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Friday, January 27, 2012

THE HAWKS TAKE CARE OF THEIR OWN


"I don't care if cock-a-roaches are watching my show, so long as they have a Nielsen box." (Irwin Allen)

Hawk Leader Tony La Torre And Adam Rich
In Code Red's 'Framed By Fire'


Chris Was Studying the location sheet - the daily list of locations where Code Red was being filmed.

"They're shooting at the LA Yards today," he said.

I looked at my own sheet. "It's a night shoot," I noted. "The Great Train Robbery, Beach Ball Style."

The shoot in question involved the story mentioned in the previous episode where Adam (The Beach Ball) Rich is cozened by a gang of juvenile delinquents - The Hawks - into raiding a boxcar stuffed with small, expensive electronic gear favored by the young of that era - Walkman, mini-stereo gear, hand-held Pac-Man devices, and other early 80's high tech stuff.

Chris chuckled nastily. "You mean the Not-So-Great Train Robbery," he predicted. "Hide and watch. Tonight's gonna be a cluster fuck of the first order." (A cluster fuck is GI slang for a bunch of Grunts clustering together during a firefight, presenting a single easy grenade target for the Bad Guys.)

I picked up the script in question and thumbed to the scene. "What's the problem? Other than being at night, that is. Kids can only work so many hours. And night hours count double... Or something like that."

"You see the stars, Grasshopper," Chris said in a very bad Bruce Lee imitation "But you do not see the moon."

I thought a minute. Let's see...The Hawks... Beach Ball in tow... they're supposed to hop abroad a stationary boxcar... then loot it. I circled back to the word "hop."

The light dawned.

"Shit!" I said. "These kids are really, really - REALLY, short. And doors to boxcars are..."

"...Way the hell up here," Chris said, raising his hand well over his head. How are they going to get up there - with ladders? Grapnels? Anti-gravity devices?"

"Maybe the director has already figured it out," I said. "Made arrangements. Got Props to cut down the boxcar, or something."

Another laugh from Chris. "Ha! I say to you. Ha! And Ha! once again. Look who's directing."

I looked. Damn, and double damn. I won't tell you the director's name, but he'd screwed up two of our scripts over at Universal.

Chris said, "The guy's IQ probably equals Irwin's sperm count. All single digits."

Couldn't argue with that. I reached for the phone. "Maybe we ought to warn somebody."

Chris snorted. "Fuck 'em," he said. "Let them figure it out their ownselves."

You are probably noticing about now that our morale was rather low. This had less to do with the awful show we were working on - which, despite all its flaws, had a really nice cast and crew - and everything to do with Irwin Allen 's management style. If you look up Shitheel Boss in The Dictionary Of American Slang, you'll find Irwin's picture residing there.

Irwin, it turned out, liked to manage by making everybody mad at each other, creating such chaos that only he could bring order. We'd just found out, for example, that Irwin had been telling Larry that we'd said nasty things about him - disparaged his talent, and so on. Meanwhile, he'd been telling us - a warning, as he put it - that Larry was out to get us fired. And telling terrible lies about us.

Now, I'd been a boss of people ever since I was 19. Restaurant personnel when I was a young chef; a newsroom full of reporters and photographers in my later newspaper city editor days. I'd even been to management school. (Don't worry. The bullshit didn't stick. Much.) And so I had realized what was going on the first time Irwin started bad-mouthing Larry. The second time, I went to see our story exec myself to prick the balloon, if there was one. Or clock the prick, if that proved to be the case.

Larry denied saying anything at all against us. In fact, he said, he'd been impressed with us from the beginning, and nothing had happened to change his opinion. Then I asked him if Irwin claimed we had been bad mouthing Larry.

"Absolutely," Larry said. "I was just getting ready to ask you about it. I thought it was bullshit. I've worked with Irwin on other projects and that's his style."

Within a few weeks the entire cast, crew and all the other people it takes to put on a weekly show were either at each other's throats, or creeping up behind their colleagues with knives aimed at their backs.
Attitude Check
Things were so bad that when we were summoned to Irwin's office, we'd sally through the banks of secretaries and other personnel and Chris would cry, "Attitude Check." And every single person in the place would raise their middle finger to indicate their attitude. (Chris had schooled them on this Army lower-ranks tradition early on.)

And so it was that I withdrew my hand from the phone and told Chris, "You're right. Fuck them."

Not long after we were summoned to Dailies. That's where you get to see rough cuts of what was shot the day before. It's not just rough, but raw as hell, and you can hear the director cursing when things go wrong and crewmembers accidentally wandering into the shot, actors blowing their lines and missing their marks. It's like watching Bloopers, but if you dare laugh, the Suits, who are watching Dailies along with you will order some stuntman to punch you in the larynx.

I've never been able to see the use of Dailies. Everybody wants Dailies privileges, so they are always packed with execs and exec wannabes. As knowledgeable an expert as our producer/mentor Al Godfrey once opined: "Maybe three people in this town understand Dailies... And I'm not one of them."

Anyway, we were at Dailies. And they were screening scenes from the episode where The Beach Ball is wooed by the evil teenage gang - The Hawks.

If you recall the previous episode, there was a great deal of concern expressed by the Suits at the Anything But Class (ABC) network. They feared "grittiness." Injury to Adam Rich's pristine reputation. His mother's wrath. And most of all, they wanted Irwin's casting company to seek out All American Boys, who were no taller, or menacing than The Beach Ball.

