump apart. Act a little embarrassed. But their son thinks it's sweet... Like that..."

"A charming little scene," Julie said. "That's the kind of thing I mean."

Then she added, "Anything else? Are there other scripts that offer opportunities to do a little acting?"

I thought frantically. We both really wanted to please her. She was so nice, so charming, and at 50-something, still a head turner. Also, I must confess, neither one of us could get that movie image of her in the white bathing suit out of our heads.

I said, "Well, there's a script coming up where a brush fire traps everybody in a substation, along with refugees from the fire. We could... uh..." I was thinking as fast as I could... "We could have you visiting Lorne on some errand and you get trapped with all the rest."

"That's good," Chris said. Julie nodded in agreement.

I was usually pretty good at winging things, but this time I blew it. I said, "Maybe we could put a pregnant woman at the station... and... and... she's starts to deliver the baby...and... and... it's all going wrong... and... and... at the height of the fire danger you save the day by helping the woman deliver the baby."

There was a dead silence. So silent, that I realized instantly what a foolish, sexist, and condescending thing I had said. I wanted to crawl under the desk and hide.

Then Julie batted her eyes, and said, in the sweetest Gone With The Wind drawl you have heard: "Why, Suh, I just know everything about birthin' babies."

You can imagine how small I felt. But Julie just laughed, patted my hand, and told another of her wonderful stories to relieve the tension.

When she left, we were all fast friends. Really. To this day I exchange Christmas cards with her every year. And once we had a book signing on the Fourth Of July, and Julie showed up with a half-a-dozen celebrity friends and really put the signing over the top.

What a lady!

Here's some more links to photos of the lovely Julie Adams:

Fire Department cheesecake.

Julie and the Creature.

Julie's Filmography.

Julie XMAS Photo.

Julie the Goddess.

Looking good.

Bathing Beauty.

NEXT: ANDY WARHOL'S FIRE EXTINGUISHER

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?