Okay, so up comes the Great Train Robbery scene.

Picture this: It's night and we are at the LA Train Yards. There's a box car with wide open doors. And then we see a half-a-dozen kids, trailed by a reluctant Beach Ball (Gee, Officer Krupke, his character isn't bad, just misunderstood.) All the kids, except the Beach Ball, are wearing expensive padded - and I mean, padded - jackets for gang colors, with "The Hawks" embroidered (Actually embroidered!) on the backs.

The kids rush to the open doors. Which, just as Chris had predicted, are way above their heads. The leader and the others grab for purchase and try to haul themselves up. Giving it the old Middle School try. They keep falling back on the ground. One of the kids tries to give the gang leader a boost and they both tumble over.

We hear the director shout, "Aw fuck!" Then, "Cut, cut, fucking cut!"

The Beach Ball turns to face the camera, presumably to address the director. "If we're gonna do this again, somebody's has to fix my hair." He brushes at some locks that have strayed from his Prince Valiant do.

Beside me, I heard Chris chortle. I gave him the elbow to shut up, but mainly to keep myself from laughing with him.

They try again. Same result. "Cut, cut, fucking cut!"

Finally, the director strides into the shot. Looks around, scratches his head. Somebody OS says, "Maybe we could use some boxes." The director finally gets it. "Yeah, boxes. That'll work." Then, "Okay, everybody, break for dinner." (An expensive decision, since the clock was tick-tick-ticking close to everybody's union Golden Time. Plus the problem of kids working at night. In and out fast as a jackrabbit is best.)

The next scene rolls and we see that during the dinner break some wooden boxes have been artfully stacked by the prop guys to make a stairway to the boxcar opening. The kids appear again, along with the Beach Ball, whose hair is perfect, and they all trot easily up the boxes and hop into the boxcar. End Sequence, then the lights came on while the reels were changed. There was a buzz of unhappy Suits around the room. "That was fucked." And, "Didn't he fucking realize...?" Also, "Why didn't somebody warn him?"

At that, Chris and I slid down low in our seats until - Thank the Gods - the lights dimmed and the projectionist rolled a new set of stomach churners.

The scene unspooled: The Beach Ball and the Gang Leader, complete with padded Hawk's jacket, are talking in the school hallway. The scene was shot on the lot, where we had a permanent school hallway set, including some faux stairs leading up to the hallway, where we could see a closed classroom door and a water cooler.

Remember that water cooler.

Gangland Terror
The Gang Leader makes an impassioned pitch for the Beach Ball to join him and his kiddy gangsters on a train yard raid that night. (Scenes on TV and the movies are almost never shot in order.)

He's supposed to end his speech with: "The Hawks take care of their own." Except his 13-year-old voice is in the middle of changing, so it comes out like the squeals of a choirboy escaping a horny priest... The Hawks (screech) Take Care Of Their (screech) Own!

"Aw Jesus!" I heard Chris groan.

Then the Beach Ball turns and sidles to the water cooler, pretending he needs a drink to get some distance between him and the mini-Satan gang leader.

And... And... And...

"I knew it, I knew it! He can't fucking reach it!" Chris blurted.

And sure enough, the water cooler is so high that the Beach Ball has to stand on his tip toes just to get to eye level.

Chris is starting to say something, but he's drowned out by the sounds of pissed off Suits. Never mind it was their idea to cast Adam Rich, and their idea to get Beverly Hills Middle School kid actors to play the gang members in this episode. It was all everybody else's fault.

I grab Chris by the sleeve and we duck down and slide out, then up the aisle and through the door before all hell (excuse me, Ms. Futterman - all Hades) breaks loose. We were standing there, blinking in the sunlight, and Chris said, "We'd better get off the lot for a couple of hours. We are about to get a whole trainload of shit rolling down our personal hills."

Maybe I was shell shocked, but I still thought it was funny. "What's to worry about, partner?" I said. "Didn't you hear the guy?"

And in my best imitation of a goosed castrati I squeak, "The Hawks take care of their own."

NEXT: FOLLOW THE BOUNCING BEACH BALL

THE COMPLETE MISADVENTURES: IT'S A BOOK!


THE VITAL LINKS:
The MisAdventures began humbly enough - with about 2,000 readers. When it rose to over 50,000 (we're now knocking at the door of 110,000) I started listening to those of you who urged me to collect the stories into a book. Starting at the beginning, I went back and rewrote the essays, adding new detail and events as they came to mind. This book is the result of that effort. However, I'm mindful of the fact, Gentle Reader, that you also enjoy having these little offerings posted every Friday to put a smile on your face for the weekend. So I'll continue running them until it reaches the final Fade Out. Meanwhile, it would please the heart of this ink-stained wretch - as well as tickle whatever that hard black thing is in my banker's chest - if you bought the book. It will make a great gift, don't you think? And if you'd like a personally autographed copy you can get it directly through my (ahem) Merchant's Link at Amazon.com. Click here. Buy the book and I will sign it and ship it to you. Break a leg!

THE STEN COOKBOOK & KILGOUR JOKEBOOK





Two new companion editions to the international best-selling Sten series. In the first, learn the Emperor's most closely held  cooking secrets. In the other, Sten unleashes his shaggy-dog joke cracking sidekick, Alex Kilgour. Both available as trade paperbacks or in all major e-book flavors. Click here to tickle your funny bone or sizzle your palate.    




EMPIRE DAY 2012 - A COMMEMORATIVE EDITION

Relive the fabulous four-day Stregg-laced celebration.  Alex Kilgour's Worst Joke Ever. New recipes from the Eternal Emperor's kitchen. Alex Kilgour's Worst Joke Ever. Sten's thrill-packed exploits at the Emp's castle. How to make your own Stregg. And, did I mention, Alex Kilgour's Worst Joke Ever?




Friday, January 20, 2012

THE TOWERING TOUPEE THROWS UP


The Suits filed into Irwin's office with such precision they looked like refugees from the Synchronized Briefcase Drill Team at the annual Pasadena Doo-Dah Parade.

In two minutes flat Irwin's office was packed with Network Suits. And when I say Suits, I mean guys who looked like zillion-dollar-an-hour lawyers, with eyes glinting through steel-rimmed glasses, even if they didn't wear glasses. It was apparent from the get-go that there wasn't a creative bone in their collective bodies and at times I doubted if there were enough brain cells distributed among them to rub two together.

I mean - get real. These boyos were from the Anything But Class (ABC) network. Lords of the IQ deprived.

One guy, who looked like an accountant, complete with dandruff on his shoulders, leaned in and with great sincerity said: "We're concerned that our show is danger of becoming too gritty."

His Colleagues Of The Suit muttered agreement.

Irwin, who sat at the head of the conference table, black toupee perched precariously on his head, frowned then said, "Anyone who has ever worked with me, and knows my track record, will tell you that 'gritty' is something that I just don't do."

He lifted his hands in appeal. "Was the Towering Inferno gritty? No. Was the Poseidon Adventure gritty? Not one bit. Lost In Space? Land Of The Giants? No and no."

Our story exec, Larry Heath, who sat at Irwin's right, asked, "What's the cause of this sudden concern?"

Dandruff Shoulders tapped the script in front of him. It was the episode I mentioned before where Adam (The Beach Ball) Rich is falsely accused of setting fire to the school gym. Although, with budget cuts, the fire had been reduced to a wastebasket and some charred curtains in the principal's office.

"In this story Adam joins a gang," he said, voice quivering indignantly. "The Hawks. Who are a clearly delinquent group of young toughs."

"He doesn't join them," Larry pointed out. "They try to woo him into joining the gang. In the end he not only refuses, but convinces the leader of the gang to see the error of his ways."

Irwin broke in: "Your own Program Practices... uh, person... loved this episode," he said, not mentioning Susan (The Censor) Futterman by name because he hated her so much that his stomach would rebel. (More on Irwin's rebellious stomach later). As for Ms. Futterman, she wasn't at this gathering, which made it the usual all-male enclave of that era. If Suits can be called male, that is. Chris said they were all "smooth between the legs, like Barbie's boyfriend."

Irwin smiled with satisfaction, and added: "This... umm... umm... Person said it was an excellent example of the kind of moral lessons we want to impress on our young audience."

Dandruff Shoulders replied, "Possibly, possibly... But Adam's mother thinks it is bad for his image. All this gang business."

Now it was all out in the open. It was the Beach Ball's stage mother who was behind it all. A Hollywood Force Of Nature that is hard to resist.

"But that's the character he plays," Larry argued. "He's an orphan, a street kid rescued by Lorne and Julie who raise him as if he were their own. A troubled boy, who finds his way, thanks to the embrace of a warm family atmosphere, with real heroes as role models."

Chris groaned and I kicked him under the table. Thankfully, nobody heard. I knew what Chris was thinking: Poor little Adam Rich clearly had troubles, but they weren't of the street variety.

The Beach Ball
Just the other day, our tech advisor, Joe Weber, a retired LA County Fire Department Chief, had presented the Beach Ball with an actual fire department helmet, cut down to fit. In the series, the kid joins the Fire Scouts and gets to wear a cool uniform and hat while riding around on the fire trucks. Never mind every kid in America would be envious, Chris and I were jealous. A real fireman's helmet. Damn! Could we have one too?

What does the kid do? He gingerly accepts the gift, glances at his mother who has a dangerous look in her eyes, then offers polite but chilly thanks.

But - and get this - he doesn't don the helmet. Instead, he touches his perfectly shaped Prince Valliant hair-do and says, "I won't be able to wear it much because it'll mess up my hair. And it takes an hour for them to fix it." His mother smiled in approval.

Back at the meeting - A balding Suit with an expensive comb-over jumped in: "If we do this story at all, we'll have to be very careful with the casting."

Irwin turned green. Put a hand to his mouth and went, "umph, umph!" Then excused himself and rushed into his private bathroom, where we shortly heard sounds of upchucking.

Larry covered for Irwin, saying, "Sorry. He's got that... uh... thing that's going around."

There were murmurs of false sympathy; sure, everybody's getting it, awful bug, etc.

Larry shrugged, saying, "We've committed all the money in the script budget." He tapped the script in front of him. "If you scrap this one, which, I might add, was previously approved by all of you, including Ms. Futterman, we'll need you to okay the fee for another one."

There were gasps of protest. A chorus of: "More money? No, no. Not necessary. We think it's a wonderful script." It was like Larry was asking them to offer up their wives, or mistresses, instead of a few thousand bucks.

Comb Over came to their rescue. "We talked it over and concluded it's just a matter of casting," he said.

"Yes, casting," was Dandruff Shoulders' contribution.

He pulled a manila envelope from his expensive briefcase. Got out some 8X 10 color photos from it and dropped them in the center of the table like the flop in a game of Texas Hold'em.

"My son," he said proudly.

We all looked respectfully at the pictures. They showed a very handsome, very clean, very preppy, Jewish American prince of about 13 with a head of blond on blond curls. I looked closer to see if he had inherited his father's dandruff genes, but so far he appeared safe.

Irwin had returned by now, wiping his face. He looked at one of the pictures, then turned to Dandruff Shoulders.

"You want us to hire your son?" he said. Not waiting for an answer, he turned to Larry, "Remind me to ask Tanya to put the young man on the casting call list."

"No, no. That's not what I meant," protested Dandruff Shoulders. Although I noticed from the look in his eye that he wasn't adverse to a bit of casting bribery. Thinking, screw his son, maybe whisper something in Irwin's ear about his starlet girlfriend, who would then make him a very happy man on black silk sheets, sprinkled with dandruff.

He continued, "This picture is just an example of what we are talking about. When you cast for the gang, get clean cut young American boys like this."

"That way Adam will look like he's in good company, even if in the script he's in bad company," added Comb Over.

"It'll make his mother happy," somebody said, but when we all looked we couldn't tell who, except for one kid Suit who was staring at the table.

Ignoring the interruption, Dandruff Shoulders said, "Not gritty kids. Not kids who will loom over Adam, acting like a threat. He's a very vulnerable boy, you know. And looks it."

Chris barely buried a snort. I knew what he was thinking. The Beach Ball was not just 'vulnerable looking,' but so short we'd have to cast midget kids to avoid the "looming" business.

On the other hand, I could partly see the point, which scared hell out of me, because when you agree with a Suit's point, it's time to take a hard look at your drinking habits and see if an increase is in order.

However, now that the deed was done - firing the kid who played the Adam Rich's role in the pilot, who at least looked like he could act bad ass and replacing him with the Beach Ball - the script we were looking at was totally out of whack. As were most of the others on the burner.

Adam Rich just wasn't believable as a kid from the streets. Unless you were talking about the runaways who hung out on Melrose looking for "dates." So we would have to hire a bunch of Beverly Hills delinquent wannabes. Short ones.

Irwin picked up one of the pictures, pretended to study it closely, then said, "Gentlemen, I'm in complete agreement with you. We'll take this to heart when we are casting." He showed Larry the picture. "Won't we, Larry?"

Larry said, "Absolutely."

The tension in the room eased. Suits shuffled papers, snapped briefcases open and closed, while Irwin regaled one and all with tales of his adventures with Groucho Marx.

As he talked, he picked up a pencil, and absently pushed it UNDER his toupee. And SCRATCHED his bald head leissurely, and with infinite pleasure.

I lost it. Desperately covering my mouth to keep from bursting into laughter, I turned to the left to hide my face. Only to find myself looking into the eyes of one of the Suits, who was doing the same thing. Mouth covered with a hand. Barely controlled laughter.

We both almost erupted with loud guffaws, and quickly turned the other way.

I had a hard time getting myself together and when we all rose to leave, Chris gave me a strange, what the fuck, look.

I shook my head. "Don't ask," I whispered. "If you do I'll lose it and we'll both be fired on the spot."

Somehow I got out of the meeting without looking at Irwin - studying my boots when I shook his hand. Chris covered by making noises about the nice meeting.

Back in our office - and fueled by a shot of Metaxa - I told Chris the story. I started giggling uncontrollably before I was done. Chris caught my giggles, then we were both laughing so hard that the tiles threatened to come loose from the ceiling.

Our secretary - a super lady named Genevieve - stuck her head in the door. "What so funny, boys?" she wanted to know.

This only made us laugh harder. We couldn't get a word out to explain. Gasping. Pounding the table.

Genevieve nodded knowingly. "You boys have been upstairs visiting Cheech and Chong again, haven't you."

NEXT: THE HAWKS TAKE CARE OF THEIR OWN

THE COMPLETE MISADVENTURES: IT'S A BOOK!


THE VITAL LINKS:
The MisAdventures began humbly enough - with about 2,000 readers. When it rose to over 50,000 (we're now knocking at the door of 110,000) I started listening to those of you who urged me to collect the stories into a book. Starting at the beginning, I went back and rewrote the essays, adding new detail and events as they came to mind. This book is the result of that effort. However, I'm mindful of the fact, Gentle Reader, that you also enjoy having these little offerings posted every Friday to put a smile on your face for the weekend. So I'll continue running them until it reaches the final Fade Out. Meanwhile, it would please the heart of this ink-stained wretch - as well as tickle whatever that hard black thing is in my banker's chest - if you bought the book. It will make a great gift, don't you think? And if you'd like a personally autographed copy you can get it directly through my (ahem) Merchant's Link at Amazon.com. Click here. Buy the book and I will sign it and ship it to you. Break a leg!

THE STEN COOKBOOK & KILGOUR JOKEBOOK





Two new companion editions to the international best-selling Sten series. In the first, learn the Emperor's most closely held  cooking secrets. In the other, Sten unleashes his shaggy-dog joke cracking sidekick, Alex Kilgour. Both available as trade paperbacks or in all major e-book flavors. Click here to tickle your funny bone or sizzle your palate.    




EMPIRE DAY 2012 - A COMMEMORATIVE EDITION

Relive the fabulous four-day Stregg-laced celebration.  Alex Kilgour's Worst Joke Ever. New recipes from the Eternal Emperor's kitchen. Alex Kilgour's Worst Joke Ever. Sten's thrill-packed exploits at the Emp's castle. How to make your own Stregg. And, did I mention, Alex Kilgour's Worst Joke Ever?




Friday, January 13, 2012

OF BEACH BALLS AND FLYING FICKLE FINGERS OF FATE

Flying Fickle Finger
Of Fate
MEMO FROM IRWIN ALLEN TO BUNCH AND COLE: The network, in its wisdom, has decreed that all episodes (of Code Red) will feature at least two instances of fire. Please see that our writing teams are informed of this.


The legal-size envelope that contained the memo also included a large (folded up) sheet of paper with columns that bore the name of all eight freelance writers or writing teams at the top and a list of sixteen script titles running down the side. A second sheet contained our names, along with Larry Heath's, and columnar space for the four scripts we and Larry had contracted for.

"What the fuck is that shit?" Chris wanted to know.

"I'm not sure," I said, tipping the envelope down.

A river of multi-colored stars spilled all over my desk, my lap, the floor, everything.

Chris barked laughter. "What are we supposed to fucking do, Cole?" he wondered. "Award different color stars to the writers for completing their assignments and spelling words more or less correctly."

"Maybe this explains it," I said, fishing out another sheet of paper.

If was a memo from Irwin's secretary detailing the purpose of the charts and the stars. Some were supposed to show script progress. Others, the number of fires. And the others... well, the other purposes fled my mind the moment I read them. It isn't that she didn't explain things clearly - she was a very intelligent woman - it's just that the system defied all logic.

I shoved the explanation over to Chris. He scanned it, then declared, "I'm not fucking doing this."

I didn't blame him. This was not only the lousiest system for tracking writers' assignments that I had ever encountered, it was humiliating to boot. Here we were, grown men - whiskey drinkers at that - and we were supposed to lick the backs of these little stars and stick them beside people's names.

Before I could join him in blasphemy, the phone rang. It was Irwin's secretary. "Did you get Irwin's little present?" she cooed.

"We did," I said, and it was hard to keep the piss off out of my voice.

"I know, I know, it's a bunch of baloney," she said.

"I'd call it something worse than baloney," I replied.

"I couldn't agree more," she said. "But the little stars are nothing. You should see what I have to put up with."

"Doesn't make us feel any better," I said. "We're not kindergarten teachers. We're writers."

Chris shouted to be heard: "And we've got our own little IBM Selectrics to prove it!"

Irwin's secretary said, "Tell Chris that if he wants to keep his Selectric he'd best not displease our Fearless Leader."

"Okay, okay, I'll do the damn stars," I said.

I was about to say bye-bye and hang up when she said, "Wait, there's more."

"You sound like a TV pitchwoman," I said. "Do we get a free set of steak knives if we buy your miracle salad chopper?"

She was kind enough to laugh, which made me feel a little better.

Then she dropped the bomb: "Since we've been cut back to 7 p.m." she said, "our budget has been cut from a little under a million to a little over six hundred thousand."

I was shocked. "But we've just been ordered to have at least two fires a show," I said. "You can't do two fires for six hundred thousand. Hell, I'm not sure you can do two fires a week for a million."

"Yes, but the Studio says they won't deficit finance four hundred thousand dollars," she said. "And Irwin will never pick up the tab, no matter how rich he is."

"What do we do?" I asked, realizing just what the poor sap feels like who finds himself caught between the Devil and the deep brown shithole.

"Irwin said to make one fire small," she said. "Have a little one in the first or second act and save the big one for Act Four."

I sighed. "Okay. I got it. Wastebasket fire in Act One, LA County Dump fire in Act Four."

Then, just to give her a dig - undeserved though it might be: "What color star do we use for the wastebasket fire?" I teased.

Without a beat, she replied, "The brown ones." Then she hung up.

Chris looked at me. He hadn't heard most of the conversation, but he knew from my side of it that things were not good. In fact, they were deplorable.

I filled him in. "Aw, fuck," he said. "On the job less than two weeks and we're already in the shitter."

I had no argument. Sighing, I flattened the sheet of paper and started figuring out which colored stars went where.

Chris' estimate had been dead on. We were wading hip deep in sewer creek and the waters were steadily rising. Without warning, Code Red, the show we had contractually obligated ourselves to for twenty weeks, had been shifted from a nice 8 O'clock spot, to the clottin' Children's Hour.


It was like the Flying Fickle Finger Of Fate had appeared out of the sky just to diddle Bunch & Cole. I mean, once again we were slotted at 7 p.m. Sunday night on ABC, a network we had dubbed Anything But Class long ago. Just like good old Galactica 1980, Sixty Minutes was waiting there on CBS to eat not just our lunch, but breakfast, dinner and any candy bars we might have stashed away. Sixty Minutes regularly grabbed the Number One spot on the weekly Nielsen list and Chris and I were not so foolish as to think we could match them.

I forget what show was on NBC, but the only way we could have taken it out was if it was a documentary series on skiing in downtown Poughkeepsie. And with Irwin The Towering Toupee Allen at the helm, the task was hopeless, hopeless, hopeless.

To make matters worse, there were many other things conspiring against us besides our Alzheimer-out-patient boss and his nasty little stars.

There are several very good reasons that the lifespan of your average TV series is shorter than a lab-raised fruit fly.

First off, the guys who originally buy the show are never the same network crew that oversees the series when it goes into production.

Resentful of their colleagues, whom they consider fools (and who is to say they are wrong?) they immediately engage in a lot of leg lifting. They piss all over your project like it was the Great Fire Hydrant at the end of the doggy rainbow.

This had a lot to do with the reasons behind the show's demotion to the Children's Hour. And the recruitment of Adam (The Beach Ball) Rich to bedevil one and all - including really nice people like Lorne Greene and Julie Adams.

Also, as things turned out, there was more than envy at work. In short, they hated Irwin's guts - and who could blame them? He had made many enemies over the years and it seemed that a veritable army of them had converged on Code Red at Columbia Studios for paybacks.

Hence, the demand for two fires a week after a four-hundred-thousand dollar budget cut.

Making matters worse, our old nemesis, Susan Futterman, the VP of Censorship at ABC, was back to darken every second of our weekly 44-minutes of air time. (Yes, there really are that many ads on TV; actually, it's even more these days.)

Since our viewing audience was supposed to be composed of mostly rug rats, we were only allowed so many "violence beats" (Roughly, a beat is a scripted moment) per episode. As it turned out Susan defined fire of all kinds as a violence beat and since our show was about fires and the men and women who fight them, we were screwed Day One.

In a way, this turned out to be a not such a bad thing. At our current budget, we could set a lot of waste basket fires, which were pretty damned cheap, and not anywhere so violent.

Chris interrupted my self-propelled rail car of misery. "You know, your wastebasket idea is spot on for this sucker." He was holding up the first draft of a script that had just been turned in. "In Act Two, the Beach Ball accidentally sets his school on fire."

(The Beach Ball, as mentioned before, was the moniker our tech advisor from the fire department had hung on Adam Rich. And you know, when you thought about it, he really did look like a beach ball. Two beach balls, actually. A small one for his head and a larger one for his body.)

Our Fire Budget In Action
Chris continued, "The fire starts in the gym - after the Beach Ball has been chewed out for general mopery. Then spreads to the rest of the school."

He held up a finger, indicating that brilliance was on the way: "But, if we have the principal kick his fat little butt - and put the butt kicking in the principal's office - we can start the fire in the principal's wastebasket. Have it spread to the curtains, if we can afford charred curtains, then somebody rushes in to put it out and finds evidence to falsely accuse the little turd those shitheads at ABC stuck us with."

"I like it," I said. "I'll call the writers and tell them to make the change."

As I reached for the phone Chris said, "Tell them that if they do a good job with the wastebasket we'll give them a gold star."

NEXT: THE TOWERING TOUPEE THROWS UP

THE COMPLETE MISADVENTURES: IT'S A BOOK!


THE VITAL LINKS:
The MisAdventures began humbly enough - with about 2,000 readers. When it rose to over 50,000 (we're now knocking at the door of 110,000) I started listening to those of you who urged me to collect the stories into a book. Starting at the beginning, I went back and rewrote the essays, adding new detail and events as they came to mind. This book is the result of that effort. However, I'm mindful of the fact, Gentle Reader, that you also enjoy having these little offerings posted every Friday to put a smile on your face for the weekend. So I'll continue running them until it reaches the final Fade Out. Meanwhile, it would please the heart of this ink-stained wretch - as well as tickle whatever that hard black thing is in my banker's chest - if you bought the book. It will make a great gift, don't you think? And if you'd like a personally autographed copy you can get it directly through my (ahem) Merchant's Link at Amazon.com. Click here. Buy the book and I will sign it and ship it to you. Break a leg!

THE STEN COOKBOOK & KILGOUR JOKEBOOK





Two new companion editions to the international best-selling Sten series. In the first, learn the Emperor's most closely held  cooking secrets. In the other, Sten unleashes his shaggy-dog joke cracking sidekick, Alex Kilgour. Both available as trade paperbacks or in all major e-book flavors. Click here to tickle your funny bone or sizzle your palate.    




EMPIRE DAY 2012 - A COMMEMORATIVE EDITION

Relive the fabulous four-day Stregg-laced celebration.  Alex Kilgour's Worst Joke Ever. New recipes from the Eternal Emperor's kitchen. Alex Kilgour's Worst Joke Ever. Sten's thrill-packed exploits at the Emp's castle. How to make your own Stregg. And, did I mention, Alex Kilgour's Worst Joke Ever?


Friday, January 6, 2012

CODE DEAD: THE BEACH BALL COMETH

There's an old fireman's joke that goes something like this: A fireman working outside the station house spots a little girl in a red wagon with a little ladder hanging off one side, and a coiled garden hose on the other. Behind the wagon is a cat tied to the wagon by its testicles. 

Trying to be tactful, the fireman says, "That's a great fire truck, little partner. But, you know, it might go better if you untied that cat." The little girl shrugs. "You're probably right," she says, "but then I wouldn't have a siren."

If only Chris and I had heard that joke before we met Irwin Allen and signed on to Code Red our voices might not have gone from Middle to High C.

There were other signs. Signs we ignored. Everything and everybody was just so - well, nice.

The Rolls in the driveway of Irwin's Bel Air manse was nice. The chauffeur polishing the Rolls nicely directed us up the path to Irwin's very nicely carved front door. The nice maid who opened the door greeted us nicely, and then she turned us over to Mrs. Irwin Allen who was so sweet and nice our teeth ached.

"The boys are out by the pool," she said nicely, pointing at the patio door. "Why don't you join them? Ellen will be along directly with some sandwiches and drinks."

As we headed out the door, she said, "What would you prefer - soft drinks or some nice ice tea?"

We said the nice ice tea would be nice, then exited into a lavishly landscaped pool area. The waters in the pool were sparkling blue and beyond you could see the entire Valley Of The Studios sprawling all the way to snow-topped Mount Baldy.

There was a patio table next to the pool, with a large brightly colored umbrella shading it. Two men rose as we advanced. One was a small guy in his late forties with ginger hair and a nervous smile. We guessed this would be Larry Heath, the exec story consultant.

He offered a hand and confirmed our suspicions: "Hi, I'm Larry Heath," he said, It's great to meet you two. We've heard a lot about you."

Larry indicated the other man, who had a smile like a skeleton. "This is Irwin Allen."

If Larry was small, Irwin was a midget. And a skinny midget at that - except for a small, round pot that protruded below his beltline. His features had an unhealthy pallor and his face had that shrunken head wrinkly look, made even more bizarre by large, round specs. Except for the glasses, think of Mr. Burns, Homer Simpson's boss and you've got Irwin (The Master Of Disaster) Allen down pat.

One more largish difference: the first thing you noticed when you reached out to shake Irwin's hand was an enormous pompadour - an obvious toupee - dyed so black you could see the little dots of desiccated dye on the strands.

Since he was sitting by the pool, he was doing his best to look relaxed but only managed to appear uncomfortable in pressed golf pants (striped), white shoes with see-through socks and a starched short-sleeved shirt. I don't remember the color, but it was of some bright, offending hue.

I'll admit that minor alarm bells were ringing, but Irwin was an immensely charming man - very old school gentleman. He also said writers were his favorite people - he 'd been a writer himself once. He told us stories about old Hollywood, especially Groucho Marx, who he said was a pal.

You just had to like the guy. Larry seemed likeable enough, but remained in the background for most of the interview.

Irwin told us that Code Red had been born from one of his recent hit movies - The Towering Inferno. He said his first idea was to do a firemen's TV series based on the San Francisco department featured in Inferno. However, when ABC bought the series - to be produced at Columbia Studios - Warner Brothers and Fox, his partners in Inferno crime, made him drop any mention of the movie in the title.

So, Code Red it was.

At the time, Code Red had nothing to do with any nomenclature in American fire departments, but it sort of crept into the general language of Hollywood movies and television, even though most people never saw the show, and the few who did, have mostly forgotten it. I get emails now and then from people who say they were inspired to become firemen/women by the show and all I can say is God Bless.

We learned that besides Lorne Greene, our old fellow Galactica 1980 survivor, who played the station house chief, the stars included Julie Adams, who was to play his wife, Andrew Stevens and Sam J. Jones, his firefighting sons, and Denis Haysbert as one of their fireman chums.

Julie Adams is a supremely talented actress with extensive credits that go back to the Golden Age of Hollywood where she starred opposite many of the great leading men, like Clark Gable. She's probably best known these days by the frat boy cult favorite: The Creature From The Black Lagoon. She played the lovely victim the creature carried away to his lair to await rescue.

Andrew Stevens, the son of the beautiful Stella Stevens, was - and is - a multi-talented artist who acts, writes, directs and has his own production company. Sam J. Jones who had just come off a starring role in Flash Gordon, is no slouch himself when it comes to impressive film and television credits.

You'll recognize Dennis Haysbert,  of course, who reached real fame as the President Of The United States in the mega-popular series, 24, and now is one of the "most trusted men in America" as the spokesman for Allstate Insurance. At the time we knew him from Quincy M.E., The Incredible Hulk, and (moan whimper) Galactica 1980. (Space Croppers)

Okay, great cast, right? Not only that, but Irwin said he was bringing in a whole shitload of freelance writers who would have two-script guarantees and offices on the lot to write them. That way we'd be well ahead of the game before the first show was shot.

Chris and I didn't like the idea of the writers being hired without our input, but their deals had already been negotiated and signed so what the hell could we say? Irwin must have sensed our feelings, because he delivered a double helping of charm.

We went away telling each other what a good deal this was, and what a grand fellow Irwin was, and by the time we had escaped the freeway traffic and smog and arrived at my house, we had pretty much convinced ourselves that we were making the right move.

If you are still wondering how we could have been so stupid, I'm pretty sure I mentioned the fact that we were just out of a three-month WGA strike and broke. Did I not?

Later, when the whole thing went into the shitter, that was the only excuse we had for joining that speeding fire truck to hell.

The first day on the job was good.

TBS (The Burbank Studios) was the last but one film complex in the Valley. (The last was Disney and the pissing Dwarfs, but more on that later.) At that time TBS was the home of Columbia Studios (helmed by Irwin's old buddy Herman Rush), Paramount and Warner Bros. It was a warren of sound stages, warehouses, and streets lined with false front buildings of every variety and age. Vehicles of every description and purpose, some of which could only be imagined, whizzed and rumbled about this way and that. (Full disclosure: Much later we sold a TV series pilot - The Treasure Game - with Herman's adopted son, James. It was done as a "Fantasy Island" spinoff. )

A large water tower with TBS painted on all sides, marked the vast complex from a distance. All the roads leading to TBS were decorated with huge billboards advertising the latest movies and their stars, as were the high walls that surround the lot. There were guarded gates, natch, with nice guards to assist us. We had a brand new pass plastered on the window of Chris' BMW, so we were whisked on through.

We had been assigned Burt Reynold's old offices, which were huge and nicely appointed and came with two secretaries. A very long way from our double-wide trailer parked along the LA River at Universal Studios. Our official parking space was inconveniently located a hundred miles distant, but to save us a minimum twice-daily tram ride, Chris checked out the front of our new office building.

To our pleasant surprise among the parking spaces was one with Burt Reynold's name still painted on it. He was long gone to other projects and other studios so Chris parked his Beemer there, figuring (rightly as it turned out) that nobody would dare question it.

We learned later that down the hall from us were the offices of Falcon Crest, overseen by our old buddy, Jeff (The EatAnter) Freilich. The whole upstairs was given over to Cheech and Chong, who were making a movie and whenever they were home clouds of suspicious-smelling smoke came rolling down the stairs. Chris knew them from his days as the (self-proclaimed) worst PR man in the music business so our visits were welcome.

Sounds super, right? We thought so too. Then - in the very first week - things began to go wrong.

Irwin called us into his office. Larry Heath was there by his side. Irwin didn't look well. Not that he ever looked well, but today was worse.

"Fellas," he said, "I've gotten word from the network that they are changing our timeslot."

Chris and I looked at him with interest. We were set for 8 p.m. Sunday on ABC. A good slot, aimed at a family audience. Maybe they were kicking us up to 9 O'clock, which was cool, because it opened the show to grittier plots and saltier language and situations.

Then Irwin dashed all hope and it was hello Susan (The Censor) Futterman again and here comes that old familiar feeling of the 60 Minutes being rammed up our you know where's.

In other words, we had just been turned into a 7 O'clock show.

The Children's Hour had struck again. And we had the awful feeling that it was going to be Galactica 1980 all over again.

Chris and I were so shaken we could hardly speak to one another later on, unless assisted by sufficient quantities of scotch. What was said was incredibly profane, adds nothing to this tale, and so is best left on the Dark Side of your imagination.

The next disaster struck a few days later. Once again we were called into Irwin's office. We were accompanied by Larry and our new tech advisor, (courtesy of the LA County Fire Department) Chief Joe S. Weber.

"Fellas, I called you here to meet our new star," Irwin announced, forcing a smile.

We all looked at each other. What the hell? Lorne was the star, right?

"Since we have been moved back to 7 O'clock," Irwin went on, "the Network, in its wisdom, thought we needed a younger person to play Lorne's adopted son." The adopted son in question was supposed to be a recently ex-delinquent kid Lorne and his sons had rescued from the streets. All the scripts that contained that character had been aimed at gangs and other gritty situations.

Larry asked, "Who's it going to be, Irwin?"

Irwin coughed into his hand. Later, we would learn that this was a sign that his stomach was quarreling with its contents.

Another forced smile. "Adam Rich," he said.

"Shit," Chris opined, "you mean the little rug rat from Eight Is Enough?"

Irwin winced at Chris' word usage, but nodded. "None other," he said. "The Network assured me that he's easily worth six ratings points."

Larry sighed. "Did they say plus or minus, Irwin?"

Irwin's eyes glittered. He was starting to get angry. The intercom buzzed, announcing the arrival of Mr. Rich and his mother and saving Larry from Irwin's wrath.

"Now, remember, he may be young, but he's still a star. A little star, but a star nonetheless," Irwin warned us. "So be nice to him."

The door began to open.

All of us put on welcoming smiles and looked at the spot we thought he would first appear. But in a flash we realized we were looking up way too far. And then we looked down, and down, and then down some more.

Right about door knob level.

And there, a short, plump boy with an immaculately coiffed Prince Valiant haircut and chronically blinking eyes appeared.

As we rose to greet him, I heard Chief Weber whisper, "I knew he was short. But not that short!"

Then his mother followed and a younger, and yes it was possible, shorter version of Mr. Rich. His brother. Both kids looked terrified and jumped and jerked whenever their mother said a word.

Irwin reached out a hand, turning on all his charm. "Welcome, Adam," he said. "Welcome to Code Red."

Adam briefly touched Irwin's hand, then primped his hair. "Thanks," he said in a voice we could barely hear.

"Fuck," I heard Chris mutter.

Later, on the way over the hill where home and lots of scotch awaited, I asked Chris, "How bad do you think it's going to be?"

Chris shook his head. "We're fucking tits up in the sun, Cole," he said. "Code Red has gone to Code Dead."

NEXT: 
OF BEACH BALLS 
AND 
FLYING FICKLE FINGERS OF FATE


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?